Page 23 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
He’s so wrong it makes me want to punch the stone wall.
I hate him.
I hate him for saying my aunt only wants me here for my grades.
I hate him for making me feel small and useless.
I hate him for talking about my parents as if they’re just an obstacle to his music career.
But most of all, I hate him because somewhere underneath all that cruelty I saw something that looked like understanding. A flicker of genuine sympathy before he shut it down and told me to get over it.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Because it means he knows better. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s choosing to be this way.
Somehow, I have to turn up at a fancy private school tomorrow and act like a functioning human. But how can I do that when Ryder Hamilton will be at the same school? The tears start again at the reminder of falling apart in Miranda’s library.
Functioning tomorrow will be the most difficult task I’ll ever undertake.
Six
Iwakeuptomy phone alarm shrieking at 6:45 a.m., and for a blissful half-second, I forget where I am. Then reality crashes back.
The stone bedroom, Miranda’s cold house, and Ryder’s harshness.
I avoided dinner last night, finishing the barbecue potato chips and hiding under the comforter. It was a broken night of sleep, but there weren’t any nightmares. Just me staring at the ceiling, replaying yesterday’s humiliation on an endless loop.
My new school uniform hangs on the closet door like a stranger’s clothes. Navy blazer with the Ashworth Academy crest embroidered in gold thread. White button-down shirt. Navy and royal blue plaid skirt. Knee-high socks and shiny black shoes.
After taking off the tags, wearing the uniform feels unpleasantly boxy. Like I’m dressed to conform in a world where I don’t belong. Because underneath the fancy clothes, I’m still just Alice Winter. The girl who lost her parents because she faked being sick so she wouldn’t have to help them.
My hand shakes on my first attempt to apply mascara, and I decide it’s not worth the effort. I put the makeup back on the counter and glimpse the dry skin. I put a fresh bandage on the dark red scab healing on my palm. The hideous reminder of my chaotic clumsiness doesn’t need to be out on display.
I leave my bedroom, hoping that leaving the house will feel better than staying inside it.
Anything has to be better than staying here.
Miranda said someone would drive me to school, but she didn’t say when, who, or where I was supposed to meet them. I make my way downstairs and find myself in the kitchen. It’s enormous, with stainless steel appliances and enough counter space to cater a wedding. The kind of kitchen my parents would have killed for.
The thought hits me like a punch to the gut. My parents will never see another kitchen. They’ll never cook another meal, or bicker about the proper way to fold napkins, or laugh while they clean up together.
I lean against the granite counter and breathe through the sudden wave of grief.
“You’re up early, darling.”
I spin around to find Miranda in the doorway, already dressed for business in a sharp black suit, and not a hair out of place. She’s holding a coffee cup and wearing the practiced smile that never reaches her eyes.
“We missed you at dinner last night.” She moves into the kitchen with effortless grace. “First day jitters?”
“Something like that,” I manage.
“Perfectly understandable.” She sets her cup down and opens a cabinet, pulling out a plate. “You must eat something before school. Growing girls need proper nutrition, especially on important days like this.”
She sets out a croissant, some fruit, and a small container of yogurt. The gesture would seem motherly if it didn’t feel so... choreographed.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Of course, dear. I want you to do well at Ashworth. It’s such a wonderful school. You’ll make so many valuable connections there.” Her smile widens. “And Ryder will be there with you. Won’t that be nice?”
