The Weight Of Paper Crown

Lora’s pov

Surviving in Beverly isn't about the money; it's about the posture. Though students in my school mostly come from rich or middle-class families.

If you don't hold your shoulders stiffly, people think you're trying too hard to fit in; they will think you are not in their class. They will be bullying you. I always think about the life I lived when Calloway’s family adopted me.

I took a slow, shallow breath, wear on the exact smile I had practiced in the cracked mirror of my harbor-side apartment at five o’clock this morning.

Pushing through the heavy glass double doors of Beverly High, I stepped into the main hallway. The hallway smelled of bleached floors, imported espresso, and the sharp, “citrusy tang of Le Labo perfume”, at least four hundred dollars a bottle, a scent I reproduce with a fifteen-dollar knockoff oil I bought online and carefully transferred into a glass vial.

"Lora! Oh my god, I love your bag. Is that the new Prada collection?"

I didn't break my stride, turning my head just enough to catch Chloe Vance(Mr. Silas' cousin) staring at the black leather tote resting on my shoulder. My pulse gave a familiar, violent thud against my ribs, but my voice came out like warm honey. 

"Good eye, Chloe. My dad picked it up in Milan last weekend. I told him it was too flashy for school, but you know how he gets."

"So jealous," she breathed, shrinking back into the crowd.

Don't be, I thought, gripping the strap so hard my knuckles turned white. The bag was a terrifyingly good replica I’d spent three months of shift-work tips on. The leather was real, but the stitching on the inside pocket was slightly crooked. I lived in constant, suffocating fear that someone would ask to borrow a pen and look too closely.

That was my life. A carefully organized museum exhibit of lies.

"There she is."

A heavy, warm arm darted over my shoulders, pulling me firmly into a solid chest. The scent of spearmint and expensive cedarwood washed over me. “Kellan”, I called.

I leaned into his side, letting my head rest against his shoulder, playing the part of the devoted girlfriend. Kellan Brooks was the head of the golden boy team in the city, the basketball captain with the blinding white smile and the trust fund that could buy a small country. 

To everyone else, we were the untouchable royalty of Beverly. The king and his perfectly matched queen.

But beneath his expensive cashmere sweater, Kellan’s muscles were entirely tense. His fingers dug slightly into my collarbone, not enough to bruise, but enough to remind me he was there, anchoring me to his side like a trophy he was afraid someone might steal.

"You're late," he murmured, his breath brushing my ear. It sounded affectionate. It wasn't.

"Traffic on my way ", I lied smoothly. "The landscaping trucks were blocking the gates again."

I had actually been late because I had to walk three miles from the harbor district. My father’s rusted Toyota had finally died in the driveway of our fading apartment complex, right after my parents had a screaming match about the electricity bill that ended with a shattered coffee mug.

"Right." Kellan kissed the top of my head, playing to the audience of underclassmen watching us with wide, envious eyes.

 "Can we have dinner at my place tonight? My mom wants to go over the country club gala guest list with you. She says you have better taste than her event planner."

My stomach twisted into a cold, tight knot. Dinner at the Brooks estate meant three hours of carefully analyzing my own sentences before speaking, pretending to understand the nuances of hedge funds and yacht maintenance, and desperately avoiding any questions about my own family’s "investments."

"Of course," I said, flashing him the fake smile that was slowly eating me alive from the inside out. "I'd love to."

"Perfect." He squeezed my shoulder one last time before pulling away. "I’ve got AP Econ. I'll find you at lunch. Don't let anyone take our table."

I watched him walk away, his golden-blonde hair catching the fluorescent lights, students practically parting like the Red Sea to let him through. 

For a second, a wave of profound, crushing exhaustion washed over me. I was sixteen years old, and I was so tired I felt like my bones were turning to dust.

"He's in a mood."

I jumped slightly, snapping my gaze to the left. Marlowe was standing by my locker, clutching a stack of heavily highlighted textbooks to her chest. She was wearing an oversized, cable-knit sweater that swallowed her small frame, her round glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of her nose.

Of everyone in this school, Marlowe was the only one who didn't look at me like I was something to be acquired or defeated. She just looked at me like I was a person. It was the only reason I kept her so close, fiercely protecting her from the bullies.

"Just game day stress," I said, punching the combination into my metal locker. "You know how he gets."

"Right. Game day." Marlowe adjusted her glasses, her dark eyes flicking down to my hands. "Are you okay, Lora? You're shaking."

I froze. I looked down. My fingers were trembling faintly against the cold metal of the locker dial. I quickly shoved my hands into the pockets of my tailored skirt.

"Too much espresso," I deflected with a smile. "I didn't sleep well."

"Because of the gala planning?"

"Something like that."

I finally got the locker open, the metal door swinging wide with a quiet squeak. I reached in to grab my AP Biology textbook, desperate to change the subject, desperate to put a wall between myself and the one person who actually paid attention to me.

But as I pulled the heavy textbook from the top shelf, something fluttered out from between the pages.

A small, folded piece of thick, cream-colored cardstock.

I frowned, catching it before it hit the floor. Marlowe tilted her head. "A note from Kellan?"

"Probably," I said, though Kellan never wrote notes. He barely texted in full sentences.

I unfolded the paper with my thumb. There was no romantic scrawl, no heart drawn in the margins. There was only a single, typewritten sentence in plain black ink.

I saw you walking from the harbor this morning. The crown looks heavy, Auden.

All the air rushed out of my lungs in one violent sweep.

Nobody at Beverly High called me Auden. Nobody knew about the harbor. Nobody knew that the girl standing in front of this locker was a ghost, a carefully constructed illusion hovering over a girl who had nothing.

I stared at the black ink, the edges of my vision turning dark. The hallway noise, the slamming lockers, the laughter, Marlowe’s voice calling my name faded into a dull, rushing roar.

Someone knew.

And looking down the crowded, bright hallway, I realized the most terrifying truth of all: I had absolutely no idea who was looking back.