“San Francisco trip,” he says, and Lizzie bites her lip.
“I’m going to the winter formal,” she says with a small sigh. “My dad arranged for a visitor’s pass, so Marcel could take me.” She doesn’t sound particularly happy about that, and I notice Tristan’s shoulders get tense.
He moves past her and out from under the awning, so he can glance up at the dusky sky, and the swirling snow.
Zack comes out a moment later, spots me in his hoodie, and grins as he pops over to sit beside me. Even with the stolen hoodie, I’m still freezing, so I burrow into him and eventually end up sitting between his legs, his big, warm body draped over mine. I like it best that way, being swallowed up by Zack and his heavy winter coat.
“We need to get you a new jacket,” he says, but we both know I already have one that Miranda bought for me last year. I’d just rather wear his hoodie is all. “Not that I mind you wearing my sweater.” He chuckles and nuzzles against my ear, giving me serious butterflies, a whole swarm of them. His muscular arms are banded around me, squeezing tight, and I relax into them.
“You’re going on the San Francisco trip?” I ask, and Miranda sighs dramatically.
“Hey, you, crazy person,” she says, moving over to stand in front of me, looking like a model with her sheet of shiny hair, designer ski outfit, and bright pink jacket. She points at me and pokes me in the forehead. “I told you: wherever you go, the guys will follow, stop asking.”
“And you?” Zack asks, because Creed isn’t the only one who knows about the kiss between me and Miranda. Somehow, they all do, and they’re jealous as hell about it. Maybe they see her as a serious threat?
“Of course I’m going to San Francisco,” she scoffs, checking the time on her watch. “It’s a third year right to go.” She drops her arm by her side and gives me a look. “It’s almost time to get ready. That is, if you don’t want to get onstage with mussy hair and poorly done makeup.”
“Aren’t you so sweet,” I tease, scooping up a bit of snow and chucking it at her.
“We need to be on time for the talent show,” Tristan says, turning to look at us, his hands buried in the pockets of his gray wool coat. “It’s imperative.”
“You guys have something planned,” I say, glancing back at Zack, but he gives nothing away. His face looks like it always does, serious and deep and dark. I reach up and tug on a lock of his brown hair, but he just raises his brows and says nothing.
I guess it doesn’t matter.
I’m about to find out anyway.
The auditorium is packed, but there’s a general sense of irritation from the crowd. Attendance is compulsory, but everyone really just wants to dick around in the snow. Doesn’t bother me. I’m just using the show as a point of interest on my college application, and also to practice for the winter concert. Next week, I’m traveling for a cheer competition in Los Angeles, so I won’t be able to play the harp all weekend.
Part of me wonders if I should quit the team. I’m not particularly invested in or excited by cheering, or by sports in general really, but it’s a good way to stay in shape, and it does add some interest to my résumé. Anyway, even though half the girls on the squad are Company members that hate me and my guys, I can’t ditch Coach Hannah and the others just before our first real competition.
We’ve done a few local things, but we haven’t come back with any medals or trophies just yet. I don’t think this time will be different, but we’ve gotten a hell of a lot better since third year started, so who knows?
Zayd is one the first performers to take the stage, and he gets quite the warm welcome from the crowd. Part of that, I’m sure, is because of his outfit: these tight leather pants that cup his ass like a second skin, and a loose, torn tank with some old band logo on the front. He might be playing an acoustic guitar, but he looks like he’s ready for a rock concert.
I sneak out from backstage, and stand at the edge of the auditorium, my heart singing as he plays his song in front of the whole school. Becky calls out some bullshit from behind the curtain, but I don’t let her words bother me because they’re tinged with jealousy. That, and Zayd … he told me he loves me, didn’t he?
It’s a huge thing, those few words. They mean a whole hell of a lot.
Just before he leaves the stage, Zayd gives me a wink and a kiss, takes a bow, and exits stage left.
I’m up just after him, so I have to scramble to get backstage before the harp’s wheeled into place, and I head out in front of the crowd to a mixed reception of boos and cheers. Doesn’t matter at this point. I’m used to it. The first few times I played after the incident during first year were hard, but it’s gotten easier and easier, and I know I can’t let fear keep me from doing what I love.
