Five

An elevator, in a high school. Wow, so this is how the other half lives? Of course, if it were up to me, I’d scrap the elevators and offer the money needed for their maintenance and installation to more scholarship students, buuuuuut that’s just me. Guess I’m in the minority. After all, I am the only scholarship student in the entire school.

Between these families, there’s literally billions of dollars floating around, and they can’t be bothered to search out a dozen qualified students to lift out of poverty. Fantastic.

“Shit,” Miranda mumbles as we file into the elevator, our bookbags held in front of our short skirts. I’m starting to learn that when the wind blows, and a Marilyn Monroe moment is imminent, the bookbag’s to be used as a shield. Oh, and also, I need to seriously invest in better panties. The ones I’m wearing currently are plain cotton, and an embarrassing shade of baby pink. From what I’ve seen—and I’ve seen a lot on the walk between the chapel building and what the students call Tower One—everyone else is wearing lacy thongs and silky scraps. “Tristan’s coming this way.”

“Out of the elevator, Charity,” he tells me, a smirk curving his lips as he slams a palm against the closing doors and halts them in their tracks. “You’re new, so I won’t have you flogged for the infraction, but get the fuck out.”

“First off, the name is Marnye. Second, there’s plenty of room in here for all of us,” I start, but Miranda’s already grabbing me by the arm and dragging me back out into the lobby. Tristan’s gray eyes track my movements like a predator just waiting for his prey to slip up. I can imagine that if I fell, he’d be at my throat in an instant.

“Idols ride first, and they ride alone,” Miranda says, but that’s just before Tristan herds the trio of smirking girls behind him into the elevator. He watches me as the doors closed, but his expression is far from pleasant. It’s like he’s trying to drink in my suffering, no droplet too small to lap up. “Unless, you know, they want company. Day one and he’s already gathered himself a harem. Typical.”

“How is he already an Idol if he’s a first year?” I ask, and Miranda sighs, waiting for the elevator to tick up to the top floor before it starts to come down again. “Is there a legacy bonus for that, too?” I do my best not to eye roll, but the scores I needed to get into this school had to be forty percent higher than some of the other students because of their ‘legacy bonus’, i.e. points on their application granted to them simply for having family members who attended the school before them.

“Well, not technically, but reputations do carry. Tristan Vanderbilt’s been a big deal since he started going to preschool on the junior campus.” The doors to the elevator open, and Miranda waves me on. We stand side by side, our shiny black loafers identical from heel to toe.

Pursing my lips, I decide to keep the rest of my commentary to myself. My day hasn’t even officially started yet, and I’m already in a world of trouble.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open, revealing a classroom beyond the likes of anything I ever could’ve imagined. Even the website and the brochures didn’t prepare me for this.

“Holy crap,” I whisper, looking up at the chandelier above our heads. It’s clearly new, but designed with the time period of the building in mind, little flame-shaped bulbs where candles would’ve stood once upon a time. Instead of desks, there are three tables set in a U-shape, their mahogany surfaces gleaming.

Ms. Felton sits in the center at a small, but ornate desk of her own. Most of the chairs are already filled, and I realize that everyone’s looking our way, waiting for us to sit. Miranda and I take hasty seats in the last two available spots, and I’m relieved that she is sitting next to that Gregory guy, and I’m not.

“Good morning everyone,” Ms. Felton says, standing up and smoothing her hands down the front of her skirt suit. Politician. That’s what I get when I look at her. That, or maybe lawyer. Lobbyist. Something of that sort. She looks far too smart, and far too cunning to be holed away at a private university in the middle of nowhere. “My name is Carrie-Anne Felton, and I’ll be your homeroom teacher for the rest of the year.” Plastering a smile on her face, she makes her way around the room. “This is your safe space, so to speak, in the world of academics, a place to feel grounded, to discuss problems—”

Ms. Felton pauses, and the entire room turns to look as the elevator opens, and a guy with razored mint green hair appears, the sleeves of his crisp, white shirt pushed up, his muscular forearms covered in tattoos. My eyes widen and my heart skips several beats as he steps into the room like he owns the place.

“Sorry I’m late, Carrie-Anne,” he says, green eyes sweeping the room and coming to rest on me. Pretty sure I’m the only person in this room he doesn’t recognize. He surveys me for a moment, and then flicks his attention back to our teacher. “No seat for me?”

“It seems we’re short one chair,” Ms. Felton says, checking the iPad in her arms. “We have one more student than originally planned

…”

“Get up, Charity,” Tristan whispers, leaning over and focusing quite clearly on me. “You’re the one who’s attending for free. Zayd’s family actually pays for him to go here. Don’t you think he deserves a chair?”

