Bad, Bad Blu Bloods

by Stunich, C. M.

  “Marnye,” Zack breathes, and he looks at me with a new level of respect, eyes wide. “Holy shit.” I smile tightly, but this isn’t over, not even close.

  “We never slept together, but I wanted to,” Ebony chokes out, tears running down her face. “You’re so obsessed with football and working out. We never spend time together. Tristan is …”

  “He doesn’t give a shit about you!” Jalen screams, panting, blood streaming from his nose. His brown eyes are wide and wild. Frankly, he looks like he’s about to cry. “I do.” He slams a fist against his chest and gets in Ebony’s face. She just stands there, eyes wide, staring at him. “I love you, Ebony. I fucking love you. I always have.”

  “Well, I don’t love you,” she says, and then starts to sob. A few of the other girls, like Abigail and Valentina, come close and put their arms around her. Jalen stares at her in shock for several seconds before he begins to cry, these big, soppy messy tears that actually make me like him more. Boys should be able to cry; it’s disturbing that society tries to tell them otherwise.

  But we’ve already learned that people like John Hannibal and Gregory Van Horn are walking nightmares.

  “Are you fucking crying? Pussy bitch.” John cackles, his laugh like that of a hyena on the prowl. It’s disturbing. He’s dressed like a serial killer tonight, too, with faux blood all over his shirt. How lovely.

  Jalen turns again, so suddenly that Tristan’s still in the process of wiping crimson from his lips. He tackles him, and it takes several of the other boys to pry them apart.

  Creed … is absolutely loving this moment.

  “Tristan Vanderbilt is a walking STD. He will sleep with anything that moves, but he’s so disrespectful I’m not sure how he even gets girls.” Creed chuckles as Tristan grits his teeth so hard it looks like one or two might just crack. Or hell, maybe Jalen will crack them for him? The boys start scuffling again as Ebony sobs and wails like she’s the victim here. “The sad thing is, he’s truly the king of Burberry Prep, and for good reason. I mean, who else would stand up to him, certainly not—” Creed turns the page and pauses abruptly, the amusement vanishing from his face. His gaze lifts up to mine.

  I’m damn sure this is the end, that that’s all he’s going to read, but good old Greg hops up and snatches the journal from him, thrusting it into John’s hands.

  “Certainly not Creed Cabot. If ever there was a definition for wannabe, he’s it. He tries so hard to be Tristan Vanderbilt, it’s pathetic. He could never match up to him—and that’s pretty sad, since the him in question is a womanizing lothario.” John snickers as Zayd throws his head back and howls with laughter. Meanwhile, the fight between Jalen and Tristan escalates.

  “The only one worse and more pathetic than Creed,” Greg continues as he reads over John’s shoulder, dressed up like Geralt from The Witcher video games/novels. Cosplay like that might look hot on someone like Zack who has the shoulders and muscles to carry it. On Greg, it looks even worse than Zack’s too tight green dress and pearl necklace (the plastic kind, not the pervy kind, obvs). “Is Zayd Kaiser. I mean, seriously. Does he think his music is actually good? At least Creed’s and Tristan’s dads show up to the school to support their kids. Zayd’s dad doesn’t even bother.”

  Zayd’s face is now tight and white, and he’s looking at me like I’m a monster.

  Here’s the thing: if they hadn’t stolen my journal and read it, none of this would be happening. None of it. The Bluebloods have brought this on themselves.

  Miranda is standing there shaking with rage. I feel bad for what she’s going through, but I didn’t make her brother do any of this. No, he broke into my room all on his own. I bet the guys made copies of my room and locker keys before they handed that bundle over to Vice Principal Castor. How they got keys for my new dorm locks, I’m not sure. It’s horrifying to see how far their treachery went.

  “If I were you,” I say, and as soon as I speak, the entire cemetery goes quiet. The only sound is the eerie whisper of the wind through the graves, the song of ghosts. “I would stop reading now. Keep going, and you really won’t like what else I have to say in there.”