So I sit down on that stool, and I sweep my fingers across the strings, closing my eyes and letting the melody drift in the air like the snowflakes swirling from the ebon-dark sky outside. There’s a crisp, cold snap to the air that makes the world seem so much more vivid. Sometimes when I play the harp, it feels like I’m weaving sound from the air, tucking random notes into a loom until I’ve crafted something completely new.
As is often the case, I drift away as I pluck the strings, swaying slightly with the music. There’s some noise and movement from backstage, a very distinct grunt, and some arguing, but I don’t pay attention to any of it. I’m at the part of the song where the pace picks up and I feel like I’m tickling the instrument, making it laugh and sing with each brush of my fingers.
My eyes drift up and find several empty seats in the front of the auditorium where the boys should be. Miranda, Lizzie, and Andrew are there, but none of my guys. Not a single one. I finish off my song, and listen to the smattering of clapping and a few raucous shouts that are quickly stifled by the staff.
Rising to my feet, I take a bow and head backstage to find Zack, Windsor, and Zayd in a stand-off with some of the Harpies.
“One day, we’re going to catch you in the right place at the right time,” Jalen Donner sneers, rubbing some blood off his face with his sleeve. “I’m going to fucking kill Tristan Vanderbilt. Where is that pussy anyway? Too busy screwing somebody else’s girlfriend?”
“You are so damn lucky,” Ileana Taittinger sneers at me, dressed up in some ridiculous white jumpsuit. All the Company girls are participating in a song and dance routine set to Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas Is You. From what little I saw of it during auditions, it’s pretty horrendous.
“How so?” I ask, folding my arms over the long, red dress I’m wearing. It’s so sparkly and pretty, and long and flowy enough to be worn while I play.
“These wankers thought they could get one over on us,” Windsor says, stepping forward, and snatching a sword from one of the prop racks for the drama club’s upcoming rendition of the Nutcracker. He whips the wooden blade around in a circle, and takes up a fighting stance that clearly shows he’s had his fair share of fencing lessons. “They were going to throw fire crackers onstage while you were playing.”
My brows go up.
Damn.
A firecracker could easily take my fingers off. Maybe that was the point, huh?
I look down at the floor and see scattered fireworks, matches, and a few lighters. When Harper and Becky come out of the dressing room, they don’t look happy to see me standing there unscathed.
“Nice wigs,” I say, and Kiara seriously throws herself at me. Zack catches her and shoves her back, making her stumble in her heels.
“Don’t touch my fucking girlfriend, or you’ll see how quickly I break that no violence rule of hers. See, she’s a real class act. Me, I’m a fucking asshole. I’m not afraid to talk about your daddy’s affairs, or the three young pregnant women suing him for child support.”
“Shut your goddamn mouth!” Kiara snaps, hissing under her breath. There’s a trio of Pleb girls onstage whose music is loud enough to drown out our fight. Of course there are zero staff members back here. Makes me wonder how many of the
teachers Harper’s paid to look the other way.
But then Mrs. Amberton and Ms. Highland come in from outside, a weepy Ebony Peterson standing between them. I have no idea what ruse she’s pulling, but she scowls as soon as she sees me.
“Where did all of these fireworks come from?” Mrs. Amberton asks, her gaze flying up to meet mine. She seems genuinely concerned which is nice. I make myself smile.
“One of the first year boys dropped a box of them and took off,” Harper says, fanning herself. Her bodysuit is so tight, she’s got a camel toe. Swear on my life, I couldn’t make that up if I tried. Her wig is clearly expensive, made of real human hair, and as glossy and shiny as Miranda’s real hair.
First opportunity I get, I’m snatching it off.
The song playing onstage peters out, and we can hear the crowd clapping.
“Harper du Pont and the Bluebloods,” Mr. Carter announces, and I roll my eyes. Ex-Bluebloods is more like it.
“Break a leg,” Zayd purrs as the girls strut past him. “Literally, please. I want to see some bone.”
