“They’re mad about the game?” I ask, and Zack shakes his head, looking back at me with his mouth in a tight, flat line. He exhales, closing his eyes and reaching up to ruffle his short, dark hair with his fingers.
“Not exactly.”
I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t. I decide to address my issue first then.
“I said no violence, Zack,” I whisper, because I don’t want to win this thing by resorting to their tactics.
He looks back at me, and at least I can tell that his face is etched with shame.
“I didn’t know about the glass,” he says, shaking his head. “But none of the staff knows Corb actually stabbed him; they all think there was some debris in the grass.”
“I saw you pay Corb to hurt Jalen,” I tell him, crossing my arms under my breasts. Zack studies my face and sighs, like he has no excuse for what he’s done. He looks down at the floor between us, and closes his eyes for a moment.
“I’d do anything to protect you,” he says, lifting his head up and opening his eyes. “Jalen was dangerous, Marnye. You don’t hear the locker room talk that I hear.” He looks right at me, lifting his head up. “Yes, I paid Corb to take Jalen down harder than necessary, but I didn’t know about the glass. If it makes you feel better, Jalen broke a glass bottle against Corb’s brother’s face at a Hamptons party this summer. A piece of glass cut his carotid artery; he almost died.”
We stand there, facing each other, but I don’t know what to say.
I’m conflicted.
“Sometimes you can’t fight darkness with words, Marnye.” Zack tucks his big hands into the pockets of his letterman jacket. “There’s … a lot going on that you don’t know about.”
“Then tell me,” I plead, “because I literally just read a manga with a plot like this. The guys kept the information away from the heroine until it was too late, and then …”
“Infinity Club rules,” Zack growls out, like he’s in serious pain. He pulls his hands from his jacket pockets and braces my shoulders with them. “If we tell you, we lose a serious advantage. And we can’t lose this, Marnye.”
“Zack …” I start, as he slides his palms down the arms of my black blazer.
“My grandfather doesn’t want me to date you,” he whispers, and my heart seriously chokes. It breaks and stutters in my chest, and I look up at him with my lips parted in surprise.
“Why not?”
“My mom loves you, Marnye. She loves you. My sister likes you, too. It’s just … my dad and my grandpa …” he trails off, this aching desperation etched into his face. “The only thing they’ve ever agreed on is this.”
“Why …” I start, and Zack steps back, releasing me suddenly.
“I shouldn’t have broken your rules without talking to you first,” he says softly, his voice surprisingly rough with emotion. “That was my fuck-up. But, Marnye, I would do it again if I had to. I’ll do anything to protect you, even break your rules.” He looks back up at me, and I suck in a sharp breath. He’s too freaking beautiful for words. Too goddamn beautiful. “But I understand if you’re pissed at me.”
“I’m not pissed, but you guys can’t keep doing things behind my back. What’s so much worse than the Harpies trying to get me to kill myself? Than trying to drown me in the pool? Zack …” I step forward and put my hand on his chest, and he covers it with both of his. He’s unbelievably warm, and when I lean into him, his scent soothes my nerves a little. “What’s so much worse?”
“Marnye …” Zack wraps his arms around me, tucks me into his jacket, and holds me close. It feels weirdly like a goodbye hug, and I don’t like that at all. Not one tiny bit. “Let’s just graduate, and run off to Bornstead, huh? You can be the smart girl on the cheer team, and I’ll play football and sneak into your dorm room at night …”
“What about your family?” I ask, but Zack says nothing as I lean back and look up at him.
“I don’t care what they think, or what they want. This is my life, not theirs.” He pauses as Creed pops out of The Mess, leaning his back against the door to hold it open.
“Miranda’s got it,” he says, and I raise both brows. I feel a little sick with emotion right now, but I wring it out by shaking my hands and taking a deep breath before I force a smile to my face.
“Got what?” I ask, and Creed smiles, slowly, seductively, in a way that warms me from the inside out, chasing away some of the dark shadows.
“Our Halloween costumes,” he says as Miranda comes panting over, reaching out to grab both my hands in hers. Those blue eyes of hers are sparkling.
“Royals,” she says, grinning big. “We go as royals: princes, princesses … kings and queens. What do you think? You can wear the crown we got for your birthday. It’s the perfect eff you to Harper, seeing as she and her cronies are trying to coin the term Reigning Royals. So stupid. The Idols and their Inner Circle have ruled this school since …” She pauses and then grimaces slightly, looking to me for confirmation.
