A Million Kisses in Your Lifetime (Lancaster Prep )(4)

The disappointment they feel at my rejection is palpable, yet I smile through it. They all reluctantly nod their heads at the same time, before they send each other a look and slink away, never saying a word to me.

It’s odd, having a fan club when I do nothing but simply…exist.

A shuddery exhale leaves me, and I head down the corridor. The pressure these girls unknowingly put on my shoulders to be perfect sometimes feels insurmountable. They have me up on such a high pedestal, it would take nothing to send me tumbling. I’d end up a disappointment to all, and that’s the last thing I want. The last thing they’d want.

I have an image to uphold, and sometimes it feels…

Impossible.

It’s a lot of responsibility, being a role model for so many females like me. Lost girls who come from rich families. Girls who just want to fit in and belong. To feel normal and have a typical high school experience.

Granted, we’re at an exclusive private school that only the upper echelon of society attends so there’s nothing normal about our life, but still. We try and make it as normal as we possibly can, because some of us suffer, just like everyone else. With self-esteem issues, our studies, the expectations put upon us by family and friends and teachers. We feel unseen, unknown.

I know I did.

Sometimes I still do.

That’s my goal in life currently—to help others feel comfortable and maybe even find like themselves. When I was younger, I used to think I might want to be a nurse, but my father talked me out of that profession by ranting on and on how nurses do a lot of hard work for nominal pay.

Nominal according to him. Harvey Beaumont is rich—he took over his father’s real estate business when he was barely thirty and made it thrive, and now he’s a billionaire. His only daughter becoming a nurse would be so beneath him and the Beaumont name.

It’s something I can’t even consider. It doesn’t matter what I want.

Whatever move I want to make, I need his permission first. I’m his only child, his only daughter, and I can’t be trusted to always make the right decision.

I make my way toward my first period class, Honors English. Only twenty people are allowed in the class our senior year and, of course, Crew is in there. I’ve had a few classes with him since I started at Lancaster Prep, but I’ve never had to sit by him or talk directly to him, which I prefer.

As in, I’ve never had a conversation with him. I don’t think he likes me much, considering the faint sneer that’s always on his face when he watches me.

And he watches me a lot.

I don’t understand why. I avoid eye contact with him as much as possible, but every once in a while, I stare into his icy blue eyes and I see nothing but disgust.

Nothing but hate.

Why? What did I ever do to him?

Crew Lancaster is too much. Too moody and too dark and too quiet. Too handsome and magnetic and smart. I don’t like how I feel when his eyes are on me. All shivery and strange. The feeling is completely unfamiliar and only happens when I’m in his vicinity, and it doesn’t make any sense.

I turn down the corridor that houses the English department, eager to get to class early, so I can secure my seat in the front row, direct center. When my friends come into class, I always make sure they sit by me, so no one unsavory can. Like Crew.

Knowing him, if he had the chance to sit close to me, he would. Just to rattle me.

I think he would enjoy that.

Our teacher, Mr. Figueroa, doesn’t assign seats, and he has a very relaxed attitude in this class. Considering we’re seniors and he handpicked each student to be in his advanced class before the school year started, he trusts us not to act out or cause trouble. He just wants to “mold young minds,” as he says, without restrictions or boundaries. He’s my favorite teacher, and he’s asked me to be a teacher’s aide for the spring semester.

Of course, I immediately said yes.

I enter the classroom, coming to a sudden stop when I spot Figueroa in an embrace with someone. A student, because she’s wearing a plaid uniform skirt and blue blazer. Her hair is a deep auburn, a shade I recognize, and when he gives her a nudge, she springs out of his arms, turning to face me.

Maggie Gipson. My friend. Her face is streaked with drying tears, and she sniffs, blinking at me. “Oh hey, Wren.”

“Maggie.” I go to her, lowering my voice so Fig won’t hear us. That’s what he tells us to call him, though all the guys make fun of the nickname behind his back. I figure they’re all just jealous of the relationships he has with us girls. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She sniffs again, shaking her head. Which tells me she’s not fine at all, but I can’t press the situation. Not when we’re in class. “Just…I got into another argument with Franklin last night.”

“Oh no. I’m sorry.” Franklin Moss is her on-again, off-again boyfriend, and he seems very demanding. Always pressuring her to do things with him sexually. She just needs more conviction within herself, so she can tell him no, and mean it.

But she never tells him no. She’s already had sex with him multiple times, and it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t love her like she wants him to.

I think it’s because she gave it up to him too soon, but she won’t listen to me. Once we entered our junior year and sex became more and more rampant, one by one my friends sacrificed themselves to the boys who begged them for it. At least that’s the word my father used for it—a sacrifice.