Boarding with the Bad Boy [COMPLETE + BONUS published edition]

THE BOARDERS: 01

Lo

I'm wondering what it feels like to die as the left-hand signal into Remington Academy's gates goes green. It's something I consider a lot lately, two weeks after my dad slipped suddenly from coma to...whatever comes after. He'd spent more than a month in a Los Angeles county hospital, breathing through tubes in the ICU while my mother flirted with his doctors and pretended it wasn't her fault he was there. I'd seen her doing it, eyes gleaming under too much makeup, fingers teasing at the sleeve of the attending physician's lab coat. It had taken everything in me not to put my fist through a wall or my mother's face, but I'd waited until the night she actually brought the doctor home, and as the bed in the next room groaned beneath them, I'd hurled all six of her precious healing crystals off the apartment balcony. I loved the sound they made when they shattered (a symphony), the way my mother's face crumpled, then quickly rearranged, when she realized what I had done. I rode the high of that night for a week, until my dad flatlined and my mom turned her accusing eyes on me. In that moment, for the first time, I hated myself almost as much as I hated her.

My fingers flex against the wheel instinctively, anger rising in my chest like a familiar poison. Just under four years ago, my mother took me from my father; six weeks ago, she took him from me. Forever. I feel like an idiot for standing beside her during those years between, thinking she would change, believing it when she reminded me the best thing a woman could do was follow her heart, that the wreckage left in her wake was the fault of the world's ugliness, not her own. I know better now, and I've come back to Salisbury to prove it.

I park illegally in front of Hollinger Admissions Hall and move from the truck to the door of the building, pausing to let my eyes adjust as I enter the dark offices. A woman—smartly dressed, blonde—sits behind the front desk. She doesn't look up as I approach.

"Hi," I say when I reach her. "I'm checking in." When she looks at me blankly, I give her my name as a question. "Logan Somers?"

The woman sorts some things on her desk. "Boarders were due to check in by 4pm."

Shit. I glance at the clock on the wall behind her. It's almost half past. I give her an embarrassed half-shrug. "I'm really sorry," I say. "I got stuck in traffic on my way over here and—"

"You have a cell phone, don't you? Or your parents do?" The woman lifts a brow in reproach. I bite forcefully on my tongue to stop myself answering. I promised myself I was going to be better here, that Remington was going to be a new start. No more snapping back at the first sign of affront.

"I'm sorry," I say again, this time through clenched teeth. "I didn't realize how late I was."

The woman doesn't respond but clicks her tongue against the back of her teeth and reaches to a black and gold Remington Academy folder. It's the only one of its kind, and I take that to mean it's my welcome packet—and that I'm the last boarder to move in today.

"Thanks," I say as she hands it over wordlessly. I get the feeling she doesn't like me. "And I really am sorry," I try. "Again."

I turn to leave, but the secretary speaks before I get to the door. "This isn't Salisbury High, Miss Somers. Remington Academy is an elite private institution precisely because we respect the rules here. That includes punctuality."

Well no shit. Before I can stop myself, I'm dropping into a mock curtsy, saying "yes, ma'am, it won't happen again," and turning to the heavy door before she can respond. Looks like being better is going to take some practice.

I hold the welcome packet to my chest as I cross the sunlit walk and pull myself into the driver's seat of my truck. My palms are sweating. This—finding out who my roommate will be—is the part I'm most nervous about. I toss the first page of the packet, a letter from the headmaster, into my passenger seat, rummaging for the sheet that lists my dorm and roommate. My best friend Jill has been attending Remington since the ninth grade, and she's filled me in on all the boarders since her Spanish teacher dad got me my very last-minute spot in Remington's senior class. Unless she's new like me, I'm going to know right away if my roommate is a great girl or a terrible one, and Remington has its fair share of both.