“Am I that obvious?” I ask, risking a small smile and hoping like hell she’s nothing like Tristan. “I’ve been wandering around for half an hour, but I’m too embarrassed to ask for help.” Embarrassed? More like too anxious. The looks I’ve been receiving from the other students haven’t exactly been welcoming. That, and the staff I’ve seen have all been running around in that panicked first-day-of-school state, prepping lesson plans and greeting students they’ve known since preschool. I’ve never felt like more of an outcast—and trust me, I’ve been a pariah before.
“You’re the Cabot Scholarship Award winner, right?” the girl asks, her voice like bells. Wow. Her voice is as pretty as she is. But also, looks like the whole school already knows my socio-economic status, huh? “Oh, no, no,” she continues, waving her hand in my direction, “it’s not what you’re thinking. I just … my mother is Kathleen Cabot.”
My mouth pops open, and I lean forward, my leather school bag clutched in two hands.
“Your mom is Kathleen?” I ask, feeling this sharp sense of relief wash through me. Kathleen Cabot is a self-made billionaire. Yep, you heard it right: billionaire. She was born in the same neighborhood as me, raised by a single mom in a studio apartment, and ended up becoming a tech mogul. I met her twice: once at the award ceremony, and then later at the celebratory dinner. She’s a freaking saint—and the only reason I’m standing here at Burberry Prep.
“I take it she made an impression?” the girl asks with a wry smile. “Good or bad? She can go either way, depending on the weather, the position of the stars, whether it’s a full moon or not …” A grin takes over my face.
“Good impression, definitely. I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to write the perfect thank you letter.” The girl smiles back at me, holding out a warm, dry palm for me to shake.
“She’ll be happy with anything you send her,” she says as we clasp hands. “Miranda Cabot. And you’re Marnye Reed.” Miranda takes a step back and looks me over. “I hope you’re made of tough stuff,” she says, but not unkindly.
“And why’s that?” I ask as her blue eyes lift to my face and one pale brow goes up.
“Because Burberry Prep is a hellhole dressed with money.” Miranda gives me a big, wide smile and then reaches out a hand. “Give me your schedule, and I’ll tell you which demons to avoid.” She pauses and gives me another critical look. “Mostly though, you’ll want to stay away from the devils.”
“The devils?” I ask, digging my wrinkled schedule out of my pocket and passing it over to Miranda. She scans it, chewing her full lower lip and smearing sparkly pink gloss. When she glances back up at me and reaches out to spin my nametag over, her mouth tightens into a thin line.
“The devils,” Miranda says with a sigh. “Nobody calls them that but me. Looks like you already met one this morning?” She’s looking at me with pity now, like she’s well-acquainted with Tristan and his bullshit.
“What does everyone else call them?” I ask, and she sighs, looping her arm through mine and pulling me down the long, wide hallway. It’s big enough to drive a truck through, small tables with lemon-cucumber water and cups placed every so often. Sometimes there’s fresh fruit or pastries, too.
“Oh, girl, you and I have a long talk ahead of us. Stick with me. We have Monday classes together. By the time we’re done, you’ll know everything you need to know about the Idols.”
The Bluebloods of Burberry Prep
A list by Miranda Cabot
The Idols (guys): Tristan Vanderbilt (year one), Zayd Kaiser (year one), and Creed Cabot (year one)
The Idols (girls): Harper du Pont (year one), Becky Platter (year one), and Gena Whitley (year four)
The Inner Circle: Andrew Payson, Anna Kirkpatrick, Myron Talbot, Ebony Peterson, Gregory Van Horn, Abigail Fanning, John Hannibal, Valentina Pitt, Sai Patel, Mayleen Zhang, Jalen Donner … and, I guess, me!
Plebs: everyone else, sorry. XOXO
“Why am I holding a list of names in my hand?” I ask as we walk down the hallway, pausing for coffee at one of the side tables. My old school never served coffee to students. Sometimes, kids would break into the teacher’s lounge and steal some, but that’s as close as we’d ever get.
“Memorize that list like your life depends on it,” Miranda says, lifting a mug of black coffee up to her lips.
“Miss Cabot,” a stern voice says, plucking the white cup from Miranda’s thin fingers. “You know that the coffee stands are for staff only.” I turn and find a tall, brunette woman in a skirt suit watching us with a raised brow and a wry half-smile. She looks like she’d be more at home in Washington D.C. than in a rural prep school in central California. “There’s a sign, after all. And I know you can read. Your mother promises she taught you herself.”
