Right Where We Belong, page 1
Also by Farrah Penn
Cancelled
Twelve Steps to Normal
VIKING
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
1745 Broadway, New York, New York 10019
First published in the United States of America by Viking,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2025
Copyright © 2025 by Farrah Penn
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ISBN 9780593528334
Ebook ISBN 9780593528358
Cover art © 2025 by Leni Kauffman
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Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
_153699844_
To those trying to find their place in this world
1
Breaking and entering takes on a brand-new meaning when the goal isn’t to commit a felony, but to retrieve what’s rightfully yours. Case in point: an eight-inch-long brass tortoise.
My back presses against the muted gray brick that makes up the interior of the Segner House locker room. It smells lethal—a combination of damp socks and chemically engineered body spray called Dark Anarchy or something equally unhinged. My rattling heartbeat slows as my eyes adjust to the bright fluorescents overhead, which—let’s be honest—are the only things criminal about this entire excursion.
There’s no one here, I think. Which, duh, Delaney. No need to duck and cover on enemy territory when said enemies should be asleep. It’s nearing midnight, but you never know. Every senior takes the game seriously. That means I cannot be seen. By anyone. I’m not allowed here in the first place.
I should know better. I do know better.
The way to break into the guys’ quarters has been an open secret for years. The rusty knob on the back door unlocks with precise jiggling and a little patience. It took me under three minutes to get in.
I scan my surroundings. It would be so convenient if they’d hidden the trophy somewhere in here, but my heart sinks with each place I look. There’s nothing on top of the lockers or on the benches beside them. I check the empty mop bucket. The recycling bin. Under discarded towels. Behind the shower curtains that reveal a nightmare-inducing level of uncleanliness—but alas. No tortoise.
“Where are you?” I whisper to myself.
Of course it’s not here. That would be too easy.
No one expected I’d volunteer for this after-hours trophy heist, but with a record as clean as mine, I’m the obvious choice. Ivernia School won’t expel one of their brightest. Not when they’ve paraded me in front of new student orientations, bragging about my exemplary GPA and college goals.
Also? I refuse to get caught.
Segner House has nearly the same layout as Hyde House, so I don’t have any difficulty navigating to the common room. All the lights are off. I pause in the dark corridor until my eyes have a chance to adjust. I avoid using the flashlight on my phone because please—this isn’t amateur hour.
The year-long Capture the Flag quest has been an Ivernia tradition for decades. The rules are simple: Segner House versus Hyde House. Seniors only. No hiding the brass tortoise anywhere that can be locked, like bedrooms, and no cheating under any circumstances. No matter how close you are to someone on the opposing team, even if they’re your best friend in the world, you can’t help them. If you do, you’re banned and shamed as a traitor to the sworn loyalty of your house. Nothing personal.
Sabine narrowed our search to three different locations: the kitchenette, the common room, and the locker room. The locker rooms can be used as a hiding place only once per team in order to raise the stakes. The other locations are accessible to everyone during the day, making them fair game. Tonight my goal is to check each place until I find the prized possession. I have to bring back a victory.
Living up to expectations has been ingrained in me for as long as I can remember. Rule-breaking, however, has not. But I don’t want to disappoint Hyde. This is my chance to seal my commitment to the team. And as trivial as it may sound, I want to impress the leads. Sabine and Inessa radiate this casual air of sophistication without even trying, all candid poise and elegant finesse. Some people are blessed with a magnetic personality, and others (like me) struggle to absorb an iota of what they’re giving.
So I’m going to prove I belong and follow through.
Using the pale moonlight that leaks in from the old Victorian window, I begin my second search of the night. I feel around under dirty couch cushions and pray I’m not accidentally discovering a new bacterium. I squint underneath a sunken armchair and scan the hollow spaces between bookshelves. And when I reach inside tissue boxes and decorative vases, I come up empty.
Damn it. It’s in the kitchenette.
I grab the heaviest book I can find before backtracking to the unmonitored entrance that leads to the dormitory wing. I’m silent as I creep past closed bedroom doors. The hallway here is narrow, and I’m terrified to even breathe too loudly out of fear I’ll wake someone.
