Anabelle Anderson doesn't just want revenge. She wants an entire revolution.
* * *
When 17-year-old Ana returns to her hometown for senior year, she vows to crush the powerful and dangerous clique that exiled her. Armed with a disguise and a step...
I kicked off my shoes and laid back on my bed, tucking my phone between my ear and neck as I opened my English assignment on my laptop. "I didn't come back to Irvine to play it safe."
"Oooh," Ryan cooed sarcastically. "Well, sorr-y Miss Targaryen."
I smirked. "Khalessi."
"For goodness sake, Ana." Ryan laughed. "Can you come back down to earth for one second? I'm trying to be worried about you over here."
"I know." I laughed back, then released a nervy sigh. "The truth is... no. I'm not sure whether or not it is safe. I'm not even sure that it's going to work. But it's all I've got."
"And if it doesn't work?"
"If it doesn't work ..." I hesitated. "My cover could be blown."
There was a brief pause, and I checked my phone to make sure the line hadn't gone dead. After a second, Ryan released an equally nervy breath of air.
"There's no talking you out of this, is there?"
"No," I said.
"Okay. But Ana?"
"Yeah?"
Ryan sighed. "Be careful."
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By Thursday's lacrosse practice, I had well and truly transformed into a ball of nerves. An anxious shiver rippled through my body as I sat on the bench and watched my team run drills in front of me. The hands on my watch ticked obnoxiously, taunting my nerves with every passing second. Twenty minutes until the end of the period, it told me.
This is what I want, I reminded myself. It's now or never.
"Roxford?" Neabar's voice cut through my subconscious pep-talk.
Perfect timing, I thought, practically jumping off of the bench and bounding towards her. I had to remind myself to hide my excitement since no one in their right mind would be that excited over running an errand.
"Yes?" I asked, scanning Neabar's arms for another load of paperwork, or a bag of bibs to drop off for cleaning. I wasn't picky. I just needed something to get out of training and back to that office. My plan relied on it.
Neabar pointed to the field, where the rest of my team were set up in position. "I need you to fill in for Kirsty."
The blood rushed from my face. Neabar... wanted me... to play? As a midfielder? That day, of all days? When I wanted—no, needed—one of her stupid errands?
