Cracked Kingdom (The Royals #5)(25)

I long for a narrower sidewalk, a smaller entryway, and crowded halls where I could be just one of the hundreds of students hurrying to class. Instead, it feels like there are more lockers than students. Using the school map from my notebook, I find my way to my own locker and then stare at the lock in dismay. I don’t remember the code. I try my birthday. Nothing happens.

I enter my zip code and the year. The lock holds. I squeeze my eyes shut and strain to recall more numbers. Dylan’s birthday pops into my head. When that fails, I enter Parker’s. A phone number floats to the top. Still nothing. I chew on the corner of my mouth in vexation. Why didn’t I think of this beforehand? I didn’t remember I went to Astor, the stupid uniform feels like it’s made for someone other than me, so why would I know my locker code?

“Problems, Hart-lay?”

I glance to my right to see Kyle smirking at me. I wish he’d go away. There’s no way I dated this guy. Even if I was a liar and a cheat, I had to have some standards. Standing next to him makes my skin crawl. And frankly, if we did date and we did sleep together, those are things I’m happy to forget.

“Nope.”

“You ready for your first class?” There’s a malicious note underlying his words, but I’ve had enough of Kyle and his not-so-helpful pieces of information. Instead of responding, I merely turn and walk away.

“Hey, I was talking to you,” he yells at my back.

I keep moving, ignoring the questioning faces and the way my cheeks are turning bright red in embarrassment.

“Bitch,” he yells.

At least he’s not acting like we’re dating anymore.

I keep my head down and try to draw as little attention to myself as possible. At lunch, everyone’s attention is diverted by a fight. A blonde with hair the color of honey launches herself at a dark-haired girl with tight curls. I hear one of them yell about trees and houses and wonder what kind of circus Astor Park Prep really is.

By the end of the day, I’m worn out—emotionally and physically. I drag myself to Calc, the class I supposedly cheated in. The room is nearly empty when I arrive.

The teacher, a very pretty woman who doesn’t look old enough to have graduated from college, is standing at the front. Her red lips turn down at the corners when she spots me. Someone’s memory still works even if mine is gone. The schedule has the teacher listed as C. Mann.

“Ms. Wright, how nice to see you back in class.”

If awards were given for snideness, Ms. Mann would get a big trophy. I dip my head and survey the desks. Which one did I sit in? The few students who are already in their seats avoid my gaze. They don’t want me to sit by them. I opt for one in the far corner. I’ve had enough eyes on my back to last a year.

“That’s not your seat,” a curly-haired brunette informs me when I start to slide behind my chosen desk.

Ass half onto the chair, I blink dumbly. “We have assigned seats? Where’s mine?”

This wasn’t a problem in any of the other classes today.

“No, dumbass. That’s Landon’s seat. He’s sat there the entire class.”

This is frustrating. “Okay, then where should I sit?”

Instead of answering me, the brunette raises her hand. “Ms. Mann, Hartley can’t go back to sitting in her old seat. It wouldn’t be fair to the Royals.”

The Royals...plural? Easton’s in this class? Maybe he meant wait for him in class. He might’ve thought I would remember.

“I know, right?” a boy pipes up. “They’ve got enough on their plate.”

I twist around to stare at the boy whose spindly arms look about as frail as my pencil. “I was in a car accident and landed on my head. I don’t have rabies.”

He makes a face.

“Sit there.” Ms. Mann points to a desk in the front right, near the door.

“Fine.” I stomp up to the desk and throw myself down in the seat. I make a big deal out of unzipping my backpack and slamming my notebook onto the desk, because I’m tired of trying to hide.

I’m here. Deal with me. I cross my arms and glare at every student who comes in. Some are taken aback. Some don’t look at me, and others shoot daggers in return. None of them are Easton. One pretty blonde pauses as she enters, looks at me under her eyelashes, and then takes her seat after another student enters behind her and gives her a small shove.

Curious, I track her to her desk. As the students trickle in, a steady buzz of conversation starts humming. There’s a lot of discussion about a dance that took place and who came with whom. There’s debate about whether it’s institutional misogyny that props up attendance for the terrible boys’ basketball team as opposed to the small crowd that watches the really good girls’ team. And there’s talk about a party at Felicity’s house. She’s bringing in a band—a band so big that even these rich kids are semi-awed.

“I heard she paid half a million.”

“For what?”

“New Year’s Eve. We’re seniors so we might as well go out with a splash.”

“Easton, are you going? Oh, he’s not here.” The student hadn’t realized. She moves on. “Ella, what about you?”

“It depends on how Sebastian is doing,” the pretty blonde who eyed me earlier says.

Ella. She’s the foster sister. The one that Kyle and Felicity said Easton wanted but couldn’t have. I can’t remember why. It had something to do with one of his brothers, but maybe I’m mixing that up with another girl.