What the hell is wrong with me?! I wonder with increasing panic as Tristan marches right up to me, towering a good half a foot over me. He takes the jacket that's lying over his arm and shrugs into it, fixes the two center buttons, and then leans forward, putting his forearm on the wall above my head. I can smell him, too, like peppermint and cinnamon. It's damn-near intoxicating.
"You're the charity case, huh?" he asks me, his smile growing even wider. There's nothing at all nice about it. Tristan looks downright vicious. I open my mouth to respond, wishing I'd never made the decision not to lie. It'd feel good right now, to deny this boy's accusation. But it's true, isn't it? I am the charity case. But how the fuck does he know?
"My name is Marnye Reed, and yes, I'm the scholarship recipient." Jesus, I sound like a school teacher or something. So much for acting cool. Not that it would matter to this guy: he's already made up his mind about me. It's written all over his face, a dash of disdain drowning in haughty arrogance.
Tristan scoffs and shakes his head, immediately refocusing his gaze on mine. I'm not sure how long I can maintain that stare without losing part of my soul. It's absolutely terrifying … and thrilling, all at once. I've only ever met one guy like this before, and that didn't turn out so well.
"Scholarship. Trash talk for free money handout." His smile turns into a nightmarish grin. "My family actually built this school, and yet, we still pay to be here. What makes you so special that you should get to come here for free?"
I'm so not ready or expecting this attack that it blindsides me, and I'm left gaping as he reaches out and teases a strand of my loose hair around his finger. He gives a little tug on my brunette waves and leans even closer, brushing my ear with his mouth.
"Pretty enough though, for white trash." Without thinking, I reach up with both palms and shove this stranger back with everything I've got. One bonus of growing up on the wrong side of the tracks, you learn to stand up for yourself. Tristan barely moves, his expression never changing. It's like shoving at a mountain of bricks. Completely and utterly immovable. "How long do you think you'll last?" he continues, cocking his head slightly to one side. I reach up to push his hand away from my hair, but he's already leaning back, dropping his arm—and his smile—with a sudden change in expression. His lids go half-lidded as he studies me. "Not long, I don't think." That beautiful mouth of his purses. "Shame. I was looking forward to a challenge."
Tristan turns away from me, like I'm the one who's done something wrong when he was late to meet me and he was … well, doing something with an older girl in the closet. What, exactly, he was doing, I don't want to know. And yet some dark, messed-up part of me really does. Damn it.
Even though I don't want to, I take off down the open air hallway with the blooming jasmine, and catch up to my 'guide' for the day. Fantastic. I've clearly been paired with the rudest—and probably richest—boy at this school. And probably the best looking, too. My heart flutters in my chest, but I push the feeling away. I try to be nice to everyone, but I'm not going to simper at some guy just because he's hot.
He doesn't wait for me to catch up, so I have to run, panting by the time we're shoulder to shoulder. Tristan doesn't seem to notice or care that I'm short of breath. Nor does he seem to notice or care that he's supposed to be showing me where the dorms—sorry, apartments—are, the classrooms, the cafeteria.
"You're my guide for the day," I say, cheeks flushed with heat from running, my fingers lifting the badge up for Tristan's inspection, flashing his name on the backside. "Whether you like me or not is irrelevant, you have a job to do."
Tristan pauses just outside a door with beautiful stained glass panels stretching from floor to ceiling. My instinct is to gape at it, and then snap a picture for my dad, but I'm going to have to get used to the idea of not having a phone. That, and my gut instincts are telling me it'd be a mistake to let this Tristan guy learn anything about me, even something as small as my fascination with historical architecture.
"A job?" he scoffs, taking a step back and looking me up and down with a slow sweep of silver eyes. They cut across me like a blade, making me bleed. Unconsciously, I cross my arms over my chest and he chuckles. It's not a pleasant sound, not even close. Instead, Tristan's laughter is mocking, like he thinks I'm some cosmic joke thrust upon him by an uncaring universe. "Listen, Charity," he starts, and I open my mouth to tell him off when his palm slams into the stained glass panel behind my head. "No, don't talk. There's nothing you have to say that would interest me." Reaching out, Tristan runs his fingers down the side of my jaw, and I slap his hand away. He snatches my wrist and holds it there, like he owns me. Looking at the guy, I get the impression that he thinks he owns the whole school. "Do you know what my last name is?"
"After the way you've treated me," I start, lifting my chin, nostrils flaring. "I don't think I care to."
At my last school, we had metal detectors, drug dogs, and an on-campus police force. If Tristan thinks he can intimidate me, he's got another thing coming. What I don't know in that moment is that rich boys are far more dangerous than poor ones. The poor ones might join gangs and pack heat, might rough you up for walking in the wrong neighborhood, but the rich ones have all the same instincts wrapped up in pretty faces and designer shoes, white smiles and genteel manners. The thing is, with infinite resources comes the ability to inflict infinite pain.
"If you want to survive even a single day on campus," he continues, leaning in and putting his mouth so close to my ear that his breath stirs my hair, raising goose bumps on my arm. I can't decide if I like or hate his proximity, his long, lean body brushing up against the front of me, one knee between my legs. My breasts just barely brush his chest, two crisp white shirts teasing one another with each breath we take. "Then you best learn it—and quick."
Tristan releases me and steps back. The arrogance in his handsome face is staggering, his high cheekbones and full mouth a waste on such a haughty face. He's too full of himself to be pretty. Liar, my mind whispers, but I brush that aside. The guy practically assaulted me. If he thinks I won't report his ass, he's got another thing coming.
