Broken: A High School Bully Romance (Athole Academy Book 1) Page 2

  The parking lot was strangely empty. Since the school brochure we’d gotten didn’t say anything about separate student parking, I’d figured the huge parking lot in the front of the school was the only one, but there were less than two dozen cars there, and most of those were older models, probably the teachers’.

  But when I saw a limo pull up to the front and two kids jump out, I’d realized why there weren’t many cars. I had to assume that parents at Athole Academy couldn’t be bothered delivering their kids to school. I wondered if the kids kissed the limo driver goodbye.

  “Maybe we should get a limo and hire a driver,” Dad, always one to try to keep up with the Joneses and now apparently the Rockefellers, said.

  Mom had shot him an appalled look as she unbuckled her seatbelt. It was obvious she’d planned to walk us into school.

  “Seriously? This isn’t freaking grade school!” Rod had yelled when he realized what my mom was up to.

  Dad had sighed heavily in resignation and opened his door. Mom had gotten out and slung her new Prada purse strap over her shoulder. Dad had tried to talk her into a Hermes bag, but she’d balked at the price. “I could buy a new car for that!” she’d said with a shocked look on her face while the saleslady had cocked an eyebrow at us, the look saying she thought we were “rich white trash.”

  Yep. Hit that one right on the nose.

  Shopping with my frugal mom had never been fun; shopping with my newly rich but still frugal mom was effing embarrassing.

  “Young man, this is a new school and we’re a bit out of our element.” She’d clipped out that understatement of the year with one of those “mom looks” that all kids hated.

  “Your father and I are going to make sure that you’re checked in, your schedules are accurate and that your meal accounts are taken care of.”

  I’d almost snorted at the last bit; from what I’d learned online, the meal account included hot meals every day made with organic ingredients and “fresh proteins” flown in daily from all over the USA — plus snacks available anytime.

  At our old school, we were on the low-income free lunch program.

  Rod had glanced at me and I shrugged. We both knew Mom wasn’t going to be deterred, so with matching sighs, we simultaneously opened our doors and climbed out.

  The huge building had been packed with lounging and loitering kids who were chatting in groups, while already harried adults rushed around on different errands.

  I’d glanced at the small mobs of kids and tried to gauge the types of cliques here at Athole Academy, but it was impossible to tell by looking, since everyone was forced to wear the same boring uniform. Boys in back trousers, white shirts, navy blue jackets with the school logo. Girls the same, except wearing short black skirts with white thigh-high socks and crop jackets. The skirts were way shorter than I would have worn normally, but they also had black briefs that went with them, kinda like what cheerleaders wear, so at least panty-flashing wasn’t a problem.

  The girls’ uniforms were uncomfortably sexy, in my opinion, like some pervy old dude’s idea of a schoolgirl fantasy.

  Other than the shoes — which ranged from hooker high heels on most of the girls to neon colors on the boys, everyone looked the same.

  Except us — I could tell that even though Rod and I were dressed just like everyone else, we were different. We still had the poor dirt under our nails.

  And I’d chosen to wear a pair of my new high-tops. I would possibly be the only girl at the school whose feet didn’t hurt at the end of the day.

  Eyeballs from every direction had sized us up as we headed toward the door that had “Administration” on a plague above it. I could almost feel the heat of the stares as we’d walked and of course, the snickers at the fact Mom and Dad were walking us in. My cheeks had heated, but I’d tried to act like I was impervious to it, which was hard especially after coming from a culture where you were pretty much never judged for anything.

  Dad must have sensed my embarrassment, or maybe he felt the heat coming off me from my blush, because he’d leaned close to my ear. He’s always been the one to comfort me.

  “I did a little digging and found out that we’re worth more than all but three other families here at the school.”

  I’d whipped my head toward him as both my eyebrows shot up. How in the world he found out that kind of information was beyond me. I would have assumed that the school records weren’t public information, so how he knew what “families” attended here — and how much money they had — was a puzzle.