My cheeks heat up with anger, but I don’t move from where I’m sitting. I’d rather die. Little do I know in that moment, the Idols will try their hardest to achieve that end.

“I think if Burberry Prep can afford elevators, it can afford an extra chair.” My voice is quiet, but firm. Miranda makes a small, helpless sound from beside me, and Tristan sits up, lifting his chin like I’ve just seriously pissed him off.

“It’s not a matter of affording chairs,” Ms. Felton interrupts, misreading the situation and waving her hand dismissively. “This is

a small room, and we didn’t want more furniture than necessary. I’ll have the maintenance staff bring another up. Mr. Kaiser, seeing as you’re the only person who refused to show up on time, you can stand for the time being.”

“My pleasure, Ms. Felton,” he purrs, swaggering over to the window and propping himself on one of the wide, stone sills. His eyes go half-lidded, and he looks the teacher up and down appreciatively. “Anything for you.” Most of the students chuckle, but I can’t seem to stop studying this guy. Colored hair is expressly prohibited in the student dress code, and here this guy is with mint green hair, piercings in his lips and brow, and arms covered in tattoos.

“Zayd’s agent got him some special working contract,” Miranda whispers, reading my mind. “Like, he has to maintain a certain look for his career. That, and it’s rumored this his agent, Bob Rosenberg, is fucking Vice Principal Castor.” My mouth twitches at the corner, but I’m not surprised. Nothing at this school could surprise me at this point.

“And what’s his career?” I ask, casting another glance in Zayd’s direction. He’s easy on the eyes, that’s for sure. My stomach twists into a little knot, and I bite my lower lip.

“Rock star.” Miranda grins when I give her a questioning look. “Lead singer of the band Afterglow. They’re kind of a big deal; they had over a hundred thousand downloads of their debut album last year, and like a hundred million streams.”

Ms. Felton gives Zayd a narrow-eyed look, like she’s used to this sort of bullshit from entitled teens, and goes back to her speech, telling us all how we should be able to speak freely in here, how there are no limits to the discussions we can have, and so on and so forth. Pretty sure I’m the only person listening, and when the bell in the chapel sounds, I’m also the last one out.

Except for Zayd Kaiser.

“You,” he says, like he expects me to leap at his beck and call. “You’re new here?”

“This is Marnye Reed,” Miranda says, beaming happily and gesturing at me like I’m her newest, greatest find. I think she senses a possible Idol ally for me, but … I don’t think so. The way Zayd’s looking at me, like I’m a piece of meat he might use and throw away, I’m pretty sure she’s dead-wrong. I have a way of reading people. Been doing it my whole life. Back at LBH, it could literally

be the difference between life and death. At the end of last year, one of the freshmen was murdered by two seniors.

“Marnye Reed,” Zayd starts, his voice this husky purr that gets under your skin in the best possible way. He taps an inked finger against his mouth for a moment, and then snaps his fingers. “Right. A few of the others texted me about you this morning, before the great phone purge.” He crinkles his brow and then flicks at one of his silver lip rings with a tattooed finger. “What they’re saying about you, it’s just not right.” My mouth pops open, and I feel the briefest inkling of relief. Maybe I don’t have to be in a feud with every popular kid on campus. “They’re calling you the Working Girl, but they’re also saying you’re not fuckable.”

“Excuse me?” I choke, but Zayd’s already smiling at me with sharp, sharp lips, like a razorblade threatening to cut. His hair is spiked up, his shirt mussed, and half his buttons are undone. I can see another tattoo lingering on the fine planes of his chest.

“What I’m saying is, you can’t be a Working Girl and an unfuckable virgin all at once.” Zayd leans in close to me, close enough that I can smell cloves and tobacco on his skin. Maybe he thinks smoking clove cigarettes makes him a badass. It doesn’t. All it does is make him look like a douche. “And really,” he reaches out to tease some of the loose hair hanging by my face. “I’d fuck you, if you were game.” Zayd grins at me, but it’s not a kind expression. It’s derisive, mocking, demeaning. “That’s the best offer you’ll get all year, so I suggest you take it.”

“Why don’t you go to hell?” I blurt back, my cheeks flushed, my head swimming. How is this happening? I haven’t even had my first class yet, and I’ve already been put through the wringer. I’m exhausted. I wonder how long it’ll take them to get tired of picking on me. Maybe never. In middle school, they didn’t get tired until … Zack changed things.

