“Where are we going?”
I smile, and with my left hand, I play with the necklace hanging around my throat.
“To the Infinity Club party.”
Zack's smile falls away, but mine stays right where it is.
This time, the Idols have commandeered the use of the amphitheater, the same one that I was beat up in, doused with paint, and humiliated beyond belief.
Does not feel like a coincidence to me.
Zack leads the way, dressed casually in jeans, sneakers, and an old football hoodie from his last school. He peels down his waistband and shows his infinity tattoo to the guy at the door before we head inside. The last few Club parties I’ve been to didn't seem this official. They must be amping up security.
“You could've taken him,” I whisper, smiling, “even though he is a fourth year, and I'm pretty sure he's on the varsity team based on the way he glared at you.”
Zack gives me a little grin and shrugs his massive shoulders.
“Yeah, he's on the team, so by default he hates my guts.” His mouth twitches a little. “But yeah, you're right: I could've taken him. Thing is, I'm guessing you have some special shit to stir up tonight. I didn't want to steal all of your thunder.” Zack keeps my arm tucked in his as we weave through rows of seats filled with students making out, drinking, or playing cards. On the stage at the front of the room, that very same stage I sat on with my harp, the Bluebloods are situated around tables covered in what look like … knuckle bones? Gross.
“You remember the plan right?” I ask Zack, as I feel all of those judging eyes swing over to me. He nods briefly, and we make our way up the steps towards the table where Tristan, Zayd, and Creed are sitting with Becky, Harper, and Ileana.
Tristan sneers at me, and tosses the bones on the table. I mean, he can't exactly complain about what I did to him considering it was a lot less bad than what he wanted to do to me. I didn't give him the plagiarized essay, even though I could have.
“You must be stupid, if you came here willingly,” he snaps, losing that practiced self-control that I both hated and admired from last year. I can see the faintest outline of a bruise on his face, and my hand clenches into a small fist at my side. As much as I dislike the guy, I think his dad might be beating him. That's never okay.
“Are those bones?” I ask, looking skeptically at the little white and cream-colored bits on the table. Harper flips her brunette waves over her shoulder and smirks at me. Her right hand comes to rest on Tristan's, and she weaves their fingers together before giving his a squeeze. Much as I hate to admit it, the sight makes me feel sick to my stomach.
“My dad has a private museum in his New York penthouse. He's a bit of the Civil War nut.” The way Harper’s smiling at me reminds me of the Grinch, like the expression is crawling across her face like a disease. “He has a whole storage room full of useless artifacts he’s forgotten about. These bones were never going to see the light of day anyway, so I borrowed them.” She shrugs her shoulders, her shimmery black dress catching the light. “And they only cost him, what, four or five hundred K?”
“You're playing jacks with real human knuckle bones?” Zack snarls, stepping up so close to the table that it rattles. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you have any respect? These aren’t just game pieces, these are parts of actual human beings.”
I speak up before anyone else can, letting my history buff side show.
“In France, in the 1800s, when the church moved bones from a crowded cemetery to the now famous catacombs, there were big holes left in the ground filled with human fat. Merchants gathered the stuff and made candles and soap. They then labeled them as the Innocents, and sold them to the wealthy who knowingly used them despite being aware of where they came from. They actually liked that, thinking of human beings as worth so little they could burn them simply to light a room.” I turn to look at Zack, even as Becky sneers and starts bitching.
“Like we give a crap about some stupid history lesson. They’re long dead, and nobody gives a shit but you what happens to the bones of some dumb ass soldiers. If they mattered, they'd have been generals or presidents or politicians, and their bones wouldn’t have been rotting in some storage unit.” Becky reaches up to touch her hair, which is twisted, coiffed, and covered with so much hairspray that it's hard to see the chunk that I cut off. Knowing it’s there is enough for me though.
I ignore her and focus on that, fully aware that Creed and Zayd are watching me.
“Certain individuals see other humans as lesser than them, like they think they’re gods or something. But tell me: how does a god get an ugly, bald patch shaved off the side of their head?”
Becky stands up, like she's going to launch yourself at me. I just stand there and stare at her as Harper grabs her arm and digs her fingernails into her best friend’s skin. The two of them exchange a look that I can't quite read.