“Eat shit, Zayd,” Becky growls as she saunters past.
“Hey,” Zack says, taking me by the elbow. “Go sit in the audience with Miranda, okay?”
I give him a look.
“Remember our little conversation?” Windsor asks, spinning the wooden sword in a circle as the Company boys look on suspiciously. I think the prince might actually be able to kick their asses with it if he wanted to. That is, until he gets a scolding and a mark from Ms. Highland for messing with props he’s not supposed to be touching.
“Our turn to play dirty,” Zayd whispers, pushing me toward the stairs.
I do as he asks, taking the seat between Miranda and Lizzie.
The stage lights darken, and the song starts up. Slowly, the spotlight fades to life and Harper turns around, grabbing the microphone and singing Mariah’s notes in a fairly impressive imitation of the famous song. I guess there’s a reason she’s head of the choir.
Once she starts dancing however, I can’t keep the giggles back.
“She looks like a deranged snow bunny,” I whisper, and both Miranda and Lizzie join in. The other girls—Becky, Ileana, Abigail, Valentina, Kiara, Mayleen, Anna, and Ebony—join in with a choreographed dance, taking up mics of their own.
The whole thing is just … it’s hilarious. I’m sorry, I try not to belittle others, but the girls tried to kill me, so I figure they’re fair game for an honest critique.
About halfway through the song, when I’m pretty sure I just can’t take it anymore … nine Pleb boys that I barely recognize appear from behind the curtain, moving up behind the girls while they’re busy singing and focusing on the audience.
Wigs get snatched, and there’s chaos, the song playing in the background with the faintest hint of Mariah’s vocals crooning through the speakers. Harper’s pterodactyl screech echoes in her mic just before the boys retreat back like they’re expecting something more.
That’s when viscous red pours down from above, coating the Harpies from head-to-toe as they scream.
This time though, I don’t think it’s paint. Creed wasn’t lying. No, my boys have gone full-out: this is blood.
The whole room is silent as the song nears the end, and Tristan and Creed appear from the opposite side of the auditorium, sliding surreptitiously into two empty seats. Zack, Windsor, and Zayd come out just after, sitting on the end of the front row about ten seats down from me.
Harper is standing there panting and shaking, her girls on either side of her, most of them crying.
The curtain tumbles down in front of them, and there are panties pinned all over it.
Holy … freaking crap.
The music fades out, and the auditorium bursts into laughter.
It’s a good thing I go out of town for the cheer competition: blood is being shed at Burberry Prep. Now, when I took revenge, I let them hang themselves with their own rope. My boys … are definitely stretching the rules a bit with their creativity. They chisel cruelty into flawless perfection much the same way as a sculptor chips at marble or stone.
It’s impressive, and a little scary, too.
During the short trip to L.A., I volunteer to share a room with Coach Hannah (there’s an odd number of us so someone has to do it), and I make very certain that I don’t drink or eat anything that hasn’t just come from a sealed container or wrapper. You’d best believe I’m hyper-aware of my hair, too. No way am I letting them surprise me with a buzzer.
We manage to take home a silver medal which is impressive, considering the disharmonious atmosphere in the team.
When I get back, I find the boys bruised from a fight. Not a single one of them managed to escape unscathed.
“What happened?” I ask, reaching up to gingerly brush my thumb against the shiner on Windsor’s left eye. He grins and captures my wrist with such a quicksilver motion that my heart skips a beat. He kisses the inside of my wrist and makes me gasp when he flicks his tongue against my pulse.
“Pretty much what you’d think, love. Got into a nasty row in the courtyard.”
“They fight dirty, too,” Creed drawls, touching the scratches down his cheek. That’s the mark of a lady fight right there.
“The girls were in on it, too?” I ask, and Zack nods.
“We didn’t hit them, if that’s what you’re worried about. We’ve got some integrity, but that made the seventeen-on-eight odds a little worse for wear. If we hadn’t had Lizzie there, it would’ve been a lot worse. She took on Harper for you.”
“I tried to anyway,” she says, sporting a split lip. At least she’s still got all her hair.
