Things I Wanted To Say: Chapter 2

I ENTER the honors English class early, since I already missed most of first period, and go to the desk where a giant, dark-haired man is sitting, chatting with a couple of students. The girls are pretty, their uniforms immaculate, their hair a matching golden blonde, long and parted in the middle. They’re carefree in the way they toss their heads back and laugh at something the teacher said, and I envy just how comfortable they are. They’re so confident, so sure of themselves, and I understand why. They’ve been here for three years; they’ve put in the time, and now they’re on top. The seniors. Ready to rule the school.

And here I am, barging into their class thanks to my overbearing mother, as if I belong here. I don’t.

And I know it.

When they all turn to look at me, their expressions full of disdain, I shrink back from them, handing over my schedule to Mr. Figueroa with shaky fingers.

“Hi. I’m in this class,” I say.

He glances over the schedule, his dark brows drawing together. “I’m afraid there must be some mistake.”

I say nothing. Just glance around the classroom, pretending I don’t know what just happened in the headmaster’s office.

Figueroa picks up the phone on his desk and dials a three-number extension. “Hey. Yes, I have a—” he looks over my schedule, “—Summer Savage here, claiming she’s in Senior Honors?”

He goes quiet, listening to whatever Headmaster Matthews is telling him and I want to disappear into myself. The girls are obviously listening, their gazes cutting to me, and one of them leans over to whisper to the other, her hand cupped around the other girl’s ear so I can’t hear them.

They don’t bother trying to hide they’re talking about me. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.

“I see.” His voice is low. A little cold. “All right then. Thank you.” He hangs up the phone and looks at me, his expression impassive as he hands me back my schedule. “You can go ahead and sit down, Miss Savage. Class will begin in a few minutes.”

I do as he says, sitting in the very front, on the farthest side of the classroom. I pull out a fresh notebook and a pen, taking the cap off with my teeth before I open the notebook, smoothing my hand down the blank page. I’m filled with the urge to write in my journal, but it’s buried deep in my backpack and I don’t want to pull it out, only to have to put it away.

My journal carries all of my thoughts. My feelings. Notes and doodles. Scraps of paper I wanted to save. A receipt from the time my friends and I went to that new coffee shop, right before I moved. A concert ticket stub when I went to see Harry Styles. A note from Yates, threatening me. A rumpled, stained with champagne cocktail napkin taken from that party, the night I kissed that terrible boy. It was a dark navy blue, with a giant white L in the dead center.

For Lancaster.

Sometimes I like to flip through my journal, running my fingers over the bits of paper, rereading my entries. Some are hard to read, like the night of the fire. My interactions with my stepbrother. The argument with my stepfather. My falling out with my friends.

Others make me smile. Still others make me yearn for the old times, when I was still young and innocent and believed there were good people in the world.

Now I’m not so sure if any even exist.

Students slowly trickle into the classroom, every single one of them looking at me with confusion in their eyes. They expect to know every single person in this class, so I understand why I trip them up.

“Okay, are we all here? I think so.” Figueroa stands and goes to the white board, writing Romeo and Juliet in blue ink. “Welcome to senior honors English. It is truly an honor to be here.” He smiles. The class chuckles. He points at the board with his capped marker. “This was your summer reading assignment. I hope you’re all fully prepared for the assignments I’m about to make.”

He sends me a doubtful look and I smile in return, writing Romeo and Juliet on the first line of my page. This is too easy. I read this book my sophomore year. I’ll need a refresher, but I’m not worried.

“I’m sure you’ve all noticed we have a new student in here with us. Please say hello to Summer.” His gaze never leaves mine as he speaks, and I look away first, uncomfortable with his scrutiny.

A few people offer murmured hellos, but not too many. I’m sure they hate that I’m in here with them. In their eyes, I’m sure they believe I don’t belong here.

The door suddenly bursts open and a boy strides in, his head turned as he yells to someone in the hall. The door slams shut behind him, and everything within me comes alive. I sit up straight. My skin prickles. My heart races. My breath stalls in my throat, and sweat beads along my hairline.

I know who it is. I told myself he wouldn’t be here, but I was wrong.

He is.

Whit Lancaster. The boy who kissed me. Who wanted to fuck me and called me a whore when we were barely teenagers. He’s taller than I remember. Well over six feet, and his shoulders look so broad, clad in the requisite navy uniform jacket. His arrogance is palpable. He saunters into the classroom as if he owns the place, and technically, he does.

After all, it’s his family name on the sign.

I stare, caught up in his magnificent face. It’s better than I remember. He’s heartbreakingly beautiful. Piercing blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, aquiline nose, angled jawline. His mouth is lush, his lips a deep pink and he bares his teeth in a smile for our teacher that is hopelessly fake.

