The Envy of Idols

by Stunich, C. M.

  “Alright everyone,” Ms. Felton says, blowing a whistle and making Tristan scowl. “In the vans, please.”

  “Like we’re freaking dogs,” he murmurs, but he pushes off the wall anyway, capturing my hand and pulling me to one of the luxe black Mercedes Benz vans parked around the circular driveway. They’ve got just enough room for six students, three in each row. One of the rows is rear-facing, so that all six occupants can look at each other.

  Miranda grumbles and kicks Creed in the shin, but she ends up getting relegated to the next van over with Lizzie, Myron, Andrew, and some random Pleb boys that I don’t recognize. That’s usually a good thing around here: if I don’t recognize them, they haven’t bullied me bad enough to be noticed.

  The drive to San Francisco is a bit of a trek, just north of Cruz Bay, and along the same coastal route. But I don’t mind. As we pull away from the Burberry Prep campus, snowflakes falling and melting in an instant, I actually find myself jittery with excitement.

  Not only is the San Francisco ballet and symphony famous, but I get to spend a whole four days with the guys before the long stretch of winter break. I never minded it before. Actually, I looked forward to it, but this year … my feelings are mixed. I’m excited to see Charlie, and to sleep in my own bed, but I wish I could take the guys with me.

  Windsor turns around and fiddles with the stereo, despite Ms. Felton’s dramatic sigh, and we end up with Tony Bennett’s (I Left My Heart) In San Francisco playing. This song, at least, I do recognize. I’m better with oldies than I am with current hits.

  “My mom spends most of her time in San Fran in this stuffy little house on Nob Hill,” Creed says, tucking one knee up on the seat and wrapping his arms around it. “Working in Silicon Valley and trying to compete with all the misogynic assholes in the tech industry. The funny thing is, she’s so much better at what she does than any of them.”

  “Did you know Nob Hill used to have mansions belonging to all of the Big Four railroad barons?” I ask, and Tristan smiles. His family’s wealth was built on railroads, too, but the Vanderbilts aren’t considered part of the Big Four. As far as I know, there are no Vanderbilt mansions in San Francisco. “One of the magnates, Crocker, he got so mad at this poor undertaker named Nicholas Yung for refusing to sell his property. The rest of Yung’s neighbors sold out, so the Crockers owned the entire block but for their property. Out of spite, Crocker built a three-story tall fence to block out the sun for the Yungs.”

  I exhale and Zack smiles.

  “So freaking hot when you talk history, Marnye.” I grin back at him, and then shrug my shoulders.

  “Just let that be a lesson to you: that’s how I see the super-rich. Disgusting, spiteful, and greedy. Crocker couldn’t even appreciate that this poor man, this undertaker, had property rights, too. He had just as much right to live there as a railroad baron.” I push some strands of hair back from my face. While I’m home, I’ll pop into the salon and have it cut again. Long hair is nice, and it’s so pretty, but once you’ve gone short and see how much easier the maintenance side of things gets, it’s hard to want to go back.

  “Those old money types can be clueless like that, can’t they?” Creed asks, and Tristan sneers at him.

  “Like your mother isn’t literally one of the reasons San Francisco property values are through the roof, and far too expensive for the average plebian to purchase a home.” Tristan lifts his chin triumphantly, like he’s done good, and I roll my eyes, and face palm.

  “Please don’t call regular people plebeians in everyday conversation. At school, it’s just a term. In real life, it’s embarrassing.”

  “It’s nice though,” Zayd says, this twisted, mangled mess of inked limbs on the seat next to me. “Seeing how the other side lives, you know? It’s not as bad as I thought.”

  “The other side?” I ask with a small laugh, and he shrugs, looking politely chagrined.

  “You know, like commoners. Peasants. Uh …” I give him a look and he stops, grinning brightly. “None of those?”

  “How about you just practice saying people?” I suggest, and Zack smiles like he thinks he has a leg up on the others. Sure, he went to school at Lower Banks, so he’s got some street cred, but he also thought it was acceptable to pick a random girl and bring her to her knees for the sake of a bet. He almost killed me. That tells me he’s no better than the others: at least back then, he didn’t see the general populace as being worthy of the same respect as his peers.

