Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“Use the credit cards if you need something in the meantime,” David tells us.
It’s Friday afternoon and our parents are dropping Fenn and me off in front of the senior dorm. They insisted on making the trip with us, a fact Fenn protested until the moment the car pulled up to the curb.
“Yep, top marks, David.” Fenn doesn’t spare a glance from his phone to get in another jab at his father. “Dad of the year. You can go now.”
It’s been like that since we left the house. And by house, I’m referring to the disgustingly lavish Greenwich mansion where my mother and I now reside. Granted, I was only there two days before it was time to leave for New Hampshire, so, really, I barely got a chance to peek into all ten bedrooms and twelve bathrooms. For all I know the rest of the house is a dump. I mean, I only spotted one thousand-dollar espresso machine in the chef’s kitchen that was bigger than our old house in Windsor. Who are these peasants?
Mom’s been floating on cloud nine since the move. She’d served rich folks in first class my whole life, and now she’s one of them and loves every second of it. I can’t even count the amount of times she whispered “I feel like a princess” into my ear while David’s household staff served our dinner last night.
Me, I just felt out of place. My scuffed-up Converses don’t belong on marble floors. My stubble-covered face shouldn’t be peering into gold-gilded mirrors in my own private bathroom with a jacuzzi tub. And I didn’t even have time to dwell on the total lifestyle rehaul before being carted off again.
“If you need anything, let us know.” David looks to me now, because his son can’t be bothered to acknowledge him. “Call any time, day or night. We’re here for you.”
“Come on.” Fenn slings his leather duffel bag over his shoulder and gives me a nod. “We’re on the third floor.”
Mom grabs me for one last hug. She gets a little red in the eyes, but I suspect the tears will clear up the second those two are alone. Maybe shipping me off wasn’t her idea, but she got on board with it quick.
I’ll say this much—of all the prisons I could have ended up in, Sandover Prep is not the worst.
Inside, everything is mahogany and leather. Paintings in gilded frames line the wide corridors, which feel more like a museum than a cage for high school deviants. It’s a long way from the lowest-bidder corporate design solutions of the typical public school or state college dorm.
“There’s a common room through there.” Fenn points toward it when we reach our floor. “They call it the Lounge. One of two shared bathrooms over there.”
Fenn nods as we pass a dude with messy shoulder-length hair and a movie-star face. Shirtless and wearing only a pair of black silk boxers, he’s hanging out of his doorway with an unlit cigar in his mouth and a snifter in hand like he’s hosting a Playboy Bunny party in there. The guy quirks a brow, amusement dancing in his silvery eyes when he notices me. I have a feeling he won’t be the first to question what a punk like me in ripped jeans and an old band shirt is doing in a place like this.
“And this is us.” Fenn stops at the third door from the end of the hall.
The room is bigger than I expected. It has a large sitting area in the middle, with a couch, couple of armchairs, and sixty-five-inch TV. On either side of the room are two full-size beds, tall dressers, desks, and matching closets. Everything is trimmed in wood and hideous wallpaper of a duck hunt or something. The boxes we sent ahead last week are already here, stacked up behind the leather couch.
“We get decent Wi-Fi?” I ask Fenn.
“Sometimes? I don’t really spend enough time in my room to notice.”
I scan the spacious area. I guess I can always run an ethernet cable when I find the router. The first box I crack open has my computer gear. As my new stepbrother watches in dismay, I waste no time installing my monitors and booting up my machine to make sure the movers didn’t kick the thing all the way from Connecticut to Sandover.
“What’s all this about?” Fenn hovers over my shoulder. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those Twitch bros.”
“Nah, I’m not a gamer.”
“What’s this shit for then?”
“Side projects.”
“Lame.” He kicks my rolling chair, pushing me away from the desk.
If I weren’t on my best behavior, we might have a problem. Dude doesn’t need to get the impression he can do that twice. But I let it slide—this time.
“You’re new here, so let me help you out,” he says. “We can’t have you getting a reputation as a loser on day one.”