“Last chance, Working Girl.” Zayd leans in even closer and puts his mouth near my ear. “I’ll even pay you for your services: whatever the fee is, I can afford it.”

Without thinking, I lift a hand, intending to slap him in the face. Zayd intercepts the motion, giving my wrist a squeeze before smirking and stepping back. He releases me, but not before looking me up and down with a dark glimmer in his green eyes.

“You’re going to regret that move,” he tells me, and I’m so flustered that I can’t seem to come up with a response.

Me? Regret this moment? The only person who’s going to regret anything today is Zayd Kaiser when I report him to the school administration.

“It’s not worth it,” Miranda whispers, putting her arm through mine. “Come on, let’s go to class and hopefully by the end of the day, they’ll forget about tormenting you.”

With a nod, I follow along behind her. My eyes are stinging with tears, but I won’t shed them.

I refuse to give these guys the satisfaction.

By the time lunch rolls around, Miranda’s done some recon, sliding into the seat across from me and picking up the menu from her plate. And yes, I said it: menu. The ‘cafeteria’ is set up like a restaurant with servers and busboys, tables set with plates and cloth napkins, small menus printed on cardstock that make me think of two birthdays ago when Dad splurged and took me to a fancy restaurant for dinner.

My mind is racing, and I feel cold all over, like I’m so far out of my element I may never get warm again.

“It’s bad, Marnye,” she says, sighing and then pausing to place her order with our waiter. Me, I’ve already got a plate of souvlaki chicken with roasted lemon potatoes topped with feta. Frankly, I don’t know what half of those things are. Back home, we have sloppy joes, burgers, and hot dogs. That’s dinner at the Train Car with Dad. “It’s really, really bad.”

“What’s bad?” I ask, wondering how my day can get any worse. I came into Burberry Prep this morning with high hopes, ready to take on the world. Right now, I feel like I’m living a social apocalypse.

“The Idols, they’ve declared war on you.” My mouth pops open, but I’m not really sure what to say to that. How do you respond when someone tells you the richest, most popular kids at your school want you socially killed?

“All of them?” I ask, glancing over at the large table in the corner where Tristan, Creed, and Zayd sit next to Harper, Becky, and a girl who I can only assume is Gena Whitley. They aren’t looking at me. Instead, they’re laughing and eating, drawing all of the energy out of the room. I have to admit, they’ve got charisma, all six of them. Then again, Hitler had charisma, too, and look how that turned out.

“All of them,” Miranda confirms, lifting her glass of ice water to her lips and glancing at the round table and all of its royalty. “They don’t want you here.”

“Why?” I ask, but I needn’t have bothered. Miranda glances at me, but her face says it all: they don’t want me here because I grew up in a neighborhood of trailers and mobile homes, because I lived in an old train car most of my life, because I don’t have a net worth or a family legacy. “What am I supposed to do about that? I was thinking about reporting Tristan and Zayd to the administration. There’s an anti-bullying policy that I read about in the student handbook—”

Miranda’s look stops me dead in my tracks.

“What?” I ask, picking up my fork and poking at my fancy Greek- inspired chicken dish. It tastes … strange. Maybe my palette just isn’t as refined as everyone else’s? I wonder if I could ask the kitchen to make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? “Am I supposed to just let them get away with their bullshit?” My eyes wander back to the table again and I catch Creed staring at me. His blue eyes narrow, and he reaches up to brush some blond hair back from his forehead. If it’s possible to arrogantly brush hair from one’s face, he manages it. Zayd and Tristan notice him looking my way, and soon all three Idols are glaring at me.

Fantastic.

At my old school, I saw the effects of bullying firsthand; I felt them. I felt them in ways I can never forget, never erase. My heart begins to thunder in my chest, and my palms grow so sweaty I have to put down my fork.

I glance back at Miranda.

“If you report them, that’s it,” she says, exhaling sharply. Her eyes stray over to the Idols’ table again, watching as Andrew approaches and starts up a conversation with Tristan. “They will end you.”

My mouth flattens into a thin line, but I don’t doubt that what Miranda’s telling me is true. These kids, they have more money than

the GDP of a small country. Shit, than several small countries combined. If I think that has no influence over the administration and staff, then I haven’t learned as many hard life lessons as I think.

Closing my eyes, I sit stone-still for a moment, thinking. There has to be a way out of this; there’s always a way out if you know how to be patient and look. For the moment, I’m drawing a blank, but give me time, and I’ll work it out.

There’s a reason I got chosen for this scholarship, and it wasn’t my ability to roll over and take it.

No, I’m a fighter, always have been.

I just think I’m going to have to fight harder than I ever have before.