I tap out a quick message to Zack: Meet me in The Mess.
He responds almost instantly: Already there. Join me?
“Hey,” I say suddenly, lifting my gaze up to meet Miranda’s blue one. “I’m going to go talk to Zack in The Mess for a while. Are you okay in here?”
“I’ll hang out and wait for you,” she says, leaning back into my pillows and making herself comfy. I grab a sweater and leave her there, knowing that the cameras will catch any suspicious activity. I want with all my heart to believe Miranda’s innocent in everything that’s gone on here at Burberry Prep, but I don’t think I can know that for sure, not just yet. If she does nothing while I’m gone, that’ll help go a long way towards easing my distrust.
I make my way through the halls as quick as I can. As much as I’m ready to stand up to the Bluebloods, I can’t fight off a dozen people by myself. Fortunately, I manage to slip into the dining hall without anyone seeing me.
Zack’s the only one there, sitting by himself at a table near the window. I make my way over and flop down in the seat across from him. His dark eyes lift up from his plate, but only briefly before he refocuses on his food. He’s a huge guy, and he works out constantly, so that means he also eats like a horse. He’s polite about it, but it’s almost fascinating to see how quickly he can make food disappear.
“This is unusual,” he says finally, after we’ve sat in silence for several minutes, and I’ve placed my order with the waiter. Tonight I’m having steak with chimichurri butter, asparagus, and garlic cheddar biscuits. Fancy.
“What is?” I ask, my heart beating as he sits up and slips out of his letterman jacket, revealing a tight white wifebeater underneath. It looks like it’s about to rip in half it’s so tight. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking? Why does Zack have to have such rock-hard biceps and broad shoulders? It’s infuriating.
“You, coming to see me.” He sets his fork down and then signals the waiter over with a dessert menu. Have I mentioned how amazing the desserts are here? They serve things like crème brûlée and tiramisu and bread pudding. All so very fancy. Back home in the Train Car with Dad, dessert is about as eclectic as dinner: pudding cups from the fridge, brownies from the bakery section of the supermarket, or if we’re feeling adventurous then ice cream from the shop down the road. “What’s up?”
I consider thanking him for helping me get on the team, but then I remember the cruel darkness in his eyes when he laid into Ileana, and I’m just not sure I have it in me. Leaning forward, I put my palms on the table and school my face into the most serious expression I can manage.
“Last year, when Dad got drunk during Parents’ Week, what did he tell you?” Zack goes completely still, his dark eyes lifting up to mine. There’s something strange about the way he’s looking at me that makes my stomach flip over with nausea. It’s bad. Whatever it is, it’s so, so bad.
“He hasn’t told you?” he asks carefully, and I almost choke on my water as I struggle to take a sip. I push the glass aside and lean even farther forward.
“Zack, what the hell is going on?” He lets out a string of frustrated curses, and then sits back suddenly in the chair, running his palm over his short, dark hair. He looks like he wants to throw something. His teeth are clenched tight, his right hand is gripping the table for dear life, and I swear there’s a bead of sweat that forms on his temple and runs down the side of his face. “You’re scaring me.”
He looks at me for a long moment, and then sighs.
“I can’t lie to you, but I can’t tell you the whole truth either. For that, you’ll have to talk to your dad.” He leans back in his chair and just looks at me, this dark, broody asshole thing going on that I shouldn’t like, but sort of do anyway. He’s as bad as the rest of them, I remind myself, worse maybe. “You know your parents are having an affair, right?”
I just stare at him unblinking for several seconds.
“Come again?”
“Charlie and Jennifer are seeing each other behind Adam Carmichael’s back.” He smiles tightly, but there’s no warmth there. Sympathy, maybe, but that’s it. My mouth opens, closes, opens again. No words come out though. How the hell does Zack know that? Why would my dad confide something like that in him?
I decide to ask.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but … how do you know that?” I lean forward, putting my forearms on the table. Zack watches me carefully, like he’s trying to absorb my every movement. The attention makes me feel fidgety, and I wiggle in my seat, refusing to think about that time I wiggled in Creed’s lap … Ahem. “I mean, why would my dad tell something like that to a high school student?”
“He didn’t.” Zack shrugs his massive shoulders. That seems to be his go-to response to everything. “I came over once to help him fix a leak in the roof and walked in on them …”
He trails off, and I add with a dry note to my voice, “kissing?”
