Harper steps so close to me that I actually have to move back a space to keep her from touching me.
“Did your daddy tell you yet how he's got late-stage colon and lung cancer? My family has kindly offered up medical care, free of charge, to help see him through it. Good luck, sweetie.” Harper leans in and kisses me on the cheek as my head spins, and I end up sitting on the bricks without even realizing that I've fallen.
My knees are bloody and Dad’s trying to talk to me, but I can't hear anything but a ringing in my ears.
Zack is there suddenly, his mother by his side, and they’re both trying to help Charlie get me to my feet. I sag in their arms as they lift me up, my head spinning, my stomach twisted with nausea.
“It’s not true,” I whisper, looking up and into my dad’s brown eyes, so like mine that it’s as if I’m staring into a mirror. His hair is tousled by the wind, his smile so sweet and genuine that it feels impossible. It’s impossible. My dad is not dying. He’s not. I refuse to believe it. “Please say it’s not true.” I’m sobbing now, and Zack’s trying to put an arm around me. I jerk away from him and stumble.
“Honey, please sit down,” Dad says softly, but I need a minute. I just need one minute. I turn and run across the courtyard, passing a smirking Harper as I go.
“Please say it’s not true,” she chortles as I sprint past.
My feet skid on the bricks, and I whirl around, tears streaming down my face.
“What did you just say?” I grind out, and Harper tosses her hair.
“You heard me: your dad’s dead without my family’s charity. Try to be a little grateful, bitch.” Red flashes across my vision, and before I can think better of it, I launch myself at Harper. My right fist flies forward and hits her in her pretty face. There’s a satisfying crack of cartilage before blood begins to pour from her nose.
I’ve just broken Rule #1: No Violence.
But … my dad …
“Charity!” a familiar voice calls out seconds before Zayd’s arms wrap around me from behind. I flail and struggle against him, throwing an elbow back that nails him right in the ribs. He grunts, but his tattooed arms stay tight around me. I hit him again and manage to break free before I’m launching myself at Harper and knocking her to the brick walkway.
“Marnye, stop!” Miranda and Kathleen Cabot appear with Creed close behind. He watches with that bored, lazy look of his as the two women yank me off and haul me back several feet. Harper pushes up to her feet, smirking, blood running over her lips. She looks happy about what’s just happened.
And then I realize the mistake I’ve made, and a small, sad sound slips past my lips.
“You are so done, Working Girl,” Harper crows, using the post near her to stay upright. I notice that nobody offers a hand out to her. My eyes dart around the gathered crowd, from Dad, Zack, and his mom, Robin, running up to us, and then over to Miranda, Kathleen, and Creed. Zayd is behind me, panting, his uniform as disheveled and wrinkled as always, his tie hanging loose and crooked. “I’m reporting you.”
Harper reaches up to rub some blood from her face.
“No, you will not,” Kathleen snaps, her voice so fierce that Harper’s attention snaps over to her. “There may not be an official report, but I know what you and your little friends did to Marnye last year. She had broken ribs and a cracked tooth. I’m not usually a supporter of an eye-for-an-eye justice, but young lady, if you don’t walk away and clean yourself up right now, you’ll be expelled right alongside her.”
Harper gapes, her attention going from Kathleen to Robin to Charlie, and then back to me.
“That’s true, Kathleen: it was Harper. Harper and several of her friends. I wouldn’t want to drag anyone else into this.” Pause, breathe, get control of yourself. “If you talk about my dad again,” I whisper, stepping forward so suddenly that Miranda doesn’t get a chance to stop me before I spit the words in Harper’s face, “you’ll be so fucking sorry.”
And then I throw Miranda’s hands off, push past Zayd and Creed, and disappear into the gardens.
The first person to find me is Zack.
I sigh as he comes around the corner, and stay where I am, huddled on a stone bench and hugging my knees. All I can think about is Dad and how good of a heart he has, and how the world needs more men like him, not less. No, instead people like Mr. Vanderbilt get to thrive and prosper, and Dad works his whole life at jobs he hates, loves a woman who betrayed him, and gets struck down with the most horrible disease known to man.
