CHAPTER 1
CASEY
Fenn: How’s your day going, cutie?
MY ENTIRE FACE NEARLY CRACKS IN HALF THANKS TO THE GIDDY smile that overtakes it. It’s almost disgusting what one little text from Fenn Bishop does to my heart rate. I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket during French class, half a dozen texts in quick succession, but I couldn’t check it, otherwise it would’ve been confiscated. So I sat there dying for the bell to ring. Now, between classes, I stand at my locker and read the messages that remind me this place isn’t real life. Nobody knows me here at St. Vincent’s. All the rumors and whispers constantly buzzing around me whenever I walk down the hall—they don’t matter. I know the truth. And so does Fenn.
That’s all that matters.
The giddiness intensifies as I scan the rest of his texts. He’s been doing this every day since we became friends. Texting me good morning. Checking up on me. Sending me dumb memes because he knows I haven’t smiled in a while.
It still feels so surreal. Fenn was a stranger to me for so long, just another upperclassman my sister occasionally hung around with. And then my car accident threw my entire world into chaos, and there he was with an easy grin and a strong shoulder for me to lean on. He befriended me, for no good reason other than he saw I needed someone and decided it would be him.
And for no good reason, I let him in.
As I head toward my media class, I type out a quick response.
Me: Oh, you know. The usual BS.
Fenn: Wanna ditch last period? I’ll come pick you up.
Me: Sloane would kill you.
We aren’t exactly public, Fenn and me. At least not where my family’s concerned. My dad and sister barely tolerate a friendship—I can’t imagine how they’d react to finding out Fenn and I are officially dating. I honestly don’t know who would lose their shit more. Last time she caught him hanging around, Sloane basically told Fenn she would put a hit out on him if he touched me. And Dad, well, if he didn’t have to clear it with the board of trustees, he’d have built a moat around our house by now. I’m not sure he really thought it through before accepting a headmaster position at an all boys’ boarding school in the middle of nowhere and brought his two teenage daughters along. Sloane and I were bound to fall for a couple of Dad’s delinquents.
Fenn: Worth it.
Me: You say that now.
Fenn: Nah. I’d risk Sloane’s wrath any day of the week. You’re just that cute.
My stomach does a happy flip. He’s too good at that. Or maybe I’m too easily impressed. Fenn throws the slightest compliment my way and I become a puddle of mush. It’s nauseating. Lately, he’s the best part of my day.
Me: Meet after school?
Fenn: Can’t wait. Usual place?
Me: Yep. I’ll text you when I get home.
I’m still smiling as I enter the classroom and take my seat in the second to last row. Not even Sister Patricia’s stern glare can hinder my mood. Although of course, she frowns upon smiling. Everything is frowned upon in this stupid school. St. Vincent’s is run by a group of super strict, terrifying nuns who view the girls more like wards than students. Every morning begins with fifteen minutes of chapel. Every class has assigned seating. My pre-calc teacher, Sister Mary Alice, even walks around slapping a wooden ruler against her thigh, ready to smack your wrist if you don’t finish your equations fast enough.
I hate this place.
“Hey, Casey.” Ainsley bumps my desk as she walks up. “Remember to take your meds today? I assume you do that at lunch so you can take them with food?”
Just like that, my spirits sink.
I clench my teeth, pretending not to notice the way she smirks at the prospect of spending another full hour picking at the bones of my carcass. I imagine she’s one of those girls who was dismembering her dolls and cutting off all their hair when she was little. Throwing rocks at squirrels to hear them scream.
Lucky me, I’m her new favorite toy.
People say that when faced with a seemingly insurmountable challenge, we tend to either rise to meet our potential, or regress to escape the problem. For me, I’m still stuck at the point of indecision. Neither fight nor flight, but grin and bear it. Close my eyes and bite down. If I’m being honest, though, I don’t think I’ve ever been Team Fight. Before I transferred to St Vincent’s from Ballard Academy, I probably would’ve been part of the flight camp, so I guess my current state is a step up from that.
Ainsley slides into her seat behind me, then taps my shoulder.
“What?” I hiss, turning in my seat.
She stares blankly. “What? I didn’t do anything.”
“Ladies.” Sister Patricia scolds us from the front of the class, where she’s setting up today’s video. It’s already October, and I don’t think she’s taught us a single thing since school started. All we do is watch movies, usually musicals, that I’m starting to suspect come from her home collection.
“You’re imagining things,” Ainsley tells me. “Better up your dosage.”
Beside Ainsley, her best friend, Bree, is giggling. “Yeah, for real.” The brunette chews loudly on her gum, then coughs when she nearly chokes on it. I don’t usually judge people with low IQ, but Bree Atwood is the kind of stupid you genuinely feel sorry for.
A few minutes later, class commences. And by class, I mean we proceed to sit in the dark watching a bad VHS-to-DVD transfer of a West End production of Les Misérables while Sister Patricia sits at her desk mouthing every line.
“Sister Patricia?” Ainsley calls out.
“What is it?” The irritated nun casts a glance in our direction.
“Shouldn’t we leave the lights on?”
Sister Patricia sighs, one eye on the TV. “Quiet, Ms. Fisck.”
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea to keep us trapped in the dark with an unstable student.”
I swallow a tired sigh. Within days of me transferring to St. Vincent’s, Ainsley had the whole school believing I’m a mental case. One bad hair day shy of a straitjacket.
Not like it hasn’t crossed my mind. I don’t remember what happened the night of the accident, so in a sort of quantum sense, I guess anything could have. I’m basically Schrödinger’s cat in a box of poison. But what’s more plausible? That I was the target of some phantom driver, or that I got high off my ass at prom, looking for attention, and plunged my car into the lake? You can only rant about the one-armed man for so long before you’re forced to consider the possibility it’s all in your head. Maybe I am nuts. Maybe I did have a breakdown that night and simply can’t remember.
Sister Patricia’s response is an annoyed frown, but her focus remains on the film. Even the nuns know the rumors, and I’m sure more than a few believe them. I’m almost surprised I haven’t yet been snatched coming out of the bathroom and hauled into the chapel for an impromptu exorcism.
“I’m not being mean,” Ainsley says with feigned innocence. “Darkness and loud noises can be triggering. Right, Casey?”
I continue to ignore her and stare at the floor, concentrating intensely on the black shoe scuffs and dotted patterns in the tiles. Ainsley’s been at it since first period this morning. In AP history, she remarked on my shoelaces. You know, is it a good idea for someone in my condition to be walking around with those. In physics, she suggested to our teacher that perhaps I should complete my assignments in crayon, lest I fashion a pencil into a weapon.