The Envy of Idols

by Stunich, C. M.

  I glance at Lizzie, but she’s in the process of storming off, her head in her hand. I don’t blame her for being upset; I would be, too.

  “I’ll take care of them,” Windsor promises, taking me in his arms and kissing the corners of my mouth. He’s teasing me, like he always does, making me want more. “Miranda says she already called your dad, and he said it was fine if she crashed at your place for a few days.”

  “And after that?” How long an Infinity Club party lasts, I have no idea.

  “After that …” Windsor starts, just as Zayd, Creed, and Zack come into the room.

  “Time to skedaddle, babe,” Zayd tells me, wringing his tattooed hands in nervousness. I don’t like that, seeing someone as carefree as him get nervous. Fuck the Infinity Club and everything it stands for. It’s just an excuse for rich bullies to pick on the less fortunate, and call it a game.

  “There’s a side entrance,” Creed tells me, slouching lazily against the doorjamb. He’s got that sharpness in his eyes that says he’s ready to fight if need be. “Through the ballroom. I’ll show you. I had Miranda move your car.”

  Zack puts his letterman jacket on my shoulders and presses a kiss to my cheek, his full mouth pursed tight, eyes dancing with dark shadows. He’s about as happy about this whole situation as I am.

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” I tell them, taking one last look out Tristan’s front window to find Harper climbing from her car. Great. I exhale sharply, and turn toward the door to follow after Creed.

  “Drive safe, Marnye,” Zack whispers as I pass by, and I give one last wave before retreating to my room to pick up my bags.

  This whole situation feels dramatic, but I know it’s just another summer for us academy kids.

  Today, we’re plotting intrigue. Last week, we meted out vengeance. Tomorrow, we’ll probably go to the beach.

  One year, one choice, one improbable future.

  Who knew that being the new girl would be so damn difficult.

  The drive home is peaceful, just winding roads and hillside and sunshine. The ocean sparkles on our left as we take the coastal route back to Cruz Bay and Charlie’s tiny rental house on the edge of the exclusive Grenadine Heights neighborhood.

  Miranda and I don’t talk much, not until we’re nearly home.

  “What happened?” she asks, and I raise an eyebrow, glancing over at her briefly before I look back at the road. I might be an overly cautious driver, but better than a reckless one, right?

  “Happened?” I ask, and she sighs, leaning back in her seat with her white-blond hair whipping all over the place. She’s got big, shiny silver shades on, and she lifts them to glare at me with her icy blue eyes.

  “Yes, happened. Between you and Tristan. You disappeared upstairs, and we couldn’t find you.”

  My cheeks flush with heat, and I know what she’s thinking. Of course she’d assume we were having sex. But with Tristan, sex is normal. Easy. It’s a way for him to express emotion without actually having to come to terms with any of it. No, that’s not what we did.

  “We played Twister, and then kissed, and cuddled.” Miranda laughs, but only for a second. Then she realizes I’m serious and gapes at me, her lips shiny with pink gloss. Bits of her hair get stuck in it as we take the exit into Cruz Bay.

  “You cuddled?” she asks, and I nod. She makes this half-whine, half-groan sound. “You’re totally picking him, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not picking anyone just yet,” I murmur as we slow down and it gets a little easier to chat without all that wind in our faces. “I slept with your brother, but you’re worried about a game of Twister?”

  “Uh, duh. Sex is … just sex. But someone you can hang all afternoon with and not realize how much time has passed? Someone you can have a good time with? Someone you can—gag me with a spoon—snuggle? That’s real stuff right there.”

  I don’t respond, pulling into the driveway and mulling that information over in my mind.

  It’s not until I climb out that I realize there’s a cream-colored Cadillac parked on the street.

  Jennifer is here.

  “Mommy troubles?” Miranda asks, as I purse my lips and nod, grabbing my bags from the back of the convertible and heading inside. It’s so bright and sunny out that I have to squint when I step into the living room, Miranda on my heels.

  As soon as I see what’s waiting for, I come to a complete halt, and my best friend-turned crush-turned best friend again bumps into my back.

  “What the—” she starts, and then stops as she looks between me, and the teenaged girl that looks just like me sitting on the couch between Jennifer and Charlie. He’s got tears in his eyes as he looks up at me, and Jennifer … she’s got a big, round belly, and a smile.

