Tristan has a brand-new black Aston Martin Rapide while Zayd’s in a Jaguar convertible identical to the one I dumped in the pool. Zack, of course, has his McLaren, and Andrew has his Lambo back. I have no idea what Lizzie drives, but I’m guessing I’ll find out, considering she’s now going to Burberry with us.
My stomach turns over with anxiety, but I ignore the feeling. I’m not going to alienate a friend because I’m jealous over a boy I’m not sure either of us even wants or could reasonably have.
Creed leans forward, putting his mouth far too close to my ear. I can smell his clean soap and fresh laundry scent as he drawls out his words like he’s half-asleep.
“You truly are quite selfless, gifting your attention to idiots like Zack Brooks and Windsor York.”
“Don’t even get started,” I warn him, sensing something big coming from Creed Cabot. He’s going to ask you out. That’s what Miranda texted me last night, and then with several laughing emojis, #TeamCreed.
Gulp.
If he asks me out, what am I going to say? It’s too soon, sorry buddy? Or … yes, please?
A groan escapes me that makes him chuckle. His warm breath teases my skin, and I accidentally press down too hard on the gas, making all four of us grunt as our bodies press back into the sumptuous white leather seats. I slow down a little, mindful of Dad’s nervousness. He didn’t want me to drive today, but I promised I’d be safe.
I intend to keep that promise.
After a few pit stops for food and bathroom breaks, we arrive in the visitors’ lot, park, and get out to change into our uniforms. The others aren’t too far behind us—we did sort of a caravan thing—and then it’s a bit like a fashion show as each boy emerges in his third year uniform.
I pretend the drool in my mouth is from the cold French fries I’m chewing on, but that’s not entirely true. I come very close to wiping grease and salt off on the fresh pleats of my brand-new black plaid skirt, and admire Zayd from the corner of my eye.
Within hours—or maybe minutes—he’ll be all wrinkled and disheveled which, of course, is part of his charm. But seeing him in a pressed, creased uniform, complete with jacket and tie, is a real treat.
Third years wear black and red plaid skirts (boys wear black slacks with a subtle red pinstripe), crisp white shirts, matching plaid ties, and red jackets. Sock choices are the same as last year—white with stripes on the top—or black plaid socks in thigh-high, knee-high, or ankle-high options. Shoes are shiny and black, as always, but this is the first year that a very small kitten heel option is allowed for girls only (genderism is still a very common practice at Burberry, unfortunately). Miranda says anyone who doesn’t pick it is mercilessly made fun of, but that’s no surprise: the Plebs and Bluebloods alike at Burberry Prep love to pick on others, regardless of reason.
“Are we ready?” Tristan asks, straightening his already straight tie and staring at me with slate gray eyes.
“I’m, uh, neck deep in French fries,” I choke out, hopping off the trunk of my new car and wiping vigorously at my fingers with a cluster of napkins. Tristan makes a disgusted sound in his throat and sweeps across the white rock of the parking area, whipping a handkerchief from his front pocket, and clasping my hands in his.
My heart races as I look up at him, and he carefully wipes my fingers off with slow, sensual motions.
Is he … cleaning my hands off or hitting on me? I wonder as he takes on this task with the same single-minded purpose in which he tackles his coursework. My chest feels tight, and I’m having trouble catching my breath.
“Here, keep it.” He tucks it into my palm, and steps back, sighing as he opens his leather bookbag and removes a fresh black silk handkerchief, folding it meticulously, and placing it back in his pocket.
I gape at it.
“You keep extra handkerchiefs in your schoolbag?” I ask, stifling a laugh. He gives me a dark look, and then pauses as Lizzie comes out of the bathroom, dressed in her new uniform.
She’s a fucking vision.
My eyes move from her to Tristan, but he’s as stone-faced as always and gives nothing away.
“How do I look?” Lizzie asks self-consciously, brushing her hands down the front of the red jacket. “I’m so used to the Coventry Prep uniform that I feel out of place.”
“You look great,” Zack supplies, his fingers tucked into the pockets of his slacks. He says that to her while his dark eyes are focused on me.