  “Why did you pick me?” I ask suddenly, and I notice Windsor exchanging a look with Zack. They’re friends now, I’ve noticed, more so than the other boys. All that time spent together during second year was good for them.

  Zack Brooks looks back at me, and he doesn’t seem particularly happy about this thread of conversation.

  “Can we go back to talking about railroad barons?” he whispers, but I just sit there and look at him. I want to know the truth, and I sense there’s something more to it than a random act of malice. When I don’t respond, Zack sighs and rakes his fingers through his shiny brunette hair. It’s much longer this year than it was last year, although still relatively short. “Marnye …” He glances over his shoulder in Ms. Felton’s direction, but I’m not about to get into details. She probably doesn’t even know what we’re talking about. “Fuck.”

  “Language, Mr. Brooks,” she says without bothering to turn around.

  Zack rolls his eyes at her, but then focuses his attention on me. Creed and Tristan watch him, this calculating sharpness to their gazes. Zayd looks uncomfortable, and Windsor looks like he already knows.

  “It wasn’t you, in particular,” Zack says, looking at me with regret plastered on his face. “It was Adam Carmichael. Your mother’s married to him, isn’t she?”

  The color drains from my face, and I sit forward on the seat.

  “You picked me because of Adam Carmichael?” I ask, feeling nausea roll over me. Adam is the same guy that let my mother leave her young child at a rest stop in the middle of nowhere. He’s scum, pure scum. And also the father to a sister I’ve never met.

  “Not me,” Zack says with a long sigh. “Lizzie.”

  “But why? Are the Waltons and the Carmichaels in some kind of feud?”

  “Adam had an affair with Lizzie’s sister,” Tristan explains, his voice as cold and matter-of-fact as always. It’s just a mask, I know that now, but it’s a damn good one. “She was only eighteen at the time, and he was … in his forties, at the very least.” My stomach clenches with nausea. “Lizzie’s hated him ever since.”

  “So she picked me because of him?” I ask, and Tristan nods.

  “I have nothing to do with Adam; I’ve never even met him.” My mind is reeling right now, and I lean back into the leather seat next to Creed, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to process this.

  “We had to pick someone,” Zack whispers, “and your sister, Isabella, she was too young. I’m sorry, Marnye. I’m so fucking sorry.”

  “That’s a mark, Mr. Brooks,” Ms. Felton says as I close my eyes and lean my head against Creed’s shoulder until I fall asleep.

  If the boys talk throughout the rest of the drive, I don’t hear it.

  The entire second year class is staying at the Fairmont Hotel which is about a ten minute drive from the symphony, depending on traffic. It’s definitely a luxury hotel, that much is obvious from the moment I walk in the door. Charlie and I could never afford to stay in a place like this. Actually, we can’t afford to stay in the city at all. When we come to see the symphony, we drive home after.

  “What the hell is this?” I whisper as Creed unlocks the door to a room on the top floor. Miranda’s right behind me, but the other boys have disappeared to various other rooms to drop off their stuff. I’m staying with the Cabots, courtesy of Kathleen. The academy does provide standard hotel rooms free of charge, but it’s two students to a room, and the pairings are random. Upgrades cost big money, but as Creed put it earlier: it’s literally no
thing, so I take their generosity over the random chance I might get paired with Anna or Abigail or Mayleen.

  Imagine the things they’d do while I slept.

  “The presidential suite,” Creed says, yawning. I don’t think he means to be disrespectful (although he probably doesn’t care much about the lush splendor surrounding us). He just … well, he’s always yawning and lounging and draping himself over furniture. “Your bed is through that door”—he points at it, and then scowls—“and, unfortunately, I have to share the other one with my sister.”

  “A massive suite like this, and it only has two beds?” I ask, moving over to the windows and covering my mouth with both hands. We’ve got a two hundred and seventy degree view of the city. I can see the Golden Gate Bridge as well as Alcatraz. It’s beyond amazing. I’m so excited by it that when Creed saunters up beside me, one hand tucked into his pocket, I throw my arms around his neck and give him a huge squeeze.

