Sinclair Prep. Home of the wealthiest and snottiest trust-fund teenagers to ever exist. And now, my new school for the next year.

I've read enough headlines and heard enough stories to know that Sinclair Prep isn't your normal high school. Nope. It's a place where privileged teens act half their age because they don't know the concept of responsibility. Or money, for that matter.

When my dad told me that he got the job as Head Chef at SP, I was scared. It wasn't the actual moving to Connecticut part that I was scared of; it was the fact that his new job meant I'd be Sinclair Prep's newest student. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for the free-ride to the prestigious high school. You see, my goal has always been to get into Dartmouth College, and because I'm banking on a full-time scholarship, graduating from Sinclair Prep betters my chances of both happening.

At the same time, though, I'm fully aware that I don't fit into Sinclair Prep's posh universe. My dad doesn't own some major business and I sure as hell don't have a trust fund. I can't take my academics lightly because making mistakes isn't an option for me. I don't have the connections to get out of them. One minor slip-up and I can kiss my chances of ever getting into Dartmouth goodbye.

"You okay over there?" dad asks as he drives us down the long, pebbled school entrance. It's so long that we're not even close to the building. I can see it in the background, though, with its pointy roof and stone walls. I also see the school's emerald green and white flag waving with the wind.

"Fine," I mutter as I continue to stare out the window.

"Your legs are shaking."

"Just nerves," I explain, offering him a quick smirk before turning my head back to where it was.

"Honey, I know that moving here is a major change, and I can't even imagine how hard it is for you to start fresh, but I took this job for the both of us. Sinclair's paying me almost double what I was making at the restaurant. Plus, I know how much Dartmouth means to you. One look at your application, and their admissions team will slip it to the top of the pile just because you're a student here. You do know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know. I just have to make sure that I stay focused. Sure, Sinclair looks good on applications, but I still need the grades."

"And you'll get them. Just promise me that you'll also enjoy your time here. Join an afterschool activity, go to a silly house party..."

"I don't want to. Those things are just a waste of my time."

"Anastasia..."

"Dad," I give him a sympathetic smile, "I'll be fine. I promise."

He returns the smile and then says, "I know you will be, sweetheart. Can't blame a dad for wanting to make sure that his only daughter is happy, though."

"I am happy," I tell him.

"Good. Because that's all I ever want for you. I know that things haven't been easy, but remember your worth, Stassie. No one can take that from you."

I give him another smile, and before I know it, we're approaching the front of the school, which sits on acres of gorgeous green land. A bunch of guys, dressed in emerald green uniforms with the school's insignia on them, are throwing a football around while a few girls dressed in skirts and matching blazers of the same color sit on the front steps gossiping.

Dad puts the car in park and gets out first, so I give myself another minute to gather my thoughts. The nerves in my body cause me to gulp and fasten the loose pieces of light-brown hair that have fallen from my slicked-back pony behind my ears. I take a deep breath in, then let it out, and meet my dad at the trunk, where he's pulling out my white backpack and floral lunch box. I wrap the backpack around my shoulders and take the box from him.

"I'm going to park the car in the staff lot and then meet Dean Hemmings in his office before my shift starts."

"What's on the menu for breakfast today?" I ask.

"Ah. Good question," dad says before scrolling through his phone. "Greek omelets. Freshly cut fruit. Yogurt and granola. And homemade Belgian waffles."

"Yum."

"Let's hope your classmates think so, too."

"They will. You're the best cook that I know."

"Thank you, sweetheart. You're the hardest worker that I know. You got this. And no matter what, I'm proud of you. Always."

"Thanks, dad," I smile.

"I love you, Stassie."

"I love you, too."

He nods, looking me over. "Go get 'em."

I give him a nod, then straighten my back and clutch onto the straps of my backpack, before making my way toward the school's entrance.

I can do this. I got this. Remember my worth, no one can take that from me.

"Heads up!" I hear a male voice scream before a different body rams into me. He catches the flying football and then gives me a careless glance.

"Oops," is all he says before making his way back to his friend. I hear a few of the girls giggle at the encounter.

"Nice lunch box," the one with long red hair mockingly states as she hides a condescending chuckle behind her red nails.

Yup, today's going to be fun.