“The name’s Marnye,” I say, my voice edging dangerously close to a growl. I can take a lot of shit, but I’ve already had my fill for the day. “And yeah, I do know what that is: a bunch of bullshit propaganda perpetuated by the super-rich to explain why they eat cake and everyone else suffers.”
“Aw,” Harper purrs, pouting her perfectly painted pink lips, “look at you, so smart, using a Marie Antoinette reference.” She leans in toward me, her sweet vanilla-peach smell making me sick. “If you think you’ve got what it takes, bring your pitchforks, peasant, and take my head.” With a laugh like sparkling water, Harper stands back up and flips her hair over her shoulder.
And there it is, the supreme hair flip. She executed it perfectly; it suits her.
I knew we were never going to get along.
Harper brushes past me, glancing down at the guy on the windowsill, Greg.
“No Working Girls in the Gallery,” she says, and he nods, raising his eyebrows at Miranda as she sputters and flushes. When she turns to me, I hold up a hand to stop her from trying to explain.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, stepping back. “I get it.” I turn around and head back down the hallway, leaving the way I came and making for the crowd jostling to get into the chapel.
“Hey!” Miranda calls after a moment, running after me and pausing to pant when she catches up. Her face is firm with resolve. “I’ll sit with you today.”
A smile lights my face and warmth fills my chest.
That’s when I know we’re going to be friends for sure.
Based on how things are going, she very well might be the only one I’ll have.Burberry Prep isn’t a religious school, but it used to be, and while the crosses have been removed, a bit of Catholic flair remains in the rows of pews, the raised dais, the stained glass windows, and the nooks that used to house saints and now house kissing teenagers.
With so many people crammed into the church-turned-auditorium, the air feels charged with excitement and anticipation for the upcoming school year. I wish I could share in it, but all of my enthusiasm has been snatched away—and fast. I didn’t expect to get my spirit crushed for a few weeks yet.
“I’m really sorry about how the morning’s gone,” Miranda whispers, her jaw clenched tight, fingers teasing the hem of her skirt. She glances over at me and forces a smile. “Honestly, it’s my fault for drawing their attention to you. I’ll get them off your back though, I swear it.”
“Your fault?” I ask, raising both brows. “This is nowhere near your fault. That Tristan guy started it when he decided to be a jerk to me this morning.” Don’t think about that girl’s swollen lips, her clothes all askance, Tristan’s triumphant smirk … “And don’t worry, I expected it.” Pausing, I give Miranda a critical look. I’m not judging, but I’m curious to understand why she’s so keen on making friends with me when her peers act like they’d enjoy seeing me drawn and quartered. “Could I ask you why you’re so interested in being friends with me anyway?” Raising my hands, I continue before Miranda can get her feelings hurt. “Not that I’m not grateful or anything. Seriously, meeting you has been the highlight of my week.”
Just before I packed up and got shipped out here, I had a pretty shitty birthday week at home. Dad was drinking again, so badly that I almost didn’t leave. I almost stayed to take care of him, but I guess I’m too selfish to give up an opportunity like this. It was Mom’s fault, I think, resisting the urge to give into that old anger. First time in almost a year that she shows up at our doorstep and it’s right before I leave. Every time he has a chance encounter with that woman, Dad falls off the wagon. She told me to thank her for redshirting me as a child (delaying my start in kindergarten until age six), handed off a stack of presents for my fifteenth birthday, and scattered like leaves in the fall wind.
“I …” Miranda starts, pausing briefly and exhaling. She lifts her blue eyes to mine. “Did Mom tell you her story?” She asks, and I nod. I know all about Kathleen Cabot and her rise to the top of the tech industry and the Forbes Most Powerful Women in America list. “How about the part where she had Creed and me, and then moved into Grenadine Heights and sent us to public school?”
My eyebrows go up, and I think my mouth opens in shock. Kathleen Cabot is worth billions, and she moved to Grenadine Heights? Sure, compared to the train car my father lives in (don’t ask, long story), it’s a little ritzy, but most people would call it straight-up middle-class. And public school, huh?