“Whit. So happy you could make it,” Figueroa says dryly.

Girls giggle. Whit scowls.

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. His voice is deeper compared to the last time I heard him speak. “Something came up.”

He doesn’t even look at me and I sit there, folding into myself so my shoulders are hunched, and I drop my head. I don’t want him to see me. Recognize me.

That would be a disaster. He hates me.

With everything he’s got.

Why did I think he was a year ahead of me in school? How could I screw that up so badly? I don’t know how I came to that conclusion, but once the idea formed in my mind, it stuck.

My mistake—a big one, too.

After our encounter that night, when I asked my mother who the man was and she told me his name, I Googled him. One of the top images that appeared was of the Lancasters, all five of them. The father, tall, proud and handsome. The mother, thin, arrogant and cold. The two beautiful girls, with matching smiles, stood in the front wearing matching dresses. Whittaker Augustus Lancaster stood next to his father, taller than him. His expression one of barely contained anger, so strong I could practically feel it. The more I studied the photo, the more curious I became.

What kind of family were they? They look picture perfect, but I know now pictures lie. At fourteen, I didn’t believe Whit when he told me my mother was having an affair with his father. I couldn’t even wrap my head around the idea. I loved my stepdad as if he were my own father, and I believed my mother felt the same way.

I found out later that I was wrong.

The scandal was revealed quickly. Midway through my sophomore year in high school, the Lancaster divorce was announced to the world, thanks to a scandalous photo of Augustus Lancaster in a compromising situation.

With my mother.

My elegant, never ruffled, always put together mother. Caught exiting a seedy hotel downtown with giant sunglasses covering her beautiful face, wearing only a loosely belted Celine trench coat and hand in hand with Augustus, the wind catching the coat’s hem just so and revealing her long, bare legs.

All the way up to her hip bone. No panties in sight.

The press went wild. She was naked under that coat, they implied, and I assumed they were correct.

So did everyone else.

Nothing else was going on in the world at the time, so it turned into a national scandal. One the Lancaster family never fully recovered from. Our family didn’t necessarily recover from it either.

As the oldest of three and the only boy, Whit is heir to the family fortune. Well, one of the heirs of the many Lancaster families’ fortune. But his father is the oldest son of the oldest son of the oldest son…

It goes on and on for generations. They are old money—as old as it can get in this country. Lancaster Prep has been here for over one hundred and twenty years, and every single Lancaster has attended this school before they went on to college and bigger, greater things.

My mother’s affair with Augustus changed their lives forever. Whit’s mother, Sylvia, of the Rhode Island Whittakers—another very wealthy family, though not as established as the Lancasters—received a healthy sum in the divorce settlement. Neither of the Lancasters are allowed to discuss the terms of their divorce, or why exactly they divorced in the first place. There’s a gag order in place. But everyone knows why their marriage ended.

Because of my mother.

While we have money, we’re considered downright poor compared to the Lancasters, and money makes a person, or family, untouchable in certain circles. Meaning my mother was left for the wolves—the paparazzi, the society pages—and they tore her apart. Her carcass was ripped to shreds, scattered all over New York City. People whispered. Celebrity rags and blogs screamed her name in glee, running that photo of her exposed hip bone again and again and again. 20/20 on ABC ran a two-hour special on the affair and the devastating aftermath of it all once the fire happened.

I always tend to push the fire out of my mind. Our family scandal ended in tragedy, while the Lancasters were left relatively unscathed. Money protects you. Insulates you. Those who win in the game of life, always win when they have the most money.

Unfair, but whoever said life was fair? I’ve also learned that the hard way.

Look at the Lancasters. Despite the affair and the scandal it brought with it, they emerged as golden as ever. Photos of the entire family together still pop up occasionally. The ever-modern family who can still get along while divorced. They do it for the kids, all the articles have said.

While Mother and I are left tarnished and scarred. Broken and barred from the society that used to accept us—specifically her and Jonas—with open arms.

A thought suddenly hits me: are the Lancaster sisters here as well?

They’d have to be.

Sylvie and Carolina are gorgeous. One of them is a dancer, I can’t remember which one. But carrying on the Lancaster name rests squarely on Whit’s shoulders.

My head still ducked, I watch as Whit walks in front of the rows of desks, settling into one in a row the farthest from mine, on the other side of the room. His expression is like stone, his lips formed into what looks like a pout as he glares at the teacher standing before us.

I swore Whit was older than me. At the time during our first and only encounter, he most definitely acted like he was older. He was so jaded, as if he’d seen and done everything already, and he wasn’t impressed.