  “Marnye,” she says, rising to her feet with considerable effort. She groans and has to put a hand out to steady herself. Dad is up in an instant to support her, looking a little wobbly himself. I feel this sick, dark shadow inside of me that whispers about how much worse he looks from when I last saw him, how much weight he’s lost. Shit. Jennifer waves him off and then there’s this awkward moment of quiet where we just stare at each other. “Marnye, I’d like you to meet your younger sister, Isabella Carmichael.”

  My heart turns to ice, plummets into my stomach, and breaks into a million little pieces.

  My brown eyes lock on Isabella’s, and the way she smiles at me … reminds me of something. It takes me a second to register what, exactly, that is, but as soon as I do, I feel cold on the inside.

  Her smile … it reminds me of the filthy rich girls I already know and hate.

  Fan-freaking-tastic.

  To Be Continued …

  Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #4(The Final Book)

  Adamson All-Boys Academy, Book #1

  Flip the page for an excerpt of chapter one.

  Chapter One

  It looks less like a school, and more like a castle.

  I stand at the edge of the lawn in front of Adamson's All-Boys Academy, and I try to remember how it feels to breathe. Orange, red, and yellow leaves swirl around the ankles of my slacks as I hitch my bag a little higher up on my shoulder and push on down the curving path toward the employee entrance.

  My dad's not far ahead of me, cursing at the random droplets of rain spattering down on our heads. He unlocks the door, gestures me inside, and then closes it behind him.

  “Why don't you head down to the cafeteria, find a spot, and get settled?” Dad asks, trying to smile at me. I'm frowning at him. I'm still mad. I'll probably stay mad the rest of the year because …

  “My boobs hurt,” I blurt, and he flushes bright red. “And the bandages are pulling on my nipples.”

  “Charlotte,” he snaps back, reaching up to rub at his forehead. “May I remind you that this was your idea, not mine. It's day one, and it’s not too late to change your mind.”

  “No thank you,” I quip, turning and pushing out of the office and into the hallway. From bright California sunshine, beaches and bikinis, to … this. Frost-nipped air, piles of slimy dead leaves, and an all-boys school looking to experiment on me. I’ve been here two minutes and already I don’t like it. Back in Santa Cruz, I had friends, a boyfriend, and a passion for surfing. Here in … where are we again? Nobody-Gives-a-Crap, Connecticut?

  The hallways here are cavernous, with stone arches and brick walls, windows made of delicate stained-glass, and mosaic floors. The teachers are all stuffy and dressed in suits, as opposed to my last school where most of the staff wore shorts and sneakers.

  My chest is tight as I pull up the school map on my phone and make my way to the cafeteria. Apparently, Adamson has won all sorts of awards for their school food. It’s all sustainable, and primarily grown in greenhouses in the back. There’s even a chicken coop that all students are required to take a two week shift helping with. Yeah, so not looking forward to that.

  Slipping in the big, double wooden doors, I find the room empty save for a single boy in
the corner, hunched over a bowl of cream of wheat or oatmeal or something. He glances up as I walk in, adjusts his ear buds, and then looks back down at the open book sitting beside his bowl.

  For a moment there, my heart stops, and I freeze just inside the door, holding my back and reaching up a hand to touch my newly shorn hair. Back in California, it was long, blonde and luxurious. Now, it’s … cut in this nerdy, androgynous sort of way—long in the front and on the top, short on the sides and back. It’s naturally curly, too, so if I don’t straighten it, it flops in ringlets over my forehead and looks even shorter. Paired with my thick-framed black glasses (I usually wear contacts), an oversized blazer, and the athletic tape I wrapped over my breasts, I don’t think anyone will look at me twice.

  It’s a strategic move on my part to pick a seat near the trash cans. Hopefully nobody will sit near me, and I can make it through breakfast without having to put up with awkward conversation. My whole goal here is to convince my mother—who lives in Los Angeles—to let me move in with her. I’ll still be five hours away from my boyfriend, Cody, and my best friend, Monica, but that’s better than a forty-four hour drive like it is now.

