CHAPTER ONE
STELLA
“SORRYI’M LATE.”My father flops on to the back seat of our Town Car with his briefcase in tow. He’s still dressed in his office garb, but the wrinkles in his shirt make it look like he just woke from a nap. The shadows beneath his eyes are more prominent than the last time I saw him, and I can’t even recall how long ago that was. He’s been holed up in his apartment in the city while my mother reigns supreme over the manor house in Greenwich. I’ve barely seen either of them over the summer, and it feels like it’s taken a small miracle just to bring the three of us together now.
“Really, Brady?” My mother huffs from the front passenger seat. “Would it kill you to be on time for once in your life?”
“Would it kill you to wait until noon for a drink?” he fires back.
Ignoring the hubbub, our driver, Luis, merges into traffic as my parents continue to bicker all the way up the I-95. I pop my headphones in and thumb through the latest tracks on my Spotify playlist to drown them out. Once I’ve settled into a good vibe, I reach for the camera hanging around my neck and sort through the photos I took over the summer. Lucky for me, the drive to New Canaan is short, and we seem to survive without any major bloodshed.
By the time we pull up to Loyola Academy, a wall of silence has been erected between my parents, which is preferable to the constant bickering. They tactfully go about the business of ignoring each other while Luis retrieves my suitcases from the car. My mother stands on the curb, twisting the gold bracelet draped over her delicate wrist as she studies the crowd that has gathered just inside the gates of my new home. Or prison, depending on how I choose to look at it.
“I should go speak with some of the other parents,” Mom says.
“Of course.” My father shoos her away. “Wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity to let the world know Lila has arrived.”
She ignores his parting jab, and my father helps me roll my suitcases over the cobbled entrance to the campus of one of the nation’s finest boarding schools. At least that’s what the brochure said. In this case, I’m convinced finest is interchangeable with expensive. At first glance, it looks more like a university than a boarding school. The campus is massive, and while they boast about having one of the largest libraries in the nation, it looks like the acreage itself is more impressive. I could easily get lost here, and I don’t doubt that I will. From my research, I know that many of the brick buildings that dot the plush green landscape are historical. And beyond all that well-manicured grass lies the best preparatory education money can buy.
As we venture onto the grounds, a knot forms in my throat as multiple pairs of eyes roam my direction. Amongst the scattered parents and faculty are the modern-day Jackie Os and John Kennedys of the world. And then there’s me, Stella LeClaire. Unlike my peers, I’m not American royalty. I’m not even American aristocracy. The best thing I have going for me is that I’m the daughter of Lila Monroe, the once sort-of famous jet-setting model who refused to change her last name when she married my father. She’s beautiful and elegant and spins a wonderful tale about my father being a Wall Street fat cat and her daughter’s aspirations to work in fashion public relations. That isn’t even slightly true on my part, but she read something about it in a magazine once and decided soon after that would be the path for me. The next thing I knew, she was plying the admissions committee with expensive gifts and calling in all sorts of favors to get that golden ticket and the bragging rights that come with it. Now here I am with said ticket, signed up to take courses she thinks will eventually get me in the door at Cornell.
As I watch her make the rounds, I wonder if any of the other parents are falling for her respectable family act. Lila always wants to be the woman others look up to and not just because of her sky-high legs. In her mind, she’s the woman who gets invited to dinner and charity galas. The head of the table at the country club, and the fashionista who rules on and off the tennis court. What she fails to realize is that those same women who invite her into their circle are talking shit about her just as soon as she leaves.
In my brief interactions with the upper crust, I’ve learned they can sniff out a fraud better than anyone else. I don’t doubt for a second these alums and their offspring haven’t figured out we aren’t from old money. The majority have probably already deemed me unworthy of walking this hallowed ground with their trust fund babies. Honestly, I can’t say that I disagree with them. Loyola was never my dream. But with the current climate at home, and my parents' eagerness for their own freedom, I’m forced to make the best of the situation.
“You’re in Lawrence Hall.” My father squints at his iPhone, scrolling through the information the school sent him. “Looks like we can check in at the student center.”
