Stuck With The Four Hotties

“The warm memories from that time in my life have filtered through a child’s mind and turned into a prism of color,” I continue, feeling my palms start to get sweaty. I can feel the eyes of the Idols on me, especially Tristan and Zayd. The latter has one brow raised, his tattooed fingers tapping a rhythm out on the arm of his seat. The former … he’s got a slight quirk to one edge of his mouth now, like he’s just thought of something horrible to do to me. “Turning the words of that book, and the memories of that time, into a piece of dynamic art was a cathartic experience. I lived my best childhood memories with each and every stroke.”

“That’s what she said,” Harper purrs, and the class erupts with laughter. Mrs. Amberton sighs heavily, but none of the teachers does a damn thing.

Classism holds sway in every corner of the world, I guess. Not even art and academics are safe.

“Thank you,” I say, leaving my piece on the stage and heading back to my seat. Nobody claps for me except Miranda and the teachers, all the more humiliating for the way it echoes in the giant lecture hall. Mr. Carter moves my piece aside, and calls the next name on his list.

On my way back up the steps to my seat, someone puts their foot in the aisle and trips me. I go down so hard that my chin slams on the floor and my mouth fills with blood.Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

I spend the rest of the day in the nurse’s office with a migraine.

When I get back to my dorm later on that afternoon, there’s a bunch of rainbow flags taped to my door, and a lesbian porno Blu-ray on the floor. I pick it up with a sigh, and pull all but the biggest flag down, leaving it to hang proudly on my door. I’m as straight as they come, but I’m also a fierce ally. I have no problem letting my Pride flag fly.

The rest of the flags, I tuck into my nightstand drawer for safe keeping.

If the students at Burberry Prep want to break me, they’ll have to try much, much harder than that.

“This week wasn’t so bad, right?” Miranda asks, sitting on the edge of the table in the library and kicking her legs. Her skirt is so short today that I can see that she’s wearing a garter belt and thigh-highs instead of just tights like I’d thought. I wonder about that, but I don’t feel like we’re good enough friends to ask. A part of me thinks she might be dating Tristan Vanderbilt, but it’s such a horrible thought that I don’t want to put words to it.

“If you call opening my locker and having rainbow condoms spill out not that bad, then you’re right: it wasn’t.” I lean in close to my laptop, and squint at the screen, like I’m super focused on the essay I’m writing for government. Really, I’m distracted as can be. While everyone else is excited that it’s Friday again, I’m dreading getting an invite from Miranda to attend whatever party happens to be on.

She doesn’t say anything, sipping an iced coffee that she swiped from the teacher’s lounge.

“Evening ladies,” Andrew says, pausing next to our table. His eyes land on mine and hold there, a smile taking over his mouth. I swallow hard and pretend to be so engrossed in my work that I can barely look away. Lie. I like the way he’s staring at me, like he might actually be interested. “What are you two up to tonight?”

Miranda adjusts her skirt to cover the straps of her garter belt, raising an eyebrow at his question.

“If you’re fishing and trying to find out whether we’re attending Tristan’s party, the answer is … it’s up to Marnye.” Ah. So it’s Tristan’s party tonight. Based on the gossip Miranda’s been feeding me, the bonfire thing was Zayd’s idea. Guess it’s true that the three Idol boys don’t get along all that well. They take turns entertaining their loyal subjects.

“It’s on his father’s yacht,” Andrew adds with a shrug of his shoulders, like having a weekend party on a yacht is no big thing. “Since it’s parked in the harbor behind the school, we don’t even need off-campus permits to go.” I lift my eyes to meet his again, a sparkling blue that matches his smile. When he lifts his fingers up and runs them through his chestnut hair, I almost smile for real. Andrew Payson really is pretty cute. “If you don’t have a date already, Marnye, I’d love to take you. If you’re with me, the others won’t bother you.”

“As much as I appreciate the offer, I don’t think my presence there would be appreciated.” Just the idea of lounging on Tristan’s yacht makes me sick to my stomach. I gather up my books, and rise to my feet. I’d rather walk

back to my room with Miranda than risk going alone. Zayd promised me pain this week, and I have yet to see much of it.

I imagine he’s just waiting for the right time.

“If you’re with me and Miranda,” Andrew starts, but I give him a look and he raises his hands in surrender. “Promise: by the time we get there, Zayd will be too drunk to mess with you. Tristan will be on the top deck, surrounded by girls. And Creed …” He glances over at Miranda and she gives me a sympathetic look. She knows what he did to me; everyone does. “We’ll just stick to drinking soda, and dancing. What do you say?” Andrew grins with those pearly whites of his, but all I really want to do is go back to my room and see if I can get ahold of my dad. I’m starting to get worried.

“Oh, come on, Marnye,” Miranda pleads, putting her hands into a prayer position. “I’m not saying throw caution to the wind, but you’re not going to let them win either, right?” Crap, she has a point. Sighing and nodding my head slightly sends Miranda into a squeal, and she wraps her arms around me, giving me a squeeze. “You won’t regret this,” she promises me, but I’m already certain that I will.

Tristan’s yacht is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It has several tiers of decks, some with furniture, one with a hot tub, another where students are already in the midst of drunken dancing. Miranda tells me that The Idol cost over a hundred million dollars to build custom, and my stomach feels sick with the level of excess. A hundred million dollars for a boat? It’s like a floating freaking palace.

“And naming it The Idol?” I start as we walk across the grass toward the dock. “Is that because of Tristan?”

“Nah,” Miranda says, giving me a sympathetic half-smile, “that’s because his great-grandfather started the Idol tradition here at Burberry Prep. All the Vanderbilts have

been Idols since.”

Great.