  Harper snatches the journal from John’s hand and tucks it under her arm, standing up and lifting her chin in defiance. The way she looks at me, I can tell I’ve struck a nerve. Tristan is supposed to be this piece of American royalty, his family’s fortune built on shipping and railroads in the country’s infancy. The Vanderbilt name will give her a prestige that the du Pont name will never have. She’s got all the money in the world, so there’s not much left to strive for but this.

  Only, she’ll never have it.

  I’ll make certain of that.

  “This party is officially over,” Harper snaps, and the crowd groans and grumbles in displeasure. It’s disturbing though, to see how quickly they all scramble to comply with her orders. Where Tristan is the king of the academy, she is most certainly the queen. She’ll be a hard one to take down. “Tristan, let’s go.” He sneers at her, spitting blood and glaring at Jalen before he turns and storms along the path after her. When he passes me, he spits more blood at my feet, but I don’t move, just stand there and stare him down.

  He tears away from me with a string of curses and disappears into the fog. Jalen just collapses to the gravel and sobs while Ebony drifts away with Valentina and Abigail. The way she looks at me as she passes says all I need to know.

  She’s a lightweight, and I’ve already shoved her out of the ring.

  Creed doesn’t move from his place on top of the mausoleum. Zayd, too, is frozen in place.

  “Be careful, boys,” I warn them, this strange little purr in my voice that I hardly recognize. “I’m coming for you.”

  I turn away and grab Zack’s hand, dragging him with me.

  On Sunday evening, I make a video compilation of Creed going through my stuff, stealing my journal, and reading it aloud, and then I email it to Kathleen Cabot with the following message: I really liked your son once, and he hurt me so bad I couldn’t breathe. He seems determined to destroy me, but I don’t want to report him to the administration. Mrs. Cabot, I trust your judgment implicitly.

  And all of that, is pure unadulterated truth.

  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), Ileana Taittinger (year one)

  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! Kiara Xiao, Ben Thresher

  Plebs: everyone else, sorry. XOXO

  Zack Brooks

  I only have to survive one more week until fall break. Then I can go home and see Dad. Then I can take a break from all of this. To be quite honest, it’s exhausting. Not only am I studying my ass off, working out for the cheer team, and playing the harp in every spare second of my time, but I’m always on high-alert at. One wrong move, and I’m dead.

  On the plus side, these last few weeks have been almost … fun? Miranda has stopped talking to her twin completely. I mean, like complete and utter silence. Even I can see that it’s killing him. He looks almost pale and sad when he thinks nobody’s looking. If he’s even remotely aware that there are eyes on him, he puts up his arrogant, haughty front like a shield.

  Kathleen Cabot appeared the Monday after the Halloween party in her white stretch limo, marched down the stone halls in her Louboutins and grabbed her son by the ear. According to Miranda, she’s this close to pulling him out of Burberry Prep and enrolling him in an all-boys military academy. She’s beyond disappointed him in, beyond fawning over me (in front of Creed), and basically begged me to keep tutoring him.

  It’s a chore, but
I do it. We sit side by side in the library every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for two hours, and speak in low, clipped, studious tones. I get credits for it, at least, and I don’t try to sabotage his work. It’s enough for me to do my job.

  After we finish up on that last Monday, I start to pack up my things and Creed leans back in his chair. With his angelic white-blond hair and ice-blue eyes, the white of the second-year uniform looks like it was made for him. The way he lounges, too, is quite incredible, like he’s boneless and deserves to be carried about on a golden litter.

  “Do you like tormenting me?” he asks, and I turn to gape at him.

  “Are you serious?” It’s now my turn to lean back in my chair, and give him a once-over. “That’s a joke, right? You know who started this, don’t you? I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t me.”

  Creed doesn’t react. Actually, he looks like he’s about to fall asleep. Or have sex. Maybe the latter and then the former? I have no idea.

