Bad, Bad Blu Bloods

by Stunich, C. M.

  “You look beautiful,” Zack says, holding out a package wrapped in opalescent paper. It’s very pretty, but I’m loath to take it. Dad is watching though, and I don’t want him to know anything about the Zack situation. It’d just stress him out on top of everything else, and I can tell he’s already pushed to the limit. He looks thinner, paler, and he sleeps a lot more than usual. I’m honestly worried about him, but he seems to like Zack; they’re sort of buddies now. I may as well let Dad keep that relationship. “Just something small. You can open it later, if you want.”

  “Later is good,” I tell him, putting the package on the stove. Zack nods and steps back, leaving room for Charlie and me to step out of the train car. The sky is gray, but the rain hasn’t started yet. Zack has his orange McLaren, but it’s only a two-seater, so we take Dad’s Ford instead.

  Charlie does his best to make conversation on the drive, but it’s not easy, not with the tangible tension between me and Zack.

  When we get to the Railroad Station restaurant—this funky little twenty-four hour diner that’s been here forever—Dad excuses himself to the restroom, and I’m left alone with Zack.

  “You’re crashing my daddy-daughter time,” I whisper, and his narrowed eyes soften slightly.

  “You want me to leave?” he asks, and I nod.

  A long silence follows.

  “Only you’re not going to because your wants and needs are more important than mine,” I whisper, and Zack stiffens up, like I’ve slapped him.

  “Marnye, I want to help,” he says, but I’m already shaking my head.

  “You’ve helped enough, Zack.” I look him straight in the face, and memories flicker across my vision: the bathroom door opening, Zack pulling me into his arms, putting his fingers down my throat. He saved me, but he also pushed me to that point for a bet. How can I ever forgive that? One time, he cornered me outside my math classroom and told me he knew all about my mother, how she didn’t love me enough, how she doted on her other daughter in way she’d never dote on me. My mouth flattens into a thin line. “I don’t know what you’re seeking from me, but if it’s forgiveness, I’m not ready yet.”

  Zack’s mouth tightens, and he looks away for a moment before rising to his feet. I glance back at him, my arms crossed over my chest, and I wait. I don’t actually expect him to leave. He pushes in the chair, tosses down a wad of cash on the table, and then holds up his hand when I try to give it back.

  “Enjoy breakfast with your dad on me,” he says, moving away from the table towards the door. But he stops when he’s behind me, leaning over and putting his cheek so close to mine that I can feel his stubble. His right hand curves over my shoulder and squeezes, sending a swarm of butterflies winging through me. “But … whether you want to deal with me or not, I’m going to destroy those preppy academy pricks for you.”

  “Hypocrite,” I mumble, because it’s the only thing I can think to say. Zack’s hand tightens on my shoulder, and I suck in a sharp breath. “You’re just as bad as they are—maybe worse. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.” Zack presses a sudden kiss to my cheek and my body goes white-hot before my emotions freeze over, and I’m ice-cold on the inside. “Happy birthday, Marnye.” He rises to his feet just as Dad is making his way back from the bathroom. Zack gives him a little wave and then slips out the door, leaving me to answer awkward questions.

  “What happened to Zack?” Charlie asks, taking his seat and then pausing to look at the heaping pile of cash on the table. He whistles and reaches up to adjust his gray fedora. “I think he left a hundred on accident,” he says, and I smile, but I don’t think it was an accident at all.

  But maybe what Zack doesn’t get, and Tristan doesn’t get, Creed, Zayd … money isn’t that important to me. Now, only a truly privileged person will tell you it doesn’t matter: it does. Food, clothing, shelter, security, medical care … Those things require money, but I don’t worship the green. It doesn’t impress me. It doesn’t buy my friendship or my love.

  My throat gets tight.

  “Zack had a thing he forgot about,” I say with a shrug, and while Dad raises an eyebrow, he doesn’t say anything. When our orders come out, I glance at Zack’s plate of pancakes, his empty chair, and I think about his statement: I’m going to destroy those preppy academy pricks for you.

  Only … he’s not. Because that’s my job.

