Great Expectations

"Hate is a strong word, but I really really really don't like you." - The Plain White T's

I never knew there was anything wrong with my life. I’ve grown up with nice things: pretty clothes, glittering jewelry, the latest and greatest technology. All my life, I’ve always had anything I could possibly want. Until now.

Now, I’m about to enter my senior year of high school. My parents are concerned about what I’m going to do with the rest of my life: who I’m going to become, how rich and famous I will be, who I’ll marry. All they have ever cared about is their perfect image. I’ve never seen a problem with being a living, breathing example of the American Dream.

I have never seen a problem with my life until I met Dean Montague. To Dean Montague, no one should get everything they want. According to Dean Montague, I am a spoiled brat who will never survive in the real world.

I hate Dean Montague. Dean Montague does not hate me. This is where my story begins.



For the first time in almost three months, my alarm clock buzzed in an attempt to wake me for school. I sighed and swatted it impatiently. My room was suddenly filled with golden sunlight and an irritated tut came from the end of my bed. I groaned.

“Juliet, you don’t want to be late for your first day of senior year,” my mother, Victoria, announced. “Breakfast will be downstairs in ten minutes. Hurry up.”

I waited until I heard the snap of my door closing to get out of bed. I cringed at the bright sunlight and cool temperature of my bedroom, hurrying into my bathroom. I took a quick shower, dried my hair, and ventured into my walk-in closet. I chose a pale blue sundress with a white belt, clasped my grandmother’s pearls around my neck, and walk downstairs.

There was a short stack of pancakes sitting on the kitchen counter, steaming slightly. I covered them with strawberry syrup and ate quickly. I hated being late to anything.

“Excited for your last first day at high school?” Dad asked. My father, Warren Hanson, was a stockbroker. He ate, slept, and breathed business. As he kissed my cheek, I noticed his Bluetooth glowing in his ear. He grabbed a few pieces of toast and walked out the door, on his way to the office where he worked. I sighed and finished my pancakes, alone as usual.

I set my empty plate in the sink, grabbed my car keys, and walked outside into the warm summer air. A few minutes later, I was on my way to school, completely minding my own business, when some idiot on a motorcycle cut me off, driving between two lanes of traffic at twice the speed limit. I stared at him, praying he hadn’t scratched the bright red paint of my BMW.

Marseille High School was a sprawling school, nearly all one-story, full of courtyards and small classrooms. It could take you nearly fifteen minutes to walk from one end to the other if the hallways were jam-packed with students, but the average student would have learned all possible shortcuts and crowd-maneuvering skills by her third day of classes. The teachers were, for the most part, kind, intelligent people who never held grudges against their students. This was a school in a wealthy region of southern California – it’s not your average public school. I would never admit this fact, but I like going to school.

I was about to turn into a parking spot when the same idiot on his motorcycle swerved around me and parked between two spaces, leaving me just enough room to pull in. I got out of my car as the driver was taking his off his helmet.

“Who do you think you are?” I asked. “You’re going to kill yourself driving like that.”

The guy grinned at me. “Who do I think I am? What, am I not allowed to park here?”

“That’s not even a parking spot,” I said, indicating the narrow strip of asphalt covered in yellow stripes where he had parked.

“So rich princesses like you are the only people allowed to park in the good spots,” he said mockingly. “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure not to scratch your Beemer too badly when I leave.”

I stared at him as he walked to the school, carelessly slinging his leather jacket over his shoulder. “I hate you and your stupid Ducati,” I muttered angrily.

“Who were you talking to?” I turned to see my friend, Poppy. Despite the fact that she lived in Southern California and had spent a month along the French Mediterranean, Poppy had managed to remain very pale, her hair still a dark chocolate brown.

“I have no idea, but he is a terrible driver.”

“Nice motorcycle, though,” Poppy commented as we walked past it. “He was pretty cute, too. Must be a transfer or something.”

I shrugged. Poppy’s parents were artists who wouldn’t care if their daughter dated a motorcycle-driving, leather-wearing rebel. They’d probably be ecstatic if she chose to date a hemp-weaving environmentalist. My parents weren’t thrilled that I was friends with Poppy and they would be extremely disappointed if I so much as talked to someone who drove a motorcycle. They’d probably disinherit me if I brought home an environmentalist.

“See you later,” I said as I turned to go to the science section of the school. My first period class was Honors Physics, while Poppy had Advanced Calculus.

“Have fun in Physics,” she said, smirking. Poppy knew I loved any kind of science class.

I walked quickly down the hall, through the open courtyards. The bell would be ringing in less than a minute. When I arrived at the physics lab, there were only a few seats open. I sat down in the first seat I could get to as the bell rang.

“Good morning,” the teacher, Professor Collins, said. “I’m sure you’ve all had fantastically fascinating summers, but this is not the place to discuss them. Take a look at the person sitting next to you, because he or she is going to be your lab partner for the remainder of the year. I hope you’ve chosen wisely.”

I heard a snicker from my left. I turned to see Motorcycle Guy. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered.

“I never kid,” he said. “Dean Montague. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Juliet Hanson. I wish I could say the same.” I folded my arms over my chest and turned away from him.

“Ouch,” he said. “Should I feel honored to have you as my lab partner? Because I don’t.”

“Should I feel touched that you parked next to me? Because I don’t,” I shot back.

He smirked and turned away. I attempted to ignore him, but he spent the rest of the class passing me notes, which I shoved, unread, underneath my notebook. When there were five minutes left in the class, I relented and unfolded the note. It read:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
Too bad you hate me,
Cuz there’s a lot I wanna show you.

Janitor’s closet, study hall?

I sneered and barely contained a scoff of disgust. “You sicken me,” I whispered to him. He responded with an extremely rude gesture. The instant the bell rang, I jumped from my seat, the note still balled in my hand. This was going to be one hell of a year.