Boarding with the Bad Boy [COMPLETE + BONUS published edition]

THE BOARDERS: 21

Lo

I wake with a jolt to Monday's alarm. My evening with Jill and Spencer—ordering pizza and watching bad TV, listening to them both talk about their summers—had loosened some of my anxiety and I'd felt better, calmer, upon returning to the dorm late last night. Somehow, even with Sam asleep in the bed beside me, I'd been able to drift into my first real sleep in days and hadn't revisited my nightmare once. It feels like a gift, until the realization that today is my first day of classes at Remington settles over my shoulders, bringing my anxiety with it.

Sam's side of the room is empty, and the dorm has a lingering scent of body wash and deodorant. I assume that means he's already up and out, which works just fine for me. I go through the motions of the morning robotically, a cold dread tensing my insides as I face myself in the dorm mirror, dressed in my Remington uniform for the first time. I don't look like myself. I look like a prep school girl from New England, which I guess, technically, I am. Still, it feels weird, and I whisper a quick "wish me luck" toward my dad, hoping that, wherever he is, he has some pull to make this day bearable.

Unfortunately, if he hears the call, he doesn't do much to assist. I am woefully unprepared for the reception of my classmates, the whispers beginning as soon as I enter the Literature building for first period. I spot a group of girls I recognize from cross country outside class. Upon catching sight of me, they quickly close their ranks. And when Ms. Miron calls my name during Psychology attendance in third, the girl behind me mutters "slut" and kicks the back of my chair. I pretend not to notice, though my face flames.

The first good part of the day is lunch, where Jill meets me with a tight squeeze. "Don't mind these assholes," she mutters into my ear. "They're just jealous that the new girl's hotter than all of them. Besides, Beth Armstrong is bound to do something ridiculous at the Welcome Party this weekend and they'll forget all about you."

"God, I hope so," I say, narrowing my eyes at the girl giving me a death glare while clutching the arm of her boyfriend.

"Careful," I say, jutting my chin in toward her vice grip. "He's going lose that arm if you don't lighten up a little."

Her mouth drops open, but before she can call me a bitch, I'm tugging Jill into the dining hall. She whacks me on the shoulder. "Unless you keep doing shit like that," she groans.

Spencer's already claimed a table, and he waves obnoxiously until we join him. He's surrounded by the tennis team, and he demands they be nice to me before launching back into a story about getting so drunk at the South Hampton rosé party he wet himself in a hot polo player's bed. I've heard this one (we covered a lot of ground last night), so I know what's coming and I'm already laughing when someone slams a tray down beside me. I jump, glancing up.

Brandon slides into the seat next to mine, Sam right behind him. Spencer goes silent and I can practically smell Jill's tension.

"Hey, Price," Sam says. "Been awhile." He's purposely avoiding my glare. It raises my hackles.

"Sam." Spencer's voice has a note of warning in it.

Brandon leans around me to Jill. "Hey, Jiller-Killer." I grit my teeth at his use of my nickname for my best friend. He seems to sense it, his lips curling in a self-satisfied grin. "I know you and Ho-gan were friends back in the day, but there's no reason to socialize with her after her three years of desertion, is there?" He says it conversationally, but he means for it to cut, and it does.

"Fuck off," I mutter at the same time Spencer speaks.

"You must be Brandon." His voice is light, a tight smile over his features. "I'd heard you were charming, but Lo really didn't prepare me for how much so." Jill squeezes my knee under the table and I'm relieved to realize that she'd been right about Spencer. He doesn't seem to want to align himself with Brandon and Sam at all. On the contrary...

"And you're the tag-along to this little bitch fest." Brandon doesn't miss a beat. "Haven't you heard about the stunt this skank pulled to keep her enrollment this weekend?"

I'm embarrassed by the attention we're calling to ourselves—the rest of the tennis team is looking on in interest—but, as usual, Brandon's presence pulls out my ugliest side.

"Ooh, Brandon, do tell," I say sarcastically, forcing his attention to me. "Give me a rumor I haven't heard about myself yet today."

He ignores me, focusing on Jill and Spencer. "I know for good as fact that she slept her way into Remington."

"Do you?" I ask, leaning in. "Where, exactly, did you get that information?"

Brandon directs his smug grin toward Sam and I clench my jaw as I shift my glare. Sam looks pissed, scowling over my head as he battles with something.

"Jesus, man. You can say it." I don't have to look to know that Brandon's directive is for Sam. The latter shoves a hand through his hair and crosses his arms over his chest. After a pause, his eyes meet mine.

"He got it from me."

My heart drops, and I know that my hurt is written all over my face. I'm embarrassed by that, almost as much as I'm embarrassed that I was played by Sam. Again. Whatever Spencer may have told Jill about Sam being good at his core...he was wrong. This asshole is too far gone.

I breathe deeply and purse my lips, trying to force the emotion from my face as I nod slowly.

"And how, exactly, would you know what kept Lo at Remington?" Spencer asks. The challenge in his voice is obvious, and I feel a swoop of gratitude toward him. Sam's eyes narrow on Spencer before he shrugs casually.

Brandon leans in, as if sharing a lurid secret. "As Somers' roommate, Evans has been entitled to certain benefits..."

He lets it hang, the insinuation clear. I swallow hard against the lump in my throat, nodding and trying to think up something clever to say into the silence. I glance around the table, praying for some kind of comeback that will end this nightmare, but my eyes land on one of the girls from the tennis team—someone Spencer's just introduced me to—and the anger coming off her, directed at Sam, crumbles any bravery I had to dust. Because it's obvious: she has some kind of history with Sam, and she's pissed enough that it probably wasn't a casual or one-time thing. I stand suddenly, knowing I have to get out of here, now, before I start crying.

I slam my chair back—not caring when it crashes to the floor behind me—and make a run for it. I've been an idiot to let my walls down around this asshole. He said there was no punchline, but he lied. I'm the punchline, and I'm at the end of my rope. Sam Evans has officially made himself enemy #1.