As my first week at Burberry Prep progresses, it seems like the Idols have forgotten about me.
I know in my gut that’s not true.
Bullies don’t quit until circumstances force them to. It’s the nature of the beast, and humans are the worst animals of all. Smart enough to manipulate, stupid enough to care. My mind flickers with images best left forgotten: ribbons of silken red, the smell of wet pennies, peaceful blackness closing in.
Running my tongue across my lower lip, I double-check my schedule. The first and third Friday of the month I have my Monday schedule; the second and fourth Friday I have my Tuesday schedule. The last Friday—if there is one—is a day off.
Period 3: Government, History, and Civics, Room CH3
The CH in CH3 stands for chapel, meaning the classrooms located in the building attached to the old chapel. Miranda disappeared during the second half of lunch, but I think I know my way around now. Following the maze of hallways, I slip unnoticed by the other students—the Plebs, as they’re supposedly called—enjoying my anonymity. Only the Idols and their Inner Circle look at me sideways. Nobody else cares.
I pass unscathed into the classroom, breathing a sigh of relief as I slide into the chair in the back corner. Tristan Vanderbilt is the only member of the Bluebloods—their term, not mine—that shares this class with me and Miranda. He glances up when I walk in, his blade gray eyes slicing through me before he returns his attention to the short, raven-haired girl in front of him.
In the past week, I’ve seen him with a good dozen different girls, flirting and smiling and leaning in close. Even when the guy’s trying to get laid, that arrogance of his sits like a mask over his handsome face. He never seems to let his guard down or show any emotion that isn’t tainted with superiority and entitlement.
Just looking at the jerk makes me sick to my stomach.
“Sorry I’m late,” Miranda breathes, sliding into the chair next to me. Her eyes flick up to Tristan, and he meets her gaze dead-on before returning his attention back to his newest conquest. Miranda’s cheeks burn pink, and I raise an eyebrow.
“Don’t apologize. You’ve sat with me during every class and every lunch period for the entire week. You’re not going to get, like, put on probation by the Bluebloods for that, are you?”
Miranda pulls her iPad out of her bag and sets it on the desk. The tech policy here is crazy strict, so all the laptops and tablets are school-issued and locked down on a private network. It’s insane. I miss my phone like crazy, but today after school, I get it back for the weekend.
Even a digital escape from Burberry Prep sounds like heaven right about now.
“No. I mean, I don’t think so since Creed is my brother…” Miranda trails off, and exhales, swiping her hand across her forehead before tossing a genuine smile my way. “I know he’s been a royal prick to you, but he’s pretty overprotective when it comes to me. Once, back in middle school, this guy stood me up for a date, and Creed held me while I cried. After I fell asleep though, he went over to the boy’s house and punched him.” Her smile gets a little wider, and I smile back.
That is until I realize that Tristan’s standing directly in front of my desk, this enormous shadow collapsing the good-natured humor of the moment. I glare up at him in challenge. I’m not afraid of anyone, not even billionaire boys like Tristan Vanderbilt.
“Party tonight, Mandy,” he says, his face a cold, cruel mask. “You gonna be there?”
“Is Marnye invited?” Miranda echoes, and although I appreciate her trying to stand up for me, I cringe on the inside. Tristan lets his eyes swing over to me, his gaze darkening with distaste. He really and truly seems to hate me, and I can’t seem to figure out why.
“There’ll be enough willing girls at the party; we don’t need Working Girls there, too.” His delivery is ice-cold, and somehow, that makes his hatred of me even worse. It’s a cold, empty loathing that settles across my skin like salty fog off a quiet sea.
“She’s my friend, Tristan,” Miranda says, but he’s already turning away, dismissing the conversation before it’s even begun. With a sigh, she turns back to me. “If you want to go to the party, Marnye, we’ll find a way to make it work.”
“I don’t think I want to,” I say, watching Tristan’s back as he makes his way over to the dark-haired girl again. “Go, I mean. I don’t want to go.” My eyes flick over to Miranda, watching as she settles into her seat with her iPad on her lap. “Watching that guy hit on every available girl at the party, not my thing.”
“The parties here are epic though,” Miranda says, lifting her eyes up from the screen as our professor calls for the class’ attention. She’s talking to me, but she’s distracted. I may not have known her for long, but I can already tell. “You can’t go through your entire high school career without going to any. I’ll talk to Creed after class.”
