“Nice wigs,” I say, and Kiara seriously throws herself at me. Zack catches her and shoves her back, making her stumble in her heels.
“Don’t touch my fucking girlfriend, or you’ll see how quickly I break that no violence rule of hers. See, she’s a real class act. Me, I’m a fucking asshole. I’m not afraid to talk about your daddy’s affairs, or the three young pregnant women suing him for child support.”
“Shut your goddamn mouth!” Kiara snaps, hissing under her breath. There’s a trio of Pleb girls onstage whose music is loud enough to drown out our fight. Of course there are zero staff members back here. Makes me wonder how many of the teachers Harper’s paid to look the other way.
But then Mrs. Amberton and Ms. Highland come in from outside, a weepy Ebony Peterson standing between them. I have no idea what ruse she’s pulling, but she scowls as soon as she sees me.
“Where did all of these fireworks come from?” Mrs. Amberton asks, her gaze flying up to meet mine. She seems genuinely concerned which is nice. I make myself smile.
“One of the first year boys dropped a box of them and took off,” Harper says, fanning herself. Her bodysuit is so tight, she’s got a camel toe. Swear on my life, I couldn’t make that up if I tried. Her wig is clearly expensive, made of real human hair, and as glossy and shiny as Miranda’s real hair.
First opportunity I get, I’m snatching it off.
The song playing onstage peters out, and we can hear the crowd clapping.
“Harper du Pont and the Bluebloods,” Mr. Carter announces, and I roll my eyes. Ex-Bluebloods is more like it.
“Break a leg,” Zayd purrs as the girls strut past him. “Literally, please. I want to see some bone.”
“Eat shit, Zayd,” Becky growls as she saunters past.
“Hey,” Zack says, taking me by the elbow. “Go sit in the audience with Miranda, okay?”
I give him a look.
“Remember our little conversation?” Windsor asks, spinning the wooden sword in a circle as the Company boys look on suspiciously. I think the prince might actually be able to kick their asses with it if he wanted to. That is, until he gets a scolding and a mark from Ms. Highland for messing with props he’s not supposed to be touching.
“Our turn to play dirty,” Zayd whispers, pushing me toward the stairs.
I do as he asks, taking the seat between Miranda and Lizzie.
The stage lights darken, and the song starts up. Slowly, the spotlight fades to life and Harper turns around, grabbing the microphone and singing Mariah’s notes in a fairly impressive imitation of the famous song. I guess there’s a reason she’s head of the choir.
Once she starts dancing however, I can’t keep the giggles back.
“She looks like a deranged snow bunny,” I whisper, and both Miranda and Lizzie join in. The other girls—Becky, Ileana, Abigail, Valentina, Kiara, Mayleen, Anna, and Ebony—join in with a choreographed dance, taking up mics of their own.
The whole thing is just … it’s hilarious. I’m sorry, I try not to belittle others, but the girls tried to kill me, so I figure they’re fair game for an honest critique.
About halfway through the song, when I’m pretty sure I just can’t take it anymore … nine Pleb boys that I barely recognize appear from behind the curtain, moving up behind the girls while they’re busy singing and focusing on the audience.
Wigs get snatched, and there’s chaos, the song playing in the background with the faintest hint of Mariah’s vocals crooning through the speakers. Harper’s pterodactyl screech echoes in her mic just before the boys retreat back like they’re expecting something more.
That’s when viscous red pours down from above, coating the Harpies from head-to-toe as they scream.
This time though, I don’t think it’s paint. Creed wasn’t lying. No, my boys have gone full-out: this is blood.
The whole room is silent as the song nears the end, and Tristan and Creed appear from the opposite side of the auditorium, sliding surreptitiously into two empty seats. Zack, Windsor, and Zayd come out just after, sitting on the end of the front row about ten seats down from me.
Harper is standing there panting and shaking, her girls on either side of her, most of them crying.
The curtain tumbles down in front of them, and there are panties pinned all over it.
Holy … freaking crap.
The music fades out, and the auditorium bursts into laughter.It’s a good thing I go out of town for the cheer competition: blood is being shed at Burberry Prep. Now, when I took revenge, I let them hang themselves with their own rope. My boys … are definitely stretching the rules a bit with their creativity. They chisel cruelty into flawless perfection much the same way as a sculptor chips at marble or stone.