Zack raises his dark brows at me, but then smiles a little.
“Something like that. Anyway, he said they were in love and they’d been seeing each other.” Zack looks down at his empty plate as the waiter comes back to deliver my food and take his dessert order. Then, of course, he clams up and leans back in his seat, like that’s all there is to say on the matter.
“So the news he received …?” Because even if Zack is telling the truth—which I’m not sure of—then what drove my dad to drink during Parents’ Week last year? Clearly, he would already be aware that he was having an affair with Jennifer, even though it’s news that would drive me to drink. “Maybe … she was going back to that Carmichael guy?” Zack just stares at me, and I groan in frustration.
“That’s all you’re going to tell me, isn’t it?”
He smiles, and it’s a much prettier smile, so much so that I feel a bead of sweat run down my spine. Yikes. I’m not entirely sure he’s ever smiled at me like that before.
“Are you excited for your first game?” he asks me, and I narrow my eyes. Coach Hannah has been working us hard for the last week, and I expect that even though this is Parents’ Week, she’s going to be working us just as hard, if not harder. Newbies weren’t allowed to cheer at Friday’s game, but Parents’ Week culminates with the final game of the season for Burberry Prep’s new all-star football team. Just adding Zack to varsity has shaken up the entire school; it’s like we actually have some pride in sports now. Of course, the cheerleading team is so green there is no JV/varsity distinction at this point, but that’s not why I joined. I don’t actually care for sports at all.
“Mm.” I make a non-committal noise and Zack chuckles, picking up his fork to poke at his tiramisu. What spoiled brats this school breeds. The only time I've ever had tiramisu was when Dad worked two weekend jobs to save up to take me out to a fancy Italian dinner to celebrate making the honor roll in middle school. So yeah, it's been years. I decide the next time the waiter pops over, I'll order some, too.
Because not only am I going to make honor roll again, I'm going to steamroll right over Tristan to do it.
“I'll be playing extra hard, knowing you're there to cheer me on,” Zack purrs—yeah, really, purrs—and I frown. If I didn't hold myself to higher standards, I'd break his knee cap so he'd be forced to sit out the game, and miss out on the scouts that are supposed to be showing up. Zack Brooks doesn't need scouts though, nobody at this school does. If any one of them actually decides to play for a university, it’ll just be for fun. None of these guys is actually interested in a career in the NFL. NFL players are poor compared to the net worth of the average Burberry Prep players' family.
“Oh, trust me,” I tell him as I pick up my fork and stab it dramatically into my slab of steak. I'm smiling when I cut into it. “I won't be cheering you on. I'm just there for intel. I hear the Idols have gone to every game this year.” Lifting my eyes from my plate, I see Zack clenching his jaw. He's moved pieces of his tiramisu around his plate, but has yet to actually eat any of it. A chill travels down my spine. “They hate sports. Last year, they didn't go to a single sporting event, except once or twice to see Gena swim.” I cock my head to one side. “And they really hate you, so … I'm guessing this has something to do with the Infinity Club?”
“Haven't you learned your lesson with the Infinity Club?” Zack whispers, and then he's standing up and pushing away from the table. He grabs his letterman jacket off the back of his chair and storms out of the room.
Bingo.
Looks like I hit a nerve.
Zack needs to win this game on Friday, I'll bet.
And I really need to have a conversation with Charlie.
The next morning, I'm up bright and early, using the iron in my room to smooth out the pleats in my white skirt and jacket. The second-year uniform is one of my favorites, all of that crisp white linen with just a touch of color in the red of the tie, the shiny black of the shoes, and the little stripes of black and red on the elbows of the jacket and the tops of the socks.
Just for fun, I put on the necklace Tristan gave me. I imagine it'll mess with his head, making him wonder how exactly I ended up getting it back. Knowing that Dad's likely to be late, I hold back and wait to head for the courtyard until I'm sure most of the other students will have cleared out. I'm out for blue blood this year, and I’m willing to take punches to get it, but I won't accept any attacks from those assholes that are directed at my father.
On my way down the hall, I notice that one of the office doors is open. It's of note to me because I come down this way all the time and never once have I seen it open. In fact, it's usually locked. The school staff has officially moved into the new outbuildings, and nobody uses the old chapel offices anymore.