  Flopping my backpack onto the table, I put my elbows down and then rub my hands over my face. I’m not wearing any makeup, so it’s not like it matters. Dropping my hands to my lap, I look around the room, taking in the shiny wood tables, the reclaimed wood floors, and the chandeliers made out of … antlers. Mm. Not exactly my aesthetic.

  I leave my bag where it is, and head over to the counter, scanning my student ID badge and taking a tray. It might be a cafeteria, but the food looks good. I’m used to cold cereal, packages of oatmeal, and dry muffins for school breakfast. This place has scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, and even smoothies. I’ll admit it: I’m mildly impressed.

  That feeling only lasts so long as it takes for the cafeteria to fill up with students.

  I’m the only girl at this school, the first female student in Adamson’s new integrated curriculum, but I’m not about to be their guinea pig. My dad calls it social progress; I call it an experiment with unknown outcomes. It’s great that the academy wants to have a mixed gender population. I mean, what is it, the sixteen hundreds or something? There’s no room for an all-boys school anymore, especially not when most people recognize gender norms are ridiculous social constructs.

  Still, I’m not exactly a pioneer or an activist or anything. I like surfing all day, collapsing on the beach with a book, and then reading until the boardwalk lights come on. My friends and I would stop and get a seventy-five cent corn dog and a dollar soda, and then walk home while making plans for tomorrow. Everyday was an event, always something to look forward to.

  But here …

  There’s a lot of shouting, greetings called across the cavernous room, and a sea of blazers, cardigans, slacks, and ties. I’m drowning in my navy blue jacket, cream colored tie, and white shirt. I asked for my uniforms to be made about two sizes bigger than they should be. With the jacket hanging off my shoulders, my breasts and hips are swallowed by fabric. I’m totally incognito.

  “Hello there.”

  Two voices surround me at once, and I jump as a pair of boys sits on either side of me.

  Looking between the two of them, it becomes immediately obvious: they’re identical twins.

  “Micah.” One of them says, extending a hand.

  “Tobias.” The other one reaches out to shake with me, but I’m not about to accept an invitation from either. Some stupid, silly part of me thinks that if I take their hands, they’ll know, and I’ll have to get used to every guy in the school staring at me. I’ll be the odd one out by default, the outcast, the pariah.

  Snatching my bag, I launch up to my feet, hop over the bench and take off.

  The twins are right behind me.

  “Are you okay?” they ask, still in unison. It’s seriously creepy. They’re both green-eyed, red-haired, and far too interested in me already. Back in California, I was loud and outgoing. Maybe I wasn’t the most popular girl in school, but Monica was. By proxy, I had plenty of attention, invites to parties, casual friends and acquaintances to hang out with. Here, I need to blend into the background, keep my head down, and ride out this nightmare until I can convince Mom to let me move in with her.

  I pick up my walking speed, turn the corner, and then come to a grinding halt as the twins slide in front of me, blocking my path. They both look at me like I’ve sprouted tentacles or something.

  “Does the new kid speak English?” they ask, exchanging a look. Their attention swings back to me, and I can feel that scrutiny like a laser burning into my skin. “Buenos dias. Como te llama?”

  Great. Now they’re asking me my name in Spanish.

  “Excuse me,” I blurt, using my shoulder to push between them. They’re both tall, and clearly very fit beneath their uniforms. As I squeeze by them and take off down the hall, I can feel that they’re still watching me. Fantastic. I’ve barely made it past breakfast, and I’ve managed to fall on the radar of some weird, but stupidly attractive twins.

  Junior year just got interesting.

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  About the Author

  C.M. Stunich is a self-admitted bibliophile with a love for exotic teas and a whole host of characters who live full time inside the strange, swirling vortex of her thoughts. Some folks might call this crazy, but Caitlin Morgan doesn't mind - especially considering she has to write biographies in the third person. Oh, and half the host of characters in her head are searing hot bad boys with dirty mouths and skillful hands (among other things). If being crazy means hanging out with them everyday, C.M. has decided to have herself committed.

  She hates tapioca pudding, loves to binge on cheesy horror movies, and is a slave to many cats. When she's not vacuuming fur off of her couch, C.M. can be found with her nose buried in a book or her eyes glued to a computer screen. She's the author of over eighty novels - romance, new adult, fantasy, and young adult included. Please, come and join her inside her crazy. There's a heck of a lot to do there.

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