I traipse after him as he marches across the quad in the direction of the central brick building. There’s already a flock of eager parents and students hovering around the checkin, and I’d rather be anywhere but here right now. My dad still hasn’t looked directly at me, and I catch myself staring at the side of his face, wishing he’d just acknowledge me. He used to be my rock. My stability. For so long, he was my sole caretaker while my mother remained a passive participant in family life. Everything has shifted, and I barely recognize him now. I don’t know when our relationship fell apart, but it did.
Things haven’t been easy for any of us, but they especially haven’t been easy for him. Lately, it seems like all he does is work, and the long hours in the city have monopolized his time. Gone are the days of vacations and birthday dinners. I can’t even remember the last meal we had together. As my parents' marriage crumbles and their attention drifts in separate directions, we’ve all become our own islands. I haven’t made things any easier on them. Abandonment issues are a bitch, and the only way I manage to get their attention now is by getting into trouble, which I’ve been doing often lately. And this is how Loyola Academy came into the picture. As my father says, this is my chance to turn over a new leaf. But to me, it just feels like he’s sending me away.
“Welcome.” A bright-eyed faculty member greets us as we move forward in line. “Are we checking in?”
“Yes,” my father answers. “Stella LeClaire.”
“Ah, Stella.” She drags a manicured finger down the sheet of names in front of her. “There you are.” After checking me off like an item on her to-do list, she retrieves an envelope with my information printed across the front. “Here is your room number, map, class schedule, and orientation information. Welcome to Loyola Academy.”
“Thanks.” I stuff the envelope beneath my arm, pinning it to my side. Dad doesn’t waste any time herding me toward my dorm. As it turns out, the map isn’t necessary because he already studied the materials they sent him, and he knows exactly where it’s at.
The iconic brick building that once housed several now famous alums squats on top of the hill surrounded by trees and well-coifed shrubs. The main entrance is smack in the middle; a solid set of double doors flanked by white columns. Three rows of paned windows stack neatly along the length and depth of the building, indicating three separate floors. Or in the case of teenage girls, a whole lot of hormones. Dad blows through the entrance and past the flurry of activity in the common room, an enormous space filled with books, a central fireplace, and plenty of comfy sofas. He’s hell-bent on finding my dorm as soon as possible, and I’m certain he’s already counting down the seconds until he can get back to the city. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to catch my breath.
Lawrence Hall is aged but well cared for. Solid oak floors squeak beneath my red Dr. Martens, and a pervasive scent of lemon cleaner lingers in the space. Along the corridor, I catch glimpses of mothers and daughters fussing over bed linens and furniture in the rooms. As usual, my mother is notably absent, and I can’t count on Dad to fuss over anything.
“Here we are.” He opens the door numbered 203 and examines the space. The room is small and basic, with a twin-sized bed, a desk, a dresser, and a few shelves for my things. My mother arranged for a private room because she said roommates are for commoners, and in her eyes, everything comes down to appearances. As my dad sets my suitcases aside, I doubt he’d care one way or the other.
“Well, what do you think?” I sit down on the bed and test out the mattress, which is surprisingly comfortable.
“Stella—” My father’s eyebrows pinch together as a knock on the door interrupts whatever he was about to say. Another faculty member wearing a Loyola emblem on her blazer steps inside with a stiff smile.
“Mr. LeClaire, I hope you don’t mind the interruption. I’m Marcy from the financial office. We spoke on the phone a few weeks back regarding the remainder of the tuition payments.”
“Of course.” My father kneads the back of his neck with his fingers, undoubtedly trying to relieve some of the tension gathered there. “I thought we already cleared that up.”
“You had a business meeting to get to, and unfortunately, our call was cut short.” Marcy’s eyes wander over me as she speaks, and she doesn’t attempt to hide her obvious disapproval of my tight red dress and black leather jacket. “We understand you’re a busy man, so we extended the deadline as a courtesy, but I just need your reassurance that you will have the remainder of the payment to us within two weeks.”
“You will,” he assures her. “I’ll have it sent over before that.”
He sounds confident, but she doesn’t look like she believes him, and I’m not sure I do either. Though he hasn’t made it overtly obvious, I’ve seen the worry in my father’s eyes over the past six months. Something has changed with our finances, and I don’t know exactly what it is, but I’ve noticed him in his study, poring over bills whenever he’s home. As always, my mother remains clueless, content to maintain the status quo with frequent shopping trips and designer luxuries.