My mouth twitches as Miranda tosses her hair in a haughty gesture that doesn’t seem to quite fit her personality. And that’s a good thing. I’ve known a lot of hair-tossers in my life, and none of those girls were pleasant. They made my middle school years a living hell with the help of a guy named Zack Brooks. Zack … I’m not going to let myself think about him. This is my chance at a fresh start and new, better memories.
“Ms. Felton, I see the war against caffeine is still on,” Miranda grumbles, waiting for Ms. Felton to turn her back, so she can flip her off. “It’s a losing battle—like the war on drugs.”
“Why don’t you wait until tomorrow, and we can discuss politics in class?” Ms. Felton dumps the coffee into the drain of a water fountain as we turn the corner and Miranda rolls her blue eyes at me.
“Sorry, that’s Ms. Felton. She’s a bit of a rule Nazi. She can get away with it, too, since she was an Idol once upon a time. It’s like, that shit never fades.” Miranda pauses and then peeps around the corner, like she’s checking to see if Ms. Felton’s following us. She’s not. Miranda grins and then gestures at my belly with loose fingers. “Roll it, or be forever dubbed a Pleb.”
“A … what?” I ask as Miranda untucks her shirt, and then proceeds to roll the waistband of her red pleated skirt until it’s dangerously short, like can’t bend over or reach for too high of a shelf short. A light breeze is liable to blow it right off. “Pleb? Like … Plebeian?”
“Yep,” Miranda says with a sigh, tucking her shirt back in and then looking at me like I’m crazy. When I don’t move to copy her, she groans and steps forward, tugging the crisp white blouse from my waistband. I sort of just stand there and let her do her thing. It’s exhilarating, naughty but in an innocent sort of way. “It’s stupid, I know, but it’s how it is here.”
Once my skirt’s the appropriate level of, well, inappropriate, Miranda leans over and taps the piece of paper she wrote out for me. On the bottom, there’s the term Pleb with the words everyone else written after it.
“Plebeian means, like, commoner or peasant,” Miranda continues, huffing and tucking loose strands of platinum blonde behind her ears. It’s so pale, it’s practically white, but when the sun leaks in through the stained glass windows and bathes her in light, it’s angelic, glowing as golden as a halo. “If you’re not an Idol or in the Inner Circle, then you’re a Pleb. Once a Pleb, always a Pleb.” Miranda pauses and lifts her eyes to the ceiling, long dark lashes fluttering. I think she’s got eyelash extensions, but it would be rude to ask. Hell, maybe I’m just jealous and she’s just pretty? “Well, except this one time when Karen Evermeet screwed the soccer coach, and shared the video with the whole school.” Miranda flashes me a model-esque smile. “She went from Pleb to Idol in a day. But that never happens.” Miranda pauses again and then reaches out to ruffle up my hair with her fingers, curling one brunette ringlet next to my face. “I mean, unless you’re into forty-year-old married athletes.”
“Not quite that adventurous, I’m afraid,” I say as Miranda gestures with her chin, and I study the paper again. Tristan Vanderbilt, huh? When I look up, I catch sigh of a bronze plaque labelled Vanderbilt Study Hall. Right. “My family actually built this school, and yet … we still pay to be here. What makes you so special that you should get to come here for free?” Guess he wasn’t joking about that first part. The rest of it … that asshole has no idea how hard I worked to get here.
“Hey, don’t sell yourself short. You have other, more important traits and talents. My mom and I read over a thousand essays before choosing yours.” Miranda studies me as we walk, the rain beating a rhythmic pattern against the stone walkways outside. Somehow though, even though this building’s big and drafty, it’s nice and warm in here. “Must’ve been a lot of hard work, jumping through all those hoops.” Miranda sounds a bit detached when she says that, like her mind’s already long gone to somewhere else.
Me, I’m flushed, and my skin feels suddenly hot. I stop walking and Miranda pauses next to me, blinking the fog from her vision. I knew my essay would be read by ‘qualified student judges’ but … Our eyes meet, and her expression softens. This girl now officially knows everything there is to know about me. She knows my darkest memories, my greatest fears.
“I loved your essay,” she says, reaching out to squeeze my hand, “and I won’t tell anyone what I read. Not only am I seriously desperate to make friends with you, but my mom would kill me. You’ve met her: she’s terrifying.”
My lips curve up in a slight smile, and I squeeze her hand back before letting go.
“I appreciate that,” I say, feeling this new sort of comradery simmer between us. There are things in that essay that could destroy me at Burberry Prep.
We turn another corner, and I wonder if she’s going to get to this piece of paper in my hand before we reach the chapel for the morning announcements. Or, like, if we’re even going to get to the chapel at all. How far did I wander? And how big is this place?!