  It’s my job to destroy the Bluebloods of Burberry Prep. Those bad, bad Bluebloods.

  The end of the year prank that left me reeling, it did not go unnoticed by the staff. As Dad grabs some snacks for the drive back to Burberry Preparatory Academy, I head online and look at all the beginning of the year emails with information about classes, school policies … and bullying.

  Burberry Prep is now a zero tolerance campus. Students involved in bullying incidents will be subject to suspension or expulsion depending on the severity of the offense. Respect towards peers and staff is not just encouraged, it is mandatory. If you have any questions regarding this policy, please see Ms. Felton or Principal Collins during their office hours.

  My lips feel suddenly dry, so I push my laptop aside and head over to the printer to grab my class schedule. The no electronics rule will go into effect as soon as I set foot on campus. No, before. Actually, the drivers of the academy-issued cars that travel between the visitors’ lot and the school, they’re the ones that take the phones.

  “They may as well post my name right there on the front page for everyone to see,” I grumble as I grab the page, give it a quick glance, and pull some lip balm out of the drawer on my side table. My bags are packed, my heart is in my throat, and I’m ready.

  I’m ready.

  I can do this.

  My phone pings, and I turn it over to see a text from Miranda.

  Can we talk sometime today?

  My palms feel suddenly sweaty, and I tuck my phone into the front of my leather bookbag.

  Miranda’s been out of the country most of the summer, but this isn’t the first text I’ve received from her. Actually, she’s sent me several. I’ve replied, but barely. We clearly aren’t friends again yet. I mean, if we ever will be again.

  Grabbing my bookbag in one hand and my duffel in the other, I head out the door and pause when a white limo pulls across the gravel in front of our house. Dad is standing there watching like he’s as confused as I am.

  The driver parks and climbs out, tipping his hat to me. “Marnye Reed?”

  “That’s me,” I mumble, thoroughly confused and hoping like crazy that none of the guys sent this car. If they did, I’m refusing to get in. But of course, what a stupid thought that is. Why on earth would they send a car to get me unless they wanted to crash it into the ocean?

  “Hey.” Andrew rolls down the window, and my eyes go wide as he waves at me, a half-smile on his face. He looks unsure, as tentative as I feel. “We’re going the same way, so I thought …” The driver moves between us to open the back door, and Andrew climbs out, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. I’m not in my uniform either. Instead, I’ve got on black leggings and a tank top for the drive. I planned on switching clothes in the visitors’ bathroom like I did last year. “I thought you might want a ride.” He tucks his hands into his pockets, the sun catching on his chestnut hair. His blue eyes take in the Train Car, my dad, and me with a flicker of something I can’t quite recognize. Pity? It might be pity.

  I sigh.

  “Dad, this is Andrew Payson. Andrew, this is Charlie Reed.” The two men shake hands, but I can see from my dad’s face that he isn’t sure about this. “He wasn’t involved in the prank,” I whisper, and both Charlie and Andrew stiffen slightly.

  “I see.” Dad studies Andrew carefully, like he isn’t quite sure he believes me. I don’t blame him. There were dozens of boys in academy uniforms brandishing my underwear in the crowd. Andrew just wasn’t one of the many. “You’re offering Marnye a ride?”

  “I was on my way through,” he says, glan
cing from my dad to me. “I know Kathleen Cabot offered to send a car, and you refused, but I thought maybe we could talk?”

  My revenge list is burning a hole in my pocket. It still has Andrew’s name on it. There’s a reason for that. I hope it’s the reason he came to talk to me about.

  “I was hoping to spend some time with my dad,” I start, but Charlie’s already smiling and waving me away.

  “It’s okay, honey, you go with your friend. I was actually concerned that the Ford might not make it there anyway.” He takes one of my bags from the dusty driveway and passes it over to the limo’s driver, pulling the duffel from my hand before giving me a huge hug. “We’ll see each other again soon, I promise,” he tells me, and I know he means Parents’ Week. Mm. Like that wasn’t a disaster last year. I still don’t know what set Charlie off. I’m starting to wonder if I ever will. “I want you to have friends,” he tells me, kissing my cheek and stepping back.

