Page 29 of Poor Little Rich Girl

I open the window and toss the book at Eli’s head. He catches it in his hands. Damn athletes.

“Your father’s in jail,” I say.

Eli looks up at me, and I read his pain in those ocean-blue eyes. “I went to visit him today.”

“Nice boy like you, I bet you got the full cavity-search treatment.”

Eli winces. “You laugh, but it’s a very real fear of mine. The guards don’t like me much.”

“That’s odd.” I tap the window. “You’re the Stonehurst golden boy. I can’t imagine anyone not liking you.”

Eli stares down at the book in his hands. The silent night stretches between us, but it’s a different silence than what I’m used to. This silence crackles with anticipation.

When Eli lifts his head again, his eyes shine with hope. That too-pretty mouth tugs into a smile so genuine and beautiful it makes my chest ache. “Does this mean you like me again?”

“If you’re going to sit out there all night, you might as well have something to read.” I nod at the book in his hands. “This is one of my favorites.”

He stares at the book. “Since when have you liked reading?”

I shrug. “I’m not the girl you remember, Eli Hart.”

“Nope.” His eyes bore into mine as he clasps the book to his chest. “You’re so much more.”

Mackenzie

Ms. Drysdale walks around the history classroom, slapping papers on top of desks. Students groan. My gaze flickers on Noah at the front of the class. He tucks his paper into his bag, but not before I catch the mark scrawled on the top of the page. A perfect score. Dude is crazy smart.

It should be illegal for guys that hot to also be smart. Give some of the brain juice to the rest of us, already.

My mind drifts back to my diary, to that crush I had on Noah all those years ago, before he hated me. And I can see why I fell hard for him, even as a thirteen-year-old. Brooding, clever, assholes were my type.

Ms. Drysdale stops in front of my desk. My stomach twists with a weird kind of half hope, half dread. I worked hard on this paper – an essay on a woman we admire from history. I chose Queen Boudica – the Celtic queen who led an uprising against the Romans in AD60, not the feline who clawed holes in my Alexandra McQueen trench coat.

Ms. Drysdale passes me a paper, facedown, and the expression on her face makes my heart sink.

“See me after class, Mackenzie.”

So, no good, then. I don’t understand. I know the material. My father spent his entire life talking about the history of Rome. He was obsessed, so much so that most of the stories stuck in my head post-coffin, even though nothing else did. What went wrong?

I shove my paper into my binder, but not before I catch a glimpse of the mark on top. F.

Who cares about some stupid test? I don’t need this school.

But the truth is, I do need this school for a hell of a lot, and I have to stay here all year or everything I worked for and everything Antony sacrificed will be for nothing. So at the end of class. I slink up to Ms. Drysdale’s desk. “You wanted to see me?”

“Mackenzie, I know you’ve had—” she pauses, biting her lip. Bad move on her part. She already sees me as the alpha in this scenario. “—a difficult home life. But Stonehurst is a highly competitive school. Students who don’t perform will find they have no place here. And your paper… it’s not up to the standard I expect from a student at your level, especially given your excellent work on the application essay.”

The application essay I hired out to someone on the internet.

“So I’m behind.” I shrug. “I’ll catch up.”

Maybe I need to hire my internet nerd again. But we didn’t have a lot of money left after we paid the Stonehurst tuition, and Antony says it’s too risky. If my nerd figures out who he’s writing essays for, he could sell the story to the papers and I’m kicked out of Stonehurst, and that’s not going to work for us.

“There’s behind, and then there’s not understanding the basics. Your essay is… well, it reads less like an essay and more as stream-of-consciousness beat poetry performed by drunken dock workers.” Ms. Drysdale dares a smile that brightens her whole face. She’s pretty behind that lank haircut and boxy blazer with the sleeves rolled up. “Honestly, it’s as if you’ve skipped your entire high school education.”

Her comments sting more than I like to admit. I know I’m flunking most classes, but I enjoy history. I know the material. And I like Ms. Drysdale. And as weird as it is for me to admit – I kind of want her to like me. To be impressed by me. I haven’t had teachers in nearly five years. I don’t know how to act around them.

A lump forms in my throat, and I know if I try to say something I might start to cry. So I just nod.

---