Ruthless Court (Royal Oaks Prep #5)

Prologue

HANNAH

By seven fifteen on the morning Ryan McBride is supposed to ask me to prom, I have stolen approximately two hundred dollars’ worth of my mother’s face.

Her Dior lipstick.

Her waterproof mascara.

Three careful drops of the perfume she saves for weddings, funerals, and restaurants with cloth napkins.

I consider borrowing her foundation too, but Mom and I are not the same shade. Arriving at school with an orange jawline might weaken the romance.

The lipstick is called Rosewood Blush.

In the gold tube, it looks elegant.

On me, it says I tried very hard not to look like I tried.

Perfect.

I lean closer to the bathroom mirror and press my lips together.

My dark hair falls past my shoulders after forty minutes with a blow-dryer, a round brush, and enough smoothing serum to waterproof a small animal.

The pale-blue shirt I ironed last night is clean, tucked into my best jeans, and free of the red licorice dust that mysteriously appears on everything I own.

I look pretty.

Not Brooke Ellison pretty.

Brooke is the kind of girl who enters a room and makes every other person look temporarily unfinished.

I look more like the intelligent best friend in a movie who removes her glasses during the final twenty minutes and shocks everyone by having cheekbones.

Except my glasses are staying.

My contacts declared war before breakfast. The left lens scraped my eye until I started blinking like I was sending an emergency message in Morse code.

I slide on the oversized tortoiseshell frames.

My eyes triple in size.

The intelligent best friend returns.

“Work with what you have,” I tell my reflection.

The girl staring back looks terrified.

I add another swipe of lipstick.

Better.

Today, Ryan is asking me to prom.

He hasn’t said those exact words, but he has spent the past week behaving like a boy hiding either a surprise or a body.

He asked whether I liked public gestures.

He wanted to know what color dress I might wear.

Last night, at twelve seventeen, he texted:

Ryan: You’re coming to school tomorrow, right?

Me: That depends. Are you planning a chemistry quiz?

Ryan: Better.

Me: Human sacrifice?

Ryan: Go to sleep, Hannah Banana.

I stared at the message until one in the morning.

Hannah Banana usually means he wants something.

A paper proofread.

A ride to Dad’s gym.

The answer to question seven.

Lately, it has sounded different.

Softer.

Ryan sits beside me at lunch even when his teammates gather at another table. He waits after class and carries my books despite my repeated assurances that my arms function. Last week, he walked me to the bus and listened while I told him about an archaeological discovery in Turkey.

He asked questions.

Real ones.

Or real enough that I talked for fifteen minutes.

Ryan McBride likes me.

The thought still feels too large to hold without dropping.

Mom appears in the doorway wearing a robe and holding coffee.

Her gaze moves from my hair to my shirt, then settles on the lipstick.

“Presentation today?”

“Possibly.”

“What are you presenting?”

“Myself.”

Her eyebrows rise.

I grab my backpack before she can investigate.

“Is that my perfume?”

“No.”

“Hannah.”

“It may be the same fragrance.”

“It costs more than your scooter.”

“Then you should be proud I showed restraint.”

Mom smiles over the rim of her mug.

“Ryan?”

I freeze with one arm through my backpack strap.

Mothers acquire information through channels unavailable to ordinary civilians.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You checked your phone four times during breakfast.”

“I’m expecting an email.”

“You smiled at the toaster.”

“It made excellent toast.”

She laughs.

I kiss her cheek and flee before the conversation requires eye contact.

Dad has already left for school.

He went in early to work with Ryan on his jump shot.

Ryan’s elbow drifts whenever he shoots under pressure. Dad noticed it during the regional semifinal and has treated the flaw like an urgent medical condition ever since.

A note waits beside the fruit bowl.

Take the bus to the gym after school. Ryan has film.

I fold it once and slide it beneath the bananas.

Not today.

Today, I have plans that do not involve sitting in the athletic lounge while Dad rewinds basketball footage frame by frame.

I wheel my scooter from the garage.

School is less than two miles away. The Chicago morning is cold enough to sting my cheeks, but the sidewalks are finally free of ice.

Wind pushes against me as I ride.

So much for the blowout.

By the second block, my smooth hair has become ambitious.

By the fourth, it has developed opinions.

I stop at a crosswalk and inspect the damage in my phone camera.

Not terrible.

Romantically windswept.

Possibly electrocuted.

Ryan has seen me after tournaments, when gym humidity doubles the size of my hair and my glasses slide down my nose every thirty seconds. If he likes me after that, a little wind will not end us.

Us.

My stomach flips.

I push off before I can scare myself.

The parking lot is crowded when I arrive. Cars crawl through the drop-off lane. Students gather near the entrance, comparing homework and pretending the first bell is a rumor.