“We need to walk in there as a group,” Tristan says, addressing everyone like he truly believes he’s the king. Windsor leans his shoulder against the brick wall of the restroom, smirking. His expression says that for now, he’ll let Tristan lead, but only because it’s convenient. As soon as it’s not, there’s going to be a war between those two.
“Are we on ignore mode still?” Zayd asks, cocking his pierced brow. “Because that didn’t exactly go over well last time.”
Tristan makes a sound in the back of his throat and scowls while Creed moves up to stand beside me.
“No. We’re at war. When we walk the halls, they move. When we want the elevators, they get lost. We eat at the Blueblood table. We control the school.”
“And if they don’t accept that?” Andrew asks, his voice strained. “Then what? Don’t forget: Greg and John, Harper and Becky, they’re dangerous. This is bigger than just who sits where, or who gets to use the Gallery. I’m scared. Maybe you’re not, but me, and Marnye, and Miranda … we could be targets.”
“That’s why we stick together at all times, pairs at the very least.” Tristan straightens out the rich red Burberry jacket with the little crest on the pocket, and then takes up the lead, heading for one of the idling academy cars. The driver opens the door, and Tristan steps aside, letting me slide in before he does. Pretty sure I hear Zayd grumble about that, and I smile.
The leather sticks to the backs of my thighs, and I realize then that I’m sweating. I’m nervous. And not just about Harper and her cronies, but … about the boys, too. Are they going to betray me again? Because being here in this car with all of them feels kind of … good.
“Remember,” Tristan whispers as the car rolls down the gently sloping hills that surround the school. I look up at him as ambient conversation from the others fills the inside of the limo. “You’re an Idol now.” He reaches over and adjusts the necklace I’m wearing, making my cheeks flush.
“I’m not exactly Idol material,” I say, giving a slight smile. Tristan frowns and looks away, out the tinted windows towards the forest beyond the hills. Everything he does is so dramatic. I’m not even sure he means to be that way; it’s just his natural personality.
Tristan is silent for the remainder of the drive, but the rest of my new friends are pretty chatty. Their talk helps calm my nerves a bit.
“You got this,” Zayd reassures me, winking before he climbs out of the limo with his bookbag thrown casually over his shoulder. Miranda follows behind him, then Creed, Andrew, Zack, Lizzie, and Windsor. Tristan and I are last, and I’m happy to see that the courtyard with the stag is empty when we walk up the steps toward the fountains and the surrounding towers.
“Let’s do breakfast,” Tristan says casually, and we make our way into the chapel building and down the hall toward The Mess.
It’s strange, being back in these halls after everything that happened at Royal Pointe, and the Hamptons, and my birthday party. Surreal, almost. My palms are sweaty as I cling to my bookbag and follow the group inside the dining hall.
I breathe a sigh of relief as we walk in and find that special table, the one up on the dais, empty.
We all squeeze around it together and take up our menus while Miranda laments the lack of coffee, mumbling under her breath about Ms. Felton being a caffeine Nazi.
“Coventry Prep has catered buffets for every meal,” Lizzie explains, sitting on Tristan’s right. I’m on his left, next to Creed. He’s leaning back in his chair like he’s ready for a nap, but his eyes are intense, laser-focused
on me as I pretend to peruse the menu.
“What?” I ask finally, turning to look at him and most definitely not thinking about the hot tub. I mean, why would I? What purpose would that serve? No, my cheeks are not red at all. “Why do you keep staring at me?”
“I’m trying to figure out how to ask you to be my girlfriend,” he drawls with all the confidence and nonchalance of the idle rich, and all the color drains from my face.
“What?!” Miranda shrieks from across the table. I feel faint and dizzy all of a sudden, like I may very well do a face-plant into the fancy white plate with the gold leafing that’s in front of me. Visible tension rises in the other boys—even Andrew. But that’s when I realize he’s the only one not looking at me and Creed. Instead, he’s staring at the door.
My attention swings that way, only to find Harper, Becky, and Ileana, a sea of Bluebloods behind them. They make straight for us, and the tension in our little group shifts.
