Rebel Hearts

New Girl, New Trouble

The iron gates of St. Augustine's loomed like the mouth of a prison, tall and foreboding against the overcast sky. Brooklyn Mitchell sat in the backseat of her stepmom's gleaming SUV, one hand pressed against the cool glass of the window, the other clenched in her lap. She could feel the weight of it all—the judgment, the expectations, the suffocating newness of this place. The tires crunched over the gravel as they rolled to a stop, and the silence in the car seemed to stretch forever.

St. Augustine's School for Girls. A name so polished it practically sparkled, just like everything else her father tried to force into her life. It reeked of money and privilege, a world Brooklyn had been thrust into against her will.

"You'll like it here," her stepmother said for what felt like the hundredth time, her voice annoyingly optimistic. "It's a chance to start over. To get things back on track."

Brooklyn barely turned her head, her lips set in a firm, unimpressed line. *Brooklyn*, the obedient girl who'd followed all the rules and got straight As, had died months ago. This new version of herself, with her dark curls half-tucked under a beanie and a pair of ripped jeans that defied the dress code, didn't belong in a place like this.

"I know you're still upset about what happened, but your father only wants what's best for you," her stepmom added, her tone softening, like that would make a difference.

Brooklyn huffed, opening the door before she could be lectured again about "making better choices." This wasn't about her dad wanting what was best. This was about control. About him not knowing how to handle a daughter who wasn't a carbon copy of his perfect suburban life.

Stepping out of the SUV, Brooklyn adjusted her leather jacket against the crisp autumn breeze. The cold air bit at her skin, but she barely felt it. She threw her duffle bag over her shoulder, glancing at the pristine grounds sprawling in front of her—the ivy-covered walls, the manicured lawns, the towering dormitories that looked more like castles than school buildings.

She hated it already.

Girls in neat uniforms, skirts too short to be innocent but long enough to hide behind, whispered and glanced her way as they passed by. Brooklyn felt their eyes crawling over her like ants, picking apart the fact that she didn't look like she belonged. The girl with the tight curls, the combat boots, the attitude that said *stay the hell away*. Let them talk. She wasn't here to make friends.

"Brooklyn, wait," her stepmom called, but Brooklyn was already walking toward the large oak doors that led into the main hall. The sound of her boots echoed off the stone pathway with each determined step.

She pushed the doors open, stepping into the cavernous entrance hall of St. Augustine's, and immediately felt the weight of it. The ceilings were so high they disappeared into shadows, and the walls were lined with portraits of stern-looking women, each one a former headmistress or alumna who had undoubtedly walked these halls with their noses in the air. Brooklyn felt suffocated already. The scent of polished wood and faint lavender hung in the air, like the whole place was trying too hard to be perfect.

Then she saw her.

Taryn James stood by the central staircase, surrounded by a small group of girls who hung on her every word. She leaned against the banister, her arms crossed over her chest, eyes sharp and focused, lips curved into an amused smirk. She was the kind of girl who didn't need to be the loudest in the room to command attention. Dark, flawless skin glowing under the dim lights, her hair pulled back into neat braids that fell just past her shoulders. She had a casual air of confidence about her, like she knew she ran this place.

Brooklyn had heard about her even before she arrived—whispers of the so-called queen of the school's underground rebellion. Taryn James wasn't just a student at St. Augustine's; she was a force. Rumor had it she'd broken every rule in the book and then some, but she was smart—too smart to get caught. She was dangerous in the way a storm was—unpredictable, and when it hit, you had no choice but to ride it out.