Reason 1:

No one, and I mean
NO ONE,
delays the start of class.

Per Rule 10 and common sense, I arrived at my first class thirty minutes early to secure my usual seat in the middle of the front row. That privileged seat was the best vantage point for taking notes, with the added benefit of showing the teacher exactly how much time I spent preparing for every lecture.

The rest of my classmates wandered in like lost cattle, with less than a minute to spare.

When everyone was finally settled, forty-five seconds after the start of class, the door opened again. I looked up and smiled, determined that Mrs. Stevens would not see how distressed I was by her tardiness. She’d always been my favorite teacher; she was grievously underemployed as a high school history teacher.

But it wasn’t Mrs. Stevens. It was a boy. A boy I’d never seen before. A boy who was out of his seat a full fifty-two seconds after the start of class.

Fortunately for him, Mrs. Stevens was detained elsewhere. He didn’t seem to realize his luck. Instead of racing to a desk, he just stood there, looking at us.

Transfers were a rare and exotic animal in our tiny, out-of-the-way boarding school. This unfamiliar face quieted the simian chatter of my classmates. Everyone was silent. Staring. I could imagine all too well how mortifying it must have been, standing there, tardy and alone. While I’d never allow myself to be the former, I could write a dissertation on the latter. That’s always been the price I pay for my grades—a sacrifice laid at the altar of the Ivy League. A top-notch undergraduate education was the key to getting into a prestigious law school.

Just as I started to feel sorry for the new boy, he cracked a grin that made those few tenuous tentacles of empathy snap back like a rubber band.

It was too brazen, too smug. Like we were all beneath him somehow. It was the type of smile that firmly cemented him in the ranks of the cool, confident students. Of the ilk who had nicknamed me “Harper the Hag” and hurled curdled milk all over my dorm room door when I got the basketball captain suspended from the team right before regional finals. Contrary to popular misconception, I didn’t do it to be spiteful. He’d been on the verge of failing three finals and broke down during one of our tutoring sessions.

True to his smile, the new boy sauntered down the aisle slowly, dramatically, without so much as glancing down at the faces he passed. When he reached the last row, he settled noisily in the corner desk, stretching his long limbs out in front of his chair. Head tipped back and eyes closed. Like he was lounging next to a pool and inviting the whole world to take him in.

I twisted all the way around in my seat, ignoring the curious gazes of the few students who weren’t doing the same.

The first thing I noticed was his tan. He had the kind of even, flawless glow few people had the dedication—or leisure—to achieve. It came from weeks and weeks of doing nothing at all but relaxing in the sun. You couldn’t do a single productive thing, or the UV just didn’t hit right. In the bronzed planes of his not-altogether-unpleasant face, I saw weeks on a sailboat and endless afternoons reading in a chaise at the end of a pier.

Sunglasses rested on the top of his head, and the moment he was settled, he slid them onto his nose, completing the sunbathing effect. He was planning to just sleep in class. I was sure of it. Rules 47 and 68 shook their heads in disapproval.

Since second grade, I’d carefully cataloged the behaviors that ensured success and happiness. The first three came from my mother. She died just a few weeks later, but I know she would applaud how unswervingly I’d adhered to her instructions. Just like she said, I always looked out for my brother, my room is cleaned and organized per her specifications, and my grades have always been above reproach. Over the years, the list had grown into 537 Rules that guaranteed I’d never even contemplate sleeping through class.

My careful observation of the new boy was so absorbing that I didn’t notice when Mrs. Stevens materialized at the front of the classroom. I glanced at my watch. We were already four minutes and thirty-seven seconds into first period.

“I apologize for the late start.” Mrs. Stevens moved across the classroom, distributing stapled packets of paper. “This handout outlines the details of our spring project.”

I practically sighed with relief as I slid the handouts into individual plastic sleeves and filed them in my Master Course Binder. Then Mrs. Stevens picked up the class roster to take attendance. She’d successfully checked off seven names before she hit a stumbling block.

“Sterling Lane,” she called out.

The name mowed me down like a runaway semi.

Courtesy of my twin brother, Cole, I’d heard the rumor that Sterling Lane might be transferring to Sablebrook. His name had meant nothing to me, but Cole had filled me in on all the sordid details. Sterling’s rap sheet had expulsions from all the big New England boarding schools—Choate, Andover, Exeter—even Proctor couldn’t put up with him for more than a semester. Our lacrosse team was ecstatic at the prospect of admitting him, but the administration was nervous at best. So I’d assumed they’d never capitulate. Sterling’s father was an admiral, his uncle a senator, and his grandfather had founded some New York investment firm. But even those family connections had been taxed past their limit trying to compensate for Sterling’s profligate ways. No wonder I’d been immediately wary of him.

Mrs. Stevens looked around the room at each of the familiar faces she’d taught all year, coming to a stop at the chestnut-haired stranger slumbering in the corner.