“What do you want?” Tristan asks as they approach the table. Harper’s the only one to climb the few steps up to stand directly beside us. Without hesitation, she reaches out and shoves Windsor’s water glass over and into his lap. He lets it happen, and turns to her with this look that promises future pain.
“This is our table. Bluebloods eat on the dais. You should know: your great-grandfather invented the tradition of the Idols. Rules are rules, Vanderbilt. You’re not exempt from them because your name’s on half the buildings.”
“Idols have to possess a special je ne sais quoi, Harper. There has to be something about them that makes them stand out from the rest of the crowd. Money, good breeding, looks, connections, or some combination thereof.”
She snorts and interrupts Tristan before he gets a chance to finish.
“Well, we all know you don’t qualify on that first account.” The Bluebloods snicker behind her, and my hands curl into fists. I don’t know why. The last person in the world I should be standing up for is Tristan William Vanderbilt, but I can’t seem to help myself.
He continues on as if Harper didn’t speak.
“You might tick a few boxes, but you’re petty, pathetic, and you walk a fine, fine line when it comes to playing by Club rules.” Tristan shakes his napkin out with a snap and places it carefully in his lap, his blue-black hair shimmering in the glow from the sconces behind him. “You’re so pathetic that even though your family’s blood money would wet the Vanderbilt coffers, I simply can’t stand your presence, let alone your touch. You’re nothing but the granddaughter of a man who built his fortune on the broken back of this country’s changing healthcare system. Now, get the fuck out my sight before I really get angry.”
“You don’t have shit to back you up,” Harper snarls, her hair long and dyed a honeyed blonde. It’s so thick and full and pretty, I’m guessing she’s got human hair extensions in. Long ones, too. Her glossy new hair goes all the way down past her breasts. My hands ache to cut it all off. How satisfying would that be? To get her not once but twice. “You think you’re an institution? Guess what? The money your family made from being railroad tycoons is over. Finished. Dried up. William is going to slaughter you for breaking our engagement.”
“Maybe. And you’ll never be taken seriously because no American aristocrat worth their weight in salt wants to marry you. I can get any girl at the academy if I wanted.”
“Please,” Harper snorts, but Tristan’s face is already twisting into a cruel smile.
“Really? Because I’ve fucked every one of your friends but you, and that shriveled trollop you call a best friend. Imagine that.” Harper’s blue eyes go wide, and she swings her arm at the table, knocking dishes to the floor.
“Get up from our table.” She turns her gaze to me. “And get that whore off of my chair before she leaves one of her peasant diseases on it.”
“Harper, get fucked,” I snap, tossing my orange juice in her face. Her cronies are up the steps in an instant, and all the boys are rising from their chairs, legs scraping across the floor. There’s a bit of a standoff there where Zack and John Hannibal are in each other’s faces, and Windsor is clutching a knife like he might stab Gregory Van Horn in the neck.
The doors open again and in walks Ms. Felton.
She pauses when she sees us all up in arms, and frowns.
“Is everything okay in here?” she questions, her voice stern and accusatory. A long moment passes before Windsor very carefully and purposefully puts the knife back on the table and spins to face her with a huge smile on his princely face. There’s a darkness flitting behind his gaze that I don’t miss though. Like I said, Windsor York is dangerous. As much as I like him, I’m going to have to keep an eye on him, too.
“Just splendid, bloody fantastic. These folks were just explaining to us how lovely the scrambled eggs are.”
“Of course they were,” Ms. Felton says with a tired sounding sigh. “Alright, anyone who’s not eating at the big table needs to find a seat elsewhere.” Just then our waiter appears and starts laying out the dishes we ordered. Creed is the first to sit back down, slumping into his chair like a boneless doll. A sexy, muscular doll with ice-blue eyes who just asked me to be his girlfriend, but … still.
We all take our seats as Harper leans in and hisses at me.
“You are so fucking dead, Working Girl,” she snaps, eyes blazing.
