"I'm sorry, what?" I ask, my heart hammering as I take in his sea green hair and emerald eyes. He's got more tattoos than I thought, including that chest piece I glimpsed on Monday. It's hard to tell what it is in the half-light, but I'm not about to take a step closer and find out. Already, I'm on edge and waiting for an attack. If I were the Marnye Reed from middle school, I would probably crumble at just the sight of Zayd. His eyes are narrowed to slits, and his mouth is just a cruel slash on his face.
"You're dressed like a Working Girl now. Good for you. But I'd still like to get a price. How much for a fuck?" My cheeks heat, and my nostrils flare, but I'm not going to lose my cool, not over something so pointless. Still, I can't help the twisting anxiety in my stomach, the embarrassment creeping its way up the back of my neck.
"Having sports cars and private jets and mansions isn't enough? You have to add a little cruelty into the mix, too?" I ask, but Zayd's already circling me, his eyes taking in my every curve. My dress feels too short, too tight, the neckline too low, but I stand there with my back straight, waiting for him to lose interest and go the hell away. I'm stronger now, because of what I've been through, but I'm not invincible. I still want to believe there's good in the world. Zayd is working really damn hard to make sure that I change my mind about that.
He smiles at me, stepping so close that I can smell the salt on his skin, see the hickeys on his neck.
"Why are you still here? We've been nice this week, but it won't last. Starting Monday, you're going to be really sorry you haven't gone crawling back to whatever shithole suburb you crawled out of."
"Zayd, screw off," Miranda says, appearing at my side before I can respond. I'm so mad, maybe that's for the best. Who knows what might escape my mouth right now. "Creed invited her tonight."
"Did he, really?" Zayd asks, and if possible, his scowl gets even more intense. His green eyes lock with mine, but I refuse to look away. At the very least, I can do this, hold his gaze. "Idiot. He's going to get himself in trouble trying to appease your every whim." Zayd pauses as several busty brunettes hop up to him, grabbing him by his surprisingly muscular arms. "Fine. Keep your pet peasant for the night. Just remember: there's a class system for a reason. Some people belong on the bottom."
Zayd turns away with his two new girlfriends, smiling at them in a way that's not entirely different from the way he was smiling at me. He's just not a very good person.
"Forget him," Miranda says, shoving a Solo cup at me. Wow. Solo cups, the universal key to getting drunk, no matter what socio-economic class. "Have a drink, and let's go dip our feet in the water." She slips her designer heels off and chucks them next to the table, much the same way as that redheaded girl. Even Miranda, as nice as she is, has no idea the level of privilege she exists in. The price of those shoes could feed and house a family in Lower Banks for an entire month. Maybe more. No, no, definitely more.
Forcing a smile to my face, I follow after her, noticing that Creed is lounging in the sand near the bonfire with a captive audience. His eyes meet mine from across the beach, but there's no hatred there. There's not even acknowledgement. Like, I'm so far below him, he doesn't even feel the need to admit to my existence.
At least I don't see Tristan anywhere, I think, exhaling a small sigh of relief. Unfortunately, that relief doesn't last long because Harper, Becky, and Gena are watching us, topless. Yep. Standing topless in the waves and studying us with eyes that glitter like obsidian in the dark. I pretend to lift my drink to my lips, so I can have a moment of staring into the cup instead of their eyes.
"Try to enjoy yourself tonight," Miranda says, giving me a friendly elbow bump as we walk along the wet sand and away from the Idol girls. Idols. What a pretentious title. Who started that tradition, I wonder. "Creed said you could be here; they'll leave you alone for now."
Miranda's really trying, so I force myself to stay positive.
"Thank you, and you're right. This is the first party of the year. And really, it's beautiful out here." I wait for her to turn away and then pour my drink out in the water, enjoying the surprisingly warm waves and the moonlight on the horizon.
