chapter 6
1163 Words
Chapter 6
The Saint Agnes uniform itched in all the wrong places.
Betty tugged at the stiff collar as she stood outside the school gates, feeling more like a soldier reporting for duty than a student. The building beyond the gate loomed with glass and concrete.
She glanced around. Clusters of girls moved in tight packs, laughing too loudly, flipping perfect hair over perfect shoulders. Not one of them looked like her.
“New girl,” someone whispered nearby.
Betty caught a glimpse of two girls — manicured, lip-glossed, and practically radiating judgment — giving her the once-over. She rolled her eyes and strode past them, chin high.
Inside, the hallways were polished and cold, echoing with the sound of heels on marble and the occasional sharp laugh. Her name wasn’t on any lockers. No one waited to show her around.
Except one person.
“Tasha?”
Tasha leaned casually against the wall near the science wing, looking smug.
“What, you think I wear ripped jeans seven days a week?” she said, motioning to her surprisingly crisp skirt and blazer.
Betty laughed, her shoulders relaxing for the first time that morning. “Thank God.”
“Don’t thank God. Thank my grades.”
They walked together toward their first class. On the way, Tasha offered the inside scoop — who to avoid, which teachers were secretly cruel, and which bathrooms had the best mirrors.
“Oh, and watch out for the boys,” she added. “They love fresh meat.”
“Charming.”
“Especially one in particular.” Tasha grinned. “Dean Mwansa. If he talks to you, run.”
They were still laughing when the classroom door opened.
The room was already full. Eyes turned. A few girls smiled — most didn’t.
The teacher barely glanced up. “You must be Elizabeth Lockhart.”
Betty froze for a heartbeat. Lockhart?
She swallowed hard. “It’s Betty.”
He nodded toward an empty seat. “Take your place, Miss Lockhart.”
Miss Lockhart. Again. Like that name belonged to her.
She walked stiffly to the desk, her skin prickling. She hadn't expected this. Hadn’t agreed to it. She hadn’t been asked.
Her last name wasn’t Lockhart. It never had been. That name belonged to Laura’s husband — a man she’d barely known a month, who still looked at her like she was a problem he hadn’t agreed to solve.
Her mother had filled out the forms. Her mother had decided. Without asking.
Betty clenched her fists beneath the desk, jaw tight. She didn’t say anything. Not here. Not now.
But she’d remember.
She’d remember exactly who had rewritten her identity without permission — and who would have to answer for it.
Someone behind her muttered, “Lockhart, huh? Wonder if she bought her way in too.”
Tasha leaned in. “Ignore them. You don’t need their approval. You’ve got me.”
Betty gave a tight smile, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Still replaying that name in her head like a stain she couldn’t scrub out.
As the whispers faded into algebra, the familiar ache returned — that sharp, hollow feeling of not belonging.
Until lunchtime.
She spotted him leaning against the fence outside the dining hall. Sharp suit, bag slung over one shoulder, a book in one hand. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a teen drama.
Dean.
He smirked at her — like he knew every secret she’d ever tried to hide.
Tasha groaned under her breath. “Ugh. And there he is.”
Betty smirked right back.
Maybe school wouldn’t be so boring after all.
Lunch was nearly over when she saw him again — Dean Mwansa.
He was sitting on a low stone wall near the courtyard, alone, legs stretched out, sipping a juice box like he owned the world. His uniform looked like it had been tailored in Milan, and even the wind seemed to blow perfectly through his dreadlocks.
Tasha groaned. “Ignore him. He flirts like it’s a sport.”
“I can handle myself,” Betty muttered, already walking toward him.
Dean looked up as she approached, one eyebrow lifting like he’d been waiting for her.
“You’re braver than most,” he said.
“I’m not most,” she replied.
He smiled, slow and amused. “Clearly. You’re Lockhart’s niece, right? The one who just dropped in from nowhere?”
“You make it sound like I fell out of the sky.”
“Did you?”
Betty sat on the edge of the wall, keeping a polite distance. “I just transferred.”
Dean took a long sip of his juice. “Transferred into Saint Agnes? That’s not something people just do. Not unless your parents own a tech company. Or, in your case, a Lockhart.”
Before Betty could reply, a voice cut in behind them.
“She’s not just a Lockhart.”
Both Betty and Dean turned.
Chris stood there, his expression unreadable, a shadow of something flickering in his eyes. “She’s family.”
Dean’s smile widened as he stood. “Ah, speak of the devil. I was just keeping your niece company.”
Chris nodded, but it was curt. “I saw.”
Dean glanced at Betty, amused. “He always this warm and fuzzy?”
Chris ignored the jab. “Lunch is almost over, Betty. Can I talk to you?”
Dean gave a mock bow. “I’ll leave you two to it. Don’t forget, Betty—juice boxes are sacred.” And with a wink, he strolled off.
Chris waited until Dean was out of earshot before speaking again. “You okay?”
Betty crossed her arms. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugged. “Just checking.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Where were you all morning? I didn’t see you at breakfast or around school.”
Chris hesitated, then said, “I had something to take care of. It was important.”
“That’s vague.”
He smiled a little, looking tired. “It was a vague kind of important.”
They started walking slowly back toward the building, the air between them suddenly softer, quieter.
Betty looked at him. “You didn’t seem happy to see me talking to Dean.”
“I’m not,” he admitted. “He’s not what he seems.”
“And you are?”
Chris stopped walking. “I don’t pretend to be anything I’m not.”
Their eyes met. The courtyard noise faded around them.
Betty took a breath. “I don’t need a babysitter, Chris.”
“I’m not trying to be one,” he said quietly. “I just… care.”
She held his gaze for a second longer before turning toward the building. “You have a strange way of showing it.”
Chris didn’t follow right away. He just stood there, watching her walk away — the girl who wasn’t supposed to matter.
But somehow, did.
- Writer
