Lost Boys (Slateview High 1)

“Because,” Bishop said. “We run this school. We own this school. So in effect, Princess, we own you too.”

There was a dangerous truth in his voice when he said it. Silky smooth, no room for question or argument. Whatever snide comeback I might’ve made stayed planted on the tip of my tongue, unwilling to voice itself under the finality of Bishop’s statement.

I was lucky—I didn’t have to force myself to speak because a few seconds later, the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. Bishop didn’t take his eyes off me, and for several long seconds, I remained stock still, frozen in place.

Finally, I backed away from the three boys and walked toward the school entrance as fast as I could, my skin tingling as I braced myself for their touch.

This time, the

y didn’t stop me, but I wasn’t stupid.

I knew this wouldn’t be my last encounter with the Lost Boys.

Six

The rest of the day passed by in a daze. I didn’t have any more encounters like the ones with the Lost Boys or the redhead girl—whose named I’d learned was Serena—but it didn’t mean I wasn’t ogled, sneered at, or shoved whenever the opportunity hit.

Not even my locker was immune from the awful treatment. I went to gather my books after my final class let out, and my stomach dropped as I noticed a group of people gathered around it, laughing loudly. When they parted to let me through, I saw that someone had written the words “Rich Skank” in red letters across the chipped paint of the locker door.

I didn’t even bother to get a teacher, or to complain about it to anyone. Something told me tattling on my new classmates would end up being worse for me than just dealing with the tagging for the rest of the year.

It was a relief to finally slip into my car and pull out of the parking lot, blessedly alone for the first time all day. I wasn’t sure I’d ever experienced a longer eight hours in my life.

I needed to do some kind of damage control.

First—figure out what the hell everyone was talking about when they said my father had destroyed their neighborhoods by flipping their homes and their businesses. I hadn’t known anything about that, and I wasn’t even sure it was true.

Second—do something to blend in a little more. If I could make people realize that Dad wasn’t the person they thought he was, and maybe… look a little more like everyone else at my school, people might leave me alone. Or at the very least, maybe the redhead and the Lost Boys would stay off my back.

I didn’t even want to think about the implications of them owning the school and therefore owning me. I didn’t want to be owned by anyone, least of all by three boys who terrified and attracted me in equal measure—three boys who lived on my street and could literally watch my every move if they chose to.

No, thanks. Better to do what I could to become invisible at Slateview, to pass through my senior year like a ghost, than to attract the wrong kind of attention.

With fresh determination, I walked into the rental house, setting my bag on the kitchen table. The place was still and quiet.

“Mom?”

A muffled sound came from her room. I frowned and made my way back, opening the door a few inches and peering inside.

She was curled up on the bed, snuggled deep down under the blankets. The small television in her room was on, some reality TV show playing, but I didn’t think Mom was really paying attention. My stomach clenched, a new kind of tension filling me. All day at school, I’d been too busy dealing with the bullying and cruelty to think about what waited for me back at home.

I honestly wasn’t sure which was worse.

Slipping inside the bedroom, I walked over and sat beside her. She didn’t move or even turn her head to look at me.

“Hey… have you gotten out of bed today?” I asked awkwardly. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do about this catatonia that my mother seemed to be in more often than not lately. She’d always been quiet, perfectly reserved and demure, but I’d never seen her retreat inside herself like this. As if she had lost a part of herself.

Well. I guess that’s probably what it feels like when your husband is taken from you and your entire life crumbles around you.

I saw her shrug beneath the blankets. She didn’t answer.

Okay. Guess we aren’t going to talk about that then. Besides, I was pretty sure I knew the answer. She might’ve gotten up to eat while I was at school, but I was guessing that was the only time she’d left this room.

“Did you have a good day?” I pressed, hating everything about this. I hated the fact that I didn’t know how to help her, and I hated the fact that she was so locked up inside herself, in her own grief, that she couldn’t help me.

“It was okay,” she murmured dully.

“Do you need to talk?”