“Please don’t. That book is a modern classic. That’s history in the making right there.” My words are choked; I sound strangled. What else am I supposed to say? Please don’t destroy a priceless artifact to torment me? There are other, less destructive ways. Trust me: I’ve been privy to a lot of them.
Tristan ignores me, letting the flames lick the edge of the page until it starts to smoke and burn. He sets the book on the edge of the railing, watching as it’s slowly consumed, twisted into flakes of gray ash that scatter with the wind. Zayd saunters up beside it and lifts a white bottle of lighter fluid, making eye contact with me before he gives it a squeeze and sets the rest of the book up in a gush of heat.
Tears trail down my cheeks, but I’ve stopped struggling. It’s too late now. The book is ruined.
The crowd cheers as Tristan shoves the flaming book over the edge and into the bay.
When he moves up close to me, it takes every ounce of strength I have not to scream.
“I told you, Charity. This isn’t the school for you. Consider this your final warning.”
He stalks off, and finally, the two girls relax their grips enough for me to tear away.
“Marnye, wait!” Miranda calls out as I shove my way through the snickering crowd, down the steps, and across the dock. I start running, and I don’t stop until I’m safely back in my dorm.
Guess this is where I’ll be spending the rest of the year, miserable and alone.
It’s not a good feeling.For the next several weeks, it seems the Idols are content to watch and wait. But if they think they’ve beaten me that easily, they’ve got another thing coming. At Lower Banks Middle School, a stunt like that would’ve been met with closed fists and blood spatter. I’m not saying I’m going to start a full-on brawl with the Idols (surely the cowards would gang up on me, and I’d lose), but watching that book burn, while upsetting, was not the final nail in my coffin.
“Parents’ Week starts on Monday,” Miranda says, settling beside me in the ‘cafeteria’. Not exactly the best descriptor for this place. That word denotes red plastic trays, pizza on paper plates, and long lines. This is … nicer than the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been to. The sign outside says ‘Dining Area’, but the students here just call it The Mess. “Are yours coming?”
I take a bite of my pasta, and try not to wonder how much this plate cost the scholarship fund.
“My dad should be here,” I hedge, trying to decide how best to describe my mom. The full truth is too hard to say aloud; it cuts like a knife, and I’m already bleeding from the scene on the yacht. “My mom … remarried and moved.” Yeah, across town. From the trailer park to a mansion. “She lives in Grenadine Heights actually, with my sister.”
“You have a sister?” Miranda asks, her glossy pink lips parting in surprise. “Would I know her?” I shrug my shoulders in response because the last thing I want to say is: maybe, but I don’t. “And how did I not know you had a sister?” she continues when I stuff my mouth with more pasta.
As Miranda frowns at me, Andrew stops by our table and pulls up an extra chair. Pretty sure he and Miranda have been getting into trouble for hanging around with me, and yet, they still do. I’m starting to wonder if I might actually be making real friends with the pair of them.
“You have a sister?” he repeats as I sigh and swallow my food, picking up my water glass and staring at the clinking ice cubes.
“Her name’s Isabella. But she’s three years younger than us. She just started sixth grade at Grenadine Heights Middle School.” I take a drink of my water and hope this story ends here. Now I’m kicking myself for bringing my mom up at all. See what I mean? I’ve already got that tight, sick feeling in my stomach.
“Isabella Carmichael?” Miranda asks, and I feel that tight feeling get even tighter, like a knot with a chokehold around my stomach. “Yeah, I remember her. I think I had her in one of my art groups, like when they pair older kids up with younger ones.” She shrugs and raises a perfectly arched blond brow at me. “I still don’t know how I’ve been friends with you for weeks and haven’t heard about your sister.”
“Maybe because I’ve never met her?” I blurt out, and both Andrew and Miranda share a look. Standing abruptly, I turn and slam into the firm body of Creed Cabot. He puts his hands on my shoulders, and my skin burns, even through the fabric of my black academy jacket. He scoots me back a space, and turns his attention to his sister.