  When he reaches out and tucks some loose strands of rose-gold hair behind my ear, I’m too startled to react.

  “The girls want to kill you,” he says, and I’m actually quite sure he’s not speaking metaphorically. “Watch out for them.”

  “And you?” I retort, crossing my arms over my chest. Creed’s eyes drop to the bare bit of skin above my blouse. It was a bit hot in here, so I took my red tie off and unbuttoned a few buttons. It feels like he can see everything, the way he’s staring at me. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to leave,” he says, stressing that last word and then falling back into the usual nonchalant gaiety of the idle rich. “Get out of Burberry Prep, and make yourself at home somewhere else. Why not go buddy up to your friend Lizzie at Coventry Prep?”

  “Lizzie and I are not friends,” I bark, and Creed laughs, the sound just as merry as Miranda’s. However, where she reminds me of the school bell, happily reminding us all it’s time for learning, Creed’s bell-laugh is like the death knell of a church tower during a funeral.

  “You seem to be friends with Zack Brooks. How is it he gets a free pass and she doesn’t?”

  “He did not get a free pass,” I say, forcing myself to stay calm. Creed wants me to get pissed off and react. We just stare at each other, and it doesn’t escape my notice that his shirt is also unbuttoned. I can see a bit of his chest, and my fingers twitch on the edge of my chair. Also, our knees are far too close, just a scant two inches apart. If I moved, I’d bump against his long, long legs. I stay perfectly still. “You saw what I did to him. Be glad all I’ve done is destroy your relationship with your mother and sister.”

  Creed’s jaw clenches, the only sign that I’ve struck a nerve.

  “If I wanted you to fall to your knees and weep for my mercy, I could have that.” He leans suddenly toward me until our faces are inches apart. “I could destroy you, Charity.”

  “Really? Because everything you’ve thrown at me thus far has been weak as hell. I’m not afraid of you, Creed Cabot.” We maintain this stare down, even though it kills me. His lips are so close, I can remember what they tasted like the night of the winter formal, that glorious night that I sat on his lap and kissed him in the crisp cold winter air. Crap. He smells good, too, like fresh linens and soap. Don’t think about his scent, Marnye, that’s ridiculous. “You can say all these horrible things if you want, but you’re not going to act. Because if you do, you’ll dig your own grave. Your sister already hates you, just keep pushing her and see how evil you can get before she abandons you completely. It must hurt a lot, to lose a twin.” I cross my arms over my chest as Creed exhales and closes his eyes.

  Yep.

  He’s like a neutered dog.

  I was right to cross him off my list.

  “You were bullied, too,” I whisper finally, and he sits back, looking away sharply. His pretty blond hair falls forward and covers his face. He taps at his lips with a long finger, and I just can’t help but admire how long all of his limbs are. He’s tall and trim, but still muscular. The way his shirt pulls at his shoulders gives away a developing physique. “How could you do that to me?”

  “How could you choose Zayd?” he hisses, turning back to me suddenly. I remember the way his face looked when I walked down the steps into the graduation gala in that red dress. My heart hurts a little, but I push the feeling aside. “Zayd.” Creed laughs, the sound dry and reedy, and then he stands up. Well, more like he unfolds his long limbs from the chair, towering over me as he reaches up and pops open one more button. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  He takes off around the table, pausing to meet up with Ileana Taittinger.

  I watch him flirt with her as my insides twist into a dangerous knot. She’s got an old name, a very well established family legacy. Hmm.

  Maybe I crossed his name off just a little too soon?

  I’ll have to keep an eye on them.

  For now, I gather my books, rise to my feet, and leave the sanctity of the library.

  Dad isn’t able to get off work to come and get me for fall break, so Zack gives me a ride home in his orange McLaren. We sit in silence for a good portion of the drive which I actually like. When I’m around Zack Brooks, I don’t feel like I have to force anything. The quiet between us is companionable and easygoing, not strained or awkward.

