Toe the Line

Chapter One

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Who the hell thought of that stupid saying? What doesn't kill you just leaves you alive to think and think about how it almost fucking killed you. No, thank you, Kelly Clarkson. I hit the next button on my music.

The train lurches to a stop, and my phone flies out of my lap onto the ground in front of me.

"We're here!" my mom says excitedly.

I look out the window to see the familiar blue of the Greenwich Bay sloshing in the wind. A pit forms in my stomach remembering my last semester here in Warwick. I swallow my nerves.

She smooths her skirt, standing up. "I can't believe my little girl is a senior, where did the time go, ma chèrie?" she says nostalgically.

I just shake my head and gather my belongings, forcing one foot in front of the other off the train. Over the tree line, you can just see the turrets of the Abbott's Academy chapel reflecting the sun in the distance, signaling to all around the power and prestige of the school.

My heartbeat accelerates as we step off the train and hail a taxi. I told myself I wouldn't freak out, but like I said, you just can't help but think and think.

"What's wrong, Lucy?" my mother looks at me, her eyebrows knitted together with concern.

"What? Nothing! I'm just sad it's my last year here, that's all," I offer a not-too-convincing smile.

She smiles sympathetically; she knows me too well to believe that. "I know you had a hard time last year, my love. But this year is going to be completely different. I have already spoken to the school about ensuring your safety and comfort, and they assured me it would not be a problem. They were quite apologetic, really." She lifts my chin. "Just be thankful that you have the opportunity to be at such a wonderful school."

I nod. I mean, she's right, after all. I know plenty of kids would kill, and I mean kill to be at Abbott's. Abbott's--or Abbott's Preparatory Academy--is one of the most prestigious boarding schools in the country. With old money, American-royalty alumni, and more Ivy League acceptances than rejections, Abbott's is the top of the top. There's a school legend that one family actually offered to donate an airplane to the school when their son was not accepted in order to get him in. But the school still turned him away because, well, what boarding school needs an airplane?

But I'm not American royalty. I grew up quietly in Boston with my parents, my brother, and my sister. It was very nice, don't get me wrong. But it can't hold a candle to mansions in the Caribbean and private jets to Paris for the weekend. After getting a perfect score on my PSAT in eighth grade, a letter from Abbott's showed up in my mailbox. I applied to the school, and a month letter, a scholarship offer followed. It's been my home ever since.

Or at least until last year. I force myself to shove down those negative thoughts. This is my senior year, my last year with my best friends, and I refuse to let it be ruined by the past.

"I know, Maman," I squeeze her hand and give her a smile. "It's going to be a good year," I say, trying to convince myself in the process.

As the taxi pulls up to the wrought iron gates of Abbott's, faculty volunteers approach us to help me move in all of my things.

"Lucy Rose Agard!" I step out of the car to see a beaming Mrs. Landon, my favorite teacher. Memories of having weekly dinners at her house and chatting for hours after psychology class come back to me.

"Hi!" I can't help but smile as she wraps me in a big hug.

"I'm so happy to see you," she pulls away, taking my hands. "And you're so tan! You look amazing."

"I'm so happy to see you too," I say back, "I missed you!"

"Here, put all your suitcases in this," she says, pushing a large, rolling bin in front of me. I pile up my stuff and she passes it off to a staff member.

"Now you're a prefect again this year right?" she asks. I nod. "Okay, I only have regular dorm keys, so you're going to have to go to Mr. Ferrier at the far table to get your prefect key."

She points to a tall man with dirty blonde hair, and I have to keep myself from staring openly at him.

"Careful, you're drooling, bitch," a voice says in my ear, making me jump.

I whirl around to see my best friend's grinning face.

"Amanda!" I grab her and pull her in, laughing. My bat-shit crazy best friend. Thank God. Amanda and I met in freshman year P.E. We were partnered for badminton, watching all the stuck up princesses compare their Hermes bracelets.

"I fucking hate Americans," she said plainly, nodding toward the other girls, her slight Dutch accent lilting.

We've been best friends ever since.

"Can you believe we get to stare at that every day for 50 minutes?" she asks, nodding her brown hair in the new teacher's direction.

"No way," I say, sneaking another look at him. "He's our teacher?!"

"AP French. Apparently he grew up in France, then moved here and went to Columbia for college. What more could you want?" she says emphatically.

I quickly take in all the other female students' gazes toward him. This is going to be entertaining.

"Hi, Amanda!" my mother says from behind us. They exchange hellos and hug quickly.
"Well, I'll let you guys go and unpack, but Lucy, I'll see you tomorrow?" Amanda asks, and I nod. Just talking to Amanda for five minutes has made me feel better. She kisses me on the cheek and saunters away.

My mom and I make our way over to the new French teacher so I can get my keys to move in. Up close, his ice blue eyes are piercing.

"Hi, I think my key is with you. My name is Lucy Agard," I say to him.

"Yes, I have you right here," he smiles, handing me a tagged key. "I believe you're in my AP French class as well."

"Yes, I am! Very excited about it," I say, trying not to let my eyes linger too long. What the hell is this man doing at Abbott's?

"Ah, you're the French teacher?" my mom chimes in. I had forgotten she was here.

"I'm from Lyon, originally, so we had Lucy speak French from a young age," she continues.

"Oh, that's so great! I'm from Paris originally," he responds.

My mom's face lights up, and they start speaking French to each other about growing up in France, schooling, and moving to America. I zone out while they talk, studying him. Chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, and sandy blonde hair. If I get to look at this everyday, maybe this year won't be so bad after all.

"Well, I'll see you on Monday, Lucy. Good luck moving in," he says to me.

"Thank you! I'll see you then." I answer.

As my mom and I walk away, she whispers in my ear.

"He is so handsome, mon Dieu."

I laugh and give her a little squeeze, "Shh! He's ten feet away from us."

We laugh as we make our way to the dorm building and climb two flights of stairs.

"Room 300," I say, stopping in front of the long, oak door. I put the key into the lock and open the door, taking in the large room that I get all to myself. This is why I worked so hard to be a prefect, the perks are amazing.

"I'm going to grab some paper towels from the bathroom to dust off the furniture with, okay?"

"Sounds good, thank you!" I say, setting my tote down. I walk over to the window, admiring my view of the courtyard and greenery below. Something on the dresser next to my bed catches my eye. I get closer, and my stomach falls to my feet.

A white rose. I pick it up, hands shaking, and read the little white tag attached.

To my Lucy Rose, Happy senior year. Love, J.

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, and the rose drops to the floor.

One thought is replaying in my mind: He's back.