  But then I’d remembered Dane. Dane Browski was our new attorney and basically was baby-stepping us through the process of fitting into our nouveau riche status without too many bumps. Dane probably got the info for Dad.

  I’d sighed; knowing we had more money than most everyone else here did little to calm my fears of not fitting in, mostly because I just didn’t know how to be rich. I could foresee a lot of drama, honestly.

  My old life was looking better and better. In less than a few months, I’d be eighteen and there wouldn’t be anything stopping me from returning to Cali. It was a temptation.

  A personal pep talk had been necessary in that judgey hallway atmosphere. I’d told myself that I didn’t care what these people thought of me, that I was only there to play the Harvard card. Nothing they could think, say or do would change the fact that in sixteen months, I would be graduating from one of the top prep schools in the nation and then be off to the university of my dreams. If I stuck it out.

  So screw them.

  We’d walked into the admin office and I half-expected to feel relieved to be away from the prying eyes and whispers behind the hands. But no — more kids were in the office and the looks continued. Even some of the adults in there gave us “looks.”

  I’d wanted to crawl inside myself and never come out.

  I have no idea why I had that sort of reaction. It’s not like I’m some kind of wimp, or anything. In fact, I’d been suspended for fighting at my old high school when some bitches were picking on Sheila, calling her racist names and I’d blackened a few eyes and bloodied a nose.

  But my student advisor had “advised” me to stay out of trouble. Apparently, Ivy League schools look down on troublemakers. Thankfully, my advisor got them to make a notation that I was standing up to bullies. Made me look more like a savior than a deviant, I guess.

  That was just one time when I’d actually been caught fighting. There had been other times when it had been off-campus, after school, when I’d kicked some butt. Even a dude one time. I’m not some tough chick or anything, but when people get in your face and want to cause problems, well, sometimes you just gotta open that can, you know?

  I’d rather go out of my way to avoid problems, though. Turn the other cheek and all, especially now that I’m so close to getting my dream handed to me. It was that thought that kept me from glaring at the kids in the hallway looking down their surgically corrected noses at us.

  The lady behind the desk had glanced at us and said she’d be with us “shortly.” My dad, having already embraced the snobbery of the rich, cocked an eyebrow at her and said, “We’re the Hansons,” like Bill Gates had just walked in her door.

  Shockingly, name-dropping our previously unknown, fast-food-is-a-luxury last name worked, because the woman’s eyes popped and she told whoever she was talking to on the phone that she’d return their call, then turned to my father with a big smile on her face. I kinda think she was flirting with him, but my mom nipped that one right away when she took over and told the woman why we were there.

  Rod had moved away from us, probably in an effort to avoid more embarrassment. I figured he had the right idea, so I moved to sit on the chairs that lined the front windows in the waiting area. I had just finished slipping my backpack off when a pair of white sneakers moved into my vision and sat beside me.

  “Mom and Dad are going to get us ostracized the first day of school,” I muttered to my brother. “These rich Athole a
-holes are gonna eat us alive.”

  A burst of deep laughter that I realized was definitely not Rod’s met that statement and I had turned wide eyes to the person who’d sat next to me. And the breath left my body.

  Gorgeous. I’m not exaggerating when I say that this boy was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and that’s saying a lot, considering I’d hung out in Beverly Hills and Hollywood a lot over the years. But those plastics didn’t hold a candle to this dude.

  That day I wouldn’t have been able to tell you what color his hair was, because I was too caught up in his eyes. They were the most unusual teal color, unlike anything I’d ever seen. Teal happened to be my favorite color. Against his iced tea-colored skin, they were stunning.

  His face was masculine, maybe too masculine for his age, honestly. I could even see a dark shadow of beard along his jaw, like it had been awhile since he’d shaved. He didn’t have the perfect face that so many of the other kids had, like they’d all gone to the same plastic surgeon who did the same jaw, nose and cheekbones to all his patients.

