Hopeless: A High School Bully Romance (Playa Del Mar Book 1) Read online

  My mom offers a sympathetic look. “I understand,” she said. “Well, maybe you can swing by after we get back…?”

  It’s clear she’s ready to go, and Ben gets the hint.

  He backs up toward the door. “Yeah, maybe.” His hand swipes again at his reckless curls, brushing them off his forehead. “Text me when you get back, okay?”

  I nod. “I will.”

  He leaves and I scoop up my dropped purse and sweatshirt.

  “He seems like a nice kid,” my mom comments as she fishes the house key out of her pocket. “I’m glad you have a friend to come back to here. Should make starting school next week a little easier, don’t you think?”

  My insides coil.

  School.

  It’s the one thing I haven’t wanted to think about, the one thing I’ve locked firmly away, trying to convince myself that if I ignore it, it will go away.

  But I know better.

  Senior year starts in less than a week.

  Four days, to be exact.

  Memories from middle school flood me, of lunches spent alone in the cafeteria, huddled in a corner, doing everything I could to avoid being the subject of anyone’s attention. Of classes where group projects were always painful because kids would gravitate toward friends and I would be left surveying the room, wondering where I could insert myself. Only a few of the kids were outright mean to me. Mostly, I was ignored. Invisible.

  The kids at Watatua Academy made sure I didn’t hide. Jada and Lucy sought me out and forced friendships whether I wanted them or not. Turns out, I did.

  But here, back at Playa Del Mar?

  I could already feel the walls closing in.

  Even with Ben in my corner, I knew what was bound to happen.

  I would still be me.

  Sydney Roberts.

  But no one would see me.

  And I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

  Chapter 3

  Donatelli’s is just how I remember it.

  A small shop sandwiched between a tax prep place and a thrift store, the pizza place is cramped quarters, with tables jammed into every available space. A long counter runs the length of one wall, with cracked leather bar stools providing additional seating. There is a single cash register, where a girl who looks about my age is waiting with pen in hand to take our order.

  I breathe in the aroma of baked dough and garlic, of seasoned meats and the hints of oregano and basil that bathe the restaurant in a culinary perfume. My stomach growls and I realize I’m hungrier than I thought.

  My mom picks up a laminated menu and holds it so we both can see. “What do you want?”

  Everything, I think. I want pizza, and the little garlic knots I remember shoving into my mouth like popcorn. The fried pizza dough they serve for dessert, dusted with cinnamon and sugar, or drizzled with chocolate sauce.

  But then I remember Mom is paying for dinner.

  And she is divorced and, if the conversations I’ve eavesdropped on are any indication, nearly penniless.

  “A cheese pizza would be good,” I say after quickly finding the least expensive option on the menu.

  She wrinkles her nose. “Just cheese? No way.” She looks to the girl at the counter and says, “We’ll take a large meat lovers. And two drinks.”

  The girl scribbles down the order and then taps buttons on the cash register. But the whole time, she steals covert glances at me.

  My mom hands her a credit card and the girl’s eyes widen when she sees the name.

  “I knew it,” she says, turning her gaze to me. “You’re Sydney.”

  My cheeks start to burn.

  The girl smiles. She’s cute in an elfin sort of way, with short dark hair and eyes that are so big, she looks like an anime character brought to life. Or maybe it’s just the way she did her makeup.

  “I’m Emily.” She points to the nametag pinned to her red Donatelli’s t-shirt. “I know Ben. Ben Elliott.”

  I nod, still a little confused.

  “You guys are…friends, right?” she asks, those huge eyes darting to me and then my mom, and then back to me again.

  I nod a second time.

  The girl hands us two large glasses. “Right,” she says, looking a little flustered. “Well, uh, welcome back.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  “Look at that,” my mom says as we turn away from the counter. “Looks like you know Ben and Emily.”

  I roll my eyes. The girl looked only vaguely familiar. I don’t know her at all.

  “I’ll go grab that table.” My mom points to a two-seater table by the front window. “Why don’t you go fill our drinks?”

  I take the glasses and head to the drink machine. The sound of talking and laughter grows louder as I make my way toward the back of the restaurant. A bunch of tables have been pushed together and a group of kids are crowded around them, eating pizza and wings. They have to be my age, or at least close, and I immediately wonder if I’ll recognize any of them. Or if they’ll recognize me.

  I tuck my chin to my chest, not really wanting to find out, and step up to the machine.

  An elbow jostles my side.

  “Wait your fucking turn,” a voice snaps.

  A tall girl with long blonde hair is glaring at me.

  A girl I remember.

  Charity Dern. The golden girl of Playa del Mar, and the daughter of Benedict Dern, city council member and pastor at Immanuel Baptist. She was always the prettiest girl in class, with her perfect blonde hair and demure dresses in elementary school. She morphed into the queen bee of middle school, picking girls to be in her entourage for a little while before casting them aside and choosing new ones.

  I always steered clear of her.

  She slides up to the machine, her hip bumping hard into mine. “I have a bunch to fill.”

  She’s only holding one glass.

  I swallow and then point out the obvious. “You just have one cup.”

