“Marnye Reed,” Zayd starts, his voice this husky purr that gets under your skin in the best possible way. He taps an inked finger against his mouth for a moment, and then snaps his fingers. “Right. A few of the others texted me about you this morning, before the great phone purge.” He crinkles his brow and then flicks at one of his silver lip rings with a tattooed finger. “What they’re saying about you, it’s just not right.” My mouth pops open, and I feel the briefest inkling of relief. Maybe I don’t have to be in a feud with every popular kid on campus. “They’re calling you the Working Girl, but they’re also saying you’re not fuckable.”
“Excuse me?” I choke, but Zayd’s already smiling at me with sharp, sharp lips, like a razorblade threatening to cut. His hair is spiked up, his shirt mussed, and half his buttons are undone. I can see another tattoo lingering on the fine planes of his chest.
“What I’m saying is, you can’t be a Working Girl and an unfuckable virgin all at once.” Zayd leans in close to me, close enough that I can smell cloves and tobacco on his skin. Maybe he thinks smoking clove cigarettes makes him a badass. It doesn’t. All it does is make him look like a douche. “And really,” he reaches out to tease some of the loose hair hanging by my face. “I’d fuck you, if you were game.” Zayd grins at me, but it’s not a kind expression. It’s derisive, mocking, demeaning. “That’s the best offer you’ll get all year, so I suggest you take it.”
“Why don’t you go to hell?” I blurt back, my cheeks flushed, my head swimming. How is this happening? I haven’t even had my first class yet, and I’ve already been put through the wringer. I’m exhausted. I wonder how long it’ll take them to get tired of picking on me. Maybe never. In middle school, they didn’t get tired until … Zack changed things.
“Last chance, Working Girl.” Zayd leans in even closer and puts his mouth near my ear. “I’ll even pay you for your services: whatever the fee is, I can afford it.”
Without thinking, I lift a hand, intending to slap him in the face. Zayd intercepts the motion, giving my wrist a squeeze before smirking and stepping back. He releases me, but not before looking me up and down with a dark glimmer in his green eyes.
“You’re going to regret that move,” he tells me, and I’m so flustered that I can’t seem to come up with a response.
Me? Regret this moment? The only person who’s going to regret anything today is Zayd Kaiser when I report him to the school administration.
“It’s not worth it,” Miranda whispers, putting her arm through mine. “Come on, let’s go to class and hopefully by the end of the day, they’ll forget about tormenting you.”
With a nod, I follow along behind her. My eyes are stinging with tears, but I won’t shed them.
I refuse to give these guys the satisfaction.By the time lunch rolls around, Miranda’s done some recon, sliding into the seat across from me and picking up the menu from her plate. And yes, I said it: menu. The ‘cafeteria’ is set up like a restaurant with servers and busboys, tables set with plates and cloth napkins, small menus printed on cardstock that make me think of two birthdays ago when Dad splurged and took me to a fancy restaurant for dinner.
My mind is racing, and I feel cold all over, like I’m so far out of my element I may never get warm again.
“It’s bad, Marnye,” she says, sighing and then pausing to place her order with our waiter. Me, I’ve already got a plate of souvlaki chicken with roasted lemon potatoes topped with feta. Frankly, I don’t know what half of those things are. Back home, we have sloppy joes, burgers, and hot dogs. That’s dinner at the Train Car with Dad. “It’s really, really bad.”
“What’s bad?” I ask, wondering how my day can get any worse. I came into Burberry Prep this morning with high hopes, ready to take on the world. Right now, I feel like I’m living a social apocalypse.
“The Idols, they’ve declared war on you.” My mouth pops open, but I’m not really sure what to say to that. How do you respond when someone tells you the richest, most popular kids at your school want you socially killed?
“All of them?” I ask, glancing over at the large table in the corner where Tristan, Creed, and Zayd sit next to Harper, Becky, and a girl who I can only assume is Gena Whitley. They aren’t looking at me. Instead, they’re laughing and eating, drawing all of the energy out of the room. I have to admit, they’ve got charisma, all six of them. Then again, Hitler had charisma, too, and look how that turned out.