“I hate cancer,” I tell Zack as he sits down beside me, dressed in his uniform with his letterman jacket over the top. He looks too good in it; it’s not fair. I want to hate him, but I feel so alone right now. If Dad … without Dad … it’s just me. I should really go find Miranda and Andrew, talk to them instead. But I just sit there with Zack a few inches away from me, his brown eyes focused on the grass at his feet, his shoulders hunched. “This was the news you didn’t want to tell me about, huh?”
He nods, but he doesn’t say anything at first. Several minutes pass before he speaks.
“Now all the Idols know. They’re going to use Dad against me.” Zack purses his lips and sits up, looking over at me with a much softer gaze than usual. On Friday, I’m going to destroy him. I almost feel bad about it. Maybe I should? But I can’t forgive him so easily.
“If you ever need dirt on anyone in the Infinity Club, I probably have it. You know my dirt now, and Lizzie’s. But there’s so much more. You’d be shocked at the things I could tell you.”
I scoff at him.
“Maybe, but at what price? What do you want from me, Zack? If it’s just guilt that’s spurring you on, then you can stop. I don’t need your sympathy or your pity.”
“It’s not pity, Marnye. You’re beautiful, you’re smart, you’re driven. What’s there to pity?” He says it all like it’s a matter of fact, that of course I’m all of those things. I shift, uncomfortable with the praise. If I were a better person, I’d let all of this revenge crap go, transfer to a different prep school and just keep my head buried in my studies.
Something must be seriously wrong with me.
“And guilt? Of course I feel guilt,” Zack spits, running his palm over his dark hair. He exhales, and his broad shoulders fold inward, like he’s trying to sink into himself. “But that’s not why I’m trying to help you.”
“Then why are you?” I ask, looking up.
Zack turns to me then, and there’s something burning in his gaze that scares the crap out of me.
“Remember when we had our first kiss?” he asks, and I almost choke. “Those feelings … they were terrifying to me. You can’t feel like that when you’re so young, and I—”
I make a choking sound, and Zack pauses. It’s Monday morning, and I haven’t turned my phone in yet. It’s clutched in my left hand, and I make a sudden, split-second decision to start recording, just in case. Zack waits several beats before taking a deep breath, and forging on.
“When I made that bet, I didn’t think about the name and face of the girl who would die. I’m sorry. A hundred times over, I’m sorry. But I did it: I made that bet to get you to kill yourself, and I came at you relentlessly. There is no such thing as forgiveness for me.”
My heart clenches painfully, but I’m too twisted up with emotion right now to understand how I’m supposed to process that. Instead, I turn away and change the subject, shutting my phone off at the same time.
“I need to find my dad,” I blurt, lunging to my feet. I stumble slightly, and Zack is there to steady my elbow. His touch burns through my jacket; it’s as if his bare skin is touching mine. I can practically feel the whorls of his fingertips.
“I’ll take you to him,” Zack says, his face shutting down into that impenetrable mask that I’m used to. He starts to lead the way, and I pull out his grip. Instead of getting upset, he just smiles at me. “By the way: have you seen the class rankings yet?”
I shake my head. Do I really car
e about class rankings when my dad is sick? Honestly, all I want to do in that moment is drop out and go home, so I can take care of him. I’m guessing that’s why he’s avoided telling me all this time. He’s too freaking selfless. It’s not fair. My eyes water and Zack reaches out to rub a tear from my cheek with his thumb, trailing strange sensations across my skin.
“You beat Tristan Vanderbilt again,” he says with a low chuckle, and I almost laugh. Almost. But nothing in this world is more important to me than my father. Nothing. “You’re number one again.”
“Number one?” I echo, and my heart drops into my stomach. If I’m number one … then why do I feel like I’m coming in dead last?
I close my eyes, exhale, and then open them back up.
I’ve never needed to be stronger than in this moment.
Squaring my shoulders, I take the lead and head back to the chapel.