  Her blue eyes ice over. “I’m filling all of those.” She points at the table filled with her friends. “Every last one of them. And you’re going to wait.” She looks me up and down. “Unless you wanna get a tray and serve us.”

  Anger flashes through me. Just a spark, but there’s enough fuel in me, latent anger and building anxiety and pools of sadness, that it suddenly ignites.

  I push past her. “I’m not waiting.” I shove my first cup against the ice dispenser and watch as the cubes clink into the glass.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she growls.

  Nice mouth for a preacher’s daughter.

  She rips the cup out of my hand. “Wait. Your. Turn.”

  I glare at her and yank the cup back. And then I turn it upside down, watching her face contort with surprise, then anger, as the ice cubes pool on her sandals.

  She kicks her feet, trying to get the ice cubes off her skin. “What the fuck, bitch?”

  “Oops. I guess I spilled.”

  Her expression is murderous. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  A soft chuckle sounds from behind me.

  I turn around.

  The guy who almost ran my suitcase over is standing next to me. He’s with two other guys, one with short brown hair and another blond whose hair is so long, it touches his shoulders. All three of them are smirking at us.

  “Did you see what she just did?” Charity screeches. Even with her eyes narrowed and her lips pinched tight, she’s gorgeous.

  I hate her.

  “Yep,” the guy says, laughing. “Probably deserved it.”

  She shakes her foot again and an ice cube goes sailing. “She’s a first-class bitch.”

  The brown-haired guy lifts an eyebrow. “So you're, like, twins then.”

  “Fuck off, Xander,” she growls. She turns to me, and her expression is so cold, I shiver. “You’re gonna regret this.”

  Chapter 4

  Charity slinks back to her table, throwing death glares over her shoulder a couple
of times, and I concentrate on filling my drinks and trying to keep my hands from shaking.

  Because the blond guy is still standing next to me.

  His friends are gone—I don’t know if they’re with the group of people at the tables or somewhere else—but he’s parked himself against the wall and is watching me.

  “She’s all talk.”

  His voice startles me and I almost lose my grip on the cup I just filled.

  “Just a bitch who likes to run her mouth,” he says. He’s looking at me, his eyes practically drinking me in, and I’m suddenly aware that I’m wearing the same clothes when he ogled me from his car.

  I don’t say anything, just fill the second cup.

  “So,” he says. I can hear the smile in his voice. “You gonna tell me who you are now?”

  “You heard her. I’m a first-class bitch.”

  “That your name?” He arches a brow. “Do I call you First Class? Or just Bitch?”

  “Why not? You started out with dipshit,” I remind him.

  I look at him, and my breath catches when his smile deepens and dimples appear on his cheeks. “I thought that was my name,” he says.

  I smile. I can’t help it.

  “You’re new in town?” he asks. “Or just visiting?”

  Neither is true. But I go with the easiest. “New.”

  “Going to Playa?” He uses the nickname for the high school.

  I nod.

  “What year?”

  “Senior.”

  His eyebrow goes up again. “That’s rough.”

  I shrug. “Is what it is.”

  He looks toward the group gathered around the tables and then back at me. “I can take you over there, introduce you to some people.”

  Charity is practically sitting in some guy’s lap, feeding him a slice of pizza. Two girls are sitting next to her, laughing and snapping pictures with their phones. A bunch of guys are blowing spitballs at the wall.

  I shake my head. “Uh, no thanks.”

  “I don't blame you.” He chuckles. “Bunch of dipshits.”

  I smile. He isn’t wrong.

  He glances toward the door. “Maybe you and I can go hang out then?”

  Butterflies come to life in my stomach. Is this guy…asking me out? This gorgeous guy who this afternoon acted like a slimy piece of shit but who was now sort of looking like a knight in shining armor?

  “We could go down to the beach,” he says. “Take a walk or…something.”

  “Or something?”

  His smile turns sly and his eyes dip to my cleavage. “Or something.”

  I give him a disgusted look. “No thanks.”

  “What?” His expression is all innocence. “I was just offering to hang out. Get to know you. That’s all.”

  “Get to know me? Or get in my pants?”

  His eyes round with surprise. “Well, if that’s on the table, I won’t say no…”

  “It’s not.” I pivot away from him, being careful not to spill my full drinks.

  He steps in front of me. “Just a walk. That’s it. Come on. We can decide on the pants later.”

  “Not interested.”

  I take a few steps forward but he pops in front of me.

  “Not even a little?”

  “Not even at all.”

  “At least tell me your name,” he says.

  “Why?” I snap. “So you can say it when you jack off later tonight?”

  His mouth drops open and then he laughs. “Wow. Yeah, that would be helpful, actually. Thanks for offering.”

  My face is on fire now. I step to the left, trying to get past him. He steps with me, blocking my path.

  I step right.

  He follows.

  I sigh and glare at him.

  “Name,” he prompts.

  I give him the first awful name that pops into my head. “Bertha.”

  He frowns. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  I can tell he doesn’t believe me. But he smiles. “Well, alright, Bertha. Nice to meet you.”

  “Wish I could say the same,” I mutter.

  “I’ll be thinking about you later,” he promises, his eyes glinting with amusement.