“Seventeen-on-eight …” I start, thinking about the lineup. Okay, so all nine Harpies, eight Company boys, and a partridge in a pear tree, right? Versus my boys, Lizzie, Andrew, and Myron. Or at least that’s my guess. Miranda doesn’t have a mark on her. “God.”
“It was so worth it,” Creed continues, slapping at his twin when she tries to put a warm washcloth to his face. “They ambushed us in the dark with buzzers and scissors. Idiots. We were all wearing fucking hats. We’re not stupid.”
“Did you go looking for trouble?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Trouble finds us,” Tristan purrs from his seat in the corner. He’s sitting in a huge black leather armchair that looks like the perfect reading chair. We’re in his dorm in Tower Three. I’ve actually never been here before. Did you know that it has a freaking fireplace? I’m so jealous. “We don’t have to look for it.”
“Are any of them going on the San Francisco trip?” I ask, but Tristan just shakes his head. He doesn’t know. Great.
“Things are going to get worse before they get better, huh?” I ask, feeling this awful choppy churning sensation in my stomach. It’s guilt, is what it is. All of this is because of me. True, the boys said they wanted to take this on, but … this isn’t just their fight.
I need to step it up.
“Don’t,” Zack whispers, putting his big hands on my shoulders and squeezing, kneading my tight flesh with strong fingers. Oh my god. I’d love to get a naked, oily massage from him … Ahem. “I can see it written all over your face: trust us to take care of this. Focus on kicking Tristan’s ass in academics, okay?”
Tristan narrows that blade gray gaze of his, and I know that even though we’re dating, that doesn’t mean he won’t try his hardest to take my spot at the top of the class.
“Let us worry about the Infinity Club,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that tells me he doesn’t just mean the junior version. A shiver slides down my spine, but I nod, and I make damn sure from that point on that I keep the baseball bat I borrowed from the gym next to my bed when sleep.
Just like last year, the San Francisco trip overlaps with winter break. That Friday before break, when all the first years are preparing for winter formal, we’re piling suitcases in the courtyard and taking stock of the students gathering around the stag
statue.
They’re all there, every single one of the Harpies. The Company. Whatever you want to call them. I like synonyms; I’ll take both names.
“Of course they’re all here,” Creed sneers, leaning back against a pillar with an insouciant air of privilege. He waves his hand around dismissively. “No third year wants to get stuck at winter formal, unless you’re Lizzie Walton and your father hates you.”
“Stop it,” Tristan snaps, and I watch carefully as the two of them share a long, angry look. They both glance away without a clear winner, and Tristan crosses his arms over his chest, staring Harper down. Rightfully so. She stalks me in the halls, I swear. If I get lax for one second, it’s going to be my hair that’s shaved, my ass kicked, or … worse. Because clearly, they’re all capable of it.
“Let’s just steer clear of them and try to have a good time,” Zayd says, mumbling around a cigarette as he hides around the corner of Tower Two and tries to get his lighter to work in the wind while simultaneously trying to avoid getting caught by one of the teachers. “Lord knows my winter break is going to suck serious ass. Dad’s on tour in Europe, so I’ll be treated like a fucking roadie, hauling equipment and fighting off wrinkly old groupies. Ugh. I just want a tree and a friggin’ fruitcake.”
“You’re always welcome to join me,” I say, and he smiles. It’s not an entirely happy expression though.
“If I thought Billy,” Zayd says with a dramatic roll of his green eyes, “would let me, I’d take you up on that offer in a heartbeat.”
“I’m interested in the offer,” Windsor says, studying me. He’s wearing the plastic crown again, and I’m not sure if it’s meant to be ironic, or if it’s a reminder that even in a cheap crown, he’s still a prince. That Billie Eilish song comes to mind: you should see me in a crown.
“If you don’t have any plans with family, then there’s always room for you at our table.” At least, I think there is. Dad might not be thrilled if I brought Zack or one of the Idols home, but at least he doesn’t have reason to hate Windsor York. Not yet anyway. Hopefully not ever.
The Envy of Idols Page 19