by Lucy Auburn
At the side of the stage, a teenage boy wolf whistles, fingers in his mouth, light blond hair gleaming in the afternoon sun. I see a flash of the side of his face before the audience shifts, blocking him from my view, but just a sliver of his cheek is all I need to see to identify him instantly.
Cole Masterson, the last of my targets, the alpha wolf of the pack.
And standing on stage, clearing her throat into the mic in preparation for her speech, is his girlfriend Holly Schneider, daughter of Editor in Chief Marianna Schneider and CEO Lawrence Schneider of Flare Magazine and Schneider Aerodynamic respectively.
The golden boy and his golden girl, ruling over their whole kingdom. All their Instagram posts are #CoupleGoals, the stuff of modern fairy tale romance. They have more stalkers of their relationship than Justin and Selena.
"Hello everyone, and welcome to Coleridge." Holly's voice is a low, soothing tone, her pronunciation of every word carefully measured. "For nearly two hundred years, this academy has been a beacon of hope to the outliers: young, educated hopefuls hungry for academic challenge. You are all here today because you need something more than the basic, ordinary education offered to you, and Coleridge is here to give you what you need.
"When I look out at you, I see future ballerinas, playwrights, entrepreneurs, environmental activists, visionaries, and so much more than what's to be expected. You are, all of you, going places."
I bite down on my lower lip to keep from saying something snide, shifting in my chair, worrying at the duffel bag in my lap. It feels like she's going to go on forever.
She nearly does. The one thing I can't help noticing she leaves out of her speech about "academic challenges" and "promising futures" is the teeny, tiny, incidental fact that the net worth of nearly everyone here is so much more than the average that the parents of these students could buy a few small island countries.
Of course, girls like Holly Schneider tell themselves that they're going to be successful despite Mommy and Daddy's money, not because of it. It's ridiculous—people don't stumble into owning companies and getting inheritances. Even the most talented ballerina can't make it big if her parents can't afford to get her to the audition.
A low, murmured voice to my right gets my attention. "It's so much bullshit." I glance over at the guy next to me, tearing my eyes away from Holly's shiny pony tail and shinier smile. "No one here is going to become an environmental activist. Not when it would jeopardize the entire net worth of the school's donors to get a single climate change law on the books."
I snort, studying him: brown skin, short black hair, a (very real) faded tattoo peeking out from his shirt, and a clever smirk playing on his face. Like Tanner Connally, he's not wearing regulation Coleridge clothing from head to toe, but unlike Tanner, his choices are the secondhand kind, not designer tennis shoes. Leaning back in his chair, he reaches out his hand for me to shake.
"Hector Sanchez. My dad cleans the toilets here."
"Brenna Cooke, of the not-at-all infamous Cookes from Virginia. I'm guessing we have the scholarship program in common."
Hector snorts. "How could you tell?"
"It was the sarcastic attitude. The only jokes the kids around here tell are about their net worth. They're petty."
"Tell me about it. I once had to pay to replace some European prick's shoes because I threw up on them and he said it ruined the leather. Took me two months over the summer to pay for the damned things, and I don't think he ever wore them again."
"Gross."
"Even grosser? He tried to make me lick them clean. The payment was a compromise."
How disgustingly childish. "You should've thrown the shoes in his face and told him off. That's what I would've done. That, and kicked him in the balls for good measure."
He chuckles and is about to say something else when a music cue starts on stage. Vague and non-specific party music plays over the speakers, and Dean Simmons take the podium again, letting us all know it's time to go to our dorm assignments and get ready for classes tomorrow.
"So that's that." Hector flashes me a smile. "Good luck here, Brenna. You're going to need it."
I frown at him. "What makes you think that?"
"Because I've known these kids for years." We stand up and file slowly out towards the path, the entire crowd milling about in an attempt to form a single file line. "The only thing they hate more than stains on their Balenciaga is an outsider with spirit. They'll find a way to break you." His tone is so casual, despite how ominous the words are. "It's basically the only thing they study besides law and economics."