  I shake my head. “Whatever.”

  This time, when I take a step toward the table where my mom is waiting, he doesn’t stop me.

  “Oh, Bertha?”

  I freeze.

  “My name’s Hayden,” he says. “In case you need it later tonight.”

  Chapter 5

  I don't think about Hayden after pizza and grocery shopping.

  At least not the way he wants me to.

  But he does creep into my thoughts on Sunday, and then the next couple of days as Mom and I busy ourselves trying to get settled in Grandpa’s house. Because the name registered in my mind, stirring up memories of the blond boy who moved in completely different circles than me back in grade school. Hayden Mayfield was an athlete, popular and cute when most boys his age were scrawny and awkward. I remember him giving speeches in classes, outshining everyone at the field day events, and being crowned king of our sixth grade winter dance. Charity Dern was queen. I didn’t go, but I heard about it at school.

  But I have other things to think about other than Hayden Mayfield.

  There is tons of shopping to do, and I watch with dismay as my mom pulls her credit card out over and over, buying stuff for the kitchen, new towels and sheets to replace the threadbare ones in Grandpa’s closets, and school supplies for me.

  “I don’t need all of this,” I tell her as she piles binders and pens and loose-leaf paper into our shopping cart.

  “Yes, you do,” she says. “It’s on the supply list.”

  Now it’s Tuesday, and school starts tomorrow, and I’m feeling nervous about walking onto a campus that, if we hadn’t moved away, would have been my high school. The kids I saw at the pizza place the night before might have been my friends…or at least people I knew.

  I’m not the only one apprehensive about heading to school tomorrow. Ben has been a nervous wreck, and I’m not sure why.

  We’ve only seen each other once since he stopped by that first night. He’s had family commitments, church on Sunday, and he was also cramming in some extra hours at the video store before school starts.

  “Video store?” I ask when he comes by late Monday afternoon. “How does that even still exist?”

  “No idea,” he says cheerfully. “But it does, and I get to watch movies and get paid for it.”

  Ben is the biggest movie buff I know. 80s films and foreign movies are high on his favorites list at the moment.

  I’m thinking about Ben and school, and trying not to think about Hayden, when my mom pokes her head into my room.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  I’m sitting on my bed, staring at a book I’m not really reading. “Nothing.”

  “You should get outside,” she tells me.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ve been holed up here or out running errands with me for the last four days. And you start school tomorrow, which means eight hours in classrooms.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “So you should go,” she tells me.

  I want to ask her where she thinks I should go. She just turned the rental car in so we don’t have a car; even if we did, I can’t drive it. I didn’t get my license while we were in New Zealand because I didn’t need one. My friends drove and there was public transportation, and I just never saw the need.

  It’s like she can read my mind because she suggests, “Go take a walk on the beach. It’s literally right outside your window.”

  She isn’t wrong. The tiny window in my bedroom looks straight out at the Pacific.

  “Maybe,” I say.

  She frowns. “You love the beach. You haven’t stepped foot on it since we’ve been back.”

  Both statements are true. And I don’t know why. Have I avoided going? I don’t think so, but maybe I have
?

  I glance out the window. The sun is shining, and I know the temperature is perfect. It’s southern California.

  “Go.” It’s a one-word command.

  And it’s pointless to argue.

  I sigh. “Fine.”

  My mom leaves and I strip off my t-shirt and cut-off sweats. I debate for a minute before pulling on my swimsuit. Might as well, just in case I want to go for a swim. It’s a simple two-piece, black, and I immediately notice that my complexion has paled considerably over the last several days. I’m in desperate need of some rays on my paling body.

  I grab a faded beach towel from the hall closet—Mom only bought new bath towels—and dig my sunglasses out of my purse. I slip my phone in my jean shorts pocket and slide my flips onto my feet and head out the door.

  The afternoon sun immediately warms my skin and lifts my spirits. Five minutes later, I’m on the beach, navigating past blankets and chairs until I find a more secluded spot. It isn’t crowded with people—it’s a weekday—but it looks like there are some late summer vacationers who are getting in some last beach days before heading back to reality.

  I spread my towel and sink down on it. I bury my toes into the sand, digging past the warm layer until I find the damp cool sand below.

  There are a few surfers on the water, doing their best to carve up the four-foot waves barreling in. A guy is jogging along the hard-packed sand near the water’s edge, and a toddler is scooping wet sand into a bucket, his mom hovering close by.

  I close my eyes and breathe in the briny air. I’m not happy about being back in Playa Del Mar, but it is nice living so close to the beach again. The house I grew up in wasn’t as close to the ocean as my grandpa’s—we had a house on the bluffs, on the north side of town closer to Canyon Ridge—but it was close enough that trips to the beach were a frequent part of my childhood.

  A shadow crosses in front of me, blocking the sun, and I frown.

  “Look what the tide washed up,” a female voice says.

  Charity Dern and three other girls are in front of me. They are wearing matching bikinis: same cut, just different colors. Charity’s is white as snow, which shows off her impeccable tan.

  She plants her hands on her hips. “Where did you come from, anyway? Antarctica?”