Stuck With The Four Hotties

Burberry Prep isn’t a religious school, but it used to be, and while the crosses have been removed, a bit of Catholic flair remains in the rows of pews, the raised dais, the stained glass windows, and the nooks that used to house saints and now house kissing teenagers.

With so many people crammed into the church-turned-auditorium, the air feels charged with excitement and anticipation for the upcoming school year. I wish I could share in it, but all of my enthusiasm has been snatched away

-and fast. I didn’t expect to get my spirit crushed for a few weeks yet.

“I’m really sorry about how the morning’s gone,” Miranda whispers, her jaw clenched tight, fingers teasing the hem of her skirt. She glances over at me and forces a smile. “Honestly, it’s my fault for drawing their attention to you. I’ll get them off your back though, I swear it.”

“Your fault?” I ask, raising both brows. “This is nowhere near your fault. That Tristan guy started it when he decided to be a jerk to me this morning.” Don’t think about that girl’s swollen lips, her Flothes all askanFe, Tristan’s triumphant smirk … “And don’t worry, I expected it.” Pausing, I give Miranda a critical look. I’m not judging, but I’m curious to understand why she’s so keen on making friends with me when her peers act like they’d enjoy seeing me drawn and quartered. “Could I ask you why you’re so interested in being friends with me anyway?” Raising my hands, I continue before Miranda can get her feelings hurt. “Not that I’m not grateful or anything. Seriously, meeting you has been the highlight of my week.”Original content from NôvelDrama.Org.

Just before I packed up and got shipped out here, I had a pretty shitty birthday week at home. Dad was drinking again, so badly that I almost didn’t leave. I almost stayed to take care of him, but I guess I’m too selfish to give up an opportunity like this. It was Mom’s fault, I think, resisting the urge to give into that old anger. First time in almost a year that she shows up at our doorstep and it’s right before I leave. Every time he has a chance encounter with that woman, Dad falls off the wagon. She told me to thank her for redshirting me as a child (delaying my start in kindergarten until age six), handed off a stack of presents for my fifteenth birthday, and scattered like leaves in the fall wind.

“I …” Miranda starts, pausing briefly and exhaling. She lifts her blue eyes to mine. “Did Mom tell you her story?” She asks, and I nod. I know all about Kathleen Cabot and her rise to the top of the tech industry and the Forbes Most Powerful Women in America list. “How about the part where she had Creed and me, and then moved into Grenadine Heights and sent us to public school?”

My eyebrows go up, and I think my mouth opens in shock. Kathleen Cabot is worth billions, and she moved to Grenadine Heights? Sure, compared to the train car my father lives in (don’t ask, long story), it’s a little ritzy, but most people would call it straight-up middle-class. And public school, huh?

“Political statement?” I ask, and Miranda shrugs, tucking some of that beautiful platinum blonde behind her ear. Her brother’s hair was just as light, maybe lighter, almost white but with an unmistakable gold sheen in the sunlight. Another useless riFh asshole. I banish him from my thoughts. Well, I mean, if I were alone in my bed then maybe I might think about him … My cheeks heat, and I refocus on Miranda.

“She wanted us to grow up well, but with enough sense to …” Miranda gestures in the direction of the Gallery which, apparently, is the name for the balcony on the second floor, to the left of the stage. Rows of comfortable chairs line the space, and even though I try not to, I just have to glance up and see who’s sitting there.

Tristan Vanderbilt is front and center, impossible to miss with that dark smirk of his, like shadows under the guise of a full, ripe mouth. Creed Cabot sits beside him, but not like a flunky or a sidekick, more like a rival. That bitch, Harper du Pont, is on Tristan’s left, with a tow-headed girl next to her. Andrew’s up there, too, and when he sees me staring, he waves.

A small smile teases my lips. Okay, fine. I have enemies in Tristan, Creed, and Harper. Maybe that guy that was smoking, too (Gregory, was it?) but I have allies, too. So the Idols and the-I check the page still clutched in my fist-Inner Circle, they can’t be all rotten. I can deal with a few bad apples.

“Enough sense not to act like Creed acted today,” Miranda finally says, completing her thought. “Guess the trick didn’t work with him, but maybe it worked too well on me.” She looks down at her bare knees for a moment. “I’ve never felt comfortable going to school with these people. I miss my old school, to be honest with you. If I could go to Grenadine Heights High, I would transfer in a second.”

“So what you’re saying is that I’m the only normal person on campus?” I ask, and Miranda lifts her head, flashing me a grin.

“Pretty much. Everyone else here is too busy loving themselves to waste energy on anyone else.” She shrugs her shoulders and leans back in the pew, taking in the room with a critical eye. I’ve never been so grateful for uniforms in my life; it’s impossible to tell the billionaires from the millionaires from the … charity cases. Sigh. There are little touches here and there though that give off hints of personality: a black bow covered in skulls, an armful of wooden bangles, bright red shoelaces. All of which are technically against the dress code, but it’s the first day; students are pushing limits.

“I’m happy to be your one normal friend in the whole school,” I say with a grin, “but I’m nowhere near Grenadine Heights High. More like … if I’d stayed home, I would’ve been going to Lower Banks High.” Miranda’s brows go up, and I give a half-smile. I know the reputation of LBH. My middle school, located right across the street, doesn’t have a much better one.

“I’m not sure the students at LBH are any worse than the ones here,” Miranda hedges, eyes lifting up to the Gallery where the uh, Idols are sitting. Three male, three female Idols. What a strange social hierarchy, and so structured. As we’re sitting there, Miranda pulls the paper from my hand, drawing lines between names. “The solid lines mean they’re dating. Broken lines mean they’re on-again, off-again. Wavy lines means they’re rivals.”

“How screwed am I?” I ask finally, just as the crowd begins to settle down and a group of administrators takes their positions on the dais at the front of the room. Miranda won’t meet my eyes, flicking hers up to Ms. Felton as she takes center stage and starts the comme

ncement speeches.