The cracks underneath the doors reveal that almost everyone is asleep, give or take a few illuminated rooms. I yank the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, as though this terrible disguise can deter any suspicion, and tiptoe toward the end of the hall.
My heart continues to jackhammer against my rib cage as I reach the kitchenette. I give the closed door a hard, fast tug, because I know the hinges in this building creak louder than a successful rocket launch. My working theory is that the faculty has never WD-40’d the problem because it acts as an organic after-hours alarm. Not that this keeps students from sneaking into each other’s rooms on occasion.
A feeble whine releases from the rusty hinges. I pause, listening for footsteps. When I’m sure I’m in the clear, I prop open the door with the book so it can’t groan closed, and then I step inside.
The game is worth the risk. Team bonding and strategic planning are part of the reason I decided to join, but the bigger incentive is a triumphant comeback. Because for the last five years, Segner House has won.
Not this year.
I refuse to see him hoisting the trophy in the air at graduation.
My eyes have already adjusted to the darkness, so I don’t tamper with the kitchenette’s light. My gaze sweeps across the counters and the top of the fridge. I gently pry open cabinet doors. Adrenaline spikes through my system as I check the utensil drawers and the storage area underneath the sink. I look inside the m
icrowave. I even peek inside the dishwasher.
And then—there it is. Sitting inside the coffeepot.
My synapses set off a series of internal fireworks. I’m downright giddy, like I could do multiple backflips out of pure, unfiltered joy. My hands shake as I slide the coffeepot from the warmer plate. The squat brass tortoise tumbles into the palm of my hand and then promptly slips onto the tile floor with an insultingly loud clang!
Wincing, I’m quick to retrieve it. My heart’s jumped to my throat, pulse haywire. But when I listen for approaching footsteps, I’m met with silence.
A slow exhale loosens from my lungs.
This trophy is a timeless Ivernia School relic, the tortoise perched atop a marbled plaque that reads Slowest but Steadiest. Back in the forties, the track team presented it to the person who improved the most over the course of a year. It was an honor that showed dedication and strength. You might not have been the best, but you didn’t give up. It meant you stuck with the team, and in the end, you were better for it. The tradition stopped sometime in the early eighties and the trophy sat behind a wall of glass with other crowning achievements before it was swiped by a student who started the first-ever Capture game.
This antiquated trophy is the answer to my problems. It’ll prove I don’t always do what’s expected. That I’m capable of taking risks. The old Delaney wouldn’t have dreamed of getting involved in anything that would cause an ounce of conflict.
I’m about to stealthily book it back to Hyde with my grand prize when I hear it. A low, slightly hoarse voice that sets every single one of my nerve endings on fire.
“If you’re looking for a late-night snack, Carmichael,” he says, “I suggest checking your own kitchen first.”
I whirl around and—
Of course.
Sumner freaking Winchel.
His dark tangle of waves stretches skyward like overgrown weeds, which, ironically, can also be used to describe his personality. Unwanted. Annoyingly stubborn. Showing up uninvited in the last place you’d expect.
The right side of his wire-framed glasses is wrapped in tape, a new development, but he’s wearing a familiar gray Henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The one he’s usually sporting when we’re not in uniform.
Heat rises up my neck, a flush that sinks every thought of triumph I’d envisioned. I’m not embarrassed I’ve been caught; I’m frustrated. Because this is the one boy who’s made it his mission to turn anything to do with me into a challenge over the last three years, ever since he realized we kept bumping each other out of the top twenty ranking.
Let it be known I never asked for this. Grade point average plays a vital role in my partial scholarship, but reaching a top twenty ranking was my own personal goal. It was a tough achievement, and Sumner made for fierce competition, but I told myself it would look good on college applications. That’s why I played into it, not because he made a habit of provoking me. One-upping me must feed his fragile ego, so I try not to let it happen.
His gaze ticks to the tortoise in my hands. A gleeful spark flashes in his eyes, which are such a dark shade of blue they’re almost gray. Like the densest culmination of a thunderstorm. It’s fitting since Sumner tends to come in loud and unwelcome. He knows what I have, and he’s not going to let me go.
But.
There’s a chance he’ll take pity on me. He was around during the worst summer of my life, after I lost my dad to cancer earlier this year. Maybe I can talk him into pretending I was never here.
