Idol Star School: A Dark Bully Romance (Idol High School Book 1)

by Nara Noelle

  “Well…” he mumbled.

  “It sucks to be a beta, doesn’t it? Knowing you’re better than most of the other contestants, that you were so fucking close to becoming an alpha, yet your performance wasn’t quite good enough. If I were you, I’d stay up tossing and turning for hours because of it.” I threw back my head and laughed. “What’s the real difference between you and the alphas? Go on, you tell me.”

  “I suppose I didn’t do as well as them for our first assessment,” he bleated.

  “Is that it? Then what’s the difference between you and them now? Is it the fact that they get to reap the full benefits of living on Starsaw Island? Or how they’re destined to get more airtime, whether they’re practicing in the dance studio or hanging out at the pool? And let’s not forget how the viewers are going to be more impressed by them simply because they’re called alphas. Beta doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it? Beta. Beta. Beta. The truth is, you were doomed from the moment you were deemed a fucking beta,” I sneered.

  Juno pressed his lips together while fat tears rolled down his cheeks. What a wuss. Unlike Hamin, this dumbass was a piece of cake to break.

  “Are you okay with that?” I added.

  “No,” he sobbed.

  “Do you want to take the bloody crown off the head of the alphas?” I said.

  He nodded with a hiccup.

  I went on. “If you cooperate with me, I’ll give you the boost you need. The viewers will be scratching their heads, wondering why someone as talented as you wasn’t assigned alpha tier. How does that sound?”

  “S-Sounds great,” he said.

  “So we have an agreement.” I tapped his shoulder. “To make sure you’re not fucking around though, I’ll be pulling you aside or asking you to stay behind after class occasionally to see what you’ve discovered about Hamin—his weaknesses, fears, and secrets. Remember, the better you do, the brighter your future.”

  Chapter 13

  Arang

  There are two types of people in the world. On one end of the spectrum, there are the beautiful people—the blessed, chosen ones. On the other end, there’s everyone else. Just kidding. While this is the kind of shit RJ thinks I live by, believe it or not, I’m not merely a superficial zombie.

  Alright. Here’s a better example. First off, there are people who turn green with envy when they see a man who seems utterly undeserving of his success. Even if they’re objectively better off, they’re quick to hate that bastard’s guts. What about the people who don’t fall into that camp then? Well, I say they’re liars who are neck-deep in denial.

  I wish envy alone was why my pulse skyrocketed whenever somebody so much as mentioned Hamin’s name. However, I knew my feelings were more complicated than that. God, I hated myself for it. If only I could’ve turned up my nose at him and refused to give him a second glance. In that case, RJ would’ve taken care of the rest, and I wouldn’t have had to question my entire identity—sexual identity, that is.

  When I first laid eyes on Hamin in the main concert hall, I was drawn to him like a stray cat is attracted to an acrid pile of trash. The problem is, I’m not a stray, I’m more of an overpriced exotic cat living in a five-thousand-acre estate. The main reason I hated Hamin was because I couldn’t stop thinking about him and his soft, round features. He’d made a total fool of himself with his stupid singing and rapping, yet when I replayed those moments in my mind, my face broke into a goofy grin.

  Strangely enough, I wasn’t the only one who was enthralled by him. You see, he’d gained a cult following shortly after the first episode of Idol High School aired. While his freestyle rap had scarcely made it past the edit, and he didn’t appear on the program otherwise, a clip of him helping an old cleaning lady in Idol House had been uploaded online by an anonymous source. Somehow, it managed to go viral. People were fawning over how sweet and down to earth he was. Consequently, they began checking out the clip of his introduction on the show’s official website.

  The hype around Hamin didn’t stop there. The craziest part was how these events led to the creation of his very own fan club. Bleh. I guess people really love a corny underdog story. Now, the production directors were under pressure to give him more airtime in the next episode, as per the request of his rapidly growing fanbase.

  “What in the world is going on with Hamin and the Minis?” I said to Sammy as we washed our hands.

  “Hamin and the what?” he asked, turning off the faucet.

