I’m braced for him to lean forward and wave his hand, halt the conversation, and end this little game we’re playing.

But he doesn’t say a word.

Emmett Mercier, the crown prince of St. John’s Boarding School.

His short, disheveled, soft curls almost look sweet compared to the rest of him. He has a straight, aristocratic nose and dark, furrowed eyebrows. Clustered black lashes frame blacker eyes. Leaned back like he is, it’s his sharp jawline that taunts me as he closes his lips around a cigarette. No, a joint, I think, though I can’t be certain—I’ve never seen one in real life. He inhales, and my breath arrests until he slowly releases a practiced exhale. He doesn’t take his eyes off me through the rising haze of smoke. They rove over my dress and down my bare legs to the strappy sandals I picked from the back of my closet before the dance. Without him uttering a single word, I feel lacking. With one glance, he’s managed to pull at my stray threads and unwind me.

It bothers me how handsome he is. There’s an unfairness to looking like a fully formed adult while the rest of us still toddle around with our gangly limbs and soft cheeks, me especially. I’m so much younger than him, a child in his eyes.

He reclines in black dress pants and a crisp white shirt—his clothes from the dance. He’s undone the top few buttons and rolled up his sleeves. His black suspenders slide over his broad shoulders. I wonder who his date was. Any of these girls would be a perfect fit. Francesca, Marielle, Collette—they’re not just pretty faces. Good looks aren’t enough at St. John’s. Take Francesca, for example: not only is she stunning and at the top of her class, she’s also a budding documentary filmmaker. She took off four weeks last semester to capture footage of the humanitarian disaster in Haiti that followed after a devastating earthquake.

Of course, there’s the possibility that he didn’t go to the dance with any of them.

That idea is so much more appealing, and my heart runs wild with hope.

Then someone in the circle speaks up. The voice is booming and cheesy, a fake Shakespearean drawl.

“Behold little Lainey Davenport. Bow, peasants.”

My stomach plummets.

So I was wrong. He wasn’t the only one who noticed me lurking here.

They all did.

It was all a game. It always is with them.

“Well don’t just stand there like a freak,” Marielle says, waving me forward before taking the joint out of Emmett’s hand. “Stop staring at us and say something.”

I take a half-step out from behind the tree, but I don’t move any closer. I know better.

They all sit there, staring and judging me, in their heads and out loud.

“You know, everyone calls you a ghost, but I don’t see it. You’re everything a little princess should be,” Francesca notes, looking down her nose at me.

“Full of sweet innocence,” Marielle agrees mockingly.