Okay, I freaking lied.
This is way nicer than any department store I've ever been in.
There's a satin chaise lounge with a frilly pillow, an oil painting on the wall that I'm pretty sure is not a reproduction, and a small bookshelf stocked with classic novels and topped with a tea and coffee station, plus a bowl of fresh fruit.
Like, who comes into the shower to read and eat apples?
I double, triple, and quadruple check to make sure the door is locked behind me, hang the tiny key on the hook nearby, and get naked.
The walls on the changing stall and shower are a good twelve feet high, but there's no ceiling per se. I can hear the sound of a door opening and closing as the toothbrush boy leaves the room, and then nothing.
Pure silence.
Sighing blissfully, I push past the curtain into the tiled area and stop with one hand still clinging to the fabric.
Right.
“Rich dickheads,” I repeat as I look around at the marble floors, walls, and shower stall. It's got a glass half-door and like four shower heads with some sort of fancy command center. On the wall next to me, there's a sound system that I scroll through, selecting a classic piano song that filters lightly through the speakers.
There are shelves on one wall stocked with shampoo, conditioner, fresh bars of soap wrapped in paper wrappers, brand-new loofahs, scrub brushes, towels, and more. I'm pretty blown away.
“Please take all used items back to your dorm room in a shower caddy. Any used items left will be discarded. Thanks. -Adamson Academy staff.” I glance down and find a row of wooden shower caddies on the bottom shelf, selecting one and setting it aside. Then I take my sweet time picking out my soaps and body washes.
“This shit is so luxe,” I grumble, thinking about how much the lilac and rosemary scented shampoo I'm holding would cost in a salon. And it's just sitting here, free for anyone to take?
Then, of course, I realize how stupid that sounds. Tuition money for a year at Adamson is literally double the yearly wage my father made at his last job. There's only maybe three high schools in the entire country that cost more, and they're all snobby prep schools like Burberry Academy. Gross.
The students here are so rich that stealing something as stupid as a bar of fifty dollar soap (yeah, it's a thing, I know) doesn't actually occur to them.
I take a very, very, very generous amount of items and stuff them into my bag. When I go back to California, I'm taking it all with me. Actually, this weekend, I might go into town and mail Monica and Cody some of this stuff. Monica is pretty wealthy, but nothing like the guys that go here. Not even in the same league.
My fingers trail across the porcelain edge of the giant soaker tub, and I can't stop myself from fantasizing about using it later. Maybe I can treat my weeks here as a vacation or something? Yeah, yeah, just like a spa getaway. It'll all be over before you know it, I promise myself, starting the shower and then spending a good five minutes trying to figure out how it works before I actually climb in.
Tilting my head back, I revel in the hot water, closing my eyes and letting the steam overwhelm me.
The sound of the bathroom door opening barely registers past the sound of the running water and the classical music I selected. But then the shouting and roughhousing starts, and my nostrils flare as a surge of anger overtakes me.
“Micah!” a voice shouts, and then there's laughter and scrambling. The shower stall next to mine opens, and I hear more fighting. “Screw you, you fucking prick!”
“No, screw you. I'm going to poison your coffee.”
“Hah. You would die without me, you codependent asshole.”
“Please. You're like a growth I can't seem to get rid of. A tumor, hitching a ride on my ass so you can spend your whole day kissing it.”
There's some more fighting, and I swear, it continues into the shower stall next to mine.
“Pervert. Trying to shower with your older brother.”
“Older by precisely eight minutes. Get out. I was in here first.”
Based on the sound of the voices, I can only figure the two arguing boys are the twins from yesterday. Great. My hands are all prune-y, but now I'm going to have to wait them out. Either that, or beat them out …
I turn the shower off and scramble for my towel.
“You're being rude to our shower guest,” one of the voices says, moving from the stall on my left over to the one on the right. “You okay in there, dude?”
Dude. Hilarious.
I ignore him, and slip into the changing room to put my uniform on, taking time to bind my breasts. It's a freaking process, and I'm already cursing in pain before it's over.
When I'm done, I grab my duffel, my shower caddy, and throw the door open.
The twins are there waiting for me, standing on either side, their elbows up on the doorjamb.
I'm officially blocked in.
I start to scramble back into the waiting room when one of them grabs my tie and jerks me out.
“Well, hello there,” they say in unison. The twin who's not holding my tie slams the dressing room door, and then the other one pushes me back into it. They both grab onto my arms from either side and lean in, blinking their big moss-green eyes at me. “Are you deaf?” they ask together.
“Or just plain rude?” the one on the right drawls, rolling his eyes.
“So rude,” the other agrees as I struggle against their grip. They're both strong as hell, and I'm totally overburdened with my bag and shower caddy. Damn it. I shouldn't have stolen so much fucking soap.
“Let me go,” I whisper, and they exchange a look that says they're not doing anything of the sort. I struggle more violently, and then they both just let go all of a sudden, sending me sprawling onto the ground. My bag goes flying and opens up, soaps and shampoos spilling all over the marble floor.
“Oh, what's this?” one of them asks, picking my bag up and starting to go through it. Shit. Shit, I have tampons in there, the tape to bind my breasts, and … “Oh!” The twin on the right exclaims, using a single finger to hold up the pink lacy panties with the white ruffles. “Someone has a girlfriend.”
“From where?” the other twin exclaims, using the back of my navy-colored academy jacket to haul me to my feet. He lets me stumble away and attempt—poorly—to snatch my underwear back from his brother. “Everly All-Girls Academy?” he asks, but my cheeks are flaming, and I'm not about to stand here and answer any questions.
“No, they're your mom's fucking panties,” I snap, slipping on some spilled shampoo and falling hard on my ass on the marble floor. “Now give them back.”
“Why should we?” the twins ask in unison, looking down at me with their stupid smiles, and their obnoxious red hair. It's lightly curled on the top, still wet from the shower. If they weren't being such jerks to me, I might fantasize about a twin sandwich … Eww. But no. Just no.
“Because I'm going to report you,” I say, standing up and trying to look dignified with shampoo all over my ass.
The twins—what were their names again? Micah and Tobias?—exchange another look, and then glance back at me.
“Are you reaaallly?” they drawl, and the one on the left grabs me by the shoulders while the one on the right shoves the panties down over my head, putting the crotch right in my freaking face.