  “Hamin and the Minis,” I repeated.

  “Hamin and the mini what? Bro, I don’t know what you’re on about,” Sammy said.

  “His fans call themselves the Minis,” I explained.

  “Jesus. Something ain’t right here.” Sammy frowned as he shook the water off his hands. “What do they see in Hamin? He’s a talentless loser who looks nothing like a celebrity. At first, I thought somebody must’ve orchestrated this—that he was a rich boy who was attempting to play the part of a poor nobody while his parents paid for spambots. He seems to have a legitimate following though.”

  “Yup. He appears to have more fans than all of the alpha students combined, at least online.”

  Sammy shook his head. “Who would’ve thought this could happen to a kid who was selected as comic relief. He was meant to be disposable.”

  Once we left the bathroom, we went over to the room where the contestants’ weekly weigh-in was going to take place. For this activity, all fifty students came together. It was pretty brutal. Although I wasn’t required to be there, I knew it would be a waste of a great opportunity to not attend, especially since we weren’t going to be filmed.

  “Up next is Hamin Han,” Sammy announced, flashing me a devious grin.

  “Hey, fatty! What do you think you’re doing? You’re going to break the scale as soon as you get on it,” a boy in a royal-blue alpha T-shirt hollered as Hamin stood up.

  “Slow down, Yo-yo. You’re creating a freaking earthquake,” another alpha student yelled.

  “That was 9.0 on the Richter scale,” a guy sitting at the front said after Hamin walked past him.

  Although everyone in the room cracked up, Hamin didn’t seem phased by their behavior. It was like he’d specifically asked the other boys to make fun of him when he got up and everything was unfolding according to plan. Bloody hell. Were they merely giving him another sob story to share with the Minis in the confessional room? The joke was on him though; there was no way the production directors would let any mention of this weekly ritual slip past the final edit.

  “Kid, why don’t you take off your hoodie? Trust me, you need as much help as you can get,” Sammy called out.

  “I’d rather keep it on,” Hamin replied.

  “Then at least take off the T-shirt you’re wearing over it. Not because it’ll help you weigh less, but because you look ridiculous,” I said.

  Hamin was the only epsilon student—and non-alpha student, for that matter—to sport the T-shirt he’d received with his goodie bag. It was an item that had essentially been handed out to humiliate him. I suspected RJ might have something to do with the situation, since Hamin started wearing the T-shirt nonstop from the day after RJ kept him behind. The most annoying part was how Hamin layered it over his baggy black hoodie. It was absurd. I mean, hello? We were on a tropical island. However, after some group photos were posted online, people took note of his stupid outfit, and it turned into a trend. Whenever I scrolled through STAR’s social media feed, I saw people wearing black hoodies under T-shirts.

  “Why don’t I just get on the scale?” Hamin stepped onto the scale. “Here. Take a look at how much I weigh. Would you like to measure my waist too?” he joked, extending his arms out like a penguin diving into the ocean.

  “No.” I jabbed at his belly, scowling. “I think the scale says it all.”

  Hours later, Rye called Sammy, Terry, RJ, and me over to a beachside bar that had yet to begin operation. Apparently, Executive Song wanted to set up the place for h
is guests and other potential visitors on the island. By the time I got there, everybody else was already seated with a rocks glass in their hand.

  “Look who’s here!” Rye called out before raising his cigar to his mouth.

  “Hi. Am I late?” I said as I took a seat.

  After he exhaled, he responded, “Nah. We’re just getting started.”

  While he poured me a glass of whiskey, I glanced at the clock on the wall, which read a quarter to nine. He’d asked us to come here around eight, but I’d been reluctant to leave my suite. To be frank, I wasn’t the biggest fan of his. I couldn’t get my mind off all of the rumors I’d heard about him; he seemed like a downright creep. Consequently, I preferred to distance myself from him outside of work. To my annoyance, the line wasn’t always easy to draw, especially under current circumstances.

  “How are you boys enjoying the island?” he asked.

  “It’s starting to get a little monotonous, but how can I complain? When I’m not filming, I get to laze around by the beach with a sketchbook on my lap,” Terry responded.