I frown. "Thanks?"
"It's just the truth." We make it towards the end of the path, and the sun overhead leaves a glint in his green-brown eyes. "If you need an ally around here, I'm in Hadley Hall, room 215. Don't hesitate to knock."
"The dorms are sex segregated," I point out. "They gave us a whole speech about how we'd get kicked out for even trying to show up in the wrong ones."
Hector laughs. "The rules here don't matter. Not really. Just come around the back at night—it's what all the kids do. That, or find me on social media. You know the name." We've reached the part of the path that splits, one direction going towards the girls' dorms, the other to the boys' side. "See ya, Brenna Cooke. Don't get in trouble too fast."
I watch him walk away, then get jostled and have to turn down my own path. There's a whole stream of girls heading towards the dorms, most with families in tow, wheeling large designer suitcases behind them. I feel far, far behind with my little duffel bag in comparison, but so many of my things were destroyed in the tornado and the flood. What little I have left is mostly borrowed clothes from Aunt Cheryl and the few things of Silas's that I managed to save.
As the crowd of girls moves past me, balayaged hair gleaming in the sun, their skin uncannily unblemished and their clothing perfectly pressed, nausea churns in my gut.
It's one thing to plan anonymous online revenge against the four boys who ruined my brother's life.
It's an entirely different thing to contemplate spending day in, day out, with these polished rich girls. Boys fight dirty, but girls fight to win—and they do it out of sight, where no one can catch them.
The sudden urge to check my makeup hits me. There's ten minutes until the scheduled dorm orientation at Rosalind Hall for freshmen girls—plenty of time to try to make myself look presentable. I make a beeline away from the path and towards Coleridge Center so I can do just that in the girls' bathroom, not wanting to be the only girl with frizzy untamed hair and smudged mascara.
With everything going on around campus, the bathroom is empty. So there's plenty of counter space for my dollar store makeup and knock-off Beauty Blender. Looking in the mirror, I silently judge myself: greenish grey under eye circles, pink cheeks and a pinker nose, thin out-of-fashion eyebrows, chipmunk cheeks, and a stubborn chin.
There's not much I can do with what I've got, but I try my best. My eyes are wide, at least, even though their hazel color is light and washed out. And though I have none of my mother's dainty beauty, I at least got her plush lips. Too bad Coleridge has a rule against bright lipstick colors—doing my lips keeps me from washing out completely.
Last, I spray a bit of style mist in my hair and pat down the flyaways, smoothing it back into a high ponytail.
I'll never look like the other girls of Rosalind Hall, but at least I look my best.
Satisfied, I head out of the building and towards the path again. It's empty now—all the other students must have gotten to the dorms by now. I'll be late if I dawdle much more. So I decide to cut through the landscaping instead of staying on the curved path.
As I turn the corner, walking beneath the shade of the live oak trees, I hear a voice. It's sharp and high pitched; a girl, crying out in frustration. She makes a quiet sobbing noise.
"Just get it back!"
As the tree trunks around me part, I see her: short, blonde, curvy for a girl our age. She jumping up towards the t
ree branch far above her head, reaching with the tips of her fingers towards a bag looped around the branch—and failing.
"This isn't funny," she snaps to someone I can't see, hidden behind a tree trunk near me. I pause, wondering if I should go back to the path. "I've never done anything to deserve this."
"That isn't true, though, is it?" A boy strolls into view, tall and lean, blonde hair dappled with sunlight filtering through the thick branches overhead. "You've done plenty to deserve this, Chrissy. Or should I call you by your real name?"
I stare at him, torn between my two options for another reason entirely now.
The boy is Cole Masterson.
And he's bullying a girl right in front of me.
Chapter 7
Blue eyes. Chiseled cheekbones. A kilowatt smile. I've seen Cole Masterson in plenty of photographs, just like the other Elites.