We spend most of the night chatting and walking along the shore, a little bit of it dancing next to the bonfire. After a little while, Andrew joins us, and even though he's in the Inner Circle and supposed to treat me like I've got the plague, he dances with Miranda and me both, until we're sweaty and laughing, and I've forgotten that my dress keeps riding up my ass crack.
Close to midnight we make our way back to the school, and Miranda and I part with a hug outside the chapel. It's easier for her to get back to Tower Three by taking the path that winds between the buildings. So, with my borrowed shoes in hand, I make my way barefoot down the stone halls, only to pause when I see Ms. Felton and the Vice Principal, Mr. Castor, standing in front of my door.
"Marnye," he says, voice and face grim. "We need to have a serious talk with you."
"What? Why?" I ask, seeing my dreams at Burberry Prep go up in smoke before they've even really begun. I can't go back to Lower Banks High with its crumbling gymnasium, dinosaur-age computers, and outdated textbooks. Not after I worked so freaking hard to be here.
"We had several people call the emergency line saying they'd seen you drinking heavily." My mouth pops open, and this wave of injustice surges through me. What the hell?! Me, drinking? I was the only person not drunk at that party.
Wow.
So … it's not cool for me to report Zayd and Tristan to the administration, but they can report me all they want?
"I …" Words escape me. I'm so blown away by the accusation that I have no idea how to respond. Crude laugher sounds at the end of the hall, and I turn to see a group of students watching me, still dressed in their bathing suits. Creed is among them, leaning against the wall in a deceptively casual pose, but it's all there in his eyes: the reflection of my doom.
I turn back to Ms. Felton and Mr. Castor. In the vice principal's hand, I see a device that I well recognize: it's a breathalyzer. Because of my dad's issues, I know them well. He used to have to breathe into one to start his car. There were a lot of mornings when I was in elementary school where it didn't start at all. I love my dad, but he spent a lot of my life fucking things up for both of us.
"I'm going to have to ask you to breathe into this," Mr. Castor says, his voice hard but not unkind. Ms. Felton doesn't say anything, arms crossed over her suit. I'm surprised to see her all dressed up still, considering the hour. Mr. Castor's wearing gray sweats and a clean but oversized white tee.
My eyes water so bad that I have to close them to keep the tears from falling. It may not seem like that big of a deal. I mean, just breathe in and show the world that I'm not drunk. But … I'm doing everything I can to not end up like my mom and dad. There was this one time when I was seven that both my parents were so drunk that I thought they were dead, lying comatose on the carpet in the Train Car. We didn't have a phone at the time, so I walked almost two miles to the convenience store to ask the clerk to call 911.
Being accused like this … it's devastating.
I nod, and Mr. Castor hands over the breathalyzer, waiting for me to exhale into it.
When I'm done, I hand it back to him and he watches the lights on the front side. Zero. My blood alcohol level is zero. Mr. Castor's face flushes, and he hands the breathalyzer over to Ms. Felton.
"I'm sorry, Marnye, but with as many accusations as we received, we had to look into it." I nod and glance back down the hallway to see Creed staring at me with slightly widened eyes. The other students are whispering behind their hands, eyes narrowed to slits, venom in their glares. But Creed, he looks pissed, like I've committed a grievous personal attack against him.
I turn back to the teachers and force a smile.
"It's no problem," I say, and then I use my key to let myself into the apartment … and cry.By the time Monday rolls around again, I'm thoroughly exhausted. I spent all weekend trying to get a hold of my dad, and fending off Miranda's attempts to get me to go out again. Instead, I convinced her to stay in on Saturday and watch movies. Sunday, she texted to let me know that she wasn't feeling well and wanted to sleep in.
But even as I'm looking for trouble around every corner, nothing comes.
That's a form of mental torture right there, expecting all these horrible things, a low-grade anxiety humming through me. The classes, at least, are challenging, more so than I expected. I end up spending most every night that week in the five story library, studying my ass off. The librarians are pretty much book Nazis, so I feel safe in there. Even the Idols can't touch me in their domain.