Heartache and Hope (Heartache Duet #1)(4)

St. Luke’s Academy is the most prestigious school within a fifty-mile radius, and I’m lucky to be here—just ask the faculty.

I descend the main staircase, past the words etched into the mahogany above the doorway: Vincit qui se vincit. Translation: He conquers who conquers himself.

Basically: master yourself, and then master the world around you. What’s written between the lines, though, is this: St. Luke’s will mold you to perfection, then throw you out into the real world and hope you know what the hell you’re doing.

On the ground floor, I look left, look right. It’s the same down here as it was above: deserted. The air conditioner above me whirs to life, blowing chills across my skin. Posters and flyers flap at the edges. The largest one spans across an entire wall, from one classroom door to another. Wildcats! Wildcats! Wildcats! There’s a significant divide in this school, with only two segments: jocks and academics.

My stepbrother fell into the jock category.

Two years ago, so did I.

Kind of.

Now, I don’t fit in either. I’m a loner, floating on the outskirts, discarded and unseen.

Invisible… until I’m not.

The long, narrow, empty hall stretches in front of me. Even with the air conditioning creating goosebumps on my flesh, making the hairs on my arms rise, sweat builds on my neck, at my hairline. I hold my psychology book to my chest and keep my head lowered. One step. Two. The walls seem to close in, but there’s no exit in sight. I stop just outside the classroom door and freeze. I pray for an escape while I will myself not to press my ear against the heavy timber and listen in. A short breath in, out. I ball the note in my hand: a message from the school’s psychologist excusing me from my tardiness with words so articulate, I struggle to understand them even though they’re written about me. It’s as if she tries to hide the truth that everyone already knows. It should just say: Be nice. Y’all know what she’s been through.

I take one more deep, calming breath before I press my shoulder to the door and start to push, but the door gives way, and I’m falling forward, my shoes squeaking against the marble floor as I try to brace myself.

“Miss Diaz,” Mr. McCallister booms, his hand on my arm to help keep me upright. Heat forms in my cheeks as I quickly hand him the note. Around me: silence. Not a single word, not even a whisper. Mr. McCallister doesn’t bother reading the note; he simply places it on his desk and motions to the classroom. “Please swiftly find a seat so we can continue.”

My phone vibrates in the hidden pocket of my school skirt.

Ignore it.

But I can’t. I start to reach for it at the same time Mr. McCallister clears his throat. “Now, Miss Diaz.”

I swallow my nerves and glance up through my lashes. I can feel every set of eyes on me, but I refuse to meet them.

It’s a miracle my feet move at all, and they lead me to the only empty seat left in the room.

I drop my bag by the desk and climb into the chair, the lump in my throat the size of the random basketball by my feet.

Mr. McCallister turns his back, his focus already on writing down the semester’s syllabus on the whiteboard. It takes a second for the class to follow, fingers busy tap, tap, tapping on their keyboards.

“Hey,” a male voice whispers from next to me. I have no idea who he is, and I don’t look up when he says, “I’m Connor.”

I open my textbook to the first page, ignoring the dampness on the side of the pages from where I’d been gripping it.

“I’m new here…” my desk-mate says, his voice trailing as if waiting for a response.

In my mind, I say, “Hi, I’m Ava. Welcome to my personal hell. The only reason I’m here is because guilt forces me to be.”

Out loud, I say nothing.

Soon enough, he’ll know everything there is to know about me.





Chapter 3





Connor





The car didn’t stall once.

A miracle, really.

I got to school early this morning, about a half hour before I was supposed to be here. I thought it might help with the whole car situation. Not that I’m embarrassed by it, because I’m not. But you know what they say about first impressions. I didn’t want to go into the year being “that kid.”

It was pointless, though. One car in the parking lot, one kid on campus. Put two and two together, and you get my dumb ass.

I spent some time on the court alone, getting used to the hardwood that would become my playground for the next year. About twenty minutes in, my new teammates started to show.

Rhys, the team captain, was the first to greet me. His lackey, Mitch, was next, and then the rest of the guys. Everyone but Rhys seemed more interested in my car than in me, and when Rhys told them to quit raggin’ on me, they didn’t listen.

The first official practice of the season sucked. I’d spent so many hours during the summer learning the plays and memorizing my positions. I thought I had it down. I was wrong, so fucking wrong. I lagged. Hard. Balls flew past my head faster than I could catch them, names were called, threats were made. And that was just from Coach Sykes. Besides Rhys, no one said a word to me in the locker room afterward. This was all before the first bell, and my introduction to the shitty elite side of St. Luke’s Academy.

And then first period started, psychology, and things just went downhill from there. No one sat next to me, and other than a few girls with coy smiles, I was ignored.