  He had a slightly crooked nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. A small scar ran from the corner of his left eye toward his hairline and another crossed his right eyebrow. This guy’s face was so imperfect that it was… perfect.

  There was something almost piratical about him, exotic, like Aquaman and Thor had managed to combine genes — and comic book publishers — to create the beautiful specimen sitting here beside me.

  He’d laughed then, probably at my expression. Or I might have drooled; I can’t really be sure. With his looks, he was probably used to that though. Which meant he was likely a big jerk. Rich and gorgeous equaled douche canoe floating down jerk river, as far as I could tell.

  I had noticed that his teeth were white, but not the “I use whitening strips every night” fake color. The coolest part was he had a slight gap between the two front teeth, which strangely seriously added to his appeal. Like he was saying, “I’m too cool to be bothered to fix my imperfections.”

  Again, he was perfectly imperfect.

  “First of all — what teenager says ‘ostracized’? Second, aren’t you one of those ‘rich a-holes’?” he’d asked. I had blinked at him a few dozen times, I’m sure, trying to: one, figure out what he was talking about; and two, get over the fact that his voice was deeper than my dad’s.

  Day-ummm.

  I hadn’t wanted to make a bad first impression with the boy who’d managed to melt my ovaries with ill-timed bitching, so I’d cleared my throat.

  “I am never an a-hole,” I had snapped at him, as I finally straightened and nervously tucked my pale blonde hair behind my ear. It was then that I’d noticed how freakishly large he was, and I’d wondered if he was even a student at the Academy or was possibly a teacher or something. But he was wearing a uniform, so yeah, he probably was a student.

  When I licked my lips, I noticed his eyes had zeroed in on the action.

  I’d waved my hand toward my parents, who were still at the counter talking to the lady who was obviously flirting with my dad. I wondered if that was going to happen all the time now. He’s a great-looking guy for an old dude, and even when he was poor women would flirt with him. Now that we’re rich…

  I’d shaken off those thoughts. “My family, uh, isn’t like that,” I’d stammered. I had wanted to tell him that I was sorry for calling his people “rich a-holes,” but I had kind of meant it and I didn’t know I wasn’t talking to my brother anyway.

  “We just moved here from California,” I’d continued. “Way more laid back than it is here,” I lamely offered as an explanation for my words.

  He’d laughed again. “Hey, I get it. Most of these people are rich a-holes,” he’d grinned, and I couldn’t help grinning back. He stuck out his hand then.

  “Ben Penn,” he’d said by way of introduction and I’d almost laughed at his name. Not just because it was weird that it rhymed, but because I’d been expecting something more Polynesian, going by his looks. I’d been thinking “Manu” or something.

  “Bethany,” I’d said, not bothering with my last name while I shook his hand, thinking it was a weird thing for high school kids to do, but I’d figured maybe it was something rich kids did.

  Ben didn’t release my hand, but tugged on it until I was closer, so close that I could see tiny flecks of yellow in the teal of his eyes. I’d wondered if it was a trick of the fluorescent lights overhead.

  His eyes flicked back and forth on mine. “Never saw such green eyes before,” he’d offered by way of explanation for his actions.

  “Thought you were wearing colored contacts,” he’d breathed, and I’d noticed his breath smelled like minty coffee. “They’re the color of the trees around here.”

  He’d then looked at my hair and reached out his free hand to draw a lock through his fingers. “This your natural color?” he’d asked with a bit of wonder in his voice.

  I’d almost laughed; apparently, Ben was used to fake everything — eyes, hair, and other things that made me want to blush, which was stupid, considering I came from the land of silicone boobs.

  I’d nodded; my hair was super pale and straight, like my dad’s. GG had always said it was the color of whipped butter. I’d always wanted my mom’s and Rod’s dark gold color.

  Ben had grinned at me and I’d wondered why — because I was a natural blonde, or because he’d managed to rob me of speech? I hadn’t wondered long though.

