If she knows, she knows. Or if she found out my records are fake, supplied by one of my cousin’s shady connections, Masen Laurent is a name I made up, and I live in a dilapidated basement and sneak into the school to shower at night, then I’ll deal with it.

Either way, I’m not leaving. Not yet.

Stepping inside the front office, I nod at one of the receptionists. “Masen Laurent,” I tell her.

“You can go in.” She gestures to my left, but I already know where to go.

Walking up to the door, I knock twice, feeling my hands shake just slightly as I push it open.

“Hi, Masen,” the principal greets, looking up from her desk and smiling.

She stacks a large pile of folders, clearing a space on her desk, and stands up, holding out her hand for me to shake.

I lock my jaw tight and straighten my back. Her eyes are warm, and I suddenly don’t want to be here.

I force myself forward, slowly raising my hand and taking hers but letting go nearly immediately.

I shift my eyes to the side.

She’s silent for a moment, and I can tell she’s watching me. “Please sit down,” she says finally.

I take the seat in front of her desk and keep my gaze averted, making eye contact only briefly.

“Don’t worry,” she tells me, humor lacing her voice. “You’re not in trouble. I just like to try to meet everyone when they register, but you slipped in under my radar.”

Okay. That’s good news, I guess.

“So how are you liking Falcon’s Well so far?”

I unclench my jaw, replying flatly, “Fine.”

“And your classes?” she presses. “Are you finding the transition easy?”

Her eyes won’t leave me, and I shift in my seat, nodding as I stare at the picture frames she has on her desk. I remember seeing them the other night. Pictures of her family.

“Well,” she keeps going, starting to sound uncomfortable. “There’s so little time left in the school year, but judging from your records and your grades, you should have no trouble passing your finals.” She flips through transcripts and forms, from my fake file, no doubt. “Are you looking at colleges?”

I shake my head.

“Well, we have a great college-career center here. The counselor can help you make some decisions about where you’re going after high school and see about getting applications in.”

I nod, and we both just sit there, the silence growing more awkward. She clearly wants to be attentive but is probably figuring out whether or not I’m worth the effort when I’ll be out of her school in six weeks. Sooner, actually, but she’s doesn’t know that.

She inhales a deep breath and softens her voice. “Trey Burrowes is my stepson,” she points out. “He can be a handful, but…he’s my handful. Let me know if you have any more problems, okay?”

He’s my handful. I squeeze my fists, finally raising my eyes to hers. Don’t worry, lady. I know exactly how to handle my problems. Your son will stay out of my way, or I’ll make him stay out of my way.

She smiles, and I stand up, not waiting to be dismissed. I walk out of her office, feeling my stomach uncurl and taking in quick, shallow breaths when the adrenaline finally hits me, coursing down my arms and legs. Once outside the office doors, standing in the empty hallway, I stop and smile to myself.

She didn’t find me out. Not only can I leave whenever I want, but I can stay as long as I like.

No one knows.

“You’re just smearing it,” an amused voice says behind me.

I turn my head to see Ryen standing with her back to her open locker, smirking. I take my hand away from the back of my neck, throwing the wet paper towel in the trash next to the water fountain. While I thought I wouldn’t care about having Needle Dick Douchebag Asshole written on my neck for everyone to see, I was wrong. I feel like an idiot.

She turns and reaches into her locker, pulling out a long piece of fabric. “Wanna borrow a scarf?”

She laughs, and I arch an eyebrow, unamused. Glancing into her locker, I see the bottle she loaned the janitor this morning back on the shelf, and I walk over. “Nail polish remover. Now.”

But she simply folds her arms over her chest and positions herself in front of her locker, not budging.

“Don’t play with me.” I hold out my hand. “We’ve been keeping our shit PG. I can go R if you want.”

She twists up her lips and lets out a small sigh. “Fine. I can pick my battles, I guess.”

She twists around and takes out the bottle, flinging it toward me. I catch it and twist off the cap, quickly pulling the scarf out of her hands, too.

“Hey!”

But it’s too late. I dump some of the acetone onto the soft beige fabric and use it to rub the pen off on the back of my neck.

“Bastard!” she cries out. “That’s cashmere!”

I pull the scarf away from my neck, seeing the black ink now on her scarf and off my neck. At least most of it, I think.

“Yeah.” I toss the scarf back at her and cap the bottle. “It works great. Thanks.”

She twists up her face in anguish and holds up the scarf with both hands, inspecting the damage.

I set the bottle back on her shelf and walk off before we have time to get into it again. I hear her let out a little growl behind me and slam her locker shut as I make my way for the front of the school.

I need to stop challenging her, despite the amusement I feel. Engaging her is just too easy. Why, when I walk into this building, is she the first thought that comes to my mind and not the real reason I’m here?