This is different.
He's not smiling now.
"That was a long time ago." The girl, Chrissy, is glaring at Cole now, her voice no longer high pitched. "You should really learn to move on and forget, Cole. Grudges give you wrinkles."
"What about you?" He paces close to her, his height twice as menacing in the shade of the thick old trees. "You changed your name, your clothes, your hair—even your nose, by the looks of it now. All to try to run away from what you did. You know what they call that, Chrissy?"
"A makeover," she snaps.
"Lying." He reaches out and tugs on a strand of her bleach blonde hair. "And I don't abide by liars, you little bitch. So your purse stays in that tree until you find someone who can take it down."
I don't even think.
The words just come out of my mouth without bothering to ask my brain if they're wise.
"I'll do it."
Their heads both whirl towards me, faces comedically shocked. Chrissy takes the moment to break away from Cole's touch and back up, still glaring sullenly at him.
"Who's this now?" Cocking his head at me, the leader of the Elites drags his brutal green eyes up and down my body, his gaze like fingers trawling through my clothes. "I don't believe we've met before, which means you must be new here. Which means you don't know the rules."
"I know you wouldn't be doing this where no one can see if it weren't against the rules." I dare to take a step forward, another, the fire of my anger raging inside me like a living thing. "I may not have read the Coleridge Academy handbook cover to cover, but I'm willing to bet there's something in there about not bullying your fellow students. Or taking their stuff. You seem to have ticked both boxes."
"So you are new here." Cole smirks at me, his handsome face twisted up by the cruelty of his crooked smile. "We haven't met. I'm Cole Masterson. Around here, I do what I want—especially to bitches like this one."
I'm opening my mouth to say something furious in response when Chrissy cuts in. "Leave her alone. She has nothing to do with this."
"She does if she's stepping in." Cole cuts his eyes at me. "So, what'll it be, new girl? Are you getting yourself involved in other people's business?"
I look up at the bag, dangling from the branches. "I can get it."
"If you do," Cole warns, "I'll make you regret it."
Staring him down, I say, "Go ahead. There's nothing you can do to me that I can't survive."
I've lost everything already.
I have nothing more that matters enough to worry about losing.
If I do this, though, it means crossing him. And that means getting his attention. He may not know it's me when I dig up dirt about him and publish it on Legacies, but I'll have a target on my back. I won't be the snake in the grass anymore.
I'll be the snake rearing up to show my fangs and flash them at his ankle.
So be it. I can't stand here and do nothing; it would be humiliating to just walk away. And this little moment of defiance, this tiny chance to stop him from bullying someone like he bullied Silas, will feed the yawning pit inside me that demands revenge.
It's easy enough to approach the tree and find a knot low on the trunk. It protrudes just enough for me to stretch up and get my fingers on it.
Chrissy says, "You don't have to do this. It's just a stupid purse."
"I thought you said your mom gave it to you," Cole taunts. "Guess that was just another lie, like everything else."
"I'm getting the purse," I tell Chrissy, ignoring Cole entirely. "Just you watch. It's not the first tree I've climbed."
I try very hard not to think about what happened in the last tree I climbed. The live oak has thick, knotty branches with plenty of places for my fingers to grab and hang on. It takes some effort to climb up into the V of its trunk and scoot out towards the branch with the purse, but with a little stretching I manage to snag it.
Smirking down triumphantly at Cole, I jump out of the tree, land softly on the grass with my knees bent, and hand the purse back to Chrissy.
"There." I shoot Cole a glare, taking a deep breath and pushing a strand of sweaty hair out of my eyes. "It wasn't that hard. Next time you play a prank on a girl, you might want to try something a little more creative."
"Is that a challenge?"
He steps forward and looks down at me, the sun overhead catching sparks of gold in his eyes. I lift my chin to meet his gaze, my heart stomping like a marching band, heat pooling in my cheeks and chest. I tell myself it's all just from climbing the tree, but I know there's something else there too.