“We're here because I want to make a bet,” Zack says, looking from Creed to Zayd to Tristan. He pauses with his dark brown gaze hooked on Tristan's cold gray one. “The three of you. Let's hit up a table and talk.” He gestures with his chin and walks away, but according to him, and the rules of the Infinity Club, when someone challenges you to a bet, you're required to at least hear them out.
“This shit is so fucked-up,” Zayd murmurs as he rises to his feet, raking his fingers through his hair. Creed says nothing as he, too, stands up. Tristan is the last one to get up, but as he moves away, he brushes his shoulder against mine, and I swear I see stars. He stops suddenly, like he didn't expect that. Low, almost inaudibly, I hear his voice near my ear.
“You are unfrigging believable,” he murmurs, and I can't quite decide if that's an insult or a compliment. I watch the four boys move away before taking Tristan’s seat at the table.
“You are not a part of the Infinity Club,” Ileana snaps at me, curling her gold painted lips up over her teeth. She's right: that tattoo on my hip burns as if it's being freshly etched into my skin. I am not a part of the Infinity Club and I never will be. Thank God.
“No, but I'm here as a sponsored guest. I can make a bet, too.” I fold my arms on the table, careful not to touch any of the knuckle bones. If there was some way for me to take them, and donate them to a museum or give them a proper burial or something, I would. As things stand, all I can do is throw out a silent apology to the souls that used to belong to these bits of ivory. “And trust me: you're gonna want to make this bet.”
“Really?” Harper drawls, leaning her elbow on the table and resting her chin in her hand. Her blue eyes sparkle with hate as she takes me in. “And why exactly would I want to do that? I could simply … call my family’s medical center and tell them to stop treating your father. Basically, bitch, you're mine.”
My heart stops, and I feel this cold fear creep over me. But I suspected this; I knew this was coming. Hell would freeze over before Harper would help me willingly.
I sit still, keep smiling, and refuse to show my cards.
“How about this,” I start, meeting her eyes and refusing to acknowledge the other two girls. She'll love that, the self-professed queen of the school. “I'll make you a bet: if I win, you give my dad the same medical care that you’d give to your own father.” I pause for a minute. “No, you give my father better medical care than you’d give your own father. The best of the best, spare no expense. If you win, I will get on my knees before you in front of the entire school and tell everyone that you were right, that I'm worse than a Pleb, or that I'm a whore, whatever. I'll kiss your feet, and I'll pack up and leave the academy and you'll never have to see me again.”
Harper's leaning forward now, her eyes shining, her sociopathic tendencies showing all over her face. I'm not sure that I've ever really known what the word hate means until now. I don't think I hated the Idol guys, not even after what they did to me. Pretty sure I hate Harper du Pont right now.
“I'm listening …” She purrs, her voice like needles as it digs into my eardrums. She reeks of peaches too, and I decide the scent is now entirely ruined for me. Every time I smell it, I'll think of her and that disgusting smile.
“If I lose, you can pull my father's medical care completely. But for now, you keep treating him.” Harper narrows her eyes, but at least she’s still listening. “Here's the bet: by the end of the year, I make Tristan, Creed, and Zayd fall in love with me.” Her eyes widen in disbelief, and the look of glee that flashes over her face tells me that she already thinks that she's won, that what I'm proposing is an impossibility. I keep talking. “But you are all forbidden from telling them about this bet. If I get them to come with me to the second-year graduation getaway, that counts, and I win.”
“You could just trick them into driving with you or something,” Becky sneers, her voice like nails on a chalkboard. “No, they have to show up, with you or not, but they all have to think that you're going to be their date to the party that night. They have to want you to be their date.” She smirks at me, and I purse my lips, but I nod anyway.
“They come with me to the graduation getaway at the lake, and I win. If they don't, at the party that night, I'll do what I said. I'll give in, I'll give up, and I'll leave. You'll win.” Harper considers this for a moment, rolling one of the knuckle bones around on her palm.
“Fine. But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop tormenting you.” She smirks at me again, and I just know she's already got something planned. “There is no truce between us, but I'll let your pathetic father beg scraps from my medical clinic. When I win,” she continues, and her use of the word when does not escape me, “I want your humiliation filmed, and you are going to be the one who posts it on YouTube from your own account.”
My nostrils flare, but I nod anyway, and reach out to take her hand. We shake on it, while Becky and Ileana exchange looks.