"That girl in the closet …" I blurt before I can stop myself. There's a morbid fascination brewing in me that I know I should tamp down. Play with flame and get burned. That's a hard fact of life I learned long ago, so what the hell am I doing?
Tristan slides long fingers through his lush, raven-colored hair, looking down at me like I'm gum on the bottom of his shoe. I'm not surprised. By the time lunch rolls around, the whole school will be calling me Charity.
"Want me to tell you how I fucked her?" he asks as heat rushes up the back of my neck and burns my cheeks. "If you last the week," he continues, reaching up to adjust his black silk tie, "maybe I will."
He turns then and leaves me standing alone on the walkway. On either side of the awning, rain begins to fall.
That's not a good omen, not a good omen at all.Without a guide, Burberry Preparatory Academy is like a labyrinth of old stone hallways and spiraling staircases. It's haunted by a melancholy beauty that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, like I can sense the history crouching inside the building, eras long past watching from shadowed eyes.
"Hey." A voice sounds from behind me, and I jump, stifling a small scream as I spin and find a girl with bright blond hair and a wide smile. If it weren't for the genuine warmth in her blue eyes, her beauty would be intimidating, almost cold in its perfection. She bears a striking resemblance to the marble statue in the corner, carved infallibility and plaster pale skin. "Are you lost?"
"Am I that obvious?" I ask, risking a small smile and hoping like hell she's nothing like Tristan. "I've been wandering around for half an hour, but I'm too embarrassed to ask for help." Embarrassed? More like too anxious. The looks I've been receiving from the other students haven't exactly been welcoming. That, and the staff I've seen have all been running around in that panicked first-day-of-school state, prepping lesson plans and greeting students they've known since preschool. I've never felt like more of an outcast—and trust me, I've been a pariah before.
"You're the Cabot Scholarship Award winner, right?" the girl asks, her voice like bells. Wow. Her voice is as pretty as she is. But also, looks like the whole school already knows my socio-economic status, huh? "Oh, no, no," she continues, waving her hand in my direction, "it's not what you're thinking. I just … my mother is Kathleen Cabot."
My mouth pops open, and I lean forward, my leather school bag clutched in two hands.
"Your mom is Kathleen?" I ask, feeling this sharp sense of relief wash through me. Kathleen Cabot is a self-made billionaire. Yep, you heard it right: billionaire. She was born in the same neighborhood as me, raised by a single mom in a studio apartment, and ended up becoming a tech mogul. I met her twice: once at the award ceremony, and then later at the celebratory dinner. She's a freaking saint—and the only reason I'm standing here at Burberry Prep.
"I take it she made an impression?" the girl asks with a wry smile. "Good or bad? She can go either way, depending on the weather, the position of the stars, whether it's a full moon or not …" A grin takes over my face.
"Good impression, definitely. I've spent the last three weeks trying to write the perfect thank you letter." The girl smiles back at me, holding out a warm, dry palm for me to shake.
"She'll be happy with anything you send her," she says as we clasp hands. "Miranda Cabot. And you're Marnye Reed." Miranda takes a step back and looks me over. "I hope you're made of tough stuff," she says, but not unkindly.
"And why's that?" I ask as her blue eyes lift to my face and one pale brow goes up.
"Because Burberry Prep is a hellhole dressed with money." Miranda gives me a big, wide smile and then reaches out a hand. "Give me your schedule, and I'll tell you which demons to avoid." She pauses and gives me another critical look. "Mostly though, you'll want to stay away from the devils."
"The devils?" I ask, digging my wrinkled schedule out of my pocket and passing it over to Miranda. She scans it, chewing her full lower lip and smearing sparkly pink gloss. When she glances back up at me and reaches out to spin my nametag over, her mouth tightens into a thin line.
"The devils," Miranda says with a sigh. "Nobody calls them that but me. Looks like you already met one this morning?" She's looking at me with pity now, like she's well-acquainted with Tristan and his bullshit.
"What does everyone else call them?" I ask, and she sighs, looping her arm through mine and pulling me down the long, wide hallway. It's big enough to drive a truck through, small tables with lemon-cucumber water and cups placed every so often. Sometimes there's fresh fruit or pastries, too.
"Oh, girl, you and I have a long talk ahead of us. Stick with me. We have Monday classes together. By the time we're done, you'll know everything you need to know about the Idols."The Bluebloods of Burberry Prep
A list by Miranda CabotThe Idols (guys): Tristan Vanderbilt (year one), Zayd Kaiser (year one), and Creed Cabot (year one)The Idols (girls): Harper du Pont (year one), Becky Platter (year one), and Gena Whitley (year four)The Inner Circle: Andrew Payson, Anna Kirkpatrick, Myron Talbot, Ebony Peterson, Gregory Van Horn, Abigail Fanning, John Hannibal, Valentina Pitt, Sai Patel, Mayleen Zhang, Jalen Donner … and, I guess, me!Plebs: everyone else, sorry. XOXO"Why am I holding a list of names in my hand?" I ask as we walk down the hallway, pausing for coffee at one of the side tables. My old school never served coffee to students. Sometimes, kids would break into the teacher's lounge and steal some, but that's as close as we'd ever get.
"Memorize that list like your life depends on it," Miranda says, lifting a mug of black coffee up to her lips.