I get in the car, wondering if he’s just trying to scare me or if he’s serious. What’s so horrible about this school that people can’t survive there? Is he saying Whitney’s kids got bullied? If so, I can handle bullies.
When we get home, I go to my room and close the door.
Someone knocks on it. “Rumor, can I come in?”
It’s Brock. What does he want?
“Yeah, go ahead,” I tell him.
He comes in and closes the door.
“Let’s sit down.” He goes to the couch and waits for me to join him.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’m sorry about tonight. It didn’t go as I had hoped.”
“It’s fine. She didn’t know.”
“I wasn’t just talking about Whitney’s comment, although I’m sorry that happened. I was referring to the boys. I was hoping they’d behave tonight.”
“They were okay. I never expected them to accept me. We don’t need to be friends. I’m only here for a year and then they never have to see me again.”
He nods. “I should let you get some rest. It’s been a long day.”
“Are you sticking around?” I ask, walking him to the door.
“For now, yes. I’m waiting to hear back from my agent about a possible role that could start filming next month.”
“If you got it, you’d live in LA?”
“Vancouver. The show films in Canada.”
“How long would you be there?”
“Probably until the holidays. I won’t know until I get the details from my agent.”
He’d be gone for three months? Living in a different country? Why am I even here? If I’m going to be living on my own, I should’ve just stayed in New York.
“Goodnight, Rumor,” he says.
“Goodnight.” I close the door and walk over to the windows that look out at the pool. I’m tired but not ready to sleep, especially after finding out I might be spending the next few months all alone in this giant house. Trystan and Braden will be here, but they don’t count. They have their own lives. I probably won’t even see them outside of school.
Going into my closet, I find the small box of photos I brought with me. I bring it to my bed, open it up, and take out a photo of my mom and me at Coney Island. We took it the week before she died. In the photo, we’re at the top of the Ferris wheel, making funny faces.
“Why did you have to go?” I say, running my hand over the photo. Feeling tears forming, I drop the photo in the box and shove it under my bed.
I go outside to the pool, breathing in the salty ocean air. I walk over to the plexiglass wall that runs along the patio andlook out at the darkness, listening to the sound of the waves rolling in.
The stairs going down to the beach are just to my left. I know I probably shouldn’t, but I want to go down there. I don’t want to be in that house right now. I don’t want to be in that room. I glance back at it, then turn and go down the stairs to the beach.
It’s dark, and the beach is rocky and uneven, so I step carefully, staying close to the houses. They’re all massive, like Brock’s house, and are lined with windows looking out at the water. I walk past a house with lights on and see a man walking around his living room, talking to himself. Or maybe someone’s there, although I don’t see anyone.
I quicken my steps. I’m sure these rich people call the cops if they see anyone on their property. They probably have cameras set up back here. I’m surprised I haven’t set off an alarm.
Moving farther out toward the water, I continue along the beach, slowing my pace and focusing on the sound of the waves. After a while, I turn back and realize I walked farther than I’d planned. I can’t see even Brock’s house anymore.
“Stop!” I hear a girl yell.
