Note from the Author
Freshmen Year
* * *
This is just great. Exactly what I need my first week at a new school.
I look at the words written with a Sharpie on my locker—SLUT—in great big bold, capital letters.
Original. I know.
I hear snickers and look over at a group of girls who haven’t liked me from the first day I walked into their high school. Their ringleader, Tammy, walks over to me with her pack of three behind her, placing a finger on her chin. “Yikes. That is absolutely horrifying.”
“You wouldn’t know anything about it though, right?” I ask, my tone bristling with anger, but I know I’m outnumbered. I know she takes me in, with my designer jeans, backpack, perfectly manicured nails, and overpriced haircut, hating me. Hating everything about me.
She adjusts her tattered backpack, and I notice her jeans are ripped, but I don’t think they came that way or are worn for style. I think they’re probably hand-me-downs. “Me?” she feigns innocence. “Now why would I know anything about that?”
“I don’t know. But you do seem awfully pleased about it.”
Her black hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, and I’d be lying if I said her wicked, hateful grin made her ugly. She isn’t. She’s beautiful, at least on the outside. Her Texas accent is thick but not a slow drawl, and her voice is raspy. And I know she’s been queen bee around here for a while. “Well, it can’t be untrue, right? I mean, you spend an awful lot of time in your stepdaddy’s office, don’t you? Tell me . . .” She leans into me. “Have you been a bad, bad girl?”
My stomach lurches at the thought. I hate my stepfather. I hate that to most, he’s probably good-looking. That he’s only twenty-eight, and I’m almost fifteen. That my mother is forty-five. That he’s closer to my age than hers.
“No.” My jaw is clenched tight as I ball my fists at my sides. “I haven’t.”
Her jade-colored eyes roll. “Whatever. Principal lover.”
“I don’t love him. I don’t even like him.”
Again with another eyeroll as she points at the ugly word on my locker. “Look, your locker doesn’t lie.”
I take a step closer to her, even though, let’s be honest here—she’s a tough tomboy-type, and I’m a soft, pampered rich girl—I have no shot at intimidating her. “Don’t ever do this again. I’m not a slut.”
“Whatever. I’ve seen the way your daddy looks at you.”
“He’s not my dad.”
She laughs, tossing her head back. “Sorry. Stepdaddy.”
“What’s going on?” I hear a voice behind us. It’s masculine but not overly deep.
Tammy moves behind me, causing me to turn around and follow her with my gaze as she curls her hand into the crook of Lawson’s arm. I’ve never spoken to him, but it’s been made pretty clear over the last week that Lawson is the king to Tammy’s queen. “Oh, nothing. Just having a little fun. You gonna walk me to class?”
I notice her accent seems thicker now. Lawson, however, doesn’t abide by her wishes. His gray eyes look at my locker and then directly at me. “Who did that?”
I shrug it off, not wanting to attract more attention. “I don’t know.” My eyes narrow on Tammy, but I don’t accuse her of anything in front of him. It’s pointless. It’s been made glaringly clear that I’m an outsider in this small Texas town, and they want nothing to do with me here.
Just four more years.
You can do this, Raelynn.
“Let’s go, Law. I can’t be late again, or I’ll get detention.”
I try not to let tears well up in my eyes, but my eyes won’t listen. Being called a “slut” hurts. It shouldn’t. I know I’m not one, but it still hurts.
“Nah, you go ahead.” I look up at Lawson, shocked. He only has a few inches on us, but I still have to tilt my head up because my chin was down.
“What?” Tammy places a hand on her hip. “Lawson . . .”
He doesn’t seem bothered by her irritation. “Go. Your mom will kill you if you get another detention.”
She huffs, but her minions follow behind her as they tear off down the hall. I can’t look at Lawson. Now that the mean girls are gone, my emotions grab hold of me, and I turn back to my locker, fiddling with the lock. But his warm hand covering mine stops me.
I turn slowly to look at him, and I know I’d think he was cute if it weren’t for his association with the devil herself. He has dark hair that’s long enough on top to have a slight wave to it and beautiful gray eyes that shimmer with playfulness. His lips are pretty. I know that’s probably not the best way to describe a guy’s lips, but whatever. They’re pink and full and usually turned up in a smirk. But now they’re pouty as he studies me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” The tears in my eyes betray my lie, and I know it. He knows it too.
“It’s okay not to be.” He nods toward my locker. “That’s messed up.”
I choke on a sob, so tired already, and I’m only a teenager. “I’m not,” I sob again. “I’m really not.”
He shrugs his shoulder, lifting his backpack hanging off of it as he does. “I wouldn’t care if you were.”
I actually laugh at that, and he takes my hand, shocking me, but I don’t pull away. He walks us toward the bathrooms, and I have no idea what he’s planning until he stops. “Wait here.”
I do because I’m kind of stunned by his kindness. He goes into the boy’s room and then comes back with a few paper towels, handing one to me.
I take it and wipe at my eyes. “Thank you.”
He smiles sweetly, and I notice for the first time he has a dimple in his right cheek. “It can be rough to be new here, I know, but it’ll be okay.”
I sniff and wipe my nose with the paper towel. Super attractive. “Right. Only four more years.”
He looks chagrined and places a hand on my shoulder. “No, don’t do that. You belong here just as much as them. You just have to let them know it doesn’t bother you.”
“It does.”
He thinks it over. “Yeah, you’re right. It bothers me too. I guess I meant you should let them know it didn’t break you.”
We walk back to my locker, and I open it successfully this time. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
He shrugs, and it’s cute how shy he looks right now. “I know what it’s like to be judged for my last name.”
“And that is?”
He smirks now. “Davis. You haven’t heard about me from your stepdad yet?”
I cringe again at the thought of my stepfather, Colin Da Silva, or Principal Da Silva as he’s known here. “No. But I try to avoid talking to him all I can.”
I grab my books and slide them into my backpack. “Yeah, can’t blame you there. How did a Sanders end up here? In this tiny little nothing town.”
Sanders. God, I hate that people know my last name, even here. My great grandfather was an oil tycoon. And boy, does he own a lot of Texas, so I shouldn’t be too surprised. But this town of three thousand, that’s dying out and long dried-up of oil? You’d think they wouldn’t know me.