I roll my eyes.
“Like I could if I tried. I don’t know anything.”
He looks me up and down, narrows his eyes, and then turns to head in the direction of the boys’ locker room. The tardy bell in the chapel sounds, and I groan.
I am now officially late to class.
Thanks, Creed.Our chemistry teacher, Mrs. Zimmerman, is ancient, like eighty-something years old. She moves slow, but her mind is like a whip. I’ve seen her silence Tristan with a single command. On Friday, she has us meet in the lecture hall instead of the lab room.
“What the hell is this for?” Harper asks, popping her hip out. She seems to hate Mrs. Zimmerman with a fiery passion. Maybe because she’s one of the only teachers on campus that doesn’t bow to the Bluebloods?
“We’re switching lab partners,” Mrs. Z croaks, glaring at Harper through the thick lenses of her glasses. Her white hair is gathered into a bun on the top of her head, and she looks elegant in a white button-down blouse and floral skirt. She may be the only teacher at Burberry Prep besides Mrs. Amberton and Ms. Highland that doesn’t dress like a politician.
“Switching?” Harper shrieks, and I cringe. She sounds like a dinosaur sometimes. Every time she shouts like that, I imagine that gif with the screaming guy and the words pterodactyl screech written across the bottom. “Why?” She immediately looks to me, like I’ve somehow orchestrated this whole thing.
“Familiarity breeds laziness.” Mrs. Z turns on the screen at the front of the classroom, and shows off a list of grades with names next to them. Shame, never underestimate its effect on student motivation. Before I was even allowed to sign up for classes at Burberry Prep, Dad and I had to sign a waiver that allowed the school to publish student grades. “Take a good look at this list.”
I bite my lower lip. Miranda (who still isn’t here yet) and I take the number three spot while Tristan and Harper are in first place. Even though I hate to admit it, keeping up with Tristan on an academic level is tough. Guess he’s smarter than he looks.
“Tristan and I are doing well together. What right do you have to separate us?” Harper runs her tongue along her lower lip as she scowls.
“A right that was earned with three doctorates and time spent tutoring royalty in Europe. You are not the most special person in this class, Miss du Pont. You’re relying on Mr. Vanderbilt to carry your partnership. Same with Miss Reed and Miss Cabot, who I see has chosen not to join us today.” I cringe a little when Miranda stumbles into the class late, tripping as she struggles to make her way down the steps and slide into the seat next to mine. “Ah, you’ve decided to grace us with your presence I see.”
“I’m sorry,” Miranda whispers as Mrs. Z points from her to Harper.
“Pair up.”
“What?!” Harper’s got her pterodactyl screech thing going on again.
“Mr. Vanderbilt, Miss Reed, you’re paired up.” She continues down the line, directing students together. Harper’s still gaping when Miranda gets up to sit beside her. Tristan slides onto the stool next to me, his arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t seem nearly as bothered as Harper.
“This must be your worst nightmare, huh?” I ask, and he slides those gray eyes of his in my direction. A smile grabs the edge of that wicked mouth of his.
“My worst nightmare? Hardly. More like yours.” Tristan turns to look at me, reaching out to straighten my tie. His fingers brush across the tops of my breasts, and my breath leaves me in a rush. Harper is staring at us, eyes flaming, like I’m the girl standing between her and her intended future fiancé. Ironically, I might be the only girl in the class that Tristan hasn’t slept with. “If we didn’t have our little bet, I’d destroy you.” He pauses, considering. “Although I suppose that somehow, even with your piss poor public school education, you excel academically. I figured you were fucking some of the professors, but I don’t imagine you run to Mrs. Z’s tastes.” He glances toward the front of the room where Harper is now standing, arguing with Mrs. Z in hushed, angry tones.
“That’s such an ignorant, misogynistic thing to say, I’m not even going to comment.” I open my laptop and download next week’s lab materials, opening the documents up and scanning the experiment as Tristan watches me.
“How do you do so well? If you’re not screwing anyone, then what is it? Pity? Affirmative action?”
“Try hard work and determination,” I snap, slamming the top on my computer closed. My eyes meet Tristan’s, but it’s hard to hold his stare. He’s just so … ugh. He’s got this cavalier attitude toward me that started on day one. Also, he’s too pretty for his own good. The worst part is that he’s fully aware of his looks. “Getting into this school was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I spent my entire eighth grade year gunning for this scholarship and this position.”
