Dad is seated behind the desk that once belonged to Great-Great-Grandpa Herbert. For half a century, it sat in his office at Hawthorne Industries. His laptop is open and there are papers and manilla folders scattered across every square inch of the polished top. Apparently, he’s delving in headfirst. Mom is curled up near the window, enjoying a cup of tea.
“Yeah.” Little does she know what a stretch just fine is.
“Well, it can only get better from here, right?”
That’s doubtful. My biggest fear is that it’ll get worse. That thought is enough to send a quiver of dread through me.
“Did you make any new friends?” she inquires before taking a sip of her drink.
“This isn’t kindergarten,” I mumble, rolling my eyes.
“Well, I hope everyone was nice to you and your brother.”
Ha! We were lucky they didn’t eat us alive for lunch.
I give her a noncommittal grunt in answer.
“How about your teachers?” Mom is bound and determined to pull something good out of me. “Did you like them?”
Not particularly. They were as crappy as the kids.
“I guess,” I say, trying to throw her a bone so she’ll lay off with the interrogation tactics.
“Were your classes the same as back home?”
Home.
That one word is enough to send a fresh wave of wistfulness crashing over me. I blink away the hot sting of tears that burn the back of my eyes. I would give anything to go back home.
Anything.
The small cramped house. Sharing a bathroom with Austin. A school that isn’t prestigious. Broke and living paycheck to paycheck. I’d take all of that over this.
“Oh, honey,” Mom murmurs, noticing the emotion that has gathered in my eyes, “there’s no question that first days can be rough. It’ll get better, I promise. Dad and I appreciate how great you’ve been through all this. Give it a couple of months. After that, we’ll be settled in and Hawthorne will feel more like home. You’ll make new friends and won’t feel so much like an outsider.”
Again, doubtful. Mom doesn’t understand how much these people hate us.
“I hope you’re right.” Another step backward brings me into the hallway. “I’m going up to my room to start homework.”
“That’s my girl, already hitting the ground running,” Dad pipes in, attention focused on the computer screen. “Think how good a prep school will look on your college applications.”
“Yup.” For the first time in my life, I don’t give a damn about my college apps. I care about making it through the week without having a nervous breakdown.
Before Mom can bombard me with more questions or platitudes, I flee from the study, grabbing my backpack from the foyer on the way and pounding up the staircase two at a time. Once inside the safety of my room, I close the door and sag against it.
One day down. Only a hundred and eighty-nine more to go.
That thought is enough to make me cry.
I lock away all the heavy emotions simmering near the surface before dumping my books onto the bed. I wasn’t exaggerating when I mentioned having homework. What I learned today is that the academics are rigorous at Hawthorne Prep. Maybe even more so than my old school. The next two hours are spent working out calculus problems and reading a chapter from my psychology textbook.
I’m finishing up my last calc problem when I hear Austin’s door slam shut. All the anxiety from earlier comes crashing back as I hop off the bed and make my way to his room. I pause at the door and listen, but there’s only silence. Softly, I rap my knuckles against the wood. When there’s no answer, I turn the handle and peek my head inside. I find Austin sitting on the side of the bed, staring down at his hands. He doesn’t look at me as I inch my way into his room.
“How did practice go?” Even as I ask, my intuition tells me it wasn’t good.
When he remains quiet, nerves gather at the bottom of my belly and my voice rises. “Aus?”
He glances up, and a puff of air leaves my lips when I see the shiner under his left eye. I rush toward him, grabbing his face to get a better look. “Oh my God!”
“It’s not a big deal,” he grumbles. That being said, he remains still, allowing me to inspect the damage. “It happened at practice.”
I narrow my eyes. “Bullshit.”
He shrugs but keeps his lips tightly pressed together.
“Who did this?”
My brother huffs out a breath and drags my hands away before rising to his feet. “No one.”
“Austin!” I snap. “Who hit you?”
“Just drop it, okay? It doesn’t matter.” He points to the bathroom. “I need to take a shower and then hit the books.”
My shoulders slump. It’s useless to keep pressing him for an answer. I know my brother and he won’t snitch on whoever did this. Even to me. “Do you need help?”