Because Cole Masterson looks like heaven and smells better than a kitchen full of recently-baked cookies. He has eyes that see right through you, challenging and bold, impossible to ignore. Like a spark to my flame, his presence alone is enough to make me simmer.
I'm afraid that if I look at him much longer, I'll catch on fire just so I can burn him to the ground along with me.
"Tell me your name," he demands.
For a moment, the truth sits at the tip of my tongue, a dangerous thing. A lie comes out instead. "Brenna Cooke."
"Brenna Cooke." I can feel Chrissy hovering, looking worried, eyes whipping back and forth between me and Cole. "Consider yourself marked."
I snort. "Marked?"
"Yes."
"You make it sound so serious. What, are you part of a secret society that's going to club me over the head and drag me into your secret basement to sacrifice me to dark gods?"
"It's not funny."
"It kind of is."
Irritation flashes in his eyes, creases his golden brows. Poor little rich boy; no one's stood up to him like this. No peasant like me, at least.
"Being marked," he growls, "means you're a target. We get to do anything we want to you, and no one will step in. No one will stop it or help. Because doing so means becoming a social pariah. You'll have no friends here–just enemies."
Like I have friends here anyway. Tilting my head, I point out, "You didn't say who 'we' is. So there is a secret society. Do you wear black robes or red? Is it mixed gender or one of those homoerotic type of things? And what kind of incense should I bring to my ritualistic sacrifice?"
That does it—Chrissy actually laughs out loud, covering her mouth with one hand, looking mortified and afraid. Cole, for his part, seems to have given up on trying to look intimidating, and is now settling for just staring at me with a generally peeved expression on his face.
"You'll see. You'll regret this."
In a deep pitched voice I repeat back, "You'll see. You'll regret this. Very intimidating. Next time, try saying it in a foggy graveyard at night. A little camp would go well with all these theatrics."
He's still scowling as I hook my arm through Chrissy's, steer her towards the girls' dorms, and walk away.
I feel his eyes on me the whole way, like a prickle at my neck, digging in almost physically. I know, with a sinking feeling, that I will pay for this later. Boys like Cole don't let go and move on.
He's going to find a way to hurt me, no matter what the cost. And I wonder for the first time who's the predator and who's
the prey.
Chapter 8
"You're going to regret that," Chrissy says, echoing my thoughts. "Thanks though."
"Welcome. It was a dumb prank anyway." I slide my eyes over at her, taking in the cherubic cheeks, the shadow roots on her freshly dyed blonde hair, and makeup that covers every possible imperfection. Cole was right about her nose, too; there's not a bump or flaw to be seen, though I have no idea if it's always been that way. "What did you do to get his attention, anyway? He acted like you personally ran over the family cat."
She looks away. "I made a mistake when I was twelve. He hasn't forgotten."
"So like four years ago? Wow." I shake my head. "He's got a long memory for grudges, that Cole Masterson."
"Tell me about it. Which is why you shouldn't have crossed him." She sighs. "I thought that after all this time, I would be able to get a fresh start here. But I guess I won't."
We're nearing the dorms for juniors now. I have to admit that the building I'm about to live in is impressive. The architecture here is out-of-this-world; Lukas was right about that much when he gave his tour.
Rosalind Hall looks like something that belongs in a period piece. It may have been built more recently than the rest of the school, but its architecture matches. No doubt Lukas would have something to say about the wide front porch, the rose garden that wanders underneath all the first floor windows, or the tiny balconies outside the rooms on the second story.
All I see is money, money, and more money. There are prestigious universities with less fancy dorm buildings than this.
"So, Chrissy... have a last name?"
"Lakewood. Chrissy Lakewood." She sticks out a hand, and I shake it, staring down into her bright blue eyes. "You know, one thing Cole said wasn't true. You won't be friendless around here just because he 'marked' you and declared open season on you."