Shunned: a reverse harem bully romance (Kings of Miskatonic Prep Book 1)

by Steffanie Holmes

  “Stop staring at them,” Loretta hissed. “You’ll draw attention to us.”

  “You mean more than this stupid parents’ event already does?” I growled, because surely the school knew how insensitive this could be for people like us, who’d lost our parents. Of course they knew, they just didn’t care. We were there to make them look good, end of.

  “Personally, I’m enjoying myself,” Greg said. “It’s fascinating to listen on these conversations. Some of the most powerful people in the world are standing in this room. The deals made over handshakes at these events could change our future.”

  Beside him, Andre nodded. Because of his disability, Andre was always listening. Last week in the library I asked him if he ever got sick of just listening all the time. He wrote me back a note that said, “Sometimes. But then I think about all the things I’ve learned because I’m not wasting my energy trying to think up a reply.” Andre was wiser than all of us.

  “They’re also dicks,” I said, watching Quinn’s dad hold a glass of Champagne for the other woman to drink from his hand. He spilled a little into her cleavage, licked his fingers, and ran it over her breast, right in front of his wife. Quinn’s mouth set in a firm line, but he kept on making his mother laugh.

  “No argument,” Greg said, flashing me a knowing look. Loretta glanced between the two of us, suspicion in her eyes.

  As we left the hall, Greg winked at me and patted his bag. While the rest of the students and parents headed toward the main academic wing for the morning activities, Greg ducked away to the locker room, where the lacrosse team had already stashed their clothing prior to the game.

  I didn’t see Greg again until our performance. He waved at me from across the wings, and my chest burst with pride. Despite being the leads in the production, Greg and I were placed in the chorus for today because we didn’t have any family attending. We danced and sang our hearts out in the back row, and pulled faces at each other from the wings.

  At the end of our performance, all the parents clapped. Except for Trey’s dad. When Trey and Ayaz walked off the stage, I overheard Vincent Bloomberg II say, “You were excellent, Ayaz. Trey, I can see all that money I spent on voice tutors was wasted. No wonder you didn’t win the lead.”

  Trey had been note-perfect, sweat trailing down his gorgeous face as he performed a complex dance routine. His dad was even more dicksome than his son.

  I had to leave to race to the next classroom, where Ayaz and I were giving a short report about the Salem witch trials. Greg shot me a thumbs up and darted off to his next activity.

  We’re on.

  Ayaz was already in the classroom, setting up our display. While I’d spent the week writing up our report, he’d completed five beautiful pen and ink drawings of the trials and of some of our observations about their importance across history. My mouth dropped when he showed me the final products. They were amazing. They looked like they should be in an art gallery, not part of a history assignment where they’d barely get a second glance.

  “These are incredible,” I breathed, holding one up to the light. “You’ve got to mention that you drew these. We’ll probably get extra points. I’ll do it if you feel weird about it—”

  “I’ll do the talking,” Ayaz snapped, snatching the drawing from my hand. “It’s me they’re here to see. You just stand aside like a charity case so they can feel as though their money is going to a worthy cause.”

  Not even Ayaz’s comments could get me down today, and since we’d already been given 5 merit points each for agreeing to give the presentation, I let him talk the parents through it. In the front row, Trey’s parents stood side by side, both beaming at Ayaz. Was that weird? When it came time for questions, a hand shot up at the back of the room. Trey. He looked his dad straight in the eye and asked, “Don’t you think that by focusing on the female victims and using the medieval witch archetypes you’re playing into a feminist agenda? Four of the victims of the trials were men, and let’s not forget Reverend Parris, turned mad with guilt for acting out the will of his parish and the laws of his church.”

  At the mention of Parris’ name, I noticed several parents in the room stiffened. They must hate being reminded of the school’s sordid past. I was glad we hadn’t focused on the connection in our presentation today.

  Ayaz’s face flushed with anger at Trey’s comment, but he smoothed it over, rattling off an answer that was more profound than anything I could have come up with. Trey’s father beamed at Ayaz, and Trey slunk away before our presentation was finished.

  I couldn’t believe my luck – for whatever reason, the two Kings of the school were competing for the attention of Trey’s father. This is too perfect.

