“Get out of my way,” I snap, pushing past him. He moves, but only because he wants to, and I can feel his eyes on me as I head toward the chapel. Everyone moves out of my way, Plebs scattering as the Working Girl stomps up the center of the aisle and takes a seat in the frontmost pew. There’s a visible bubble around me, an emptiness that I know isn’t going to be filled.
It’s fine. I expected it. I’m okay with it.
The talking and giggling soon starts up again, and I can very clearly hear remarks made intentionally for me. I ignore them. They’ll get what’s coming to them; it’s just a matter of time. I exhale and glance up at the Gallery. There’s a scattering of familiar faces up there: John Hannibal, Gregory Van Horn, Ebony Peterson. And Creed Cabot.
His blue gaze drops down to mine, eyes widening imperceptibly before he controls himself, fading back into the bored royalty routine. I don’t look away and neither does he; it feels like a challenge, and I refuse to back down. Day one, step one, remind the Idols that I’m not one of their groupies. Creed holds my stare, his eyes narrowing the longer our confrontation continues.
All around us, people stop talking and turn to stare, watching the exchange with drool hanging from their mouths. Okay, so not really, but they might as well. They all look like wolves, smacking their lips in anticipation of a fresh kill.
That is, until the last of the students funnel in and the staff moves to close the chapel doors. An instant later, they burst open and a dull roar emanates from the back of the room, spreading toward the front like wildfire. Creed’s head whips around and his eyes widen. Since he’s broken our stare down first, I turn and look.
My breath leaves me in such a rush that I feel lightheaded, my stomach twisting into knots as Zack freaking Brooks makes his way down the aisle, dressed in the white blazer, red tie, and white slacks of a Burberry Prep second year student. Holy. Shit.
He pauses next to the pew I’m sitting on, indicating the empty space on either side of me with an outstretched hand. He’s got a letterman jacket over the top of his blazer, and it’s in the red and black colors of Burberry Prep Academy.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” he asks, his eyes burning a hole straight through me. My teeth clench, and I want to scream in frustration. Instead, I glance back at the Gallery to find Tristan, Creed, and Zayd all watching me.
Hm.
They don’t like Zack, none of them do. When they were wooing me, they pretended it was because of the bet he made with Lizzie. Clearly, they couldn’t care less about me, so it’s got to be something else. Based on their facial expressions, it’s obvious they’re not happy about Zack’s presence here.
“Why not?” I whisper, but the room is now so quiet that my voice echoes in the chapel. Zack sits beside me, pressing his thigh against mine. Where our bodies touch, my skin burns, but I ignore that sensation. I’ll admit it: last year, I was desperate for friendship, for companionship, for … romance. This year, I won’t make the same mistakes. I won’t give into the hot ache inside my chest when the guys are around, and I won’t let the empty siren song of my loneliness drag me to the rocks. “Why are you here, and how did you get that jacket?” I shouldn’t even bother asking, but my curiosity is killing me.
“Coach saw me play when Burberry went up against Coventry Prep.” Zack shrugs his big shoulders, dark hair shaved into a crew cut. He looks straight ahead and keeps his palms flat on his thighs. He acts like he doesn’t notice everyone staring at us. I call bullshit. “He got tired of losing to public schools, and convinced the admins to let me in.” Zack glances over at me, eyes shadowed and unreadable. “I’m such a legend, I’m the only second-year on varsity.” He grins and pinches the shoulder of his jacket, pausing as Miranda appears in front of me.
We stare at each other, and I swear, I’ve never been more of a nervous wreck.
Ms. Felton is already taking the stage behind her, so instead of talking, Miranda just flops down on my other side, being careful to keep her leg from touching mine. I have no idea what this means between us, but when I hazard one, last glance at the Bluebloods, I can see the tightness in Creed’s face, and I wet my lips.
There’s a list in my notebook with his name on it.
Creed Cabot’s Weaknesses
Miranda Cabot
Kathleen Cabot
Jealous of Tristan
Desperate to shed the ‘new money’ name
Bullied in public school
Repairing my relationship with Miranda is paramount, not just for my own sake, but for … everything else, too. I need her on my side.
Principal Collins moves up to stand beside Ms. Felton, and clears her throat. The room is already quiet, save for the gossipy whispers of some of the students, but it falls into a deathly silence at the sound of her voice.