  “I love you,” I tell him, and he smiles back at me.

  “I love you, too, honey.” And you’re the only person that does, I think, trying not to let that hollow feeling in my chest take over. Since I made the list, I’ve been determined, almost desperate to get back to Burberry Prep and kick some ass. Standing here right now, saying goodbye to my father, it doesn’t feel quite so simple as that.

  With one last wave, I head over to the limo and slide into the cool, air conditioned back. The seats are sumptuous brown leather, and there’s a TV, a mini-fridge, and some bedding stuffed in the corner. Andrew lets me have the larger bench seat, the one that’s perpendicular to his.

  The driver shuts the door, and we start off, making a slow circle of the Cruz Bay Trailer Park before we’re back on the main street again. Andrew is the first one to break the silence.

  “I would’ve texted you sooner, but my parents put me on a full summer ban from texting, phone calls, and social media.” He pauses and sighs, looking toward the tinted back window. “They found out about …” There’s a long pause, but Andrew doesn’t need to fill in the words. I know what he’s going to say. “They know I was dating a guy.”

  We just stare at each other, and my cheeks go pink. I feel awful about what I did to Miranda and Andrew, but … I’m not entirely sure I was the only one who made mistakes. I’m willing to hear him out, but for now, his name is still on my list. Miranda … I don’t think I could retaliate against her if I wanted to. Besides, unlike every other Blueblood at Burberry Prep, she is not a member of the infamous Infinity Club.

  “Are you in trouble?” I ask, trying to wrap my mind around the concept. What sort of parent would punish their kid for being gay? It’s beyond my scope of understanding. My dad might be dirt poor, but he loves me no matter what. Something as inconsequential as sexual preference could never take that away from me.

  “I’m …” Andrew sighs and slumps back into the seat, closing his eyes. I remember meeting him last year, the things he said. ‘I’m not quite that lucky, and I’m definitely not that gay—unfortunately. Between you and me, most of the girls here are already engaged.’ Mm. Poor Andrew. He was already in hiding. “I’m engaged.”

  “You’re … what?!” I choke out, and start coughing so badly that Andrew ends up grabbing me a cold can of soda from the fridge. I crack the top and take a huge drink as he grimaces.

  “My parents chose a fiancée for me. I either marry her, or I’m cut off and disowned.” He stares at me across the limo like this is the most normal, average thing ever, parents threatening to disown their kids.

  “I’m …” I take a deep breath and set my drink aside. “I’m really sorry.”

  Andrew shrugs his shoulders, but I can see it’s weighing heavily on him.

  “Is it so bad, being …” He trails off, and his eyes widen slightly, like he thinks he might’ve pissed me off.

  “Being poor?” I ask, and he shrugs again. Maybe he’s thinking of following his heart and telling his parents to kiss his ass? Maybe not. But with his education from Burberry Prep, he could go to any college, get a good job … and then he could make his own fortune. “Depends.” Our eyes meet and something passes between us, a flicker of nervous energy. “Did you drug me?”

  Andrew’s mouth opens, and then snaps closed. He looks away sharply.

  When I was making the list, I almost crossed his name out. I did. But then I started thinking about the day my hair was cut. It was hard to remember exactly what happened because every time I try to access those memories, I think about Tristan having sex with Kiara Xiao over the sink in the girls’ bathroom.

  “We had breakfast together that morning,” I say, exhaling and closing my eyes. I don’t really want to know the answer to this question. When I open them again, Andrew’s staring at me. “And I don’t think Miranda did it.”

  “Would you believe I’m sorry about it?” he whispers, and I can feel it, that anger inside of me, like lines of fire ants crawling through my veins, biting me, spurring me to action. “If it makes it any better, I stayed around to make sure they only messed with your hair …”

  “As opposed to what?” I snap, my voice coming out in a growl. This is good practice for me, confronting Andrew. Compared to the Idol boys, he’s a kitten. “I’d been growing my hair out my whole life. I liked my hair.” I reach a hand up to touch the short locks on my head. “I’ve embraced the change, but that doesn’t make it right.” I’m panting now, my heart thundering wildly in my chest. “Was it for a bet?”

