Stuck With The Four Hotties

For the next several weeks, it seems the Idols are content to watch and wait. But if they think they’ve beaten me that easily, they’ve got another thing coming. At Lower Banks Middle School, a stunt like that would’ve been met with closed fists and blood spatter. I’m not saying I’m going to start a full-on brawl with the Idols (surely the cowards would gang up on me, and I’d lose), but watching that book burn, while upsetting, was not the final nail in my coffin.

“Parents’ Week starts on Monday,” Miranda says, settling beside me in the ‘cafeteria’. Not exactly the best descriptor for this place. That word denotes red plastic trays, pizza on paper plates, and long lines. This is … nicer than the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been to. The sign outside says ‘Dining Area’, but the students here just call it The Mess. “Are yours coming?”Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

I take a bite of my pasta, and try not to wonder how much this plate cost the scholarship fund.

“My dad should be here,” I hedge, trying to decide how best to describe my mom. The full truth is too hard to say aloud; it cuts like a knife, and I’m already bleeding from the scene on the yacht. “My mom … remarried and moved.” Yeah, aFross town. From the trailer park to a mansion. “She lives in Grenadine Heights actually, with my sister.”

“You have a sister?” Miranda asks, her glossy pink lips parting in surprise. “Would I know her?” I shrug my shoulders in response because the last thing

I want to say is: maybe, but I don’t. “And how did I not know you had a sister?” she continues when I stuff my mouth with more pasta.

As Miranda frowns at me, Andrew stops by our table and pulls up an extra chair. Pretty sure he and Miranda have been getting into trouble for hanging around with me, and yet, they still do. I’m starting to wonder if I might actually be making real friends with the pair of them.

“You have a sister?” he repeats as I sigh and swallow my food, picking up my water glass and staring at the clinking ice cubes.

“Her name’s Isabella. But she’s three years younger than us. She just started sixth grade at Grenadine Heights Middle School.” I take a drink of my water and hope this story ends here. Now I’m kicking myself for bringing my mom up at all. See what I mean? I’ve already got that tight, sick feeling in my stomach.

“Isabella Carmichael?” Miranda asks, and I feel that tight feeling get even tighter, like a knot with a chokehold around my stomach. “Yeah, I remember her. I think I had her in one of my art groups, like when they pair older kids up with younger ones.” She shrugs and raises a perfectly arched blond brow at me. “I still don’t know how I’ve been friends with you for weeks and haven’t heard about your sister.”

“Maybe because I’ve never met her?” I blurt out, and both Andrew and Miranda share a look. Standing abruptly, I turn and slam into the firm body of Creed Cabot. He puts his hands on my shoulders, and my skin burns, even through the fabric of my black academy jacket. He scoots me back a space, and turns his attention to his sister.

My gaze lifts to his cold, cruel face, his porcelain skin and angelic hair. And those eyes of his, like chips of ice, blue but cold as winter. His heavy lidded expression makes him look bored and tired, like at any moment he might just lie down and take a nap like a cat.

“Tristan wanted me to talk to you about something,” he says, his voice cocksure and drawling, like it’d be too much to speak up or enunciate. For a split-second, I think he’s talking to me which is just stupid because, like, why would he be? He’s staring at his sister, but he hasn’t bothered to take a step back from me. We’re so close that if I were to breathe in deep, my breasts would brush up against the slightly rumpled fabric of his white shirt. “Do you have a second? Or are you too busy giving charity to the working class?”

“I don’t have anything to talk about with you,” Miranda says, flicking a glance in Andrew’s direction. He pretends not to notice, but I swear, there’s something going on here that I’m not getting. It’s bugging the crap out of me, but I’m afraid to ask. These two are the only ones in the whole school that I feel comfortable with, and I refuse to mess that up. “Not when you’re treating Marnye like she doesn’t exist.”

“Oh, I’m aware she exists,” he says, still looking at his sister, and lifting long fingers up to tousle his white-blonde hair. “Trust me: we’re all very aware she’s here.” He turns his attention over to me, and I’m forced to take a step back. Just the weight of his stare is enough, like a physical push to the chest. “What I don’t understand is why she’s still here.”

“She is standing right in front of you,” I grind out, remembering Creed’s face on the yacht, his bored, almost put-out expression as Tristan torched the book. “You can throw whatever you want at me. I might bend, but I won’t break.”

In a flash, Creed’s long fingers are on my chin, lifting my face to look at him. My skin, where his fingertips touch it, tingles and burns. Swallowing down a lump, I force myself to look him straight in the face.

“Made of stronger stuff, hmm?” he asks, tilting my head from side to side like he’s studying me. I slap his hand away, and take another step back. The way his mouth twists to the side in an arrogant smile is disturbing, so self- assured and cocky. I’d love to see it wiped right off of his face.

“You should’ve read her scholarship essay,” Miranda interjects, rising to her feet. I’m aware that the entire room is focused on our confrontation. “Marnye is a class-act, unlike you. I know Mom and Dad have given up on you, but I expected better.” She moves around the table and grabs my arm, dragging me away as her brother tucks his fingers into his slacks pockets, watching us with narrowed eyes.

But if I cowered every time one of the Idols looked at me like a bug to be crushed under their expensive loafers, I’d already be enrolled in Lower Banks High and long-gone from Burberry Prep Academy.

My dad’s been purposely avoiding my calls. I haven’t been able to talk to him once since I got here. Instead, I get missed calls and vague voicemails. Pretty sure he’s been drinking again, but there’s nothing I can do from here, a day’s drive away and trapped in a hell of my own.

Parents’ Week is supposed to start off with a special breakfast, and a speech from both the dean and the infamous Kathleen Cabot. My dad-and by proxy, me-has already missed that. I’m the last student sitting in the front courtyard, waiting for her parents to show up.

Well, second to last, really.

Zayd Kaiser leans against the stone wall of Tower Two, arms crossed over his chest, green eyes focused on the horizon. They’re devoid of expectation as he watches the winding road and taps his inked fingers against the leg of his slacks.