“Welcome back,” she begins, her gray eyes scanning the crowd. When her gaze passes over me, there’s a small flicker of sympathy and regret. I’ve been seeing it on the faces of every adult here, and I’m sick of it. My mouth flattens into a thin line as I flick my attention to Zack. His words suddenly make a lot more sense to me.
“It’s just me against the world at Burberry Prep; I’ve already accepted that.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
I wonder how long Zack’s been planning this.
“As I’m sure most of you are aware,” Principal Collins continues, moving across the stage with slow, deliberate footsteps, “the way last year ended was an embarrassment to the Burberry Prep name, a smear on our traditions, and a horrific example of unchecked privilege.” She pauses at the very edge of the platform, and I definitely don’t miss it when she turns her attention briefly up to the Gallery and the gathered Bluebloods. I shift in my seat; I sense a possible ally in Mrs. Collins. I’ll have to be careful to cultivate that relationship. “This year, we won’t make the same mistakes again. Read up on the school handbook because you’re responsible for being aware of all the changes to our academic policies. Those in violation will face suspension or expulsion, no exceptions.”
She pauses, stares the crowd down once more, and then proceeds with the usual first day announcements.
But there’s not an eye in that room that isn’t on me.
Good.
Let them look.
There’s going to be a lot to see.
By the end of the first day, I’m exhausted, and my mind is spinning with possibilities, desperate for some way to right the wrong that was committed against me. I’ve already got a head start, my summer plans unfolding into glorious action. But not yet. Not quite yet.
I head for The Mess, taking a seat by the window at the table I used to share with Miranda. We have pretty different schedules this year it seems, so if she wants to find me, this is her chance. I’m not going to chase her, not if she isn’t ready.
So I sit down, ignoring the stares and the whispers, the way the Idols’ table goes silent as I pull out a journal (not my revenge one, a different one), lay it on the table, and leave it there while I check the menu. After I’ve placed my order, I hunch over and begin to write.
It takes all of two minutes for Tristan Vanderbilt to make his way over to me.
“You’re not allowed in here this year,” he tells me, voice as smooth as silk. I can practically feel it trailing across my body, awakening every nerve ending in my skin. Goose bumps prickle my arms, but I ignore them. Lust is an emotion I can ignore if I have to. Screw Tristan Vanderbilt. “Did you hear me, Charity?” He leans over and puts his elbows on the table. I wonder at his lack of back-up, but take advantage of it by looking up and meeting his gray gaze. “I know you’ve been given permission to take your meals in your room. Get your ass up and go stuff your fat face in there.”
His words sting me, like running through a field of nettles, little barbs embedding themselves into my skin. I brush the pain aside by slamming my notebook closed and flicking the lock on the side. Tristan takes note of the action, and then refocuses on me.
“Did you know they broke my ribs?” I ask, and he stares at me with an impassivity that’s frightening. There’s no sign of any normal, human emotion in there, just cold steel and ice.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t care. Get up and go back to your room before I make you do it.” I smile at him, but I’m not afraid, not at all.
“Harper, Becky, the other girls …” I trail off, gesturing in their direction with my hand. “Did you know they were going to take it that far?” Tristan narrows his eyes and scowls at me, but at least there’s some humanity in the gesture; I’ll take it.
“What are you even babbling about?” he snaps, but clearly I’ve touched a nerve because Tristan’s already getting angry with me, and I’ve just started.
“When the girls cornered me backstage before my harp solo, did you know they were going to beat me so badly that I’d break my ribs and crack a tooth?” My eyes are locked on him, so when his widen imperceptibly, I catch it. He quickly schools himself, standing up straight and running his palm down the length of his red tie. But it was there, that little tell that gives me all the information I need: he didn’t know. Tristan, the self-proclaimed King of the Academy, didn’t know about the girls’ plan.
The first seed of doubt has been sowed.
“This is your last warning: take your meal and go back to your room.”
“Or what, Vanderbilt?” a disturbingly dark voice asks from behind him. Tristan and I turn to find Zack Brooks leaning against the wall with his eyes slitted, his mouth turned up in a crooked scowl. “You gonna beat her like your girlfriend did? Leave her covered in bruises and blood?”
Tristan’s entire body is so stiff that I have to wonder if his muscles hurt, being held like that for so long. He just stares Zack down, and then finally, moves several steps closer. The two boys are toe-to-toe, and honestly, I’m content to watch. Maybe they’ll beat each other up right here in front of everyone, and then start the year with a suspension on their records?