I open my mouth to tell her not to bother, but class has already started, and if there’s one thing I do know about my career at Burberry Prep, it’s that my grades are more important than any party, any bullshit from entitled rich boys. But if Miranda wants to try to get me in, I’ll go, if only for the experience.
And what an experience it turns out to be.
My new apartment is located on the bottom floor of the chapel building, as opposed to Tower Three like all the rest of the students. While they enjoy penthouses and sprawling studios with views of the ocean, I’m placed in the old janitor’s quarters. Doesn’t bother me. Honestly, the one bedroom, one bath space is twice as large as the Train Car back home.
“Spoiled rich brats,” I mumble, flopping onto the edge of my bed and putting my face in my hands. Walking these halls is like running a gauntlet; I’ve never been so exhausted in all my life. “I would’ve been fine with a regular-sized dorm.” Throwing my arm across my eyes, I take a breather before sitting up and turning my phone on.
Every Friday after third period, the entire student body gets their phones back. Until then, phones are banned on campus. If anyone needs to make a call, they’re required to check in with the vice principal. Burberry Prep is hardcore. Supposedly, taking away technology helps students focus on their studies and cuts down on bullying. I’d say sure on the first premise… and most definitely not on the second.
Sitting up, I cast a glance around my new apartment. All the furniture, including the bed, was purchased via the scholarship fund, and while I’m sure it’s a far cry from what my fellow students have in their rooms, it looks like luxury to me.
My headboard’s almost as tall as the ceiling, this lavishly tufted white velvet arch with crystal sconces on either side. It sets the tone for the whole room, this effortless elegance in creams and grays, draped across the ancient stone floors and walls with an expert’s touch.
“Okay, Dad, let’s see how much trouble you’ve managed to get yourself into during the week.” Powering my phone on, I do a brief check of my email, texts, and social media, but there’s not much to see. A few goodbyes, and greetings from casual acquaintances, but nothing substantial. I haven’t had any real friends since…
No. Banish that thought. I’m not interested in entertaining shadows of the past, not when I have a fairly grim present to deal with.
I dial up my voicemail and wait, smiling when my dad’s voice comes over the line.
“Hey Marnye, it’s Dad”—as if I didn’t know—“I just wanted to see how things were going at your new school.” He pauses, and I tense up, wondering if his voice sounds warbled, wondering if he’s drunk again. “I bet you’re making all sorts of friends. I just hope you don’t have a boyfriend yet, though I’m sure you’ve already gotten offers.” He chuckles, but I frown. Offers? Not so much. Being called a Working Girl and offered money for sex? Yeah, there’s that. “I’m already looking forward to Parents’ Weekend. Until then, keep me in your thoughts. Love you, bye.”
I’m feeling pretty good about leaving Dad alone until I realize that’s the only message he’s left me. Just one voicemail, no texts, no social media tags. My mouth purses into a thin line as I dial our home number and wait. Nothing.
If he’s fallen back into old habits, Dad’ll be at the bar on Chambers. But that’s the worst-case scenario. I shoot a text over to our old neighbor, Mrs. Fleming, to see if his car’s in the driveway. She’s practically deaf, so she’s the only ninety-seven-year-old I know of that exclusively uses text messages for communication. She’s also an incorrigible gossip, a Supernatural superfan, and the head of the local neighborhood watch.
When she doesn’t text back right away, I figure she’s probably on one of her Sam and Dean binge sessions, and head over to my new wardrobe in the corner, this towering antique piece with fleur-de-lis designs carved into the decorative arch on the top. Opening it, I get a sharp stab from the blade of reality.
During school hours, everyone wears their uniforms.
At a weekend party, nobody will be wearing them, and my twenty-dollar Target dress will stand out like a sore thumb. That is, if Miranda even finds a way to get me an invite.
As I’m thumbing through my meager collection of thrift store, Walmart, and garage sale finds, there’s a knock at the door. With no small amount of caution, I move over to open it. If it’s anyone but Miranda, I’m leaving it bolted.
But when I peek through the peephole, I find Miranda grinning and waving, holding a dress in one arm and a shoebox in the other. I open it, and she bounces in, grinning from ear to ear.
“I got them to agree,” she says, breathless from sprinting over here from her shared apartment with Creed. They have a two-bedroom with a balcony that Miranda promises I can see someday, but which I don’t think I ever will see, as her brother hates my guts. “Well, I got Creed to agree, and that’s all we need.”