  “I can’t believe you’re still hanging around me,” I tell him, glancing up from my phone screen to look at his face. All I’m doing is trolling gossip sites anyway. Every single freaking article is about this prince guy, this Windsor York. He sounds like a total a-hole to me. He’d be right at home at Burberry Prep. According to the online gab rags, he sleeps with every celebrity, model, or billionaire heiress he can get his hands on. Reminds me of a certain someone, but at least his smile in all the pictures is nice.

  Still … another manwhore, gross. No thank you.

  I shut my phone off.

  “Why is that so hard to believe?” Zack asks, his voice unbelievably soft. I notice he does that around me now, softens all of his hard edges. It almost … makes him likable. Almost. But not quite. He’s taken up track now, and he’s stupid good at it. I imagine he’ll be earning himself another letterman jacket next year. Really, I should take him down another peg. But am I going to? We’ll see. I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him which, considering how muscular and tall he is, would not be all that far. “I told you how I feel about you.”

  My nostrils flare, and my throat closes up. Oh god. Now the silence really does feel awkward.

  I stare out at the road and focus on the yellow lines.

  Zack doesn’t love me. That’s weird. He’s a freaking psycho bully. Remember how he treated Ileana during tryouts? He’s a monster inside; he can’t be trusted.

  And yet, I’m so relaxed around him that I fall asleep and drool all over his expensive sports car. The next thing I know, he’s carrying me into my bedroom at the Train Car, and tucking me in. Pretty sure I imagine it, but I think he kisses my forehead before I pass out again.

  In the morning, I’m woken up by the scent of dad’s famous vanilla waffles and I’ve forgotten all about the almost-possible-maybe-didn’t-happen kiss.

  “Good morning,” I say, giving him a huge hug. He looks good, actually, much better than I’d feared. “How are you feeling?”

  “Wonderful, actually,” he says, handing me a plate. I smear peanut butter all over my waffles and douse them in real maple syrup. Don’t ask: it’s a Reed thing. As I sit down on the couch in the living room, I’m overwhelmed by emotion and have to choke back tears. I will not think negatively about my father or his prospects. What good would that do him? “The Du Pont Medical Center is incredible.”

  My mouth purses into a thin line, and I have to resist the urge to voice my fears. Why, exactly, Harper is helping my father out, I don’t know. To hold it over my head? I can only imagine the whole situation is going to end poorly. If she messes with my father’s heath however … god help her.

  “Also, I wanted
to talk to you about your mother …”

  “Please don’t make me see her,” I blurt. I’m not ready for that. Jennifer and I have a strained relationship at best. Being home means taking care of dad and getting a break from the rat race that is Burberry Preparatory Academy. If I have to spend any forced afternoons with her, I’ll collapse.

  “I won’t,” Dad says, surprising me. I put my fork down and lean back into the cushions, playing with Grandma Reed’s charm bracelet. I don’t dare take it to school with me. Can you imagine what those Blueblood psychos would do if they got a hold of it? “It was wrong of me to try to force a relationship.” He swallows hard and glances away, like he’s ashamed about something. I narrow my eyes.

  “You didn’t buy a chicken instead of a turkey again this year?” I ask, already thinking ahead to Thanksgiving dinner. Charlie chuckles and glances back at me, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

  “Wow, you know me too well,” he says, laughing. But it feels so … forced. That was not what he was going to say. I narrow my eyes, but Dad’s already standing up and moving into the kitchen to fry up some eggs. I’m already stuffed, but I don’t have the heart to tell him no. Besides, I just like watching him cook, smelling the smells, sinking into the ratty old couch.

  If the Idols think money buys happiness, I feel sorry for them.

  This, this right here is what life is all about.

  Dad isn't exactly thrilled to receive an invitation from Zack's family to have Thanksgiving dinner at the Brooks’ place. He hasn't said much since the video came out at the football game, but I know he's upset. More for me than for him, but still, even though I told him I forgave Zack, it isn't enough. Nor should it be, considering what Zack did to me.