“And why’s that?” I ask, as Andrew adjusts himself on the cushions and leans back. He’s still wearing his academy uniform, like several of the other guys. Most every girl in there is wearing a designer dress and heels of some sort. I think I might be the only one in jeans and sneakers.
“His family is old money, good breeding, flawless reputation.” Miranda turns her ice-blue eyes over to me. For a moment there, I’m reminded of Creed, staring at me down the length of the hallway, and I get the chills. “Harper’s grandfather is the one who brought the du Ponts into money, so relatively speaking, they’re new on the scene.” She smiles and answers the question I’m about to ask before I get a chance to voice it. “If we weren’t the richest family in this school, Creed and I would be Plebs for sure.” She waves her hand around dismissively, sloshing champagne onto her rhinestone studded nude dress. “Harper’s family wants the prestige of the Vanderbilts, and the Vanderbilts want the du Ponts’ money. It’s just simple economics.”
“How … romantic,” I hedge as my eyes wander back to Tristan, standing in the corner with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s listening to some play-by-play from one of his friends, the edge of his lips curving up in a cocksure smile. His gray eyes turn my way, and I meet his gaze. It only lasts a second because a group of drunk girls stumbles between us, but it was enough. He knows I’m here.
“I’m going to get more champagne,” Miranda declares, rising to her feet and stumbling a bit in her heels. I get the feeling she hasn’t worn many pairs in the past. She flicks her blond hair over one shoulder, succeeding only in tangling it around her long nails, and I grin. Like I said, she’s too nice to be able to hair flip properly.
“I’ll grab some more soda, before Greg uses it all for his rum and cokes,” I mumble with a roll of my eyes. “You need anything?” Andrew shows off his nearly full cup, and I take off, weaving through the crowd and heading for the kitchenette in the back half of the room.
Creed is there, unfortunately, and his eyes narrow when he sees me.
“If it isn’t the Working Girl,” he drawls, his fingers curved around the top of his cup. He swishes the alcohol around inside as he watches me. “Come to work the party? There’s a lot of money to be made here for a girl like you.”
“Your sister brought me,” I deadpan, grabbing a handful of ice from the bucket on the counter, and pouring soda over it. “If you have a problem with that, take it up with her.”
“Miranda’s always liked having pets,” Creed says, pushing off the fridge with his shoulder and dislodging the blonde on his arm. She pouts at him and gives me a death glare, but I raise my eyebrows. I assure you, you have nothing to worry about, sweetheart. “She’s too nice, always willing to overlook other people’s flaws.”
“Being poor is a flaw?” I ask, and Creed shrugs his shoulders. He’s wearing his academy uniform, too, and in that same lazy, elegant style I recognized on day one. His entire persona is based around not caring, even though it’s obvious to me that he cares. Oh, he cares a whole hell of a lot.
“I hear Tristan brought a special gift tonight,” he continues, circling me like a predator would. I can feel it, too, the restrained violence in him. Creed Cabot really and truly hates me. I stay where I am, sipping my soda and watching him. My first instinct is to run, but where would I go? The crowd is thick around us, the heat from so many bodies cloying. He gets close to me, so close that his breath feathers against the back of my neck, and I stiffen up. “A gift, just for you, Working Girl.”
“Are you okay?” Andrew appears on my left, pushing through the well-dressed crowd. Creed looks him up and down, gives an arrogant little smirk, and turns away. The students move out of his way, giving him a clear path to the door. “I was thinking maybe we could go, just me and you.” I look over at Andrew and find him with a strained smile on his handsome face. One of my brows goes up. “We could walk on the beach instead.”
“Are you trying to get me off this boat, after working so hard to get me here?” I ask, this knot in my stomach tightening. Dread washes over me, and I know for a fact that I’m about to get all the week’s bullying in one, big dollop. At my old school, that would’ve meant getting my ass kicked behind the science building.
At Burberry Prep Academy, I have no idea what it means. And that scares the crap out of me.
“Let’s just go for a walk or something,” Andrew says, almost pleadingly, but then I notice the crowd is funneling out of the door and up the steps to the top deck. Even though I know I shouldn’t, even though I know I’m going to regret this … I follow after. “Marnye, wait!”
Andrew chases after me, but I’m too far ahead, weaving between girls in Alexander McQueen and boys in Givenchy. It’s like the crowd is parting for me, too, but for all the wrong reasons. Miranda’s up top when I get there, red-faced and disheveled. She’s looking at Tristan Vanderbilt with narrowed eyes.
“What’s going on?” I choke out, and she startles, turning to look at me with wide eyes.
