“Whatever.” Peyton shrugged and focused on her food.
Once they finished eating, Adrian placed his napkin on the table and glanced at his watch. “Your ride will be waiting at the valet stand in fifteen minutes,” he said. “Peyton, you need to change your jeans before you leave.”
Peyton crossed her arms and glared at him. “Excuse me?”
“You have to change your jeans before you leave,” he repeated. “I assume you put those on to disregard the school dress code. Your point has been made—you dislike following arbitrary rules—and while I understand your stance, it would be selfish to make your sisters late because you insist on fighting a battle you can’t win.”
Savannah couldn’t stop a laugh from escaping, and Peyton’s glare turned to her. She refocused on her food and took another bite of pancake, even though it was now cold and soggy, and she was full.
“It’s almost time to leave,” Adrian said, his eyes on Peyton. “If you would like, Rebecca or I can assist you in choosing a more suitable pair of pants.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Peyton shoved her chair back, the metal shrieking against the marble floor. “I can dress myself.”
“Glad to hear it,” Adrian said as she slammed her door. No one at the table said a word, and the hint of a smile crossed his face. “I used to be the same way when I was a teenager.”
Savannah couldn’t imagine Adrian as a teenager, especially a teenager who was similar to Peyton. But his approach worked, because Peyton returned a few minutes later wearing black jeans with no rips or holes in them, her lips pressed into a pissed-off line. The jeans were so low-rise that a slit of skin showed between them and her shirt, but her belly button wasn’t showing, so she wasn’t breaking the dress code.
“Much better.” Adrian nodded at Peyton’s choice. “I have somewhere I need to be now, but I’ve made a reservation for dinner tonight so that you can tell Rebecca and me about your first day at Goodman.”
They said their goodbyes, and Rebecca stayed behind, making sure their bags were packed with everything they needed. Instead of Savannah’s ancient backpack, she had a new purple Longchamp tote—the same bag that many of the volleyball girls at Fairfield High had had and that she could never afford. Inside of it was her MacBook Pro. Apparently at Goodman, bringing a laptop to school wasn’t begging someone to steal or vandalize it.
As Adrian promised, a limo was waiting for them at the valet stand. Savannah had been on many limo rides since arriving in Las Vegas, but it still didn’t feel normal. Courtney’s bodyguard, Teddy, drove them, and Savannah’s and Peyton’s bodyguards followed in a car behind. One of them would be on the Goodman campus at all times when they were at school. So awkward.
“It’s dumb that Adrian won’t let me drive us,” Peyton said once they were seated. “What good are the Range Rovers he bought us if we can’t take them to school?”
“He probably doesn’t want us getting lost,” Courtney said.
“And my car’s been good for learning how to drive,” Savannah pointed out. She couldn’t wait to get her license when she turned sixteen in December. Along with the summer tutoring sessions, she’d taken an online drivers’ ed class. Rebecca had been driving with her for the required fifty adult-supervised hours.
After fifteen minutes, the limo turned at a brick sign with The Goodman School engraved on it in block letters, and Savannah moved closer to the window. A long, scenic road led to sprawling stucco buildings that resembled a college campus. Where were the security guards, the threatening chain gates and the windowless, prisonlike buildings? The buildings here looked bright and airy, with large paned windows and groomed gardens surrounding them.
“Here’s the Upper School.” Teddy stopped the limo at a pink domed building with a stone fountain in front. “I’ll be waiting here to pick you up at the end of the day.”
Savannah stepped out of the limo and looked up at the building. Did people at Goodman actually say they were in “upper” school instead of high school? It sounded so strange.
“Where to now?” she asked Courtney.
Her sister glanced at her phone, where she kept notes about these details. “We have to go to the Upper School front desk, where we should find a lady named Betty. She’ll give us our locker assignments.”
They walked to the entrance, the students nearby watching them and whispering. None of the girls were dressed up—they mostly wore designer jeans, fashionable tops and flats. Savannah’s hands shook, and she gripped the strap of her bag, focusing on not tripping in her three-inch Jimmy Choos. She should have worn her Tory Burch flats. Why had she worn such an over-the-top outfit, despite Courtney, Peyton and Evie’s advice?
Oh, right—because she’d thought everyone at Goodman would dress up. And because she’d stupidly thought it would catch Damien and Nick’s attention. Seeing as no one else was as dressed up, she might catch their attention…but not in a positive way.
Her throat constricted, and she wanted to run back to the limo and beg Teddy to drive her back to the Diamond so that she could change. But that wasn’t an option. She would have to suck it up.
Betty at the front desk was an older woman with short gray hair—she looked like a grandma who baked cookies for her grandkids after school. She welcomed Savannah and her sisters and handed them their locker combinations.
“Here’s the sheet you sign whenever you need to leave school, or if you arrive late,” she said, pointing to a clipboard on the desk. “Seniors have senior privileges and can leave whenever they want. Everyone else has to say why they’re leaving early.”
“With a note from a parent?” Courtney asked.
“You don’t need a note,” Betty said. “At Goodman, we trust students to leave only when necessary. You’re responsible for any missed material, so it’s understood that attendance is crucial to earn high marks.”
Peyton laughed. “And no one takes advantage of how easy it is to skip?”
Betty smiled. “The students here want to attend their classes so they can excel in their studies.”
“It sounds nice.” Courtney looked around in wonder at the well-lit, airy, carpeted building.
“What are senior privileges?” Savannah asked.
“As a sophomore, you won’t have to worry about that for a while,” Betty said, turning to Peyton. “Since you’re a senior, you’re allowed to leave campus for free periods and lunch, as long as you’re back in time for class. There are a lot of restaurants nearby that students enjoy.”
Savannah’s mouth dropped open, and she closed it so she wouldn’t look like a gaping fish. The seniors here went to restaurants for lunch? At Fairfield High, a good fraction of students were on subsidized lunches—including her and her sisters. They wouldn’t have dreamed of going out to eat, or had the time, as Fairfield’s lunch blocks were short and rushed. But with seventy-five minutes set aside for lunch, and credit cards connected to their parents’ bank accounts, students at Goodman had no reason not to go to restaurants.
“What happens if we don’t get back in time?” Peyton asked.
“If it happens more than three times, your senior privileges will be revoked,” Betty said. “But that’s rare, since students want to keep their privileges.”
“You really trust the students here.”
“It’s the Goodman philosophy that everyone is capable of rational self-discipline,” Betty explained. Then she told them to come to her if they had more questions, and they cleared out so that she could talk to the students in the line behind them.
“I