I fold my scooter beside the bike rack and check the time.

Three minutes.

Then I see Ryan.

He steps through the side door near the science wing and glances over his shoulder before heading toward the back courtyard.

My pulse jumps.

He looks good.

Dark jeans. School polo. Blond hair falling across his forehead because he never styles it, which somehow achieves the exact result half the boys in school spend forty minutes attempting.

A sheet of white poster board is tucked beneath his arm.

This is it.

The courtyard.

The sign.

Privacy before the hallway fills with cameras.

I smooth my shirt.

What am I supposed to say?

Yes is traditional.

Maybe I should make a joke first.

Make him sweat for two seconds.

Prom?

I’ll check my calendar.

No. Too cold.

Maybe I smile, say yes, and let the moment happen without hiding behind sarcasm.

Terrifying.

I leave my scooter by the wall and follow him.

The courtyard sits between the old gym and the science wing, hidden from the main entrance by two brick corners and a row of overgrown hedges. Teachers use it at lunch when the weather cooperates.

Before first period, it is usually empty.

Usually.

I hear a girl laugh before I turn the corner.

The sound stops me.

Brooke Ellison.

I recognize her laugh because she uses it whenever I answer a question in class, as if knowing things is a minor social offense.

Brooke is a cheerleader, although identifying her by that alone would be like describing a tiger as having stripes.

Long blond hair.

Glossy mouth.

Perfect skin that has never hosted an emergency pimple patch.

She treats me like a piece of furniture someone placed in an inconvenient location.

Ryan’s voice follows hers.

Low.

Close.

I should leave.

Instead, I edge nearer to the corner.

The bricks are cold beneath my fingertips.

“You have to ask her,” Brooke says.

Ryan groans. “I know.”

“No, you don’t. Yesterday you said you were backing out.”

“I said I wanted to.”

“And lose everything you’ve worked for?”

“I already have the film.”

“Coach Goodwin sent it because Hannah asked him.”

“He sent it because I can play.”

“He watched you for six extra weeks because she asked.”

Ryan doesn’t answer.

Brooke lowers her voice, but the courtyard carries every word.

“You still need the Indianapolis showcase.”

“Her dad said he’d make a call.”

“And the assistant at DePaul.”

“I know.”

“So keep Hannah happy until recruiting settles.”

The perfume on my wrists turns thick.

Ryan looks toward the science-wing door.

“What else am I supposed to do? I sit with her at lunch. I ride the bus to the gym. I ask about books I’m never going to read.”

Brooke covers her mouth, laughing.

Ryan smiles.

Not the one he gives me.

This one is loose.

Real.

“You should hear her when she gets started,” he says. “Yesterday, she talked forever about broken pottery.”

“It was fifteen minutes,” I whisper.

Neither hears me.

Brooke plays with the collar of his polo.

“She thinks you’re interested.”

“I deserve an award.”

Something caves in behind my ribs.

He asked questions.

Remembered details.

Told me he liked listening because I noticed things other people missed.

Every tender moment changes shape.

Not affection.

Work.

Brooke glances at the poster leaning against the bench.

“Are you seriously taking her to prom?”

“If I have to.”

“You do. Her dad needs to think you’re serious.”

Ryan looks at the sign.

“Can you imagine the pictures?”

“What? You don’t want a framed photo with Hannah Banana and those giant glasses?”

They laugh.

My fingers rise to the tortoiseshell frames.

Mom’s lipstick feels heavy on my mouth.

Ryan leans closer to Brooke.

“She’ll probably bring a book.”

“Let her. You’ll survive one dance.”

“And you?”

“I’ll be there with the group.”

“What about pictures?”

“We’ll be careful.”

Ryan’s hand settles beside her waist without touching.

That almost makes it worse.

He knows the line.

Knows how close he can stand without giving anyone proof.

Brooke looks up at him.

“And the after-party?”

Ryan smiles down at her.

“That depends on whether Coach Goodwin makes the call first.”

She swats his chest.

“You’re terrible.”

“You like me.”

The way she looks at him answers.

So does the way he looks back.

Soft.

Unguarded.

Nothing like the careful expression he wears when he listens to me talk.

I turn away.

The first bell rings.

Students rush through the hall on the other side of the building. Doors open. Voices rise.

I walk.

Not run.

Running makes people look.

I learned that in gyms, where the fastest way to attract attention is to act like you want to escape it.

My legs carry me through the science wing and into the girls’ bathroom.

I lock myself inside the last stall and sit on the closed toilet.

My phone vibrates.

Ryan: Where are you?

Another message arrives.

Ryan: Meet me by your locker after second. Don’t disappear.**

I read the words until the screen blurs.

Then I type:

Me: Okay **

The smiley face is the hardest part.

* * *