Home > Bad, Bad Bluebloods (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2)(3)

Bad, Bad Bluebloods (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2)(3)
Author: C.M. Stunich

Maybe before, but not now. Not anymore.

“It’s perfect,” I say, staring at the design in the mirror. He cleans me up, bandages it, and off I go.

Before school starts next week, I have a couple of errands I need to run.

They’re imperative.

Grenadine Heights is the place to go for designer clothes, top-notch salons, and preppy assholes flashing me looks. Only, this time they’re looking at me like maybe they should be scared.

At the risk of getting a mark on my first day back, I’ve worn my new second-year Burberry Prep uniform to go shopping in downtown Grenadine Heights. The skirt is solid white, as opposed to first-year red. The black shoes and white blouse are the same, but the tie is red and there’s a single red and a single black stripe on each elbow of the jacket, a perfect match to the red and black Burberry Prep crest on the pocket, complete with pair of griffins. I’ve even got on the thigh-high socks with the matching stripe at the top.

Every student at GHHS knows where Burberry Prep is and who goes to it. Their football team kicks Burberry’s ass every year, but it doesn’t matter: everyone on the GHHS side gazes across the field and knows the grass is greener on the other side.

So when I walk into the salon with my head held high, wearing my Burberry uniform, the women in there treat me like I have money.

It’s kind of … sad, actually. According to my dad, my mother once saved up for a haircut and dye job here for months, and then when she walked in, she was treated like less than dirt. He said she came home crying.

I guess I picked this place for a reason.

“I have an appointment,” I tell the girl at the front. She’s clearly part-time, a student herself if the GHHS pin she’s got on her shirt is any indication. She looks at me … like I’m a god. I tell myself that’s a good thing, that I must be projecting self-confidence, but I don’t like it, using my uniform to intimidate people. That makes me feel like … them.

I force myself to put on a huge smile.

The girl flushes and then checks me in, showing me to a chair right in the front. When the stylist comes over and sees my roots, the pretty but imperfect haircut Miranda gave me, and the fading rose gold dye, she cringes.

“I want this,” I tell her, pointing at my own head, “just … elevated.” Rose gold realness, is what I want to say, but nobody here would appreciate that. But they will, when they see it. At least, I think they will. As far as I could tell, not all of the emotions I shared with the Idol boys were fake. I remember Zayd bobbing in moonlight, his wet hair stuck to his face, eyes shining. No. No, it might’ve been a bet but it wasn’t all fake. Somehow, that makes the whole situation seem even worse.

The stylist gets to work, and two hours later, I’m staring at a different person in the mirror. The color is that perfect mix of dusty pink and glimmering gold, and the cut has gone from passable to edgy. I make myself smile.

“It looks great.” The stylist seems to sigh with relief as I stand up and head over to the register to pay, leaving a generous tip. My eyes meet the receptionist’s as she passes me a bag with some shampoo and conditioner I picked out. She’s too young to have been here when Jennifer was treated so poorly. Same with the stylist. Even if I were interested in exacting revenge for my absentee mother, there’s no justice to be had here.

I turn around to leave just as the door opens and two blond teens step instead the salon.

My heart stops beating.

“Miranda,” I choke out, her blue eyes widening as they meet mine.

“Marnye, please open the door!” I can see Miranda standing outside the academy’s car, trying to pull it open with the handle. The other Bluebloods hang back as the amphitheater empties out into the courtyard. Miranda whirls around when Creed tries to touch her shoulder, and throws him off. I think she’s defending me. Maybe. But I don’t open the door until Charlie appears. Jennifer … she hangs back and says nothing.

“What are you doing here?” Miranda asks me, her eyes flicking from my uniform to my hair. Creed is completely frozen behind her, his bored princely look stuck on his face like a mask. There’s a tension in his shoulders that I don’t miss, a tightness in his jaw. I don’t look at him; I can’t. My hands curl into fists at my sides.

“I …” Words fail me as Miranda and I stare at each other. Did she betray me, too? Did she know what was coming? “I’m sorry.” The words fall out before I can stop them. I really am sorry, sorry that I made that bet with Creed, sorry that I let her down the same way the Idols let me down. I move to rush past her when Creed grabs my arm.

“You can’t be serious?” he asks me, his voice like ice. I shove his hand off, and our eyes lock together. A spark passes between us, sending my still heart into a beating frenzy. My mouth tightens and my eyes narrow. “You can’t possibly expect to survive a week back at Burberry Prep.”