  Miranda watches us from the seating area, smiling tightly. When I finish hugging her brother, I hug her, too. She laughs and pats my back, pushing me back a step. I notice that her cheeks are flushed pink though, and her pulse is pounding. Maybe she’s still crushing on me? My own cheeks heat with embarrassment.

  “It's ridiculous, right?” Miranda says, dragging her suitcase toward the bedroom on the opposite side of the suite. “You can fit twenty people in this room, but you can only really sleep four at most.”

  She shrugs her shoulders and returns to the bedroom, closing the door behind her as I return my focus to the wall of windows. The only plans for tonight include a late dinner in the restaurant downstairs, but otherwise we’re attending the symphony tomorrow, and the ballet on Sunday. On Monday, we have a whole day to explore the museums.

  "She really likes you, you know," Creed says, sighing and running his fingers through his hair. "Don't you dare break her heart," he warns me, moving over to stand beside me and cupping my chin with his long fingers. "Don't you break mine either."

  Creed leans in to kiss me, and I lift up on my toes to meet him halfway, curling my fingers around his lean but still muscular shoulders.

  Our kiss sears every part of me, my lips, my heart, my soul. It amps up like it did in the library and I pull away before Miranda can come out and see us. Creed makes a little groaning sound as I pull away, his fingers sliding along the curve of my waist until they finally drop by his side.

  His eyes linger on me until I disappear behind my bedroom door, and I have to take a minute to sit down the edge of my bed and breathe before I have enough mental energy to get up and change for dinner.

  Every time they touch me, I feel something shift inside, this wild heat awakening in my body that I don't know what to do with. It's almost painful, how much I want them.

  That feeling, it isn't going to last long without pulling me apart completely.

  We all dress up for the symphony, the boys in tuxes, and the girls in long, glittery dresses. I wear a white gown that feels a bit like a wedding dress, but that I can't really complain about since I stole it from Miranda. And when I say stole, what I really mean is that she brought over heaps of clothes to my dorm room and made me try on a bunch until I found something that fit.

  The symphony and, the following day, the ballet, are just as magnificent as I hoped they'd be. Seeing the harpist onstage was mesmerizing, definitely something to shoot for.

  "If I hadn't already decided I wanted to be a professor, I'd seriously start thinking about making a career out of music." I'm lying on my bed next to Creed, still dressed in the long white gown with the slit that goes all the way up to the hip, while he loosens his tie, and unbuttons his jacket.

  "You want to be a professor?" he asks, glancing over at me. We're hanging out while Miranda showers in the other room, my barefoot bumping up against his shiny Barker Blacks as I wiggle my toes.

  A smile takes over my lips as I glance Creed’s way, meeting that heavy-lidded stare of his and feeling a small thrill go through me. Don't think of the hot tub, I tell myself, but then of course, that's all I can think about.

  "I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm pretty good at school." I shrug my shoulders and then lean back into the pillows. "And I like it, too. If I could, I'd be a professional student for the rest of my life."

  Creed smirks and then sits up to remove his jacket, tossing it casually onto the floor. He turns on his side to look at me, propping himself up on his elbow. His eyes trace the neckline of my dress, and I reach a hand up unconsciously to tease my collarbone with my fingers.

  "Isn't that what grad school is for?" he asks, scooting just a little closer to me and reaching up with long fingers to pull my sleeve down my shoulder. He leans in and presses a warm kiss to my already heated skin. "Just be a doctor, and you'll be going to school for most of your life anyway." He gives a lazy cat's grin, and scoots a little closer, putting his right arm on the left side of my body so that he’s partially covering my upper half.

  "I like the academic environment," I say, struggling to control my breathing. With the way Creed is laying, my natural instinct is to lean up into him, wrap an arm around his neck, and kiss him. "I want to go to Bornstead, and if things work out, I'd like to teach there one day, too. I've already started working on my application." Creed raises his eyebrows, and looks at me like I'm crazy.

  "You've already started working on it?" he asks incredulously, some of that lazy nonchalance disappearing for a minute. "Is it that time already?"