  I could barely contain my excitement as the game drew close and we were directed onto the field. I had to fake an air of nonchalance. The success of our plan relied on no one figuring out we were behind it.

  At the side of the field, the fathers pulled on special polo shirts with DERLETH ACADEMY ALUMNI embroidered on them. Both Vincent Bloomberg II and Damon Delacorte were playing. They laughed and slapped each other’s shoulders and called out friendly insults to their sons across the field.

  On the other side of the field, Trey gathered the team together in a huddle. From his gestures, I gathered he was discussing tactics, but he had to stop every few moments to adjust his shorts. I couldn’t see Ayaz from this angle but I hoped he was doing the same.

  Greg slumped down beside me, a wide smile on his face. “What are you so happy about?” I asked, elbowing him in the arm.

  “Don’t be silly, Hazel. I’m always happy to cheer on our school. Go team!” Greg yelled as Trey and his teammates jogged past. I leaned into Greg’s shoulder to hide my giggle. Trey’s hand flew to his crotch, and his head whipped over his shoulder at us. I gave him my best wide-eyed innocent look, and as soon as he turned back to the field, I stifled my laugh into Greg’s shoulder.

  Vincent Bloomberg II was elected as his team captain, so he faced off against Trey in the center of the field. Coach Carter placed the ball on the ground between them, stepped back, and blew the whistle.

  Sticks whirled through the air. Trey reached the ball first, and he swung to pick it up with his net. His body listed to the side as his other hand flew to his crotch, and he ended up whacking the ball across the ground. His dad scooped it up and ran toward his goal. The midfielders raced after him. Vincent passed the ball to Quinn’s dad, who sidestepped another student and hurled the ball at the goal.

  Ayaz was in the goal. He reached up to block the ball, but as he did, his face contorted with agony, and his shoulder dropped. The ball glanced off the edge of his stick before bouncing inside the goal.

  Dads 1, Students 0.

  Trey trudged back to the center of the field. His teammates called encouragement. His dad sneered. “Clearly, this school’s team isn’t what it used to be if you’re the best they’ve got.”

  The whistle blew. Vincent got the ball again. Trey’s face reddened. He flung his stick up, swinging it like a baseball bat at his dad. Only he’d miscalculated and instead of hitting his Dad’s stick, he brought the swing down on his helmet.

  “Slash!” called Coach Carter. “Bloomberg, you’re off for five.”

  “Don’t you know the rules?” his father’s taunts followed him. “You’re a disgrace, Trey. Don’t even bother getting back on the field. Your team won’t miss you.”

  Trey slumped off the field. On the bench, he ripped off his helmet, threw it on the ground, and sat down and shoved his hands in his shorts. His face scrunched up in pain as he scratched and scratched.

  Greg and I struggled to hold in our laughter. Loretta glanced over at us with a frown. “Did you guys have something to do with this?”

  “Who us?” I said angelically. “We wouldn’t dare. Why risk the wrath of the Kings? Trey’s probably got an STI.”

  Greg spluttered with laughter. Loretta shot us both a filthy look. “They’ll figure out it’s you. They
’ll kill you for this.”

  They’ve already tried.

  I focused my attention on the field, not wanting to miss a single moment of sweet revenge. Ayaz was having his own problems. He was so busy itching that he missed two easy goals. By the time the first quarter was over, the Dads were winning 4 to 0.

  Trey was allowed back on in the second half, but they’d switched him out from the prime position to left midfield. He stood only ten feet or so from where we were sitting. Every few seconds, his hand drifted to his crotch. He slapped it away, his face twisting with agony.

  “Trey, stop scratching your balls and play!” his father yelled.

  Trey’s cheeks reddened. He jogged back on the field, but a few minutes later, he was scratching himself again. The rest of the game was a massacre. After a while, even the Queens stopped jumping around like fools, bearing their team’s defeat in stunned silence.

  The fathers won, eighteen points to two. I didn’t have to understand lacrosse to know that Trey’s team had taken a thrashing. The other dads patted Vincent Bloomberg II on the back. He accepted their praise with a greedy smile.

