Georgetown Academy, Book One

Chapter Two

Tuesday, 12:20pm.

“So we all remember that a quadratic equation is a polynomial equation of the second degree, right? What do we do if we cannot immediately factor the equation?”

Taryn Reyes kept her head down, hiding behind her long, dark, wavy hair and praying the strict-looking teacher with the tight bun didn’t call on her. At her old school in Los Angeles, Taryn had always done pretty well in math, but it was like this woman was speaking a totally different language. Polynomial equation? Taryn scanned her brain, trying to remember if she’d ever heard her old math teacher, Patricia, mention that before.

That was the other thing. At Crossroads, her old school, you called your teachers by their first names. It was all part of the school’s mission to foster an open and nurturing environment. She had to get used to this idea of calling everyone Miss that or Mister this. Here, everything was overly complicated, even her class schedule. Her first period class today would actually be her second period class tomorrow because the school had a rotating bell system for whatever reason. And there were mandatory school-wide assemblies three days a week.

She wished her parents had been able to find her a school in D.C. that mirrored the bohemian philosophy of Crossroads, but her dad’s chief-of-staff had insisted Georgetown Academy was one of the highest-ranked private high schools in the country.

Taryn sunk back in her chair, wondering what her friends back home were doing right now. When her dad got elected and she realized her family was going to move from Los Angeles, where Taryn had grown up her whole life, to D.C., she had been excited. Sure, it would be sad to leave home, but Taryn loved traveling, meeting new people, and learning new things. Every new adventure she had experienced in her life so far had been a success. Why should this be any different? But after a few hours at Georgetown Academy, she was starting to realize different was the only way she could describe this place.

For one thing, she seemed to dress differently than everyone else here. She glanced over at a striking redhead sitting a few rows down. The girl was actually wearing a head-to-toe Chanel ensemble. The only person Taryn knew who wore Chanel was her grandmother. Just then, Chanel girl looked up and caught Taryn staring at her. Taryn instantly felt guilty that she had been so judgmental over someone’s outfit. Just because Chanel girl was dressed like that didn’t mean she wasn’t a nice person. And then, as if on cue, Chanel girl gave Taryn an evil eye that made a “death look” seem like a hug. Taryn swallowed and quickly looked back down at her book. She definitely hadn’t made any friends so far today.

Maybe tomorrow she should wear something more “G.A. appropriate.” She did have one dress she had gotten for appearances during her dad’s campaign. Her mom had bought it for her after one of her dad’s advisors had suggested that, while it had been acceptable for Taryn to dress more “casually” during the governor campaigns, in an election for the House of Representatives, she’d have to dress more “fancily.” Taryn had a feeling the issue was less about formality, and more about the fact that a local news anchor had commented on how well the governor’s daughter had filled out her low-cut Miu-Miu dress when he thought his mic was off.

At first, Taryn had thrown a fit about changing the way she dressed—weren’t both her parents always going on and on about the importance of creativity and self-expression? But ultimately, she had given in. If her dad didn’t win, she didn’t want blame to lay on her shoulders (or breasts, for that matter). She didn’t want his advisors saying, “If only Taryn had just worn that god-awful Donna Karan dress that makes her look forty years old, you might have won.” So she wore the dress. And her dad did win. And here she was in D.C., debating whether or not she should wear that same god-awful dress yet again.