Faking It

Chapter 1: Welcome to Kingsbridge

Okay, so, it really wasn't that big of a deal that I didn't fit in. I mean, I'd made an effort and brushed my hair and done my makeup and all. But my blowout was frizzing, my foundation was melting, and my romper was stuck to my sweaty thighs. I plucked at it, only to be skewered by yet another glare from yet another pearl-clad mother whose makeup would never dare to run, even in the blistering, late August sun. Her well-groomed daughter was no different, frowning at me like I'd wandered into their private club without an invite.

I kinda had, though. Because this manicured courtyard surrounded by brown stone buildings and red-shingled roofs actually was a private club of sorts—a prep school. An expensive one. And while I didn't have a trust fund to cover my tuition, I did have an athletic scholarship. Which I'm pretty sure every single person crowding the freshly-mown courtyard had guessed from the second I'd stepped out of my Uber—the only red Civic in a sea of sleek, black sedans.

If that wasn't a damned good metaphor for me right now, I'd swallow my gum.

But I'd come here for a reason. So rather than bailing, I blew a bubble, popped it, and squared my shoulders. Bouncing the soccer ball that had earned me my full ride, I sauntered into Kingsbridge Preparatory Academy's marble entrance hall and did my best to pretend I wasn't absolutely about to vomit from nerves.

Ignoring the stares that followed me through the lobby, I tucked my ball against my hip and jogged up the antique, wooden staircase towards the door emblazoned with "Administration" in neat, gold lettering. I popped my gum again as I entered, and a harried, middle-aged administrator looked up from her screen. "Freshmen orientation is in the assembly hall."

"Not a freshman." I mock-saluted her. "A junior, actually. Here to get my uniforms."

She pursed her lips, then noisily typed something into her computer. "Eleanor Morris-Whittaker?"

I barked a laugh. "Am I seriously the only new junior?"

"Yes, dear, you are. We don't accept many transfer students."

Wonderful. As if the daunting prospect of a year in a starchy, preppy uniform wasn't enough already.

"You have to sign these." She flopped a stack of papers onto her desk, then handed me a Kleenex. "And get rid of the gum, please. The code of conduct applies from the moment you set foot on campus, and Headmistress Hawthorne is very strict when it comes to enforcement. I'll be right back."

She disappeared into a back office and I tried not to groan at the papers in front of me. So many rules and I'd barely even been there five minutes. With a sigh, I ditched my gum, stuffed my soccer ball into my backpack, and got to reading.

When I flipped to the page about the requirements to maintain my athletic scholarship, though, my focus sharpened. Usually by the fourth "wherefore," I was a glazed-over goner. Now, my entire future hinged on this scholarship, wherefores and all.

Even though my parents had agreed to my transfer to Kingsbridge, it wasn't the kind of school we could afford. My scholarship might've been the only saving grace of the sport my mother absolutely loathed. Her lips always pursed at my soccer legs—bruised and scraped and not at all ladylike. Legs that got looks when she dressed me in a skirt for her beloved Junior League. But she'd caved to the relentless pressure from me and my older brother, Jake, with the caveat that I could chase this dream as far as I could take it on my own. If I lost my scholarship and my parents had to shell out the entire, high-five-figure tuition, I'd be on the next train back to suburbia.

I signed the scholarship page, then flipped through the code of conduct. It was the standard fare—no entering the boys' dormitory, no parties, no alcohol, no drugs—but with a bunch of addendums about social media. Apparently I could be expelled for posting a single TikTok in my school uniform.