Stuck With The Four Hotties

I’d like to get out of here before anyone else shows up for dinner. Frankly, I feel like I’ve been wrung dry, my last reserves of strength bled out along with the words to my essay. I’m dreading getting my phone back tomorrow. What if Creed posts my essay online? That’d really be the end of me.This content is © NôvelDrama.Org.

Besides, I’m afraid to hear what my dad has to say to me. There’s no apology in the world that can make up for what he did. I’m desperate to know what this ‘news’ is that he received that supposedly upset him so much, and damn Zack for not telling me what it was.

“Is there anyone you do want to sleep with?” Miranda asks, putting her fork aside and scrambling to stand up and follow me out the door. “Like … maybe Zack?”

“Would you let the Zack thing go?” I turn a glare on her, but Miranda just smiles back at me. “He used to bully me, you know? That, and he said some weird stuff to Tristan when he confronted me about my grades.”

“What sort of weird stuff?” Miranda asks, her shoulders stiffening up. Yet again, a single mention of Tristan and she gets all cryptic.

“It was pretty clear the two of them have met before. Zack challenged Tristan to come at him during fall break, and Tristan insinuated that Zack applied to Burberry Prep and didn’t get in.” Miranda’s chewing on her lower lip, a habit that’s usually left to me. She doesn’t look at me, just attempts a half-hearted hair flip.

“Well, I’ve never seen Zack before,” she adds with a shrug of her shoulders. She twirls around to face me, her red-pleated skirt spinning. “Maybe they met during summer break or something? Tristan’s family always goes to the Hamptons.”

I have no idea where Zack goes for summer breaks, only that he’s rich enough to go to a private school like this one, but had gotten kicked out of so many before he was relegated to Lower Banks Middle School. No clue where he’s going to school this year. If he were here now, I wonder if we’d be friends?

“Your family doesn’t go to the Hamptons, too?” I ask, and Miranda flushes, like she’s been caught in a lie.

“Sometimes, but not for the whole summer like some people. We have a cabin in Lake Tahoe …” she trails off, and then switches up our conversation with a rapid change of subject. “Are you sure you’re not going to the Halloween party on Saturday?”

“Positively not,” I tell her, shivering as we pass the smiling faces of Harper and Becky, their arms linked, their eyes on me. Harper purposely elbows me in the side, and I stumble. Anger fills me up, white-hot and pulsing, but there’s no point in acknowledging it. If I punch Harper, then I

guarantee I’m the one who will be in trouble. “But I want you to go and have fun. Take pics for me, okay?”

Miranda gives me a look, but lets me go at the chapel, veering off with a wave.

I don’t even remember getting back to my room or falling asleep. Actually, the next thing I remember is waking up with a hangover.

My eyes are sticky, lids heavy, as I struggle to sit up in my bed. I’ve got a serious case of dry mouth, and a massive migraine.

“What the … hell?” I groan as I reach up and run my fingers through my hair.

My hair.

Scrambling out of bed, I skid across the floor and into the bathroom, gaping at myself in the mirror above the sink. When I touched my hair, something felt wrong. But oh my god. Something is really, really wrong.

My long, brunette waves are gone, replaced with a red pixie cut. And when I say red, I mean as red as blood. A scream lodges in my throat, but I choke it back, leaning forward and staring at the ragged ends of my hair. It’s so short, I’m not even sure that I could style it.

For several long moments, I just stand there and stare, my brown eyes wide, my lips parted, my hair … a hot freaking mess. Stumbling back into my room, I check my bedroom door, and find the bottom lock in place. The chain lock however is undone, and I always, always hook it-because I was scared of something like this happening.

In a daze, I sit down hard on the edge of my bed, mind whirling with possibilities.

“I slept through it,” I murmur, running a palm over my new do. But then my head throbs and I cringe. No, no, I was drugged. Fucking drugged. There’s no other explanation. A normal person doesn’t sleep through a full bleach, dye, and cut job. That’s just not possible.

I’m still wearing my uniform from the day before, but when I pinch the white shirt and glance down at it, I can see red stains that look like blood.

This is the work of women, for sure. No way one of those asshole Idol dudes would realize how much this would hurt me. My hair, my hair, my freaking hair … I’ve been growing it out since before I can even remember. It was damn near to my ass, and now it’s all gone, and it’s not something I can get back.

My bones feel like jelly, so I flop down on the edge of my bed and stare at the floor. I’d cry, but my eyes are so sticky, and I feel so drained. The length of my hair, the slight wave, the fullness … it was one of the few things I truly liked about myself.