Dad won’t talk to me about his illness. If I bring it up, he changes the subject. If I cry, he holds me tight. He most definitely does not get drunk this year.
On Friday, just before the big game, he cups the side of my face with one of his rough palms and gazes lovingly into my eyes. My throat gets tight, and I choke on unshed tears.
“Marnye,” he begins, his voice soft, “you’ve always known what you’ve wanted, even as a little kid. You went through a hard time in middle school, and yet you never stopped fighting. You got this scholarship on your own merit, and you do nothing but continue to exceed my expectations.”
“Dad—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“As a boy, I dreamed of going to a school like this. There was an all-boys academy just outside the town I grew up in called Adamson. I fantasized about going there every day, but I never tried to change my circumstances; I just accepted them.” I try to speak again, but he shushes me gently. “All week, you’ve been hinting that you want to come home and take care of me. I don’t want that for you.”
“Nothing is more important to me than you,” I choke out, but Dad’s already shaking his head. Everything makes sense now: his gifting me his mother’s bracelet, trying to force a relationship with Jennifer, his getting drunk last year at Parents’ Week. It’s all coming together into this horrible conclusion that I just want to wake up from.
“And nothing is more important to me than you, Marnye-bear, but you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I’ll do whatever it takes to be there for as much of it as I can, but you cannot give up this opportunity. I won’t let you.” He sighs and drops his hand to his side. He’s so different from all the other parents in their expensive suits, designer clothing, and fancy high heels. Charlie Reed wears raggedy old jeans, the watch I got him for Christmas last year, and scuffed work boots. It only makes me love him more that he wears it all with pride. “I see the way they look at you.”
“Like they hate me and want me dead?” I ask, and Dad smiles softly.
“Like they’re jealous, Marnye.”
“Jealous of me?” I echo with disbelief. “With their Lamborghinis and their yachts and their mansions?” I sound so pathetic when I say that, it makes even me cringe. I know better than anyone that money isn’t what makes a person happy. Dad makes me happy; learning makes me happy; friendship makes me happy.
“Money can’t buy confidence or love or genuine sense of self. Marnye, you are better than their superficial shit.” I raise my eyebrows because I’ve rarely, if ever, head my dad curse around me. “Honey, the best revenge is success. Remember that. Keep doing your thing, and make me proud. That’s what I want for you. Make a better life for yourself than the one I gave you.”
“You gave me a great life,” I blurt, and Dad laughs, pulling me in for a hug. I’m wearing my new cheerleading uniform: a polyester shell with long sleeves, and red and white stripes under the word Burberry sewn into the front, paired with a short black skirt and sneakers. Underneath, I’ve got on shiny black shorts with the school logo on the right butt cheek. Seems a weird place to put it, but it is what it is. The uncomfortable material rubs me the wrong way as Dad gives me a squeeze for the ages.
He pulls back and puts his hands on my shoulders.
“My little girl, a cheerleader,” he says, and then he chuckles as I narrow my eyes. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
“I’m just doing it for college,” I repeat, and then silently add in my head and revenge. “Besides, it’s good exercise.” Dad grins at me and hooks an arm around my shoulders, trying to head us in the wrong direction. I laugh and turn him around, guiding him to the back door and the waiting academy cars. The football field is so far from the chapel building that it takes a good half hour to walk down there. Some people left a while ago to head down, but Dad and I ate in The Mess together, and I refused to be rushed.
“Whatever the reason, I’m excited to see you perform,” he says, leading us out to the vehicle. We slide in, and the driver moves to shut the door when I hear a voice call out to hold the car.
It’s Zayd fucking Kaiser.
Great.
He climbs in, and then freezes when he sees my dad and me.
A frown pulls at the edges of my lips, but then the driver is shutting the door, and it’s a bit late to back out. Dad must recognize Zayd as one of the panty-throwers because he does not smile at him or greet him.