  “What do you think?” he asks me, and we stare at each other again. “You know how the Infinity Club works now.” My mouth purses, and I look away for a moment, staring out at the yellow-brown grass on the side of the road. It’s been a hot, hot summer.

  “Who was it?” I whisper, wondering if any of the guys were in on this one.

  “Becky, Harper, Abigail, and Valentina,” Andrew says, and then sighs, like it feels good to get that off of his chest. “The other girls call them the fucked-up foursome behind their backs.” I look back at him, slumped in a white tee and expensive jeans. He looks defeated. There’s no sense of victory or justice in this.

  “Did you know about …” I can’t even force my lips to form the words. Did you know about the beating I got backstage? How about the video? The paint? The panties? Anything at all? Because if he did …

  “Miranda and I knew nothing,” he says, sighing again. “I’m not in the Inner Circle anymore.”

  My mouth pops open, and my eyes go wide.

  “How do you even know that? Do the Idols send out secret emails or something?”

  “When you’re no longer a Blueblood, you know it.” Andrew sits up straight and looks me dead in the eye, reaching up to run his palm over his hair. I hate to stereotype, but no wonder he smells so good, like coconuts and sunshine; I should’ve known he was gay. All those vibes I was getting off of him, all those appreciative looks … they were bestie vibes, not boyfriend vibes. “I knew about the, uh, to make you fall in love, the …”

  “The bet.” I say it for him, thinking about that awful, awful trophy. “Go on.”

  “Just that. It’s why I wanted to take you to the winter formal, why I encouraged you away from them.” He leans forward and puts his face in his hands. Taking revenge on Andrew would be like kicking a sad puppy. I can’t do it. Because no matter what, I am not like them. I don’t want to be like them. I used to think becoming my mother was the worst possible fate, but now I’ve decided that becoming like the Idols is a fate worse than death.

  I’ll take my revenge, but I have rules.

  I pull out the notebook from my bag and open to the first page, penning a new line on the bottom.

  Marnye’s Rules for Revenge

  No physical violence

  No friendly fire

  No innocent bystanders

  No sexism, racism, homophobia et al

  Let them hang themselves with their own rope

  Know when enough is enough

  Andrew lifts his head to
look at me, blue eyes dark with regret and frustration.

  “What else?” I ask, swallowing a lump. “Is there anything else you did? Because this is your last chance to be honest.”

  “What are you going to do?” Andrew asks as I flip the page to the back cover where I’ve taped in my revenge list. I spin it around for him to look at, and he raises his eyebrows. He notices his own name and lifts his face, meeting my eyes. “Be careful with them, Marnye. If you think last year was bad, then rest assured they’ll amp it up this time. They’ll be gunning for you.”

  “Answer the question.” I keep my pen poised above the page, and Andrew exhales sharply.

  “Nothing else. And Miranda—” I hold up my hand. Miranda and I need to talk. But I don’t want any information second-hand; it all has to come from the source. “Nothing else. I’m so sorry, Marnye.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” I say, feeling this wave of relief rush over me. I never wanted to hurt Andrew. “Look: grant me one small favor, and we’ll call it even?” He nods, and I uncap my red Sharpie. I have five of them in my bag, just for this sort of occasion. As Andrew watches, I make an adjustment.

  Revenge On The Bluebloods of Burberry Prep

  A list by Miranda Cabot Marnye Reed

  The Idols (guys): Tristan Vanderbilt (year one two), Zayd Kaiser (year one two), and Creed Cabot (year one two)

  The Idols (girls): Harper du Pont (year one two), Becky Platter (year one two), and Gena Whitley (year four) (graduated)

  The Inner Circle: Andrew Payson, Anna Kirkpatrick, Myron Talbot, Ebony Peterson, Gregory Van Horn, Abigail Fanning, John Hannibal, Valentina Pitt, Sai Patel, Mayleen Zhang, Jalen Donner … and, I guess, me!