I’d like to get out of here before anyone else shows up for dinner. Frankly, I feel like I’ve been wrung dry, my last reserves of strength bled out along with the words to my essay. I’m dreading getting my phone back tomorrow. What if Creed posts my essay online? That’d really be the end of me.

Besides, I’m afraid to hear what my dad has to say to me. There’s no apology in the world that can make up for what he did. I’m desperate to know what this ‘news’ is that he received that supposedly upset him so much, and damn Zack for not telling me what it was.

“Is there anyone you do want to sleep with?” Miranda asks, putting her fork aside and scrambling to stand up and follow me out the door. “Like … maybe Zack?”

“Would you let the Zack thing go?” I turn a glare on her, but Miranda just smiles back at me. “He used to bully me, you know? That, and he said some weird stuff to Tristan when he confronted me about my grades.”

“What sort of weird stuff?” Miranda asks, her shoulders stiffening up. Yet again, a single mention of Tristan and she gets all cryptic.

“It was pretty clear the two of them have met before. Zack challenged Tristan to come at him during fall break, and Tristan insinuated that Zack applied to Burberry Prep and didn’t get in.” Miranda’s chewing on her lower lip, a habit that’s usually left to me. She doesn’t look at me, just attempts a half-hearted hair flip.

“Well, I’ve never seen Zack before,” she adds with a shrug of her shoulders. She twirls around to face me, her red-pleated skirt spinning. “Maybe they met during summer break or something? Tristan’s family always goes to the Hamptons.”

I have no idea where Zack goes for summer breaks, only that he’s rich enough to go to a private school like this one, but had gotten kicked out of so many before he was relegated to Lower Banks Middle School. No clue where he’s going to school this year. If he were here now, I wonder if we’d be friends?

“Your family doesn’t go to the Hamptons, too?” I ask, and Miranda flushes, like she’s been caught in a lie.

“Sometimes, but not for the whole summer like some people. We have a cabin in Lake Tahoe …” she trails off, and then switches up our conversation with a rapid change of subject. “Are you sure you’re not going to the Halloween party on Saturday?”

“Positively not,” I tell her, shivering as we pass the smiling faces of Harper and Becky, their arms linked, their eyes on me. Harper purposely elbows me in the side, and I stumble. Anger fills me up, white-hot and pulsing, but there’s no point in acknowledging it. If I punch Harper, then I

guarantee I’m the one who will be in trouble. “But I want you to go and have fun. Take pics for me, okay?”

Miranda gives me a look, but lets me go at the chapel, veering off with a wave.

I don’t even remember getting back to my room or falling asleep. Actually, the next thing I remember is waking up with a hangover.

My eyes are sticky, lids heavy, as I struggle to sit up in my bed. I’ve got a serious case of dry mouth, and a massive migraine.

“What the … hell?” I groan as I reach up and run my fingers through my hair.

My hair.

Scrambling out of bed, I skid across the floor and into the bathroom, gaping at myself in the mirror above the sink. When I touched my hair, something felt wrong. But oh my god. Something is really, really wrong.

My long, brunette waves are gone, replaced with a red pixie cut. And when I say red, I mean as red as blood. A scream lodges in my throat, but I choke it back, leaning forward and staring at the ragged ends of my hair. It’s so short, I’m not even sure that I could style it.

For several long moments, I just stand there and stare, my brown eyes wide, my lips parted, my hair … a hot freaking mess. Stumbling back into my room, I check my bedroom door, and find the bottom lock in place. The chain lock however is undone, and I always, always hook it-because I was scared of something like this happening.

In a daze, I sit down hard on the edge of my bed, mind whirling with possibilities.

“I slept through it,” I murmur, running a palm over my new do. But then my head throbs and I cringe. No, no, I was drugged. Fucking drugged. There’s no other explanation. A normal person doesn’t sleep through a full bleach, dye, and cut job. That’s just not possible.

I’m still wearing my uniform from the day before, but when I pinch the white shirt and glance down at it, I can see red stains that look like blood.

This is the work of women, for sure. No way one of those asshole Idol dudes would realize how much this would hurt me. My hair, my hair, my freaking hair … I’ve been growing it out since before I can even remember. It was damn near to my ass, and now it’s all gone, and it’s not something I can get back.

My bones feel like jelly, so I flop down on the edge of my bed and stare at the floor. I’d cry, but my eyes are so sticky, and I feel so drained. The length of my hair, the slight wave, the fullness … it was one of the few things

I truly liked about myself.