Zayd slumps down on the opposite side of the limo, dressed in a white tank with his band’s name—Afterglow—scrawled in black cursive across the front. His jeans are black, and far too tight, which I actually like. He’s got on Doc Martens covered in roses, and I’m pretty sure he added a few new tattoos over the summer. My fingers remember tracing his ink as we made out in my dorm room. Of course, he was doing it all just to film it and humiliate, but … that’s a whole other issue.
“Your dad cares so little about you he didn’t bother to show up again?” I ask, and Charlie gapes at me.
“Marnye,” he warns, but that’s the only chastising I get.
Zayd just stares back at me, his lids ringed in liner, his lip piercings black and pointy, his brow piercing a black hoop. He nibbles at his lip rings for a moment before responding.
“He’s got a job that people actually care about,” Zayd snaps back, and I can tell I’ve hit a nerve. Good. Screw him. I chose him. I chose him and he betrayed me. It makes everything so much worse. His characteristic tobacco, clove, and sage scent fills the air in the limo, and my nostrils flare. “He’s not, like, you know, some easily replaceable blue collar worker that could be substituted with a monkey or a machine.”
“At least my dad has a heart and gives two craps about me,” I snarl, and Charlie puts a hand on my knee. “Musicians are a dime a dozen. Your dad is nothing but a performing monkey dressed in tattoos and the words of some ghost writers who pen hits for the masses. Give me a break.”
Zayd scowls at me, shoving up from his seat and pushing open the door while the car’s still rolling to a stop. He takes off as Dad sighs and gives me a look. I cringe, but only because I’m frustrated that he had to listen to this bullshit. Zayd deserves whatever I throw at him.
The football stadium is huge, much fancier than you’d expect for a high school. Actually, it reminds me of that one time Dad took us to a U of O home game at Autzen Stadium in Eugene, Oregon. It’s far too elaborate, especially considering that before this year, our team was ranked, like, dead last in their district.
Zack has changed all of that.
If they win tonight’s game, they’ll be going to the playoffs.
I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen.
Tonight, we’re playing Grenadine Heights High—the number one team in our district for almost two straight decades. It’s sort of a big deal.
Dad leaves me to go take his seat in the stands while I join Coach Hannah and the rest of the girls just outside the entrance to the stadium. The way they look at me as I saunter up to them … priceless. Ileana curses under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear, but not enough that the coach notices.
<
br /> Coach runs us through our warm up and stretches, my heart racing, sweat dripping down my spine. And it’s from more than just the exercise—I’m about to wreck Zack Brooks’ football career, and bring down the rest of the team with him.
I might move slow, but I’m a planner. It’s what I do.
After we warm up, we head into the stadium and take up our positions at the edge of the field. As far as coach is concerned, games are practice. We’re gearing up for competition. When the Burberry Prep football team is licking their wounds, I’ll be helping their cheer team get their first ever trophies.
The timing was delicate on this one, so I shift from side to side, glancing briefly up at the scoreboard and the clock. The minutes tick past slow as hours as we gear up for our first ever cheer. I’m a bit of an academic and a bookworm, and this is so not my scene, but I force a smile. It’s hard, though, with Tristan, Zayd, and Creed in the audience. I can see them, front and center, flanked by the Inner Circle. Pretty sure they’re all staring at me.
As we start our routine, I notice that Coach Hannah’s phone is buzzing.
My mouth twitches, half in grimace and half in grin.
If I’d wanted to, I could’ve done any number of things to Zack Brooks, something like spiking his food or drink with steroids and reporting him. But that’s not my game here. I don’t want to bring myself down to their level. Does it make things harder? Sure. When I sat down and made those rules though, I was serious.
Let them hang themselves with their own rope.
If they didn’t fuck with me, if they stopped fucking with me, then nothing bad would happen to them.
Coach Hannah glances from her screen and up to me, my arms in the air, my tight polyester shell riding slightly up. She turns to her assistant coach, and I see them whisper briefly. In the stand, Principal Collins has her gray brows raised, her mouth slightly agape. And as we finish our cheer, I glance over my shoulder and see the varsity football coach—Buck Rolands—calling Zack off the field.
Bad, Bad Blu Bloods Page 10