Stuck With The Four Hotties

Andrew lifts his head to look at me, blue eyes dark with regret and frustration.

“What else?” I ask, swallowing a lump. “Is there anything else you did?

Because this is your last chance to be honest.”

“What are you going to do?” Andrew asks as I flip the page to the back cover where I’ve taped in my revenge list. I spin it around for him to look at, and he raises his eyebrows. He notices his own name and lifts his face, meeting my eyes. “Be careful with them, Marnye. If you think last year was bad, then rest assured they’ll amp it up this time. They’ll be gunning for you.”

“Answer the question.” I keep my pen poised above the page, and Andrew exhales sharply.

“Nothing else. And Miranda-” I hold up my hand. Miranda and I need to talk. But I don’t want any information second-hand; it all has to come from the source. “Nothing else. I’m so sorry, Marnye.”

“I’m sorry, too,” I say, feeling this wave of relief rush over me. I never wanted to hurt Andrew. “Look: grant me one small favor, and we’ll call it

even?” He nods, and I uncap my red Sharpie. I have five of them in my bag, just for this sort of occasion. As Andrew watches, I make an adjustment.

Revenge On The Bluebloods of Burberry Prep A list by Miranda Cabot Marnye Reed

The Idols (guys): Tristan Vanderbilt (year one two), Zayd Kaiser (year one

two), and Creed Cabot (year one two)

The Idols (girls): Harper du Pont (year one two), BeFky Platter (year one

two), and Gena Whitley (year four) (graduated)

The Inner CirFle: Andrew Payson, Anna KirkpatriFk, 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

Zack Brooks

The limo reeks like Sharpie for a moment as I pop the cap back on, tuck my notebook away, and look over at Andrew.

“So. You were in the Hamptons part of the summer, right?” Andrew raises his eyebrows, but nods. “I hear shit went down. Tell me about it.”

His forlorn facial expression evolves into a grin, and for a second there, I see a glimmer of the real Andrew hidden underneath the shell.

“Oh wait until you hear this T,” he starts, and he fills me in on everything that happened over the last few months.

It’s … interesting, to say the least.

I may have more to work with than I thought.Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org exclusive © material.

Andrew and I take turns changing into our uniforms, using the back of the limo and its tinted windows for privacy, and then we slide into the backseat of the shiny black Cadillac with the academy’s logo on the side. My heart is racing, palms sweaty. I feel like I might choke.

If I walk in there nervous, they’ll know. They’re predators, all of them; they’ll smell my fear.

“Is any part of you still into them?” Andrew asks as we drive down the winding gravel road. I give him a look of such horror that he quickly closes his mouth and glances away. When we arrive at the courtyard with its stag fountain, I find myself with an escort.

“Miss Reed,” Ms. Felton says, smiling softly at me. There’s so much pity in her eyes that I find it hard to hold her gaze. “Welcome back.” She nods at Andrew and then stands there politely until he gets the hint and leaves. Standing behind her coiffed form is a tall man in a suit that makes me a little nervous. I eye him warily. “Have you spoken to Kathleen Cabot yet today?” I nod and shrug. She did call and offer me a limo for the drive to Burberry Prep. Well, most recently she offered me a limo. Yesterday, she offered to buy me a car. On the last day of school, she … apologized profusely for her son.

My jaw clenches slightly as I think about Creed Cabot, and his angelic white-blond hair, his piercing blue eyes, the lazy insouciant way he holds himself. Prince of Assholes, that can be his title while he competes with Tristan Vanderbilt for King of Dickheads. I don’t think about Zayd.

“Well, this is Kyle Carlin.” She gestures at the man, her outfit much the same as dozens of others I saw her wear last year. “Principal Collins, Mrs. Cabot, and myself conferred with your father over the last few weeks, and well, we felt it’d be nice if you had an escort on campus.” She must see the expression on my face because she adds, “at least until you get back into the swing of things.”

“An escort?” I ask, looking at Kyle’s hulking frame and huge muscles with my eyelid quivering. That’s sort of the last thing I need, some giant

bodyguard trailing me. I may as well just announce my weakness to the whole school. What sort of high school life is that, having some random dude following me everywhere? “I’m not interested in an escort.” Ms. Felton purses her lips and exchanges a look with Kyle. He’s tall, dark-haired, and mean in the face. Very intimidating.

“I understand it’s not ideal,” Ms. Felton begins, and I shake my head.

“No. I don’t want a bodyguard.” There’s no way in hell I can exact my revenge with someone tailing me all day. I lift my chin and meet Ms. Felton’s eyes. I’m not sure if it’s possible, but I think I grew a couple of inches over the summer; I feel taller. “Is this compulsory?” My voice stays calm, even as Ms. Felton is staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“It’s not …” she begins, and I nod. No way. Sure, I bet the bodyguard would keep the Bluebloods away from me. But that’s all he would do. I’d still have to see Tristan’s gray gaze from across the room, hear Zayd’s raucous laughter, listen to Creed entertaining his subjects in The Mess. “Well, if you change your mind, Kyle will be patrolling the campus. We’re taking this bullying thing very seriously.” I nod and start to move away when Ms. Felton puts a hand on my arm. “If you want to take your meals in your room, we’ve made those arrangements with the kitchen.”

I give her a tight smile and pull away.

I can feel their eyes on me as I head up the steps, my white second-year skirt billowing in a breeze.

My feet move just fine until I hit the stained glass doors at the end of the outdoor corridor.

You Fan do this, I tell myself, breathing hard, pulse racing. Your uniform is Flean and pressed, you’ve got on a garter belt and the thigh-high soFks you didn’t bother with last year. Your hair is done, your makeup … passable, extensions on your lashes, brows waxed. My breath exhales, and I pull out a tube of bright red lipstick, smearing it across my mouth and then checking my teeth in a small compact mirror. I start to head in and then pause, smiling as I roll the waistband of my skirt.

“Here goes nothing.”

I push inside the chapel building, and the hall goes silent. Dead silent. There are students everywhere, in every year of uniform, and they’re all staring at me. The only sound is that of my shiny black dress shoes clacking across the stone floors as I hold my bookbag over one shoulder and march

down the hall with my shoul

ders straightened, my chin up, my back ramrod straight.