Cruel Prep - A Mafia Romance

LILY

It's the first day of the rest of my life.

A new chapter. That's what my mom keeps calling it. She says that like it's a good thing. Like I should be excited.

So then why do I feel this awful nausea in the pit of my stomach?

Maybe it's because part of me already knows the truth: this chapter is going to be just as horrible as the last one was.

I shake my head to clear those thoughts I approach the old church building. We're in South Texas, but this building looks like a medieval goth's wet dream.

Creepy black steeples stretch towards the sky like talons. A stained-glass window peers out like a single, predatory eye.

This place used to be the home of a cult, back in the 80s. After it got shut down, the wealthy families of Ravenlake, Texas, pooled their cash to fund the creation of an elite private school. Mostly so their offspring wouldn't have to mingle with dirty peasants like me over at Public.

And that's how Ravenlake Preparatory Academy was born.

As I push through the massive front doors, one thought keeps chiming in my head over and over again like a church bell.

I don't belong here.

It's obvious just from looking around how right I am about that. The princes and princesses of Ravenlake Prep are swirling on all sides. They're all decked out in Balenciaga sneakers, Prada dresses, All Saints leather jackets. They look like runway models.

Me? I'm wearing off-brand Converse and ink-stained blue jeans, with my long blond hair tied back in a frizzy braid.

But I keep my head down. Try not to stand out, to blend into the crowd. Last summer gave me enough public attention to last a lifetime. My goal here is to simply survive. The fewer people who know who I am, the better.

A woman from the front office with breast implants and hair extensions gives me the briefest, least helpful tour in human history. She points in the general direction of the classrooms, which are located in the two modern wings built onto the original church building. Then she nods towards the cafeteria with hardly more than a grunt and hands me a slip of paper with my locker combination written on it.

"Good luck," she says.

But as she walks away, I swear I hear her add in a dry mumble, "You're going to need it."

I'm left standing in the intersection of two major hallways, all alone. Without the faintest idea of where I'm supposed to go.

The other students wrinkle their noses as I pass. They keep their distance from me. But they're still close enough that I can still hear their whispered comments.

"I didn't know we were expected to mingle with kids from Public."

"Since when does Ravenlake offer pity scholarships?"

"She's only here because her momma is cleaning our toilets."

I try to ignore them. But it's hard when a lot of it is rooted in truth. I am from Public. I am here on scholarship, and my mother is now a member of the Ravenlake custodial staff.

We're not here by choice. We're here because of "The Incident" that happened last summer. But we're here nonetheless. And as Mom keeps saying, I just have to make the best of it.

I'm ten minutes late to homeroom because the architects designed to label the classrooms with a mix of Latin words and Roman numerals, which makes precisely zero sense to me. It's like they're trying to filter out the riff-raff every step of the way.

As soon as I open the door, I hear the rustle of thirty heads turning to look at me. My face flushes red.

I scan the room and see an empty seat in the middle of the group of students. I lower my head and move towards it, but before I can turn down the center aisle, the teacher seizes my arm.

"Lily DeVry?"

I swallow and turn to her, plastering a fake smile on my face. "That's me."

As though pulling her lines from every high school movie ever made, she clears her throat and announces me like the next cattle up at auction. "Class, we have a new student with us this year. I expect you to make her feel welcome."

The room remains silent and completely still, with the lone exception of a beautiful redhead in the front row who raises a single eyebrow in disbelief. Clearly, the teacher should expect disappointment. The only thing I am welcome to do at Ravenlake Prep is leave.

"That Lily DeVry?" a female voice asks, her whisper loud enough for the entire room to hear.

I'd been hoping to stay anonymous at least until lunchtime. Mission failed.

The teacher releases my arm. I hurry to a seat in the back row and slump down as far as I can.

I keep my head down throughout the rest of homeroom announcements. When the bell rings, I pack my bag and try to blend in with the herd as they shuffle from the room.

Just as I walk through the door, the girl in front of me with long, shiny black hair spins around, the ends of her hair whipping me in the nose. Her glossy frown is set as she glares at me, arms crossed over her chest.

"Why are you here?"

"To learn at this fine establishment," comes my rehearsed answer.

I practiced it in the mirror all last night. It sounds snarky, like I intended, but still could probably do with a little more venom if I really want people to leave me alone.

I don't want problems with anyone here, but I'm sure as shit not going to let a bunch of rich kids think they can push me around. Besides, I learned in a self-defense class in middle school that most aggressors will back off when they realize their target is willing to put up a fight.

Her eyebrow arches. "Do they not have schools on your side of town?"

"This is my side of town." As of two weeks ago, my mom and I live less than a mile from Ravenlake Prep. I can see the school's spires from our motel window.

"You may live here, but it will never be your town," she sneers. She's close enough that I can smell her floral body spray. It is thick and artificial, and I want to ask why she doesn't use her extensive allowance to buy a more bearable scent, but I bite my tongue. Pick one fight at a time, you know? "Not after what you did."

What I did? God, these people really are out of their minds.

The moment the story of The Incident broke over the summer, people began twisting the details. I so badly wish I could set the record straight. But it's impossible. Not just because no one believes a word I say anymore.

But also because I don't even remember exactly what happened. Thanks a lot, concussion. The scant details I told the cops who interviewed me after everything went down were enough to cause way more chaos than I ever wanted.

Best to move on and do my best to forget even that.