“I studied, Tristan. Maybe if you spent less time drinking and sleeping with random girls, you could succeed, too.” He hits the wall with his palm again, and I jump. There’s so much tension in his body that even in a hall full of people, I’m afraid.
“This little Mary Sue act of yours is getting old,” he snarls, pushing off of the wall and looking me up and down with a sneer that, unfortunately, does nothing to mar the handsome features of his face. “If you’ve got skeletons in your closet, you might want to make sure they’re buried. Because I’m going to destroy you.”
“Marnye, are you okay?” Zack asks, appearing on my left side. The way he looks at Tristan makes me wonder if they’ve met each other before. Something flashes across Tristan’s face before he smirks.
“Brooks. I’m surprised to see you here. Didn’t you get rejected? Even your family’s money wasn’t enough to get Burberry Prep to take your loser ass.” Tristan’s anger subsides slightly, replaced with haughty arrogance. He lifts his chin and smiles, reaching up to brush dark hair from his brow. “Or are you sleeping with Charity, too? Even with her looks, it seems she has plenty of customers.”
“Charity?” Zack laughs, that dry, dark, scary sound that used to make me tremble. “Do you think you’re clever, Vanderbilt? Don’t forget that I’ve kicked your ass more than once, and I’m happy to do it again.”
“So you are fucking her?” Tristan continues, his silver gaze sliding back to me. He seems excited to have unearthed this scandalous bit of news. Too bad for him that I’m a virgin. There’s no skeleton to dig up here. I’m not sure what Zack means about kicking Tristan’s ass, but it’s clear these two do know each other. Still, Tristan doesn’t fazed by Zack’s presence, not at all. “Where did the two of you meet? At that ghetto school of yours?”
“Save it for fall break, dickhead,” Zack snaps, and my brows wrinkle up. When he reaches down for my wrist, I jerk from his grasp, and we end up staring at each other. Family friend my dad might call him, but he was never a friend of mine. Zack’s eyes narrow, but he turns and heads down the hallway where Miranda’s waiting, watching and listening to the verbal scuffle between the boys with her mouth hanging open.
“Enjoy your tour, Charity,” Tristan schmoozes, lifting a cocky brow. “Because you won’t be around much longer.”The next morning, we have class as usual. The only difference is that the families are allowed to hang around and observe. Most do, but I notice that Zayd’s dad still isn’t here. I guess he’s not coming at all. The asshole acts like it doesn’t bother him, hitting on girls, and letting out that raucous laugh of his, as usual. I wonder though if it’s all a front to cover up the pain. I know all about that.
Zack sits beside me during the morning announcements, but Charlie’s nowhere to be seen. I know the parents were being housed in the cabins (think glamping style cabins) out by the lake, and being driven in at their leisure. But when I ask Zack where my dad is, he just shrugs his big shoulders and refuses to look at me.
By the time we get to our mixed media class, I’m already starting to sweat. Not only is Dad still missing, but today we’re focusing on music, getting a feel for everyone’s talents, and starting the auditions for the school orchestra. I figure I probably don’t have much competition considering I play the harp. It’s kind of a rare instrument. Good thing, too, since there’s usually only one spot for a harpist.
“Everyone take a seat,” Mr. Carter says, taking control of the class for the day. He’s the conductor for the Burberry Preparatory Academy Orchestra, and the one I need to impress most this week. “Today we’ll be getting a feel for the type of music and instruments each student is interested in.”
An email pops up on my academy-issued iPad from Mr. Carter, and I tap on it, glancing down the length of the form as he explains how to fill it out.
“You think any of these uptight assholes can outplay you?” Zack asks, and I shrug. Harper du Pont is sitting right behind me, and the last thing I want to do is draw attention to my instrument of choice. The way she looks at me, it wouldn’t be surprising if she picked the harp just to spite me.
“Guess we’ll find out,” I murmur as I submit the form, and then sit back to wait for everyone else, listening to Mr. Carter drone on about the choir program, the orchestra, and the music industry internship opportunities. The door to the lecture hall opens, and I glance lazily over my shoulder to see who it is.