  "It is if you don't have a legacy bonus," I joke, and I can't help myself, reaching up a hand to stroke Creed's smooth jawline the way Tristan did in the library. As soon as that thought enters my mind, a fresh surge of heat flushes through me, and I catch my breath. "And if you desperately need scholarship money in order to be able to go there."

  Creed closes his eyes, and leans in toward me, putting his face in the crook between my neck and shoulder. When he breathes, air flutters against my pulse, light as a butterfly kiss.

  "My mom says that if I don't pull my grades up and get into college, then she's kicking me out and cutting me off." He sounds almost ashamed as he admits this to me, nuzzling deeper against me.

  "I don't think Kathleen would ever do that to you," I admit, because as much as she's upset by Creed's actions, she loves him too much to see him suffer.

  "You don't know her like I do." Creed lifts his head to look at me, putting our lips insanely close together. I can feel his breath fluttering against my mouth, and all I want to do is kiss him. Some big, bad bully he's turning out to be. He looks so soft and angelic in the gold light from the bedside lamp. "She's smart, and driven…" Creed wrinkles his brows slightly. "Kind of like you, I guess. She worked hard for everything she has, and she expects Miranda and me to do the same. I can't disappoint her."

  And there it is, the real crux of the situation. Creed is desperate to be a part of his family, whether he wants to admit it or not. He's terrified of disappointing his mother.

  "Hey." I cup the side of his face in gentle hands and pull him just a little bit closer, so that when I talk, he can feel my words against his lips. "You've got me as a tutor," I say with a little smile. "so really, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I'll do whatever it takes to whip you into shape. Let's start with this: where do you want to go to college?"

  Creed looks up at me, his gaze shifting from the lazy, insouciant mask he wears to the deep burning of bedroom eyes, affectionate and lustful both at the same time.

  "Why do you care so much about what happens to me?" he asks, shifting so that he isn't hovering above me anymore. No, it's more like he's lying on top of me now. I can feel him in all the right places, tucked between my thighs and looking devilishly handsome in this charcoal gray tuxedo. "I treated you like absolute shit. So why? Why? What is it about me that you actually like? Most girls like the money, or the prestige of dating an Idol, or maybe they just want to fuck me. But it's never about anything else. Except …" He puts both palms down flat on the b
ed and hoists himself up, so that he's looking straight down at me. “… with you.”

  "You're fiercely protective of your sister," I start, breathing hard, feeling my heart begin to race out of control. I'm suddenly dizzy, and I know that if I were standing up, my knees would give out. "And you love your parents so much, there's agony in your eyes when you talk about disappointing your mom." I take a deep breath as Creed sits up on his knees and begins to loosen his tie, using languid, easy motions as he watches me with an intensity that I've only seen him use during fights. But it's not an angry intensity, or a violent one: it’s determination. "Most of all, I like that you have the guts to admit when you've made a mistake. A lot of people don't ever learn that lesson, not once in their entire lives."

  Creed sits back on his heels, sliding the blue satin of his tie through the knot, and tossing it onto the floor. He reaches up with long fingers and starts to undo his crisp, white shirt.

  I'm still not exactly sure what we're doing, but I like it. Miranda must be done showering by now, right? But I don't hear anything, and the sitting room between the two bedrooms is dark and empty. Creed climbs off the bed, moves over to the door to close it, and leans his back against the wood. He shrugs his shirt over his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor.

  "You never said where you wanted to go to college," I hedge, sitting up on my elbows to get a better look at him. It's pretty obvious that I'm trying to change the subject, the tension in the air is so thick it could be cut with a knife.

  Creeds lids droop, so that he’s staring at me from these intense blue slits, like shards of sapphire in a smooth, porcelain face.

  "Bornstead," he replies succinctly, kicking off his shoes, and peeling off his socks.

  My heart feels like it might burst inside my chest, but I manage to keep my voice calm when I ask, "why Bornstead?"

  A heartbeat of silence, two, three. Creed moves over to sit beside me on the edge of the bed. His stare is so intense that I have trouble meeting it head-on.