The guy in front of Sterling nudged him. Sterling jumped. He slid the glasses down the bridge of his nose and peered over the top of them. I glanced at my watch again.

I had fourteen summer internship applications to complete and AP coursework in five subjects, including an independent study in history since the full AP course wasn’t offered at Sablebrook. I couldn’t afford these juvenile dalliances.

“Pardon me,” Sterling said, showcasing his perfect New England diction. It was a stark contrast to the South Carolina twang the rest of us were prone to. “I didn’t realize you wanted my attention.” He gave Mrs. Stevens an insincere but charming smile. I could hear his political genes activating, pumping liquid lies right into his bloodstream.

“This is ridiculously immature,” I snapped. “Can you please just pay attention? The rest of us are here to learn.” It was against Rule 85, and therefore my nature, to blurt things out in class. But Sterling’s little saga had already dragged on far too long. A few eyes turned my way, including Sterling’s. I tapped my watch, reminding everyone that time was ticking past.

“I’ll overlook it this once,” Mrs. Stevens said. “But it’s unacceptable for you to sleep in this classroom.”

“Narcolepsy,” Sterling said, flashing teeth that any orthodontist would be proud to claim. “Flares up now and again.”

I actually rolled my eyes, not caring who saw. We were seven minutes and twenty-seven seconds late starting class.

“Maybe if you removed your sunglasses, the light would help you stay awake.” Mrs. Stevens’s voice was razor-sharp.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Somehow, Sterling managed to sound genuinely sorry. “Diagnosed with a rare eye condition. Allergic to halogen lightbulbs.” The words unleashed a ripple of nervous fidgeting, like people do when they’re fighting hard not to laugh.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Stevens replied in a tone that strangled any student giggles threatening to escape. “I had no idea such a condition even existed. But that’s an issue you’ll have to take up with the headmaster. I’m afraid until he tells me otherwise, I can’t permit your eyewear in my class.”

“I have a note from my allergist explaining the situation.” Sterling produced a folded, tattered piece of printer paper from his shirt pocket. “I’m the only reported case. Ever. They may name it after me.”

“Speak with the headmaster, Mr. Lane,” Mrs. Stevens said firmly. “You’re excused from class until you do.”

My heart performed a little tap dance of victory as I watched Sterling Lane rise slowly and tuck in the tail of his dress shirt, which had become dislodged during his little nap.

With Sterling gone, Mrs. Stevens deftly steered the class back to its proper course. I’d just settled into my usual routine when the classroom door opened with yet another interruption.

“Mrs. Stevens, may I have a word in the hallway?” Headmaster Lowell asked.

From the way Sterling sauntered back to his chair, I knew I wasn’t going to like this.

Minutes later, Mrs. Stevens returned, shoulders slumped. I turned and watched the way Sterling aimed his crocodile smile right at her when he positioned those sunglasses back in place.

Mrs. Stevens stared at the roster as she said, “I understand you need someone to take notes for you, Sterling, as a result of your carpal tunnel syndrome.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, smiling bright as the midday sun.

“Quite a litany of ailments for someone so young.”

“I appreciate your sympathy.” Sterling stretched his long legs out into the aisle and crossed them at the ankles—a veritable picture of ease.

Mrs. Stevens looked so tired. I ached with sympathy. She’d always been my favorite teacher, ever since I’d signed up to help her tutor second graders at the elementary school on Tuesdays. She could balance being kind but firm while being smart and charismatic. It was forever eluding me, but one day I aspired to that kind of balance.

“Fortunately,” Sterling continued, “Harper Campbell will be taking notes for me.” At the sound of my name, I jumped like my chair had been electrified. Giggles erupted behind me.

When I turned in my seat, he was watching me. One eyebrow shot up. He couldn’t have known who I was until the shock and confusion written all over my face gave me away. He must’ve found out my name ahead of time—and that my notes and study habits were as flawless as my academic record.

He’d done his homework.

I allowed myself a little flash of pride before the tsunami of irritation smothered it. An ambush was not the way to get in my good graces.

I opened my mouth to set the record straight, but the smile Sterling aimed right at me stopped me in my tracks. It was confidence incarnate. Warning sirens wailed inside my brain. Tread carefully.

“She’ll also type my papers. Which I’ll dictate, of course.”

“Isn’t that generous of her.” Mrs. Stevens looked at me like I was now Sterling’s accomplice in ruining her month.

I sucked in a lungful of air, ready to unleash a river of denunciations. I was outraged—and not just on my own behalf. He’d just victimized my favorite teacher.

Every face in the room watched me with thinly veiled anticipation, waiting for the show.

I took another deep breath, this time a calming one. If I called Sterling a liar, I’d fall right back into the Harper the Hag trap. I’d give my peers the circus act they so clearly had come to expect from me. I couldn’t give them the satisfaction of watching me explode. I’d promised myself and Cole that this semester would be different.

So I bit my tongue. I’d set Sterling straight on my own time, on my own terms.

Sterling Lane had no idea who he was messing with.