“All of them,” Miranda confirms, lifting her glass of ice water to her lips and glancing at the round table and all of its royalty. “They don’t want you here.”
“Why?” I ask, but I needn’t have bothered. Miranda glances at me, but her face says it all: they don’t want me here because I grew up in a neighborhood of trailers and mobile homes, because I lived in an old train car most of my life, because I don’t have a net worth or a family legacy. “What am I supposed to do about that? I was thinking about reporting Tristan and Zayd to the administration. There’s an anti-bullying policy that I read about in the student handbook—”
Miranda’s look stops me dead in my tracks.
“What?” I ask, picking up my fork and poking at my fancy Greek-inspired chicken dish. It tastes … strange. Maybe my palette just isn’t as refined as everyone else’s? I wonder if I could ask the kitchen to make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? “Am I supposed to just let them get away with their bullshit?” My eyes wander back to the table again and I catch Creed staring at me. His blue eyes narrow, and he reaches up to brush some blond hair back from his forehead. If it’s possible to arrogantly brush hair from one’s face, he manages it. Zayd and Tristan notice him looking my way, and soon all three Idols are glaring at me.
Fantastic.
At my old school, I saw the effects of bullying firsthand; I felt them. I felt them in ways I can never forget, never erase. My heart begins to thunder in my chest, and my palms grow so sweaty I have to put down my fork.
I glance back at Miranda.
“If you report them, that’s it,” she says, exhaling sharply. Her eyes stray over to the Idols’ table again, watching as Andrew approaches and starts up a conversation with Tristan. “They will end you.”
My mouth flattens into a thin line, but I don’t doubt that what Miranda’s telling me is true. These kids, they have more money than the GDP of a small country. Shit, than several small countries combined. If I think that has no influence over the administration and staff, then I haven’t learned as many hard life lessons as I think.
Closing my eyes, I sit stone-still for a moment, thinking. There has to be a way out of this; there’s always a way out if you know how to be patient and look. For the moment, I’m drawing a blank, but give me time, and I’ll work it out.
There’s a reason I got chosen for this scholarship, and it wasn’t my ability to roll over and take it.
No, I’m a fighter, always have been.
I just think I’m going to have to fight harder than I ever have before.As my first week at Burberry Prep progresses, it seems like the Idols have forgotten about me.
I know in my gut that’s not true.
Bullies don’t quit until circumstances force them to. It’s the nature of the beast, and humans are the worst animal of all. Smart enough to manipulate, stupid enough to care. My mind flickers with images best left forgotten: ribbons of silken red, the smell of wet pennies, peaceful blackness closing in.
Running my tongue across my lower lip, I double check my schedule. The first and third Friday of the month I have my Monday schedule; the second and fourth Friday I have my Tuesday schedule. The last Friday—if there is one—is a day off.
Period 3: Government, History, and Civics, Room CH3
The CH in CH3 stands for chapel, meaning the classrooms located in the building attached to the old chapel. Miranda disappeared during the second half of lunch, but I think I know my way around now. Following the maze of hallways, I slip unnoticed by the other students—the Plebs, as they’re supposedly called—enjoying my anonymity. Only the Idols and their Inner Circle look at me sideways. Nobody else cares.
I pass unscathed into the classroom, breathing a sigh of relief as I slide into the chair in the back corner. Tristan Vanderbilt is the only member of the Bluebloods—their term, not mine—that shares this class with me and Miranda. He glances up when I walk in, his blade gray eyes slicing through me before he returns his attention to the short, raven-haired girl in front of him.
In the past week, I’ve seen him with a good dozen different girls, flirting and smiling and leaning in close. Even when the guy’s trying to get laid, that arrogance of his sits like a mask over his handsome face. He never seems to let his guard down, or show any emotion that isn’t tainted with superiority and entitlement.
Just looking at the jerk makes me sick to my stomach.
“Sorry I’m late,” Miranda breathes, sliding into the chair next to me. Her eyes flick up to Tristan, and he meets her gaze dead-on before returning his attention back to his newest conquest. Miranda’s cheeks burn pink, and I raise an eyebrow.