“Get your hand off of me,” I snarl as Miranda steps close and pushes her brother back.

“Leave her alone, Creed,” she says, her voice threaded with steel. “Marnye,” Miranda starts, turning back to look at me, but I’m already turning away and heading out the salon door. I run almost two blocks before I slow down, panting and shaking. How am I going to do this? I wonder as I stand up and lean against the brick wall of a deli. It smells like freshly baked bread out here. If I can barely look at them, how am I going to walk in there, purse-first, and tear down the system? For a second there, it’s hard to breathe.

“You can’t possibly expect to survive a week back at Burberry Prep.”

I’ve heard that before, and I proved them wrong, all of them.

I can do it again.

Several deep breaths later, and I’m ready to finish up my checklist for the day: new clothes, assorted supplies, and a few other random beauty stops. The best sort of revenge lifts you up, instead of putting others down. So … maybe I don’t need all this superficial stuff, but it’ll make me feel better. I want to get dressed up, and I want to waltz into that school with my head held high, my new hair and makeup a shield against their stares.

Pushing off from the wall, I take off down the street, and I finish my plans.

The morning of my sixteenth birthday, I wake up to fresh coffee and a package neatly wrapped in brown butcher paper. Dad’s even added a pink ribbon to the top. He grins at me as I sit down on the couch with my mug, finishing a gulp of milky, sugary goodness before I set the cup aside to open the gift.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” I say, feeling guilty that I haven’t told him about the money I won. I should just give it all to Dad; he deserves it. Instead, I’m keeping it in case of emergency. And how sad is that, that I expect emergencies during my second year of high school? This should be my time to study, to make music, to make friends. Instead, I’m just … trying to upset the ancient social hierarchy of classism?

I’ve kinda got my work cut out for me.

“Yeah, well,” Dad starts, running his fingers through his shaggy brown hair. He nods his chin in the direction of the package, and I start to unwrap it. His voice is so soft, surprisingly gentle. “Your dad got some news last night.” Zack told me that the day Dad got drunk during Parents’ Week. And yet, I still don’t know what it is. “I hope you like it, honey.”

I’d like it best if it was a jar of blue blood and tears from the Idols.

“I’m sure I will,” I tell him as I get the ribbon and paper off, opening the box to find mounds of tissue paper. Inside, a blue velvet box is nestled, and when I crack it open, I find Grandma June’s antique bracelet. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with this thing. It’s always hung on Dad’s side of the bed, and I can remember countless times that I’ve walked in and found him, head bent over, fingers rubbing the little copper charms. There are four of them: a tiny steam train, a loaf of bread, a dress, and a baby. But one charm was always missing, right in the center: all that remains is a tiny ring where it used to hang. Now, that ring has something else dangling from it: Dad’s wedding band.

“What …?” I start, holding the bracelet up. It’s clearly been polished to a shine, the dull patina gone, the copper gleaming as I hold it up to the light. “Why are you giving me this?” My eyes drift to Dad’s, but he’s completely unreadable. He tucks his hands in the pockets of his jeans and forces a smile.

“You should have a piece of our family history with you. It’ll give you strength.” My mouth opens, but no words come out. How am I supposed to respond to that? “Are you sure you want to go back to that awful school?”

A groan escapes me, and I look away, clutching the bracelet in my palm.

“The academy will set me up for the best possible future—” I start, but Dad cuts me off, coming over to kneel beside me. He puts his hand on my knee, and I turn back to look at him.

“Don’t go back to that school for boys, Marnye,” he says, voice rough. He almost sounds like he’s pleading with me, and my heart hurts. “Just don’t do it. And … don’t go back because you think you have something to prove.”

“I …” How can I really respond to that? Is that what I’m doing? Going back to prove myself? To exact revenge? Or is it really because I want the best academic career possible? I can’t even answer that question for myself, so how can I tell Dad what’s going on inside me?

“You could move in with your mother, and go to Grenadine Heights High—”

My turn to cut him off.

“Move in with Jennifer?” I choke out, pulling away and pushing my body into the worn couch cushions, as if putting distance between me and Charlie will erase his suggestion from the air. “I barely know her.”

“Marnye,” Dad says, uncurling my palm and taking the bracelet. He puts it on my wrist as I sit there, staring at him like he’s grown a second head. “I’m not saying your mother hasn’t made mistakes in the past, but she’s really trying here. She wants to get to know you.”

   
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