He’s wearing that same look now. He hasn’t changed much in three years. He seems completely bored with life.

I’m just grateful he didn’t notice me.

I stay frozen in my chair as Figueroa continues his lecture, droning on about the relationship of two lovesick teenagers who sacrifice everything—including their lives—for what they believe is love.

“Was it love, though?” Figueroa asks at one point. “They’re younger than you all are now. Historians figure Juliet was barely fourteen. We can assume Romeo was older, so sixteen, seventeen at most. By eighteen, he should’ve been married and even a father.”

“Fuck that,” one of the boys mutters, making everyone laugh.

“Indeed,” Figueroa says, scowling at the boy, who only smiles at him in return. “But that’s how it was then. How it’s been for hundreds of years. Only during recent modern times have we as a society accepted that people get married for the first time at an older age. More and more people are becoming parents at a later age as well. You should thank your parents for that.”

“I’m not thanking my parents for shit.”

This is from Whit.

“Mr. Lancaster, I always appreciate your colorful commentary throughout my lectures. Witty and entertaining, as usual.” The snideness in Mr. Figueroa’s tone is telling. Someone doesn’t appreciate the namesake in his classroom.

But I suppose there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

There’s more talk of Romeo and Juliet, and I take copious notes, keeping my gaze on my notebook for pretty much the entirety of class. I don’t want to draw anyone’s attention. Not the teacher’s—who resents me for being pushed upon him when he has no clue what I’m like or how my grades are—or the students, who’ve worked hard and earned their spot while I just walked into this class like it’s mine to take.

I wonder if that’s the case for Whit as well. Does he just get whatever he wants, thanks to his last name? Or is he actually smart? Does he do well in school? Or does he act like an asshole and put in zero effort? He doesn’t have to abide by the school’s strict rules, not like the rest of us.

The bell rings and I hurriedly gather my things, sling my backpack over my shoulder and exit the room without a backward glance. I have my schedule clutched in my hand and I scan it, noting I have math next.

My least favorite subject.

The wide hall is flooded with students, all of us making our way to our classrooms, everyone looking the same in their uniforms. I went to a private school in Manhattan, though we didn’t have to wear uniforms. I’m unused to the itchy wool skirt, the stifling button-up shirt. And the jacket?

I hate it. I’m actually sweating right now.

My gaze drops to the other girls’ skirts as I walk past them. Some of them are extra short, and I assume they’re rolling them at the waist. I can’t help but notice they all have beautiful hair. Vivid color on their mouths, dramatic makeup on their eyes. Brightly painted nails. A way of standing out from the crowd.

My long brown hair is pulled back into a simple ponytail. No paint on my nails or my face. A little bit of mascara on my lashes is the only effort I put into my look this morning, and I feel downright plain compared to these girls.

Maybe that’s a good thing. I don’t want to stand out. I don’t want anyone to notice me. If I’d known Whit was in attendance, I would’ve never wanted to come here. For all my internet sleuthing regarding the Lancasters, that I never figured out he was still enrolled at Lancaster Prep is a rookie mistake. I should’ve known better.

I should’ve known period.

While the internet was full of talk about my mother’s affair with Augustus, and there are plenty of books and numerous online articles about previous Lancaster generations, there’s not a ton of information about the current generation. Maybe it’s out of respect for their privacy, because of their age. And Whit doesn’t put himself out there. He has a cousin—Brooks Lancaster—who’s an influencer on Instagram. He has his own YouTube channel and is huge on TikTok. He’s the one with all the fame.

Maybe Whit prefers staying out of the limelight.

I enter my math class and settle at the back of the classroom, deciding that will be my seat of choice for the rest of the day. I don’t know why I sat in the front in English. Out of defiance? Figueroa frustrated me. Considering we’re seniors in an honors English class, Romeo and Juliet is a trite reading assignment.

But I’m not going to complain. I’m actually grateful, considering I’ve already read the book. At least I don’t have to catch up on anything.

An older woman enters the classroom and she shuts the door with a loud boom, turning the lock. She makes her way to the front with brisk efficiency, turning to face us with a brittle smile.

“Welcome to Math III. If you don’t know who I am, my name is Miss Falk. As in, don’t Falk with me.” She smiles.

No one laughs. Guess they’re taking her words to heart.

Passing out a syllabus, she talks about what she expects from us. She doles out our textbooks and a single sheet of homework, claiming she wants to assess our abilities, and I glance it over, frowning at the questions.

“Is there a problem?” Miss Falk asks, pausing right next to my desk.

I glance up to find her contemplating me, curiosity in her gaze. “No ma’am.” I shake my head.