“Wow,” I say as she tosses the dress on the bed, and I see that it’s an expensive, tight-fitting little black number that I wouldn’t be caught dead in. I’m sure Miranda will have no trouble pulling it off though. “Your brother really does have a soft spot for you, doesn’t he?”
“He’ll have a soft spot for you, too, when he sees you in this dress,” she says, smirking and popping out a hip. For a moment, the expression reminds me of her twin, and I get goosebumps. “And these shoes.” Miranda points a long, shiny fingernail at the box.
I can’t miss the label printed on the top.
“Manolo Blahnik?” I choke out, and then my eyes flick to the dress again. “And I don’t care what designer made that dress; I won’t fit into it.”
Miranda rolls her eyes like I’m a crazy person, and then slides a bottle of champagne out from under the dress that I didn’t see before. “You’re being too hard on yourself. Let me dress you up while we pre-drink, and we’ll have an epic party. This is the first weekend of our freshmen year; we have to live this up.” She pops the champagne, and the cork flies up and hits the ceiling, making us both laugh. Me, with nervousness. Her, with her usual good cheer.
“So is Creed like the Yang to your Yin?” I ask as Miranda opens the clear plastic of the garment bag, revealing two little black dresses instead of one. And I’d thought there was little fabric to be had to begin with. Now there’s even less.
“He’s… complicated,” she starts as she moves into the kitchenette, opening the frosted glass cabinet door and pulling out two crystal cups. There aren’t any champagne flutes, but that’s not particularly surprising considering we’re several years off from being able to legally drink. “You can’t let him get to you. He’s just… he’s so concerned at being ‘new money’ that he overcompensates.” Miranda pours a generous glass of champagne for each of us, handing one over to me.
If I get caught drinking, I could be kicked out of the academy—permanently.
At the same time, I don’t want to spit on Miranda’s goodwill. I wait for her to move into the bathroom and flick on the lights before I quickly empty my glass into the sink.
“They redid this whole place, huh?” she asks as I step in behind her, taking in the deep tub, the stand-up shower, and the windows overlooking the park-like courtyard behind the church. They each have a set of handy wooden blinds that block out all the light, but they’re open now, showing off the dusky evening sky.
“This is basically a palace to me,” I say with a smile, a flitter of nervous energy taking over my belly when I see the amount of makeup that Miranda’s stuffed into her purse. She unloads it onto the burnished gold stone of the countertop, and then turns to look at me with a critical eye. “What?” I ask, suddenly wary, and Miranda grins at me.
“How do you feel about curls?” she asks, reaching out to play with my hair. I look past her and into the mirror, locked into my own brown-eyed gaze. My lips are too thin, my chin too pointed, my nose too big. At least those judgments are my own. The things they used to say to me back home rarely had anything to do with my appearance. Mostly, they attacked my character.
“Curls are great,” I say, trying to force a smile. On the inside, I’m wondering if there’s anything I could wear or do that would make a difference tonight. I imagine not. Because on the inside, I’ll still be poor. At the end of the night, I still won’t own a private jet or a series of islands in the fucking Caribbean. “Do whatever you want; I’m no good at hair or makeup.”
Miranda lets out a small sound of excitement, downs her champagne, and pours us both another round.
I wish I could drink it.
I have a feeling I’m going to need it to get through tonight.
The walk down to the beach is easy, lined with solar-powered lanterns that give the winding, pebbled walkway a warm yellow glow. Picking my way down in the stilettos that Miranda brought me is no easy feat, and I’m sure I look like I’m already drunk by the time we get to the bonfire.
Doesn’t matter, I suppose, since it looks like everyone else here already is.
“Mandy!” this redheaded girl calls out, waving her arms like she’s on crack. At my old school, she might have been. Here… she still could be. Instead, she stumbles over to Miranda with her heels hanging from one hand, the distinctive red bottoms of the Louboutins obvious even in the flickering orange light from the bonfire. The bottoms are scuffed and the shoes are wet and covered in sand. Without a second thought, the girl chucks them into a pile of other expensive designer shoes, like they’re Walmart flip-flops or something. “I’m so glad you’re here. Tristan was asking about you.”
