Talk about trying too hard; no amount of money could make that guy cool.
“You can’t do this!” Mark shouts, gesturing at the boys with his new locker assignment—as far from mine as possible on the Adamson Academy campus. “I’ve had that locker since freshman year.”
I stand to the side, clutching the council iPad, and trying not to enjoy Mark’s pain.
Then again, he did try to kidnap me in a cemetery, so I guess I’m justified in feeling a bit smug about it.
“We actually can and did,” Church says, sitting in his throne, right behind his shiny President sign. The other boys all have these languid, self-satisfied smirks going that are about a hundred times worse than the ones they wore when I initially stormed in here complaining about my locker. “We’ve also just gotten the headmaster to sign off on moving your work duty from the chicken coop and garden, into the kitchen.”
“So, you just suck up to your daddy and get whatever you want, huh?” Mark asks, sneering at me. What I find ironic about his statement is, my dad doesn’t do shit for me when I suck up. And Mark’s dad bought him a private jet for his sixteenth birthday (the boys told me this). So if anyone is getting favors from daddy, it isn’t me.
“Actually, Headmaster Carson, in all of his infinite wisdom, has noticed the tension brewing between us and thought it best if we didn’t interact. You’ll be washing dishes and helping serve food three days a week.” Church taps his fingers on the surface of the table, clearly ready to be finished with this conversation.
“I’m not the fucking help!” Mark roars, and my blood starts to boil. Thoughts of Mom come rushing into my brain and I take a challenging step forward.
“You’re right, you’re not the help. You’re less than the leftover meatloaf that you’ll be scraping from pans in the school kitchen. Any one of those people working in there is a better person than you, you spoiled rotten little brat.”
Mark starts toward me, but all five boys rise in unison and he stops, fully aware of what they’re capable of.
“We’ve changed your dorm assignment as well,” Church continues as Micah, the acting Secretary of the council, scribbles something down on a piece of paper and hands it to me. I pass the notarized dorm assignment form over to Mark, and he gapes at it.
“You’re putting me with that loser science geek from first period?” he says, completely aghast, like this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. He looks up, and I wonder briefly how I thought he was even remotely handsome. Like, I think I was trying to be nice when I said he could be if he didn’t have such a rotten personality. In reality, he sort of reminds me of a skunk or a weasel, only with less intelligence and heart than either animal exhibits in the worst of circumstances.
“You tried to murder our girlfriend,” Spencer says, sitting slowly back down in his chair and lounging bonelessly in it, like he owns the place. “Don’t think we’ve forgotten that.”
“All of this because of some practical joke?” Mark scoffs, getting that cocky swagger back in his step as he approaches the table. “The Montagues might have some sway and influence, but my dad plays golf with the POTUS.”
POTUS sounds like the name of a fancy toilet room spray, I think with a small chuckle. Only, I’m not as dumb as Mark, so I know it stands for President of the United States.
“So?” Church asks, cocking his head to one side. “What does that have to do with you trying to kidnap Charlotte from a London cemetery? What was up with that fox mask, by the way.” Church gestures at his face with his hand. “And who were your friends? Maybe if you gave up their names, we could reconsider the dorm room assignment?”
“My father’s going to hear about this,” Mark says, gesturing with the page and then spinning on his heel and storming out the door.
I scurry after him, and lock the main office door after he leaves, just so we can have a moment of privacy before our next appointment.
“It’s been a week and you still haven’t told me how you managed to pull all of this off,” I say, stepping back into the room and leaning against one of the statuesque wooden doors that separates this area from the office. “My birthday is coming up, you know, so …”
“Oh, low blow,” Spencer says, shaking out his hand like I’ve slapped him. “Come, take a seat.” He taps his knee, and I roll my eyes. But then I go over and sit down on his lap anyway because I’m stupidly, madly, over-the-top, filled-with-glitter, in love with this guy. “You know how my dad owns a pharmaceutical company, right?”
