There’s supposed to watch.
During first year, they ruined my harp solo.
Now, they’re going to sit here and listen to me play. Closing my eyes, I work through my emotions with the music, teasing the strings with my fingertips and letting the sound echo around the old casino. When I open them again, I see Isabella watching me from the corner. Even with her masquerade mask on, I know who she is.
I won’t give up on her.
Even if she made that bet … she can talk to Charlie. It’s not breaking a bet: it’s losing one. I want her to want to lose. She doesn’t need to be a part of the Infinity Club.
When I finish my song, I stand up and look out to see a glittering array of masks watching me with interest.
“Welcome to Burberry Prep,” I tell the other students, breathing hard. “My name is Marnye Reed, and I’m a fucking Idol. There’ll be no bullying at school—period. If I hear word of it, don’t think I won’t see you punished.” I snap my dress out and move over to the row of boys waiting beside my makeshift stage.
Even with their masks on, I can tell them apart. And it’s not just because of their very obvious costumes. No, it’s because of their eyes.
“Now we waltz,” I say, and Miranda starts up the music again. I’ve been practicing all week with her after school, just for this. Because, well, even though I’m a pretty crappy dancer and probably always will be, with all the cheerleading practices, I’ve gotten better. I can manage a song or two.
“Milady,” Windsor starts, grabbing me by the hand and spinning me out onto the dance floor, pumpkins glowing all around, dim strands of twinkle lights overhead. He turns us around the floor like, well, a prince would. Even in the floofy pink dress, he knows what he’s doing, and when I close my eyes, he leads as effortless as he breathes.
After a single pass around the room, he hands me over to Zack. He’s not nearly as good of a dancer, but his arms are strong and thick, and when he holds me close, I feel safe. His mask is black, with a hooked beak, lending a very severe expression to that handsome face.
We don’t talk.
I don’t talk with any of the boys.
Instead, I keep switching partners.
Creed is next, and it’s obvious he knows what he’s doing, too. He dances the way he moves, like he’s simply lounging with me in his arms, spinning and twirling us under the broken chandelier with the fake spiderwebs on it.
By the time I get to Zayd, everyone’s watching us.
Even though this is a waltz, he makes it as sensual as that dirty grinding we did at Becky Platter’s party three years ago.
Once I’m all hot and bothered, I trade him out for Tristan. The waltz hits a crescendo as he takes me into the center of the room, holding me close and saying nothing. Our eyes meet, our fingers curl together, and our feet swish across the old worn floors, my white dress billowing around the tight black pants and boots he’s wearing. He has a crown, too, a king’s crown.
The music rises sharply, announcing its finale, and Tristan dips me hard, so low that my short hair nearly touches the floor. And then, he lowers his lips to mine and gives me a fairy-tale kiss with only a hint of darkness edging all that sweet.
After that, Billie Eilish’s you should see me in a crown comes on. It’s so appropriate, I just pause, letting Tristan lift me back up to my feet. We stand there and let everyone in that room get a good, long look at us.
We don’t have any problems from any of the Plebs, not after that.When I walk into the gym, I find Creed and Windsor fencing.
They’re both soaked in sweat, dressed in that padded white gear, but lacking any helmets. My practical side wars briefly with my fascination, and I end up sitting quietly on a bench in the back, just admiring their forms as they square off.
With the tips of their swords—rapiers? I don’t know, sorry, just not a fencing expert—crossed, the boys stare at each other across the mat. Creed’s blue eyes bore into Windsor’s hazel ones. The prince looks as prepared and on top of things as he always does, but Creed’s shed his sexy sloth persona, dropping into that fierce fighting style of his that I’ve only seen on a few occasions.
“You’re bloody good,” Windsor tells him, a bead of sweat running down the side of his face. His eyes flick briefly over Creed’s shoulder and land on mine before bouncing right back to his opponent’s. “Honestly, your form is better than mine, but when you get mad, you get impulsive.”