  “You have no idea how gorgeous you are, do you?” he’d shocked me by asking. Stupid me, I couldn’t even manage a response under the spell he was weaving, so I’d just shaken my head, unsure if he would think I meant “No, I have no idea,” or “No, I’m not.”

  I never thought I was beautiful, gorgeous, or even cute. I always thought I was too pale — both hair and skin — and my only redeeming feature was my eyes, which were my mom’s and GG’s awesome emerald color. And thankfully I’d inherited their dark eyelashes and not my dad’s pale ones. I rarely wore mascara because of that. Made mornings easier.

  Laughter broke Ben’s spell on me and I glanced over at Rod, who was flirting with some chick in the corner of the room. Ben’s eyes followed mine and then he looked back at me. He nodded in Rod’s direction.

  “That your brother?” I nodded and he grinned. “Hot Rod Hanson,” he’d shocked me by using my brother’s nickname.

  “Guess that means we’ll be seeing more of each other, seeing as how I’m on the soccer team too. And my dad’s the coach.”

  That had surprised me and I’d run through my mind’s archives then, trying to remember anything I could about the soccer coach. If I remembered right, he had been some hotshot player in his day, like World Cup stuff. He’d played for some team in Ireland, I think.

  It was likely that Ben got to go to the Academy since his dad was the coach, and not because he was from some rich family. I’d figured he probably wasn’t rich, or else his dad wouldn’t be working for the school.

  That had made me like him even more.

  My mom had called my name then and I’d looked over to see her waving me to the counter. I glanced back at Ben and gave him a small smile.

  “See ya around,” I’d muttered as I grabbed my backpack from the floor and stood. His eyes watched every movement and caught on my shoes. He’d grinned then.

  “Love the Converse,” he’d said, and I could tell he meant it. I’d glanced down at them and realized that they matched his eyes, eyes that were carefully studying me, while crinkling at the corners from his grin.

  And that was when I fell in love with the gorgeous and seemingly sweet Ben Penn.

  Too bad he’d nearly destroy me.

  Chapter 2

  S URPRISINGLY, THE first day of school goes pretty well. I don’t have a whole lot of interactions with anyone, not that were really memorable anyway. Other than that morning with Ben, that is.

  Just thinking about him makes me smile. He’s so freaking gorgeous,
and amazingly nice. I figure that might have to do with not being raised as a rich snob like the rest of the kids at the Academy.

  Not all of them, though. There are a few kids that seem genuinely nice and not “entitled.” I’ve heard that word a lot used for my generation, but until I’d seen how the other side lived — and acted — I never really understood the word.

  One girl in particular is super nice to me. Her name is Aleen Seals and despite seeming kinda shy, she introduces herself in our AP History class and shows me how to download the assignments onto my tablet. No textbooks at the Academy; everything is online, which I realized too late after taking an unnecessary backpack to school.

  Aleen is pretty, if you like gingers. She has thick hair that’s like three different shades of red, from pumpkin to cinnamon. It’s striking, though, against her white skin that competes with mine for paleness.

  She has a pouty mouth and it looks like her lips are naturally strawberry colored, and big blue eyes that have a sadness to them that makes me want to bundle her up in a big blanket and hide her away from the world.

  Aleen had asked me if I had anyone to sit with at lunch. Rod and I had decided we’d sit with each other until we’d established ourselves and made some friends, so I invited her to sit with us.

  When we get to the “dining room” — apparently, rich kids didn’t call it a cafeteria — I notice that Rod has already made a pack of friends, because he’s sitting at a big table with other jock-looking dudes.

  My heart stutters a little when I notice Ben is with them. Rod sees us and waves us over. I glance at Aleen and I see she’s staring at one of the chicks who’d been giving me dirty looks in the hall that morning. The girl is giving Aleen an unreadable look. Aleen notices me watching her and I notice she gets even paler. Interesting.

  I drop my backpack next to Rod while Ben and another guy jump up to pull another table over. I try to protest that it isn’t necessary, but Ben grins at me.