PROLOGUE

Congratulations!  Out of a pool of highly competitive candidates, you’ve been accepted into the freshman class at Kings Academy, thus joining a tradition of academic excellence that’s produced more of our world’s leaders (five Presidents, at last count), thinkers (Nobels, Pulitzers, Fullbrights…oh my!), doers (from Fortune 100 CEOs to Hollywood uber-producers), and influencers (also known as the filthy rich) than any other boarding school in the world.  It’s the gateway to Harvard, Princeton, and Yale.  Nobody in your family has ever gone to such an elite school, let alone on a full scholarship.  Your freshman class is full of Somebodies, Future Somebodies, and Children of Somebodies. 

Oh, and you.       

But hey, like, no pressure.

As you’ll soon learn, navigating a social life at Kings Academy can be even more harrowing than the academic workload, which would overwhelm Stephen Hawkings.  Every choice you make has consequences.  Each decision determines who you’re most likely to become.  Your perfect ending may be out there, but only if you listen to your heart and follow it wisely.         

Good luck.  You’re going to need it. 
 

SNAPSHOT #1

Saturday, February 15.  8:15 pm.

Pennyworth House.

“You should always wear skirts,” Annabel declares, fishing an adorable red and silver Marc Jacobs mini out of her closet and discreetly ripping off the price tag before tossing it at your head.  You’re sprawled across the bottom bed—hers—of your shared bunks, your head propped up against one of her monogrammed pillows.  It smells faintly of rose oil, Annabel’s signature scent.  “Your legs are phenom,” she says.  “I would kill.”

It’s a struggle not to roll your eyes, since Annabel’s legs are just short of a mile, but you don’t doubt her sincerity.  Annabel Lake always sees the best in everyone, especially you, her best friend since you met last September during Pre-Frosh week. 

Was it really just six months ago that you first set foot on Kings’ idyllic New Hampshire campus—even more breathtaking than in the brochures?  It feels like a mini-lifetime.  You and Annabel both had your heads buried in campus maps when you collided in front of the stern-looking statue of a former Headmaster, over whose shoulders a student had draped a lacy pink bra.

“I’m such a klutz!” Annabel had been quick to apologize, as though the crash was her fault alone.  She had the kind of beauty that was startling in its rarity.  Flawless skin, dark hair, eyes the color of sea glass.  She wore a weathered oxford shirt, jogging shorts, a Cartier tank watch, and a Nantucket tan.  (As you’d soon discover, everything looked fabulous when Annabel was the one wearing it.  Like when Teen Vogue suggested cinching an oversized Hanes t-shirt with woven garden twine then pairing with acid-washed jeggings and a fedora?  On Annabel, the look was fresh and quirky.  On you, it was “security lapse in the psych ward.”)

“Are you okay?” she’d asked, reaching out a hand to steady you.

You’d stared up at her (see: mile-long legs) and felt insecurities you didn’t even know you had rush to the surface.  This was a mistake.  I sodo not belong here.  Mommmmy! 

But Mommy was still stuck in traffic back in the Upper School parking lot, all your earthly belongings piled in the back of her beat-up Town & Country.  Not that there was anything she could do, anyway.  The decision to apply to Kings Academy had been yours and yours alone.  You couldn’t run to your parents after twenty minutes on campus because you felt intimidated.

After a deep breath, you asked Annabel if she had any clue where Pennyworth was, and she broke into a warm smile, thus revealing her one and only detectable flaw:  Slightly overlapped front teeth! 

Oh, please.  Her smile is adorably crooked and you know it.

It turned out Annabel was looking for the same dorm.  After some more searching, together you found the majestic neo-Georgian manse (um, how could you have missed it?) tucked in a corner of the wide, grassy area known as the Quad. 

Only then did you realize you and Annabel were both assigned to Suite 304.  Roommates. 

Once you’d managed to get over the crippling sense of inadequacy that someone as—well, perfect was really the only word—as Annabel could trigger, you’d realized just how lucky you were.  Annabel was a one in a million friend.  No wonder Henry Dearborn had immediately fallen for her.

Henry.

Ahem.  Let’s get back to the party prep, shall we?  This is Midwinter’s Night Dream, after all, the most important party of the year, and it’s imperative that you look amazing.  Slash not spend your time secretly pining over Henry, your best friend’s boyfriend—a habit that’s unproductive at best, self-destructive at worst.

“You’re sure you don’t mind me borrowing this?” you ask Annabel.  You slide her skirt over your hips and zip, turning around in the mirror to see it from all angles.  Looks pretty decent, you have to admit.  Better than anything you have in your closet by a long shot.

“Don’t be silly.  You have to wear it.” 

It’s the same exchange you have every time Annabel dips into her wardrobe to find you something to wear.  Oh, yeah… add super generous to her list of sterling qualities.  If you’ve gained a modicum of social acceptance at Kings, you have Annabel to thank.  You think back to Homecoming tailgate, the first real social event of the year, and shudder at the memory of what you’d planned to wear:  a shapeless LL Bean sweater, slightly baggy Gap jeans, and running sneakers.  Running sneakers, people!  It was Annabel who’d diplomatically explained that even though the tailgate was held in a parking lot, you’d probably feel more comfortable in her dark wash Seven jeans and perfectly cut Italian suede jacket.