“I …” Miranda starts, pausing briefly and exhaling. She lifts her blue eyes to mine. “Did Mom tell you her story?” She asks, and I nod. I know all about Kathleen Cabot and her rise to the top of the tech industry and the Forbes Most Powerful Women in America list. “How about the part where she had Creed and me, and then moved into Grenadine Heights and sent us to public school?”
My eyebrows go up, and I think my mouth opens in shock. Kathleen Cabot is worth billions, and she moved to Grenadine Heights? Sure, compared to the train car my father lives in (don’t ask, long story), it’s a little ritzy, but most people would call it straight-up middle-class. And public school, huh?
“Political statement?” I ask, and Miranda shrugs, tucking some of that beautiful platinum blonde behind her ear. Her brother’s hair was just as light, maybe lighter, almost white but with an unmistakable gold sheen in the sunlight. Another useless rich asshole. I banish him from my thoughts. Well, I mean, if I were alone in my bed then maybe I might think about him … My cheeks heat, and I refocus on Miranda.
“She wanted us to grow up well, but with enough sense to …” Miranda gestures in the direction of the Gallery which, apparently, is the name for the balcony on the second floor, to the left of the stage. Rows of comfortable chairs line the space, and even though I try not to, I just have to glance up and see who’s sitting there.
Tristan Vanderbilt is front and center, impossible to miss with that dark smirk of his, like shadows under the guise of a full, ripe mouth. Creed Cabot sits beside him, but not like a flunky or a sidekick, more like a rival. That bitch, Harper du Pont, is on Tristan’s left, with a tow-headed girl next to her. Andrew’s up there, too, and when he sees me staring, he waves.
A small smile teases my lips. Okay, fine. I have enemies in Tristan, Creed, and Harper. Maybe that guy that was smoking, too (Gregory, was it?) but I have allies, too. So the Idols and the—I check the page still clutched in my fist—Inner Circle, they can’t be all rotten. I can deal with a few bad apples.
“Enough sense not to act like Creed acted today,” Miranda finally says, completing her thought. “Guess the trick didn’t work with him, but maybe it worked too well on me.” She looks down at her bare knees for a moment. “I’ve never felt comfortable going to school with these people. I miss my old school, to be honest with you. If I could go to Grenadine Heights High, I would transfer in a second.”
“So what you’re saying is that I’m the only normal person on campus?” I ask, and Miranda lifts her head, flashing me a grin.
“Pretty much. Everyone else here is too busy loving themselves to waste energy on anyone else.” She shrugs her shoulders and leans back in the pew, taking in the room with a critical eye. I’ve never been so grateful for uniforms in my life; it’s impossible to tell the billionaires from the millionaires from the … charity cases. Sigh. There are little touches here and there though that give off hints of personality: a black bow covered in skulls, an armful of wooden bangles, bright red shoelaces. All of which are technically against the dress code, but it’s the first day; students are pushing limits.
“I’m happy to be your one normal friend in the whole school,” I say with a grin, “but I’m nowhere near Grenadine Heights High. More like … if I’d stayed home, I would’ve been going to Lower Banks High.” Miranda’s brows go up, and I give a half-smile. I know the reputation of LBH. My middle school, located right across the street, doesn’t have a much better one.
“I’m not sure the students at LBH are any worse than the ones here,” Miranda hedges, eyes lifting up to the Gallery where the uh, Idols are sitting. Three male, three female Idols. What a strange social hierarchy, and so structured. As we’re sitting there, Miranda pulls the paper from my hand, drawing lines between names. “The solid lines mean they’re dating. Broken lines mean they’re on-again, off-again. Wavy lines means they’re rivals.”
“How screwed am I?” I ask finally, just as the crowd begins to settle down and a group of administrators takes their positions on the dais at the front of the room. Miranda won’t meet my eyes, flicking hers up to Ms. Felton as she takes center stage and starts the commencement speeches. We might be at a school for the world’s wealthiest students, but I swear I’ve heard this very same speech a million times in my life.
“If all the Idols are against you …” she starts, swallowing hard and tapping her pen against the paper on my lap. “Then I have to admit that I’d be worried about you. Seriously fucking worried. The odds are not good, Marnye.”
Nodding, I focus my attention on the front of the room and try not to think the worst.
I’ve faced bullies before, and I survived; I can do it again.
What I don’t know then is that these guys … are nothing like the ones at my old school.
Things are about to get much, much worse before they get better.
