“Plebeian means, like, commoner or peasant,” Miranda continues, huffing and tucking loose strands of platinum blonde behind her ears. It’s so pale, it’s practically white, but when the sun leaks in through the stained glass windows and bathes her in light, it’s angelic, glowing as golden as a halo. “If you’re not an Idol or in the Inner Circle, then you’re a Pleb. Once a Pleb, always a Pleb.” Miranda pauses and lifts her eyes to the ceiling, long dark lashes fluttering. I think she’s got eyelash extensions, but it would be rude to ask. Hell, maybe I’m just jealous and she’s just pretty? “Well, except this one time when Karen Evermeet screwed the soccer coach, and shared the video with the whole school.” Miranda flashes me a model-esque smile. “She went from Pleb to Idol in a day. But that never happens.” Miranda pauses again and then reaches out to ruffle up my hair with her fingers, curling one brunette ringlet next to my face. “I mean, unless you’re into forty-year-old married athletes.”
“Not quite that adventurous, I’m afraid,” I say as Miranda gestures with her chin, and I study the paper again. Tristan Vanderbilt, huh? When I look up, I catch sigh of a bronze plaque labelled Vanderbilt Study Hall. Right. “My family actually built this school, and yet … we still pay to be here. What makes you so special that you should get to come here for free?” Guess he wasn’t joking about that first part. The rest of it … that asshole has no idea how hard I worked to get here.
“Hey, don’t sell yourself short. You have other, more important traits and talents. My mom and I read over a thousand essays before choosing yours.” Miranda studies me as we walk, the rain beating a rhythmic pattern against the stone walkways outside. Somehow though, even though this building’s big and drafty, it’s nice and warm in here. “Must’ve been a lot of hard work, jumping through all those hoops.” Miranda sounds a bit detached when she says that, like her mind’s already long gone to somewhere else.
Me, I’m flushed, and my skin feels suddenly hot. I stop walking and Miranda pauses next to me, blinking the fog from her vision. I knew my essay would be read by ‘qualified student judges’ but … Our eyes meet, and her expression softens. This girl now officially knows everything there is to know about me. She knows my darkest memories, my greatest fears.
“I loved your essay,” she says, reaching out to squeeze my hand, “and I won’t tell anyone what I read. Not only am I seriously desperate to make friends with you, but my mom would kill me. You’ve met her: she’s terrifying.”
My lips curve up in a slight smile, and I squeeze her hand back before letting go.
“I appreciate that,” I say, feeling this new sort of comradery simmer between us. There are things in that essay that could destroy me at Burberry Prep.
We turn another corner, and I wonder if she’s going to get to this piece of paper in my hand before we reach the chapel for the morning announcements. Or, like, if we’re even going to get to the chapel at all. How far did I wander? And how big is this place?!
I mean, I studied the map of Burberry Prep religiously, lying in the hot white heat of summer on my dad’s sun-dead lawn, shades on my eyes, headphones on my ears. I memorized the entire layout, and yet … I’m so turned around I don’t even remember which door I came in. Looking at a flat illustration of something, and walking it in person are two completely different things.
Lifting my head up, I see something that takes my breath away.
Or … more like someone.
“Who the hell is that?” I choke out as my eyes catch on the platinum blond head of the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. He’s lounging in a chair with insouciant disregard, an air of entitled laziness captured in his long limbs. The way he sits there, boneless, bored, but with bright, piercing eyes, it all reminds me of a cat. A lazy, spoiled housecat.
His hair shimmers in the light from outside, bits of sun breaking through the clouds. Outside, there’s a rainbow stretching across campus that I can just barely see through the glass, but it’s nowhere near as beautiful as the guy in the loose tie and half-tucked shirt. He’s still crisp, still polished and put-together, but with an air of effortlessness that Tristan Vanderbilt doesn’t have. Nah, that guy has a stick shoved so far up his ass, he could never luxuriate across a chair the way this one does.
“That,” Miranda starts as the boy’s ice-colored eyes swing our way, “is my twin brother: Creed Cabot.”