“Good. Welcome to Lancaster, Miss Savage.”

She moves on.

A few people turn in their seats to openly study me and I smile wanly at them before ducking my head. I hate the attention. I don’t want them to figure out who I am. I’ve always hated that I’m stuck with my father’s last name. A man I barely know. A man who doesn’t give a shit about me, and never really has. I wanted to be a Weatherstone like my mother, like my stepfather Jonas. Even my stepbrother Yates.

Yates Weatherstone is a mouthful. Literally and figuratively.

My stomach roils at the thought.

I go to French class, and it’s a small, enthusiastic group. The teacher is young, asking all of us to call her Amelie and she talks in animated French. She’s actually from France, and there are mostly girls in the class, which helps me relax. I introduce myself in French to everyone and they smile and nod in response, their faces friendly.

The first friendly faces I’ve seen all day.

Once it’s lunch, I go to the dining hall, impressed with the food selection. I put together a salad at the salad bar, then make my way through the many crowded tables, hating that I know no one. A couple of girls from my French class spot me and wave me over, and I sit with them, silently eating my salad as they chat around me.

“Oh God, there’s Whit,” one of them says, resting her hand over her chest. “He’s so gorgeous. Swear to God he got better looking over the summer. He’s so tan.”

No way can I turn and look at him. If he saw my face, I’m sure he’d recognize me. Of course he would. The media kept my face out of the news, but he knows exactly who I am. Just like I know who he is.

“He’s sadistic,” says the other girl. Her name is Jane, and she is far from plain. She looks like a model with her perfect features and long, lanky body. “I hear he likes to hurt girls when he ah, fucks them.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” asks the other one. I stare at her, trying to remember her name, but I can’t.

There have been too many new things today to remember them all, including names.

Jane leans in close, her voice dropping. “Farah had a thing with him last year. Nothing serious, but they’d mess around. Hook up. He was very demanding, she said. Every time he kissed her, he’d put his hand on her throat. Like he was trying to hold her down. She said sometimes his fingers would tighten, as if he were trying to actually—choke her.”

The other girl gasps. I say nothing, though of course what she says sparks my imagination. It doesn’t scare me. Nor does it shock me.

I can imagine him enjoying that. He was brutal when he was fourteen. Where could his imagination go now?

“That’s disgusting,” the girl whose name I can’t remember declares with a sneer.

Jane grins and flips her wavy blonde hair over her shoulder. “I think it’s kind of hot.”

I watch her. How she snaps her bright pink gum—she’s not eating anything at lunch—and her prissy mannerisms. This girl couldn’t handle Whit Lancaster. He’d destroy her with a touch. A glance.

“He’s so hot, I suppose I could ignore his idiosyncrasies.” The girl—I just remembered her name, it’s Caitlyn—laughs, her focus turning to me. “Have you met Whit yet?”

I slowly shake my head, but otherwise remain quiet. I’m neither confirming nor denying anything verbally.

“His family owns the school. He’s untouchable,” she says.

“Are you liking Lancaster so far?” Jane asks, tucking her hair behind her ear, snapping her gum.

“It’s a lot to take in,” I answer truthfully before I take a bite of my salad.

“Are you staying in the dorms? Or are you a day student?” This is from Caitlyn.

“Dorms,” I answer, dropping my gaze. Thanks to Mother knowing Augustus Lancaster, I was able to get a single dorm at the last minute, which I’m sure is unheard of. Meaning I don’t have to share my room with anyone else. I’ve heard those are rare.

Again, I’m getting special favors, thanks to my mother’s connection to the Lancasters. Which is kind of messed up, but whatever. I have to take advantage of it where I can.

“Where did you go to school before?” asks Jane, sipping from her water bottle. Her eyes gleam as she studies me, and I’m sure she’s trying to figure me out.

I don’t trust her. Something about her sets me on edge. But, of course, I don’t trust anyone. Not anymore.

Once you’ve been burned so many times, it’s hard to let down your guard.

“Billington in Manhattan,” I answer with a faint smile.

They both look impressed.

It’s one of the best private schools in Manhattan. Jonas was on the school board when Yates attended there. That is how Yates was able to get away with so much—they looked the other way, thanks to Jonas’ generous donations and position on the board.

I did the world a favor when I took care of Yates. Not that I get any thanks for it.

Not that anyone knows exactly what I did.

We make small talk for the rest of lunch, the spot between my shoulder blades growing warmer and warmer as the hour winds down. As if someone was watching me. I don’t dare look back.

Too afraid if I do, I’ll be staring into Whit Lancaster’s cold, assessing eyes.