“Well, hello there,” they say in unison. The twin who's not holding my tie slams the dressing room door, and then the other one pushes me back into it. They both grab onto my arms from either side and lean in, blinking their big moss-green eyes at me. “Are you deaf?” they ask together.
“Or just plain rude?” the one on the right drawls, rolling his eyes.
“So rude,” the other agrees as I struggle against their grip. They're both strong as hell, and I'm totally overburdened with my bag and shower caddy. Damn it. I shouldn't have stolen so much fucking soap.
“Let me go,” I whisper, and they exchange a look that says they're not doing anything of the sort. I struggle more violently, and then they both just let go all of a sudden, sending me sprawling onto the ground. My bag goes flying and opens up, soaps and shampoos spilling all over the marble floor.
“Oh, what's this?” one of them asks, picking my bag up and starting to go through it. Shit. Shit, I have tampons in there, the tape to bind my breasts, and … “Oh!” The twin on the right exclaims, using a single finger to hold up the pink lacy panties with the white ruffles. “Someone has a girlfriend.”
“From where?” the other twin exclaims, using the back of my navy-colored academy jacket to haul me to my feet. He lets me stumble away and attempt—poorly—to snatch my underwear back from his brother. “Everly All-Girls Academy?” he asks, but my cheeks are flaming, and I'm not about to stand here and answer any questions.
“No, they're your mom's fucking panties,” I snap, slipping on some spilled shampoo and falling hard on my ass on the marble floor. “Now give them back.”
“Why should we?” the twins ask in unison, looking down at me with their stupid smiles, and their obnoxious red hair. It's lightly curled on the top, still wet from the shower. If they weren't being such jerks to me, I might fantasize about a twin sandwich … Eww. But no. Just no.
“Because I'm going to report you,” I say, standing up and trying to look dignified with shampoo all over my ass.
The twins—what were their names again? Micah and Tobias?—exchange another look, and then glance back at me.
“Are you reaaallly?” they drawl, and the one on the left grabs me by the shoulders while the one on the right shoves the panties down over my head, putting the crotch right in my freaking face.
“I don't think you'll report us,” Micah—or is it Tobias—says as I yank the underwear off my flaming red face, and then bend down to start shoving things back in my duffel.
“You wouldn't, not after stealing all that soap,” Tobias—or is it Micah—replies. They both watch me struggle to put my stuff back together, but a few of the shampoos and lotions came undone when the bag fell, and now it's all just a big sweet-smelling mess.
“Leave me alone,” I snarl, standing up with my bag in one hand and the caddy in the other. “My father's the headmaster. If I want you expelled, all I have to do is say so.”
“Expelled?” they ask in unison, turning to look at each other. And then they both laugh.
“Our father runs the largest real estate conglomerate in the world,” Micah (or whoever) replies smoothly, reaching out to flick me in the nose with a long finger.
“Largest in the word,” Tobias repeats, putting out a foot, so that I trip on my way to the door, and the whole sequence starts all over again: soap goes flying, I struggle to pick it up, I end up with lilac-rosemary lotion all over my knees.
“No, you won't report us, will you, dickhead?” they repeat, and then they leave the bathroom together while I'm still stuck gathering my things. By the time I rise to my feet and go to leave the room, I find that it's locked.
Fantastic.
Fan-freaking-tastic.“I still don't understand how you got yourself locked in the bathroom,” Dad says as we sit together in his new house and eat at the massive dining table. The headmaster's quarters here are so swank, so beyond any place we've ever lived. I've spent my whole life existing in crappy little apartments that were half the size of my current dorm room, with swimming pools that were always out of order, and neighbors who worked questionable jobs in the dead of night.
This is … like a freaking palace to me, this giant wood cabin like house with its soaring ceilings, person-sized fireplace, and chandeliers made of antlers. I mean, it's rustic as hell, and so totally not my style, but it's not like I can't appreciate it.
“I told you: some boys locked me in,” I grumble, but Dad sighs and puts his fork down, lifting his napkin from his lap and dabbing at his mouth.