“Sumner,” I whisper, trying—and failing—to keep the panic out of my tone. “Please don’t.”
He tilts his head, a thoughtful movement usually reserved for examining quadratic equations. I catch the lingering scent of something earthy and spiced that clings to the threads of his Henley, the opposite of the manufactured monstrosity in the locker room. A conspiratorial smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
And—hold on. Is that…sympathy?
Am I about to get away with this?
My heart thumps so violently that my breathing turns quick and shallow. We stare at each other for a beat. Two.
But the hesitant expression passes, and in its stead, his gaze hardens.
“Hey, Segner House!” he hollers into the corridor, folding his arms across his chest as he turns back to me. He leans arrogantly against the doorframe, and his cold eyes freeze whatever remaining warmth I felt toward him. “We’ve got an intruder!”
Lights brighten beneath the doors. Latches release. Footsteps jog down the thin carpet. I stand there, frozen.
That’s when I know—
I am so screwed.
2
“I have to say, Delaney,” Headmistress Ellerby begins. “I didn’t expect to find you at my first and only disciplinary meeting of the day.”
I’ve sat in this office more times than I can count, but never to be reprimanded. While Ellerby doesn’t have any trouble commanding respect, she’s also not an intimidating human. Students high-five her in the hallways or stop to tell her about a paper they’re working on, and she’s always more than willing to listen. And since I’ve been in the business of granting her favors over the last three years—the aforementioned speaking at alumni events and volunteering to show new students around—I figure that she’ll write off my late-night mishap with a lectured warning. It’s my first offense, after all.
“You know me,” I say. “Always exceeding expectations.”
This fails to lighten the mood. Her lips remain in a tight, flat line. “You were in Segner House past curfew.” She squints at the monitor in front of her before flicking her gaze back to me. “At midnight? Care to explain?”
I give it another shot. “Sleepwalking?”
She sighs. “Delaney.”
I’m starting to regret my emboldened decision. Mostly, I’ve found it’s easier to try to do what I’m told because, more often than not, others have always known what’s best for me.
But right now? I’m distinctly not doing that.
“Mrs. Faustino also reported you skipped class on Tuesday. It’s only the first week of school. Is this really how you want to start your senior year?”
It’s not a real question because the answer she wants is no. I didn’t skip history Tuesday morning as an act of defiance. I did it because my period is ruining my life.
My menstrual cycles turned irregular during my first year at Ivernia. My cramps became unbearable. Then came the dizziness. The nausea. Sometimes I’d have to stop what I was doing and lie down when the intense sharpness migrated all the way down my legs. But when I’d finally talked to a doctor, I was told it was most likely stress-related and that going on birth control could help alleviate the pain.
Except it didn’t. Not really. My periods became heavier than before, not to mention my moods were off the charts. I tried switching to the pill I’m on now, which helped marginally, but every month the pain is still hit or miss.
Up until Tuesday, I would drag myself to class despite the agony because it’s what I’m supposed to do. But when I woke up in pain a few days ago, I was done pretending. I wasn’t thinking about my absence or the coursework I was missing. I was thinking of myself.
“I wasn’t feeling well,” I say, because it’s the truth. I don’t want to get into the details. I’ve tried before with other instructors who didn’t get it.
“And”—her eyes flick back to me—“you didn’t take the A&P entrance exam over the summer. The class is already full.”
I can’t recall at what point I began agreeing with my parents when they told me I’d become a dentist one day, which then evolved into practicing orthodontia. It may have started with the dental playset I got for Christmas when I was seven. Or when I’d written to the tooth fairy asking for all my teeth back, which surely didn’t disturb my family. It could have been my stellar grades in science that solidified it. Talk of going to dental school followed me like a shadow. It all seemed premeditated. This is who you are, so this is who you’ll become.
I’d intended on taking Ivernia’s anatomy and physiology placement exam over the summer. I’d even ordered a used anatomy textbook and told myself I could learn enough to pass, but memorizing nervous systems and skeletal structures proved to be overwhelmingly difficult. I was miserable. And as the days crept closer to the deadline, the bigger my dread grew.
