“I don't think you'll report us,” Micah—or is it Tobias—says as I yank the underwear off my flaming red face, and then bend down to start shoving things back in my duffel.
“You wouldn't, not after stealing all that soap,” Tobias—or is it Micah—replies. They both watch me struggle to put my stuff back together, but a few of the shampoos and lotions came undone when the bag fell, and now it's all just a big sweet-smelling mess.
“Leave me alone,” I snarl, standing up with my bag in one hand and the caddy in the other. “My father's the headmaster. If I want you expelled, all I have to do is say so.”
“Expelled?” they ask in unison, turning to look at each other. And then they both laugh.
“Our father runs the largest real estate conglomerate in the world,” Micah (or whoever) replies smoothly, reaching out to flick me in the nose with a long finger.
“Largest in the word,” Tobias repeats, putting out a foot, so that I trip on my way to the door, and the whole sequence starts all over again: soap goes flying, I struggle to pick it up, I end up with lilac-rosemary lotion all over my knees.
“No, you won't report us, will you, dickhead?” they repeat, and then they leave the bathroom together while I'm still stuck gathering my things. By the time I rise to my feet and go to leave the room, I find that it's locked.
Fantastic.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
“I still don't understand how you got yourself locked in the bathroom,” Dad says as we sit together in his new house and eat at the massive dining table. The headmaster's quarters here are so swank, so beyond any place we've ever lived. I've spent my whole life existing in crappy little apartments that were half the size of my current dorm room, with swimming pools that were always out of order, and neighbors who worked questionable jobs in the dead of night.
This is … like a freaking palace to me, this giant wood cabin like house with its soaring ceilings, person-sized fireplace, and chandeliers made of antlers. I mean, it's rustic as hell, and so totally not my style, but it's not like I can't appreciate it.
“I told you: some boys locked me in,” I grumble, but Dad sighs and puts his fork down, lifting his napkin from his lap and dabbing at his mouth.
“Charlotte,” he starts, but I interrupt him.
“Chuck. It's just Chuck while we're here, okay?”
He looks at me from disappointed blue eyes until I set my fork down, too.
“What?”
“I don't want you using the boys' bathroom. It's not appropriate.” Cue massive eyeroll from me as I lean back and cross my arms over my chest. First thing I did when I got here was go to the bathroom and remove the binding from my breasts. It hurts too much to wear it for even a second longer than I have class.
“Dad, I'm not walking all the way over here just to take a piss.”
“Language, Charlotte,” he says, not even remotely taking my request into account. “It's just not okay for you to be in there, especially not without the boys in your dorm getting some kind of say. They might not be comfortable with a girl in their bathroom, and frankly, honey, although I'd like to think the best of my students, it's not safe. What would happen if someone found out and you were cornered in that bathroom alone?”
My eyes narrow.
“You're so old-fashioned. Just like this dinosaur of an academy. Everyone here is weird and rude and so privileged, they've got silver spoons stuck up their asses. I hate it here.” I throw my napkin down on the table and stand up so quickly that my chair screeches across the shiny wood floors.
“You've hardly given it a chance, Charlotte,” Dad says, his voice firm but low in volume. I've spent years trying to get this man worked up into an angry frenzy, but to no avail. He never shows passion for anything, no matter how much I defy him or how irate I get in response to his never-ending well of calm. “It's been two days.”
“Yeah,” I snap, getting snarky. It's that California Valley Girl in me coming out in spades. “Two shitty, miserable days.” I put my hands flat on the table and lean down, staring at my father past the flickering of a candelabra. It sits so pretentiously in the middle of the table. Like, who eats by candlelight unless they're on a romantic dinner date or something? “Let me go back to California, Dad. I can stay with Aunt Elisa until Mom—”
“Charlotte.” That one word, as firm as an ax in my skull. The pain of a migraine takes over me, making me grit my teeth in anger.
“Why not? Elisa said I could stay on her couch until Mom was able to get a place. Monica even offered to let me move in with her. You wouldn't have to do anything, but get me a plane ticket.”
“We're not discussing this any further,” Dad says, putting his napkin on the table and standing up with much less screeching of his chair legs on the floor. He picks up his plate and glass, and gives me a look. “Finish your dinner, and I'll walk you back to the dorm.”
My eyes narrow to slits, and I feel anger burning like a white-hot star inside my chest.
“I don't need you to walk me back,” I snap snarkily, glaring at him in his perfectly pressed brown suit with the cream pinstripe. His old-fashioned outfit matches his slicked back 1920s hair, and the attitude he has to match. “I'm a boy now, remember? I can do anything.” Read: sarcasm.
I spin on my heel as he calls out to me, but I'm already racing toward the door. Flinging it open, I dart forward, only to slam into a broad body. Again.
“Whoa there,” a calm voice commands, and I look up to see that prince guy, Church Montague, standing there with a binder under one arm, his amber eyes taking me in with piqued interest.
My breasts aren't bound! I remember with a violent shock, shoving past him as hard as I can. He's tall as hell, and if the pain in my nose means anything at all, hard and muscular, too. But he's so surprised by me that he ends up stumbling, losing his binder over the edge of the railing as I clomp down the steps and take off along the curving path. There are little solar lights on either side, giving me plenty of illumination to see by.
I run right past the boys' dorm and keep going, enjoying the freedom I feel as I cut across the campus and into a copse of woods, coming out the other side to find the half-constructed girls' dorm.
My feet come to a shuffling stop, and I bend over, putting my hands on my knees and struggling to catch my breath. I only left California a few weeks ago, and already, I feel like I'm out of shape. I need to find some outlet for my emotions, but I can't exactly go surfing here.
All around, there are patches of snow here and there, and the air is frigid and ice-cold. Still, I'm not quite ready to go back to my room, and I most definitely am not going back to Dad's place. Instead, I straighten out the front of my jacket and move toward the front door. It's locked, of course, but the windows on the bottom level are boarded up, and one's already come loose.
I lift it up and peer inside, expecting a construction zone, some abandoned paint cans, piles of lumber, and so on. Instead, I find a surreal scene, like a moment trapped in time. There are couches covered in plastic, coffee tables stacked with dusty books, and paintings on the wall that are just as nice as the ones hanging in the boys' dorm.