“Harper du Pont,” Ms. Felton warns, and Harper turns to go, only to trip on Wind’s outstretched leg. She goes down hard, tumbling right off the dais and onto the floor where her jaw hits with a resounding crack and a lot of blood. “Oh my God!” Ms. Felton is there an instant, helping Harper up along with Becky’s assistance.
It all seems like an accident, so nobody gets in trouble, but I meet Windsor’s eyes from across the table and I know. That was no accident at all.
Right now, all I can do is eat my French toast, but later, we’re going to have to have a talk.
No, not just us: everyone.
Because if they’re going to play my game, they need to know my rules.
Drama and gossip. That’s what makes up the entirety of my first day back. I’ve never been the subject of so much hate and so much awe at the same time. Pair that with Lizzie’s arrival on campus—she’s practically a legend here already—and the disruption in the usual social hierarchy, and it’s virtual chaos.
We have another small stand-off at the Gallery, but this time, Harper and her people get there first and quite literally barricade the door, so we can’t get in. After the confrontation in The Mess, the staff is watching us, so we end up sitting in the front row of the chapel instead, colored light filtering in the stained-glass windows and bathing the crowd in brilliant reds, yellows, and oranges.
By the time it’s all over, I’m collapsing on my bed and covering my head with a pillow. I’m so tired that I fall right asleep and don’t wake up until it’s time for class the next morning, bolting out of bed with a start to run a brush through my hair, fix my makeup, and take off down the hall to homeroom.
Miranda and Tristan are waiting to escort me, and we meet up with Zayd and Windsor on the way. Creed and Zack are in a different homeroom together, while Lizzie and Andrew are in another.
“Have you given much thought to what my brother said yesterday?” Miranda whispers as we leave Tower One and head toward our statistics classroom, the boys trailing slightly behind us. She sounds half eager and half nervous to hear my answer.
My cheeks flush, but I shrug my shoulders. Between my new schedule yesterday, and all of this drama with the Plebs and the, uh, ex-Bluebloods, I didn’t have a ton of time to think about what Creed did or didn’t ask. He said he was thinking about how to ask me to be his girlfriend. He didn’t actually ask.
“Not particularly,” I hedge, but then we’re slipping into Doctora Meisch’s classroom, and we both go silent. Doctora Meish seems really cool so far, but also a little bit scary. We’ve only had one class together and already we know that she used to work for, like, the Brazi
lian FBI or something. Also, she has several doctorates, so instead of calling her Mrs. Meisch, she’s Doctora, the Spanish word for doctor.
Tristan’s the only one who shares this class with me and Miranda, and we all take seats together right in the front. None of the ex-Bluebloods are in statistics with us. Why bother? When it comes to college, they’ll all either have legacy bonuses (extra points on their application for having family members who attended) or money to get them into the alma mater of their choice.
Me, I have to work my ass off to get into my chosen university, so if it means taking one of the most difficult math classes at Burberry Prep then I’ll do it.
Right after this, Tristan and I have calculus. No rest for the wicked.
We don’t talk much, but at least I have a study buddy this year that cares as much about schoolwork as I do. Why, exactly, he cares as much as he does is a mystery to me. Clearly, his father’s putting pressure on him to be the best, but there’s something more. Maybe … Tristan actually likes to learn, to succeed on his own merit?
My tongue itches to ask him why: why did you try to sabotage me last year? I was so disappointed in him, even when I hated him. So why? Eventually I’ll get up the courage to ask. For now, I just work through the first two classes of the day, thank the heavens that we get through lunch without confrontation, and enjoy the relative ease of my English class in the afternoon with Lizzie.
As soon as I get to my locker however, Zack is there, putting his palm against the metal and leaning down to look at me with the most intense brown eyes known to man.
“Marnye,” he says, as Creed comes jogging up to stand beside us. And when I say it’s weird to see Creed Cabot jog, I mean it’s really weird. He can barely walk most of the time, lazing his way along the halls with an entitled air of superiority. Right now, he just looks pissed and red-faced, like he ran all the way over here.
“You son of a bitch,” he spits as Zack leans down and kisses me hot and fast on the lips. He pulls back and leaves me breathless, reaching up with his left hand to cup the side of my face.
The Envy of Idols Page 8