  “Exactly. The waves here are decent, and I get to surf every couple of days. What more can I ask for?” Sammy chimed in.

  “This place is the closest place on earth to paradise, isn’t it? And it’s even better for me, because I’m not in charge of any classes like you four.” Rye took another drag of his cigar. “Speaking of the beach, why don’t we go yachting this Saturday? I’m thinking of inviting a couple of, ahem, friends over to the island for the weekend.”

  “Model friends?” RJ teased.

  Rye snickered. “You know me well, bro.”

  After bumping fists with Rye, RJ asked, “You’ve got a favor to ask us, haven’t you?”

  “Well,” Rye mumbled.

  RJ furrowed his brow. “What do you want?”

  “It’s about Idol High School,” Rye said.

  While I took a swig, RJ flashed Sammy an I-told-you-so look.

  “Why don’t I get straight into the point, aye? There’s this one contestant I’ve got a funny feeling about. Not funny as in, ‘Wow, he has the potential to become the next big superstar.’ It’s more to do with what I suspect he might be hiding. Anyway, his name’s Hamin.”

  I nearly spat out my whiskey. Déjà vu, anyone? Although I immediately suspected that RJ might’ve planted the idea in his head, when I checked RJ’s face, his expression suggested otherwise.

  “The guy who did that awful freestyle rap?” RJ asked.

  “That would be him,” Rye replied.

  Although Sammy and Terry chuckled, Rye didn’t appear to be amused in the least. Honestly, I had no idea how to react to the situation. This was not what I had in mind when Rye invited me here.

  “How in the world did someone as unremarkable as him grow a fandom before any of the other students? I’ve been thinking about this ever since I noticed him, and I’ve concluded that he’s got to be a pawn for someone far more powerful than him,” Rye theorized.

  “You know, I’ve been wondering whether that might be the case too. The problem is, I don’t think it adds up. Why would another entertainment agency—or whoever else wants Pluto’s stocks to go down—pick Hamin Han, of all people? Wouldn’t it have been far more logical for them to pick a kid with a proper performing arts background? Also, how did they know a clip of him cleaning up a mess had the potential to go viral?” Sammy said.

  “I think I might have the answer to your question,” Terry blurted out. Suddenly, everybody’s eyes were on him. “People in the industry know what aspiring idols are like with their angsty arrogance and hormonal behavior. If there happens to be a puppet master behind Yo-yo, they probably picked up on this and chose him specifically because he’s the antithesis of the try-hard bad boys who are carbon copies of each other. In other words, Hamin might be working for a cunning puppet master who picked up on the need for a more down-to-earth idol. It’s a sneaky ploy to antagonize the other contestants, particularly the ones who have a real shot at signing with Pluto.”

  Rye pointed his finger at Terry. “Bingo. That’s precisely what I think.”

  “What should we do then?” RJ asked.

  “It looks like you boys are going to have to teach Hamin a lesson. And I don’t say that lightly. You have to scare the shit out of him. Plus, you can’t stop there. You have to fuck with his head until he breaks down because he can’t take it anymore. Then, when he’s at his most vulnerable, you need to get him to spill everything he’s been hiding. Do you hear me? Your success depends on not only getting him off the show, but also teaching him he’s not to ever mess with Pluto Entertainment again. It’s time to make a statement to whoever his boss is. This is the least we can do for Executive Song,” Rye hissed, first peering over at RJ, then Sammy.

  “Are you serious?” Terry murmured.

  Rye nodded. “There’s one rule to keep in mind though. You guys have got to make sure you don’t leave any evidence for him to share with his fans. I’ll try to step in when I can, but as you know, I won’t be seeing him much outside of the upcoming assessments and performances.”

  “So what you’re trying to say is, you want us to, like, bully him?” Terry said.

  “Bullying is such a juvenile way to put it,” RJ muttered before knocking back his drink.

  Chapter 14

  Sammy

  The day after Terry, Arang, RJ, and I had drinks with Rye, I decided to hold a second meeting to plot our next move. Since the boys would be the only ones joining me, I invited them to my room for some privacy.