  Damon Delacorte placed his arm around Quinn’s shoulder and led him off the field. He flashed a playful smile at his son, which I expected Quinn to return. Instead, he stiffened up and stared at his shoes.

  As soon as the players started heading for the lockers, Vincent stalked over to face his son. “You’re a disgrace to this family,” he snarled, grabbing Trey by the collar. Trey’s expression never faltered – he still wore the same stone-faced look he wore. But his eyes flashed with hate.

  “I don’t think this was his fault,” Ayaz said from behind Trey. “It might be a practical joke—”

  “Of course it’s his fault.” Vincent glared at his son. “I’m just sorry you were dragged into this, Ayaz. Clearly, Trey isn’t in control of this school. This never would have happened if his brother was here.”

  “Well, he’s not here,” Trey snarled, his voice dripping with hate. He slammed his arm into his father’s hand, breaking his grip. He staggered back, his shoulders tensed, his hands balled into fists. “You decided I was the one who would stay behind while Wilhem went on to glory.”

  “Don’t you dare speak of those things here,” Vincent’s eyes flashed back, the ice in them even. “You know what’s at stake. Do your duty to your family, and you will be rewarded. Embarrass me again, and you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

  He turned on his heel and stalked off toward the lockers. Trey watched him leave, his shoulders sagging. Ayaz placed a hand on his arm, but Trey shrugged it away.

  Quinn came running over, his head bent low and a hoodie pulled tight around his face. In what had to be the most perfectly serendipitous moment ever, he had his sports bag slung over his shoulder. I leaned forward, my hand finding Greg’s and squeezing it.

  “What happened, man?” Quinn dumped down his bag in front of Trey. “You were itching like crazy out there. It was hilarious. People are saying you have an STI.”

  “I don’t want to fucking talk about it,” Trey growled, his hands still balled into fists.

  Quinn shrugged. His hand tugged on his hood, pulling it even lower over his face. “It was just a game. It doesn’t matter.”

  “That so?” Trey leaned forward and shoved the hood off Quinn’s head. I gasped as I saw the swelling around Quinn’s eye. In a few hours that would turn seriously black. Who had hit him, and why?

  Quinn dipped his head low. He grabbed the edge of the hoodie from Trey and yanked it over his head. “Fuck you,” he whispered.

  Trey looked like he was going to say something else, but Ayaz stepped forward and nudged Quinn’s bag with his toe. Beer cans and snack bars tumbled out onto the grass, along with a familiar-looking jar.

  “Quinn, what are those in your bag?” Ayaz frowned.

  “Huh?”

  Ayaz kicked the bag, and a second jar rolled out onto the grass. “Those. What are they?”

  Quinn stared down at his open bag in confusion.

  “Just snacks and refreshments from my personal stash. Here, I brought you one, too. It was meant to be a celebratory drink, but you can use it to drown your sorrows. Hey…” he picked up one of the jars of powder. “What the fuck is this?”

  Trey grabbed it from his hands, uncorked the cap, and sniffed the dark powder. He instantly broke into a sneezing fit. “Quinn…” he choked. “You bastard.”

  “What?”

  “You put fucking itching powder in our fucking shorts!” Trey yelled. “How old are you, five?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Of course you did. Who else in this school would do something so juvenile, knowing that all our parents were watching? You didn’t just embarrass Ayaz and me in front of Dad, but you embarrassed the whole school. If you don’t think there’s going to be consequences, then you’re even stupider than I thought.” Trey upturned the entire container of powder over Quinn’s head.

  Shit.

  Quinn’s face registered surprise. The powder streaked his cheeks and stuck to his lips and eyebrows. He reached up to swipe at his eyes, and then he started to scream.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Quinn’s scream tore across the field. Parents and students raced over. The coach blew his whistle.

  “It burns,” Quinn yelled, clutching his face and tearing at his skin. Dark powder clung to his hair and smeared across his cheeks. And his eyes… oh god, his eyes…

  Trey’s face turned white. “Shit, Quinn.” He reached out to grab his friend’s shoulder, but Quinn flailed wildly, shoving him in the stomach. Trey staggered away, his eyes wide in horror.