“Right,” Miranda says, biting her bottom lip and glancing over at me. She seems nervous about something, but I’m not about to ask what it is with the redhead standing next to us. I know I’m supposed to know her name, but even though I’ve memorized the entire list of Bluebloods, I can’t remember exactly which one she is. Inner Circle, for sure. Anna, maybe? Or Abigail? “I’ll talk to him later. For now, point us in the direction of the drinks?”
The redhead is too drunk to care about me, or maybe she just doesn’t recognize me with a headful of big, chocolate curls, and a designer dress. She points us over to a table that’s been hastily piled with glass bottles and cups. There isn’t any hired help here tonight, and it’s starting to look like a rich teen party is much the same as a poor teen party, just with much better alcohol.
“I’ll make us some drinks,” Miranda says, dragging me toward the table by my wrist. She lets go and starts to put together some concoction while I stand there and fidget, my eyes searching the beach for potential predators. After all, I’m used to being hunted.
My borrowed outfit is far too tight and too short to be comfortable, and I find myself tugging the fabric down in the front. I don’t feel right in it, like I’m playing the part of somebody else, somebody who wears bodycon dresses and Manolo Blahniks, and parties with the children of the ultra-wealthy.
“Wow. Looks like you’ve already taken my advice,” a voice drawls from behind me, raspy and husky and sexy. The sound of it gives me chills in the best way possible, but when I turn around, I find Zayd Kaiser standing there in a pair of black swim shorts, sans shirt and shoes, his body ripped and muscular, all of those hard planes catching the red and orange light from the bonfire.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, my heart hammering as I take in his sea green hair and emerald eyes. He’s got more tattoos than I thought, including that chest piece I glimpsed on Monday. It’s hard to tell what it is in the half-light, but I’m not about to take a step closer and find out. Already, I’m on edge and waiting for an attack. If I were the Marnye Reed from middle school, I would probably crumble at just the sight of Zayd. His eyes are narrowed to slits, and his mouth is just a cruel slash on his face.
“You’re dressed like a Working Girl now. Good for you. But I’d still like to get a price. How much for a fuck?” My cheeks heat, and my nostrils flare, but I’m not going to lose my cool, not over something so pointless. Still, I can’t help the twisting anxiety in my stomach, the embarrassment creeping its way up the back of my neck.
“Having sports cars and private jets and mansions isn’t enough? You have to add a little cruelty into the mix, too?” I ask, but Zayd’s already circling me, his eyes taking in my every curve. My dress feels too short, too tight, the neckline too low, but I stand there with my back straight, waiting for him to lose interest and go the hell away. I’m stronger now because of what I’ve been through, but I’m not invincible. I still want to believe there’s good in the world. Zayd is working really damn hard to make sure that I change my mind about that.
He smiles at me, stepping so close that I can smell the salt on his skin, see the hickeys on his neck.
“Why are you still here? We’ve been nice this week, but it won’t last. Starting Monday, you’re going to be really sorry you haven’t gone crawling back to whatever shithole suburb you crawled out of.”
“Zayd, screw off,” Miranda says, appearing at my side before I can respond. I’m so mad, maybe that’s for the best. Who knows what might escape my mouth right now. “Creed invited her tonight.”
“Did he, really?” Zayd asks, and if possible, his scowl gets even more intense. His green eyes lock with mine, but I refuse to look away. At the very least, I can do this, hold his gaze. “Idiot. He’s going to get himself in trouble trying to appease your every whim.” Zayd pauses as several busty brunettes hop up to him, grabbing him by his surprisingly muscular arms. “Fine. Keep your pet peasant for the night. Just remember: there’s a class system for a reason. Some people belong on the bottom.”
Zayd turns away with his two new girlfriends, smiling at them in a way that’s not entirely different from the way he was smiling at me. He’s just not a very good person.
“Forget him,” Miranda says, shoving a Solo cup at me. Wow. Solo cups, the universal key to getting drunk, no matter what socio-economic class. “Have a drink, and let’s go dip our feet in the water.” She slips her designer heels off and chucks them next to the table, much the same way as that redheaded girl. Even Miranda, as nice as she is, has no idea of the level of privilege she exists in. The price of those shoes could feed and house a family in Lower Banks for an entire month. Maybe more. No, no, definitely more.
Forcing a smile to my face, I follow after her, noticing that Creed is lounging in the sand near the bonfire with a captive audience. His eyes meet mine from across the beach, but there’s no hatred there. There’s not even acknowledgment. Like, I’m so far below him, he doesn’t even feel the need to admit to my existence.
