Stella
Istand in front of my full-length mirror and screw up my nose at the reflection staring back at me.
Another new day, another new school.
I’m already well prepared for the assessing looks from the bitchy girls as they try to work out if I'm going to come in and steal the boys they want, to roll off my back. So does their judgment. I don't give a shit what they think of me, if my hair is styled in a way they accept, or if my makeup is on point. I'm sure the second they hear me speak they'll realize that I don't belong here and turn their vapid comments toward me.
Whatever.
I roll my eyes to myself.
I've never needed validation from anyone else, and I certainly don't need it from the girls who think they run Knight's Ridge College.
I run my fingers down the soft fabric of the tie around my neck.
I'm not used to this. None of the schools I attended in America had a uniform. It feels weird, knowing that I'm going to be dressed exactly the same as everyone else there. I can't deny that I can see the obvious benefits. Thanks to Dad's business, we've always had money, but I've seen kids being bullied time and time again because they didn't have the right sneakers or their purse wasn't designer.
Although, after seeing the fees to attend this place, I'm not sure anyone will have money issues.
Dad promised me that this would be our last move and that he would ensure I had the best education to make up for it. It seems he was serious.
I lean closer to the mirror and inspect my neck—or rather, how good a job my concealer is doing.
The marks from that night might be fading now, but they're still more than visible.
By some miracle, I managed to sneak back into the house that night without anyone noticing my absence. I heard Dad's car pull into the driveway not thirty minutes later, and by the time he knocked on my door to check on me, I was freshly showered and pretending to be fast asleep. The reality was that I didn't manage to find any rest until long after the sun began to rise, my head full of images of the wicked boy in the graveyard.
If I was honest with myself, I didn't want to walk away.
There was obvious pain in his eyes. Hell, he was spending his evening sitting beside a headstone; it was clear he was dealing with something painful. I wanted to ask about it, to be a shoulder to cry on, or at least a nonjudgmental ear to listen to whatever he needed to get off his chest.
But the look in his eyes before I walked away told me he didn't want any of that, despite how much he clearly needed it.
I understand why he didn't want to tell me his name. It was never meant to be anything more than two broken souls colliding in the darkness. I never even meant to give him mine. It just fell from my lips after he demanded it. And I hate that it did, because now I know he can find me if he so desires. I'd rather be anonymous, like he is.
"Stella, are you ready?" my dad's voice booms up the stairs.
"Yeah, coming."
With one final look at myself in the mirror, I grab my cell and take a quick selfie to send to my friends on the other side of the pond before dropping it into my purse and heading out.
"You look—"
"Ridiculous?" I ask when I jump down the last two steps to join my dad in the hallway.
"No, you look beautiful."
"Is that what this fancy school requires?" I deadpan.
"Stella," he warns.
"I'm joking, Dad. I'm sure it's a fantastic school."
"I've got a surprise for you," he says, and it's only then I notice the smile he was trying to hide.
Butterflies erupt as I consider the only real thing it could be.
"It's in the driveway."