  “We’ve got a bonfire night tomorrow. Any ideas on what we should do then?” I said.

  “Shove Hamin into the fire?” RJ suggested with a smirk.

  Terry elbowed him. “Come on.”

  “First-degree burns aren’t so bad,” RJ muttered.

  Terry raised one eyebrow. “In front of all the other students and the entire television crew?”

  “RJ, Terry’s right. We’ve got to make this subtle. Something needs to happen off camera,” I said.

  “What are you talking about? This is our chance to humiliate him in front of the world,” RJ insisted.

  “Or more like inadvertently give him sympathy votes,” Arang remarked.

  I tapped on RJ’s shoulder. “Hey, there are plenty of opportunities ahead of us to humiliate the kid. Just not in front of the camera this time, alright? We need to think things through to devise a solid plan that’ll actually work against him.”

  “Fine. In that case, what the fuck should we do instead?” RJ snapped.

  Arang interlocked his fingers. “I have an idea.”

  “Go on,” RJ whispered.

  “Do you guys remember Hamin’s introduction video?” Arang asked.

  “God, I hate that goddamn clip. It makes me want to throw my phone out the window,” RJ remarked.

  “What about the video, Arang?” I said.

  “Lucky for us, Hamin didn’t hesitate to reveal his Achilles heel with the world. He hates rats and is allergic to peaches and nectarines,” Arang shared.

  “Why don’t we bring a box of peaches to the beach tomorrow and stir up a food fight?” RJ sniggered at his own suggestion. “Too bad there aren’t any peaches growing on Starsaw Island. All we’ve got are mango trees.”

  “However, there are rats here—wild rats,” Arang murmured.

  “What do you suggest we do then? Throw a rat in his direction?” I sighed. “I know we’re doing this for Executive Song and the future of Pluto Entertainment, but if someone gets this on camera and leaks it, we’ll essentially be messing up our own reputations.”

  “Then, to be safe, why don’t we get one of the students to do the deed? I have someone in mind,” RJ said.

  “Good to know there’s someone to take care of the dirty work. What I have in mind is much less complicated than discretely bringing a wild rat to the beach though. Our pawn—the guy RJ has in mind—is going to catch a rat, kill it, and put it in those battered red sneakers
Hamin’s always wearing,” Arang explained.

  “If Yo-yo’s always wearing them, how are we going to get them off his feet?” Terry asked.

  “That’s easy. We’ll be on a beach. Sammy can tell the students to take their shoes off when they leave the esplanade and sink their feet into the sand. As I mentioned before, Hamin literally owns one pair of shoes—he’s the only guy who doesn’t come to breakfast in flip-flops. He’s not going to want to get his sneakers sandy,” Arang replied.

  “Sure. I can do that.” I laughed. “By the way, dude, how the hell did you even notice the fact that he’s always wearing the same pair of sneakers?”

  Arang shrugged, averting his gaze.

  I couldn’t help but feel like we were playing a dumb children’s game with the whole dead-rat-in-shoe scheme. If Arang had told us that we needed to go to the mountain and catch the rat ourselves, I would’ve insisted we come up with a different strategy or forgo the opportunity to fuck with Hamin on bonfire night.

  At the start of the evening, I had no problem getting Hamin and the rest of the students to take their shoes off and leave them lined up by the steps leading down from the esplanade to Sunner Beach, the biggest beach on the island.

  The events that followed unfolded just as smoothly. Before sunset, I hosted a beach volleyball tournament. The students were put in teams with the other guys from their tier; it was what the production directors recommended. Though RJ was the referee, Hamin seemed to be having a miserable time without RJ’s interference. The other epsilon students treated Hamin as if he were invisible, while the teams they played against put extra effort into tormenting him—aiming the ball at his head during time-out.

  After having a barbeque for dinner, during which I couldn’t help but sneak glances at Hamin in anticipation for what was about to take place, I led the students to the bonfire. While everyone marveled at the fireworks, RJ assured me the dead rat had been placed in Hamin’s shoe with a knowing nod.