At least I don’t see Tristan anywhere, I think, exhaling a small sigh of relief. Unfortunately, that relief doesn’t last long because Harper, Becky, and Gena are watching us, topless. Yep. Standing topless in the waves and studying us with eyes that glitter like obsidian in the dark. I pretend to lift my drink to my lips so I can have a moment of staring into the cup instead of their eyes.
“Try to enjoy yourself tonight,” Miranda says, giving me a friendly elbow bump as we walk along the wet sand and away from the Idol girls. Idols. What a pretentious title. Who started that tradition, I wonder. “Creed said you could be here; they’ll leave you alone for now.”
Miranda’s really trying, so I force myself to stay positive.
“Thank you, and you’re right. This is the first party of the year. And really, it’s beautiful out here.” I wait for her to turn away and then pour my drink out in the water, enjoying the surprisingly warm waves and the moonlight on the horizon.
We spend most of the night chatting and walking along the shore, a little bit of it dancing next to the bonfire. After a little while, Andrew joins us, and even though he’s in the Inner Circle and supposed to treat me like I’ve got the plague, he dances with Miranda and me both, until we’re sweaty and laughing, and I’ve forgotten that my dress keeps riding up my ass crack.
Close to midnight we make our way back to the school, and Miranda and I part with a hug outside the chapel. It’s easier for her to get back to Tower Three by taking the path that winds between the buildings. So, with my borrowed shoes in hand, I make my way barefoot down the stone halls, only to pause when I see Ms. Felton and the Vice Principal, Mr. Castor, standing in front of my door.
“Marnye,” he says, voice and face grim. “We need to have a serious talk with you.”
“What? Why?” I ask, seeing my dreams at Burberry Prep go up in smoke before they’ve even really begun. I can’t go back to Lower Banks High with its crumbling gymnasium, dinosaur-age computers, and outdated textbooks. Not after I worked so freaking hard to be here.
“We had several people call the emergency line saying they’d seen you drinking heavily.” My mouth pops open, and this wave of injustice surges through me. What the hell?! Me, drinking? I was the only person not drunk at that party.
Wow.
So… it’s not cool for me to report Zayd and Tristan to the administration, but they can report me all they want?
“I…” Words escape me. I’m so blown away by the accusation that I have no idea how to respond. Crude laughter sounds at the end of the hall, and I turn to see a group of students watching me, still dressed in their bathing suits. Creed is among them, leaning against the wall in a deceptively casual pose, but it’s all there in his eyes: the reflection of my doom.
I turn back to Ms. Felton and Mr. Castor. In the vice principal’s hand, I see a device that I well recognize: it’s a breathalyzer. Because of my dad’s issues, I know them well. He used to have to breathe into one to start his car. There were a lot of mornings when I was in elementary school where it didn’t start at all. I love my dad, but he spent a lot of my life fucking things up for both of us.
“I’m going to have to ask you to breathe into this,” Mr. Castor says, his voice hard but not unkind. Ms. Felton doesn’t say anything, arms crossed over her suit. I’m surprised to see her all dressed up still, considering the hour. Mr. Castor’s wearing gray sweats and a clean but oversized white tee.
My eyes water so bad that I have to close them to keep the tears from falling. It may not seem like that big of a deal. I mean, just breathe in and show the world that I’m not drunk. But… I’m doing everything I can to not end up like my mom and dad. There was this one time when I was seven that both my parents were so drunk that I thought they were dead, lying comatose on the carpet in the Train Car. We didn’t have a phone at the time, so I walked almost two miles to the convenience store to ask the clerk to call 911.
Being accused like this… it’s devastating.
I nod, and Mr. Castor hands over the breathalyzer, waiting for me to exhale into it.
When I’m done, I hand it back to him and he watches the lights on the front side. Zero. My blood alcohol level is zero. Mr. Castor’s face flushes, and he hands the breathalyzer over to Ms. Felton.
“I’m sorry, Marnye, but with as many accusations as we received, we had to look into it.” I nod and glance back down the hallway to see Creed staring at me with slightly widened eyes. The other students are whispering behind their hands, eyes narrowed to slits, venom in their glares. But Creed, he looks pissed, like I’ve committed a grievous personal attack against him.
I turn back to the teachers and force a smile.
“It’s no problem,” I say, and then I use my key to let myself into the apartment… and cry.