“Oh, look, Charity’s here, everyone,” Tristan says, and he doesn’t bother to raise his voice. It’s low, and dark, as cool as the fog rolling in across the bay. “I’m glad you could make it to the party tonight.” His smile, when he gives it, is about as warm as the ice in my cup. His dark hair is smooth and shiny, falling across his forehead in a way that makes my stomach clench, but his silver eyes are about as inviting as his smile.
Zayd crows with laughter from the corner, a brunette snuggling up against his left side. He doesn’t look at me, just tilts a bottle of what looks to be rum to his mouth and makes a joke about pirates that I can barely hear.
Tristan, meanwhile, is busy unwrapping something from a cloth bundle that’s sitting on the edge of the railing. The breath of the crowd is hushed, their excitement subdued. Every now and again, a pair of eyes flicks my way, and I feel them burning into my skin like flames. When Tristan gets the wrappings undone, I see that he’s got a book in his hand.
“Just don’t ever say we don’t listen when you talk,” he continues, flipping the book around, so I can get a look at the cover. My heartrate picks up speed, and it’s suddenly hard to breathe. Even without touching it, I can see what title he has in his hand. And even without asking, I know it’s the real deal. “Do you know what this is, Charity?”
“One of the seven hand-written copies of The Tales of Beedle the Bard by J.K. Rowling,” I whisper. I know I’m playing right into their hands right now, but I can’t seem to help myself. There are only seven total copies of that book in the world. Six were given to friends and family, and one was auctioned off for a charity benefit.
Oh.
Oh no.
No, no, no.
“That’s right: a rare edition of your favorite book, the one that inspired you to make such … interesting art.” Tristan cracks the book open and peers inside, licking a finger before turning the page. “We wanted to honor the working class, and by proxy you, so we all chipped in our weekly allowances and bought it.” He lifts his gaze to mine and smirks, cruelty dripping from every pore. “Three hundred and sixty thousand pounds—roughly four hundred and seventy-five US dollars—and it was ours.” He snaps the book closed and turns fully to face me, balancing it in one hand while he gets a lighter out with the other.
I’m shaking now, sweat pouring down the sides of my face. My cup falls to the deck, and I start to move forward. Someone holds me back, and at first I think it’s Miranda trying to prevent a fight, but then I realize it’s actually a pair of Harper’s closest cronies. They twist their arms around mine as the king of the Idols lifts the lighter to the first open page. My eyes dart around looking for allies, but both Miranda and Andrew are being held back. Creed stands near them, looking as if this is a boring but necessary little chore.
“Please don’t. That book is a modern classic. That’s history in the making right there.” My words are choked; I sound strangled. What else am I supposed to say? Please don’t destroy a priceless artifact to torment me? There are other, less destructive ways. Trust me: I’ve been privy to a lot of them.
Tristan ignores me, letting the flames lick the edge of the page until it starts to smoke and burn. He sets the book on the edge of the railing, watching as it’s slowly consumed, twisted into flakes of gray ash that scatter with the wind. Zayd saunters up beside it and lifts a white bottle of lighter fluid, making eye contact with me before he gives it a squeeze and sets the rest of the book up in a gush of heat.
Tears trail down my cheeks, but I’ve stopped struggling. It’s too late now. The book is ruined.
The crowd cheers as Tristan shoves the flaming book over the edge and into the bay.
When he moves up close to me, it takes every ounce of strength I have not to scream.
“I told you, Charity. This isn’t the school for you. Consider this your final warning.”
He stalks off, and finally, the two girls relax their grips enough for me to tear away.
“Marnye, wait!” Miranda calls out as I shove my way through the snickering crowd, down the steps, and across the dock. I start running, and I don’t stop until I’m safely back in my dorm.
Guess this is where I’ll be spending the rest of the year, miserable and alone.
It’s not a good feeling.
For the next several weeks, it seems the Idols are content to watch and wait. But if they think they’ve beaten me that easily, they’ve got another thing coming. At Lower Banks Middle School, a stunt like that would’ve been met with closed fists and blood spatter. I’m not saying I’m going to start a full-on brawl with the Idols (surely the cowards would gang up on me, and I’d lose), but watching that book burn, while upsetting, was not the final nail in my coffin.
“Parents’ Week starts on Monday,” Miranda says, settling beside me in the ‘cafeteria’. Not exactly the best descriptor for this place. That word denotes red plastic trays, pizza on paper plates, and long lines. This is … nicer than the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been to. The sign outside says ‘Dining Area’, but the students here just call it The Mess. “Are yours coming?”