“Since it was coined by William Vanderbilt the First, in 1919?” I suggest, and Miranda squeals, throwing her arms around my neck and giving me a sweet-scented kiss on my cheek.
I don’t miss Zack’s dark look as he studies me though.
He says he doesn’t care what his family thinks, but maybe he does?
And I’m sure he’s not the only one.
“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” I ask Windsor as we stand inside a bridal shop in Lujo, and I watch the tenth in line to the English throne get a pink bridesmaid dress fitted to his lithe, muscular body. He glances over his shoulder at me, red hair sticking up, hazel eyes twinkling.
“Go right ahead, my darling,” he says as the attendant stands up and excuses herself to grab some more pins. She looked at us like we were crazy when we wandered in here looking to get a dress fitted to a teenage boy as a Halloween costume, even more so when she recognized Windsor and then started frantically texting her friend behind the counter.
Word of this will be all over the Internet by dinnertime. Wind says he doesn’t care, but maybe he does, just not in the way others might think. He might not be ashamed, but he certainly does care: he wants everyone to know just how irreverent he is.
“Why didn’t your mother come to Parents’ Week?” I ask as Windsor examines his dress in the mirror, smoothing his hands down the glittery bodice. He said royals was really a boring theme unless he could dress up like a princess. “I’ve been a prince all my life, what fun is that?” So now both he and Andrew are going in drag. The latter is currently in the dressing room, testing out his pale blue gown.
“My mother?” Windsor asks, frowning, and then shrugging his shoulders like it doesn’t matter much either way. “Too busy being a beloved princess, I suppose. The press worships her, you know. They talk about what she wears to every event, who she dates, how she fucking smiles.” Wind flashes an angry grin, one that’s half mirth, half simply gritting his teeth. “She can barely take a shit without the media snapping photos of her asking what toilet paper she uses. What a horrible existence. Can you only imagine?”
Windsor turns back to the mirror, and puts his hands on his hips, pouting his lips and giving this sassy little sway.
“That bothers you, doesn’t it?” I ask, stepping up on the dais next to him and fluffing his skirt. “Having to share your mom with the world?” Wind’s eyes slide over to me, and he raises his eyebrows at me.
“You think that’s what bothers me?” he asks, smiling sharply. “Oh bloody hell, love. No. It terrifies me, a life like that, having every move amplified until it means a hundred times more than it rightfully should. I don’t want people looking at me like some sort of community pillar.” He turns back to the mirror, pausing as Andrew comes out and plants his own hands on his hips.
The dress … actually looks really good on him, like passably good. He makes a very fishy drag queen (fishy is like … womanly; I have no idea where the term come from, but that’s what it is).
“You should apply for RuPaul’s Drag Race,” I squeal, putting my hands over my mouth. With just the wig, the padding, and the dress, Andrew Payson really does look a little like a princess.
“I feel like I’m always in drag anyway,” he mumbles, studying himself in the five-way mirror. “Okay, we’ll take it.” He nods at the seamstress as she comes out of the back with a fresh pin cushion. She pauses to help Andrew undo the back of his gown, and I study Wind’s tight, stoic expression.
I’ve just barely scratched the surface of Windsor York, but I feel like I have to know more. I need to know more.
I move out of the way, so he can finish up his dress fitting, and then I take a turn of my own.
By the time we’re done in there, we’ve definitely blown my original idea of the budget, but neither Andrew nor Windsor looks bothered at throwing down their cards and paying. When I take my own turn at the register, waiting to hear the price of the dress to see if I can afford it with the price of the alterations included, Windsor grabs my arm and yanks me into his.
“A lady of the court never pays for her own gowns,” he purrs, looking down at me with just a hint of a wicked smile. “I’ve got it, Your Majesty.”
“Stop calling me that,” I say with a laugh, pulling away from him. The three of us step out into the sunshine, pausing at a bookstore down the street before rejoining the others at the café.
I try to be surreptitious when I slip over to the manga section, looking for more yaoi. There’s one wrapped in plastic that says Explicit: Eighteen Plus Only! on the back. One corner’s already torn, and it looks like someone peeked inside already. I mean, since the deed is already done … I peek myself and feel my cheeks flush when I see the explicitness of the art.