Home > Filthy Rich Boys (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #1)(9)

Filthy Rich Boys (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #1)(9)
Author: C.M. Stunich

“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 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 acknowledgement. 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 laugher 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.

By the time Monday rolls around again, I’m thoroughly exhausted. I spent all weekend trying to get a hold of my dad, and fending off Miranda’s attempts to get me to go out again. Instead, I convinced her to stay in on Saturday and watch movies. Sunday, she texted to let me know that she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to sleep in.

But even as I’m looking for trouble around every corner, nothing comes.

That’s a form of mental torture right there, expecting all these horrible things, a low-grade anxiety humming through me. The classes, at least, are challenging, more so than I expected. I end up spending most every night that week in the five story library, studying my ass off. The librarians are pretty much book Nazis, so I feel safe in there. Even the Idols can’t touch me in their domain.

Thursday, I scoot into my seat in art class, right next to Miranda, feeling my heart thunder in my chest. Our assignment from last week was to create an abstract piece of media that represented our favorite painting, song, book, poem, or dance. Thinking creatively doesn’t come easily to me. You’d think growing up the way I did that I would’ve wanted to escape into a made-up world. While I was an avid reader, I was also overly practical. As much as I enjoy a good novel or movie or game, I also knew that the only way to change my situation was to fight in the real world. Banishing dragons with magic blades is great, but it wouldn’t get me out of Lower Banks. It wouldn’t get me into a good college. It wouldn’t get me a high-paying job.

So I really struggled with the assignment, settling on J.K. Rowling’s The Tales of Beedle the Bard as my inspiration. One of my favorite childhood memories is of sitting on my bed with both Mom and Dad, neither of them drunk, taking turns reading that book to me. No matter how horrible things got, I had that moment to hold onto.

We don’t just have one art teacher at Burberry Prep, we have three. They each have their own specialties, and their impressive lists of accomplishments and awards. I’ve decided I like Mrs. Amberton best. The way her eyes sparkle when she talks about creative writing makes me wish I could find my own passion. I mean, I did okay with my scholarship essay, but that was all real pain pouring out of me, my entire life story in similes and metaphors. It was so personal that when I wrote it, I cried the whole time. Knowing Miranda’s read it, too, is a weird feeling, but even though we haven’t known each other long, I trust her.

Maybe that’s a mistake, but … it’s mine to make, I guess.

“Public speaking can be an art, in and of itself,” Ms. Highland says, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her clothes are playful, but her glasses, makeup, and hairdos are anything but. It makes me wonder what’s going on inside of her, that she should be so controlled and so open all at the same time. “And it’s important in most anything you might think to do with your future. So for today, you’ll be presenting your projects in front of the class—in random order.”

There’s a chorus of groans, and I feel my heart start to pound. Presenting to an audience, I’m okay with. Presenting to Harper, Becky, Zayd, and Tristan … not so much. The four of them sit in the back of the class, not quite together but not far apart either. I’m getting the idea that the three Idol boys don’t much like each other.

Mr. Carter uses his iPad to select a student from the class to go first.

And, because I have the worst luck known to man, that student ends up being me.

“Marnye Reed,” he calls, and I let out a sharp breath. I can feel the eyes of every student in that room swing toward me. It’s not a good feeling.

“Let’s go Working Girl!” one of the girls shouts, and cruel laughter breaks out around the room. I ignore it, taking my art up to the front of the multi-tiered lecture hall. I decided on resin and acrylic, creating this mirror like surface of rainbow colors on the square canvas.

“Miss Fanning, that’s quite enough, thank you,” Mrs. Amberton says, her voice hardening. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her snap quite like that, and I hold back a small smile. It’s nice to feel like I have a member of staff on my side. “Beautiful piece,” she adds, moving to the side to give me the stage. I return her genuine smile and prop the art on the waiting easel.

“You fucking suck!” some guy shouts, but I ignore him. If there’s anything I’m good at, it’s school. This is where I shine. If I could, I’d be a professional student for the rest of my life. Taking a deep breath, I turn and face the class. My eyes catch on Tristan’s gray glare and sharp frown before sliding over to Zayd’s emerald green irises and derisive smirk. I won’t let anyone beat me down, not ever again.

   
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