  “I can’t see. I can’t—”

  Quinn fell to his knees, scraping at his face, his body trembling. His mother rushed over and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, screaming at someone to help him. Headmistress West sprinted across the field, her Morticia Addams gown streaming out behind her.

  “Call an ambulance!” Quinn’s mother screamed.

  “Do stop sniveling, woman,” Damon Delacorte drawled. He stood on the edge of the field, his arms swinging at his sides like he didn’t have a care in the world. “He’s just being dramatic, the way he always is.”

  The last time I’d seen Quinn, he’d been heading off the field with his dad, and then he came back with that shiner…

  Headmistress West picked up the jar and sniffed the contents. Her nose wrinkled and she gave a loud, unladylike sneeze. “Ah, I think some students have been playing a prank. The nurse should be able to handle this.”

  “I’m blind!” Quinn wailed.

  Trey’s shoulders sagged as he watched them drag Quinn away. Ayaz moved beside him, but Trey shrugged him off and stormed away toward the lockers.

  My stomach twisted up in knots. I remembered what Greg had said about how he had to wear a face mask and goggles while he ground the itching powder. If too much got in his eyes or nose it could cause permanent damage.

  Permanent damage.

  I wanted the Kings to suffer the way they’d made me and the other scholarship students suffer, but I didn’t want Quinn to go blind.

  I stood up, dusting grass clippings from my skirt. “I’m going inside.”

  Greg lifted an eyebrow. “Want to gloat up-close?”

  “Something like that.” I circled around the groups of gathered parents, dodging wait staff offering canapés and more glasses of Champagne. I noticed Quinn’s dad grabbing two glasses. One couldn’t have been for his wife, because she’d hurried off to the nurse’s station. Which was exactly where I was going.

  From the atrium, I headed into the administrative wing, following Mrs. Delacorte’s wails to the nurse’s station at the end of a long corridor. I peered around the door, not wanting to barge in if the nurse needed space.

  Quinn lay on a hospital bed, clutching his face and howling. The nurse – a portly black woman with a kind face who the students called Old Waldron – was making up an eye bath, while Quinn’
s mother wiped at the powder on his face and hair with a damp cloth, her face screwing up as she got it all over her own skin.

  Trey’s parents stood beside the bed, watching Quinn with worried expressions. Courtney and her parents were there as well, and her dad was speaking in a loud voice about how they shouldn’t give Quinn any medicine, because the FDA deliberately suppressed actual cures in order to line the pockets of the pharmaceutical industry, and would in fact make Quinn worse.

  “Dad, just shut up!” Courtney yelled. “My boyfriend could be blinded, so no one cares about your crackpot theories!”

  At the word ‘boyfriend,’ Quinn’s mother flinched, but she kept on wiping Quinn’s face without saying a word.

  “Open your eyes and hold this over them,” Old Waldron instructed, trying to pry Quinn's hand away.

  “Don’t hurt him!” Courtney flew at the bed. As she did, she happened to glance up and see me in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” Courtney sneered.

  “Nothing. I—”

  Quinn’s broken voice punctured the tension in the room. “Hazy? Is that you?”

  Courtney rocketed across the room and shoved me. “Get out. He’s my boyfriend. He doesn’t want you here.”

  “If he doesn’t want me, then why was he making out with me at the party?” I sneered back at her.

  Wrong thing to say. Courtney shrieked and lunged at me, claws raised. Thinking fast, I stepped back into the hallway and slammed the door in her face. She slammed her fist into the glass. “Next time, that’s your face, bitch.”

  I backed away, my stomach all knotted up. Quinn, I know you can’t hear me, but I really hope you’re okay. I didn’t mean for this to happen.

  There was no way I was getting back into that room. But there was one more stop I had to make.

  Trey. I needed to see him. I couldn’t explain why, but when I thought of his white face as his father yelled at him, I knew that I’d unwittingly itched my way into the middle of something dark between them.

  Where would Trey go?

  I knew better than to look for him with his family or back at his room, where anyone might be able to find him. Instead, I thought where I would go if I was King of the school and I wanted to be alone. There were locker rooms on either wing of the school – one to serve the east fields, one for the west. They were using the east field for the match today, so I headed along the west corridor, past the rows of lockers and empty classrooms. I stood outside the locker door and listened.