REED, MARNYE – 1st YEAR, BURBERRY PREP ACADEMIC SCHEDULE
MONDAY/WEDNESDAY/1st FRIDAY:
Homeroom: Mrs. Felton, Room T112
Period 1: Academic Literature, Room CH7
Period 2: Trig/Pre-Calc, Room CH9
Lunch Period
Period 3: Beginning Japanese, Room T210
TUESDAY/THURSDAY/2nd FRIDAY:
Homeroom: Mrs. Felton, Room T112
Period 1: AP Chemistry, Room SB1
Period 2: Art, Music, and Dance, Room MM1
Lunch Period
Period 3: Government, History, and Civics, Room CH3
MANDATORY FOR ALL FIRST YEARS:
Physical fitness and health class is held in the gym every other Monday after school unless the student is participating in team sports. Absences require a coach’s written approval. This is compulsory beginning the second week of class.
Tucking my schedule in my pocket, I follow Miranda to our shared homeroom class on the twelfth floor of the first of the four towers I saw in the courtyard this morning. Based on my own life experiences, I’m already dreading walking up twelve flights of stone steps. But once we get inside the ancient looking stone structure, it’s all modern luxuries: including an elevator.
An elevator, in a high school. Wow, so this is how the other half lives? Of course, if it were up to me, I’d scrap the elevators and offer the money needed for their maintenance and installation to more scholarship students, buuuuuut that’s just me. Guess I’m in the minority. After all, I am the only scholarship student in the entire school.
Between these families, there’s literally billions of dollars floating around, and they can’t be bothered to search out a dozen qualified students to lift out of poverty. Fantastic.
“Shit,” Miranda mumbles as we file into the elevator, our bookbags held in front of our short skirts. I’m starting to learn that when the wind blows, and a Marilyn Monroe moment is imminent, the bookbag’s to be used as a shield. Oh, and also, I need to seriously invest in better panties. The ones I’m wearing currently are plain cotton, and an embarrassing shade of baby pink. From what I’ve seen—and I’ve seen a lot on the walk between the chapel building and what the students call Tower One—everyone else is wearing lacy thongs and silky scraps. “Tristan’s coming this way.”
“Out of the elevator, Charity,” he tells me, a smirk curving his lips as he slams a palm against the closing doors and halts them in their tracks. “You’re new, so I won’t have you flogged for the infraction, but get the fuck out.”
“First off, the name is Marnye. Second, there’s plenty of room in here for all of us,” I start, but Miranda’s already grabbing me by the arm and dragging me back out into the lobby. Tristan’s gray eyes track my movements like a predator just waiting for his prey to slip up. I can imagine that if I fell, he’d be at my throat in an instant.
“Idols ride first, and they ride alone,” Miranda says, but that’s just before Tristan herds the trio of smirking girls behind him into the elevator. He watches me as the doors closed, but his expression is far from pleasant. It’s like he’s trying to drink in my suffering, no droplet too small to lap up. “Unless, you know, they want company. Day one and he’s already gathered himself a harem. Typical.”
“How is he already an Idol if he’s a first year?” I ask, and Miranda sighs, waiting for the elevator to tick up to the top floor before it starts to come down again. “Is there a legacy bonus for that, too?” I do my best not to eye roll, but the scores I needed to get into this school had to be forty percent higher than some of the other students because of their ‘legacy bonus’, i.e. points on their application granted to them simply for having family members who attended the school before them.
“Well, not technically, but reputations do carry. Tristan Vanderbilt’s been a big deal since he started going to preschool on the junior campus.” The doors to the elevator open, and Miranda waves me on. We stand side by side, our shiny black loafers identical from heel to toe.
Pursing my lips, I decide to keep the rest of my commentary to myself. My day hasn’t even officially started yet, and I’m already in a world of trouble.
The elevator dings and the doors slide open, revealing a classroom beyond the likes of anything I ever could’ve imagined. Even the website and the brochures didn’t prepare me for this.
“Holy crap,” I whisper, looking up at the chandelier above our heads. It’s clearly new, but designed with the time period of the building in mind, little flame-shaped bulbs where candles would’ve stood once upon a time. Instead of desks, there are three tables set in a U-shape, their mahogany surfaces gleaming.
Ms. Felton sits in the center at a small, but ornate desk of her own. Most of the chairs are already filled, and I realize that everyone’s looking our way, waiting for us to sit. Miranda and I take hasty seats in the last two available spots, and I’m relieved that she is sitting next to that Gregory guy, and I’m not.
“Good morning everyone,” Ms. Felton says, standing up and smoothing her hands down the front of her skirt suit. Politician. That’s what I get when I look at her. That, or maybe lawyer. Lobbyist. Something of that sort. She looks far too smart, and far too cunning to be holed away at a private university in the middle of nowhere. “My name is Carrie-Anne Felton, and I’ll be your homeroom teacher for the rest of the year.” Plastering a smile on her face, she makes her way around the room. “This is your safe space, so to speak, in the world of academics, a place to feel grounded, to discuss problems—”