Stuck With The Four Hotties

Miranda pauses again and then reaches out to ruffle up my hair with her fingers, curling one brunette ringlet next to my face. “I mean, unless you’re into forty-year-old married athletes.”

“Not quite that adventurous, I’m afraid,” I say as Miranda gestures with her chin, and I study the paper again. Tristan Vanderbilt, huh? When I look up, I catch sigh of a bronze plaque labelled Vanderbilt Study Hall. Right. “My family aFtually built this sFhool, and yet … we still pay to be here. What makes you so speFial that you should get to Fome here for free?” Guess he wasn’t joking about that first part. The rest of it … that asshole has no idea how hard I worked to get here.

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short. You have other, more important traits and talents. My mom and I read over a thousand essays before choosing yours.” Miranda studies me as we walk, the rain beating a rhythmic pattern against the stone walkways outside. Somehow though, even though this building’s big and drafty, it’s nice and warm in here. “Must’ve been a lot of hard work, jumping through all those hoops.” Miranda sounds a bit detached when she says that, like her mind’s already long gone to somewhere else.

Me, I’m flushed, and my skin feels suddenly hot. I stop walking and Miranda pauses next to me, blinking the fog from her vision. I knew my essay would be read by ‘qualified student judges’ but … Our eyes meet, and her expression softens. This girl now officially knows everything there is to know about me. She knows my darkest memories, my greatest fears.

“I loved your essay,” she says, reaching out to squeeze my hand, “and I won’t tell anyone what I read. Not only am I seriously desperate to make friends with you, but my mom would kill me. You’ve met her: she’s terri

fying.”

He doesn’t even slow his stride to acknowledge that I’ve spoken. Somehow, that’s worse than having him come at me with a verbal assault the way Tristan did. What is wrong with these people? Is everyone at this school an arrogant jerk?

“Don’t let him get to you,” Miranda explains, but she doesn’t sound particularly sure of herself. “He’s an asshole to everybody.” She takes my wrist and pulls me along, toward a crowd that’s bottlenecking the entrance to a cavernous chapel. “This way,” she continues, nodding with her head as we move up to a small door on the left of the main entrance. Miranda uses a key to open it and then lets me into a narrow hallway with beautiful rose red transom windows situated near the high ceiling.

“Whoa, how do you get invited to this club?” I whisper, following Miranda down the hall and then up a set of stone stairs. The smell of cigarette smoke wafts over to me, and we pause at the first landing. Without skipping a beat, Miranda answers me and plucks a cigarette from the fingers of the boy who’s smoking it.

“Only Idols, Inner Circle, and staff are allowed back here,” she tells me, cocking out a hip as the dark-haired boy sitting on the edge of the windowsill turns to glare at her. “Are you fucking kidding me, Gregory Van Horn? If Ms. Felton catches you smoking on day one, you’re in for a world of trouble.”

“Don’t be such a fucking pastor’s daughter,” the guy responds, leaning despondently against the stone, and then glancing over at me. His gaze is

assessing, but much less judgmental than my previous two acquaintances. “Who’s this? The charity case?”

“Everyone knows?” Miranda asks, and my heart plummets into my stomach. It does seem that way, doesn’t it? That everyone knows I’m the only person at this school whose family doesn’t have a net worth equivalent to the GDP of a small country? “How bad is the damage?”

“Girl from the wrong side of the tracks, short, chubby, dull hair, not even fuckable. If she were fuckable, maybe she could be a Pleb. As of right now, Harper’s already started calling her the Working Girl.”

My cheeks flush, but I’m not stupid enough to miss the connection. Admittedly, it’s a clever play on words: working girl, like blue-collar working girl … and working girl, like prostitute.

“What do you mean, maybe she Fould be a Pleb?” Miranda asks, pausing at the sound of the door slamming behind us. We both turn around to find one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen staring right at me. How is everyone in this school pretty?! Boys and girls alike. Must be the personal chefs, chauffeurs, maids, personal stylists, and plastic surgeons. Life must be so easy when you barely have to live it. My hands curl into fists; I’m expecting a confrontation.

The girl at the bottom of the stairs is already looking at me like I’m public enemy number one.Belongs to NôvelDrama.Org - All rights reserved.

“Kesha Darling is a Pleb,” the girl says, her voice high and cultured, a soprano just waiting to sing. “And her father owns a chain of pharmacies valued at over a hundred and sixty million dollars.” The girl-I’m guessing this is the infamous Harper?-crosses one arm over her chest, resting the elbow of the other in her palm. She gestures dismissively in my direction. “So why on earth should some penniless bitch from the ghetto be ranked right up alongside her?” Harper moves toward me, her glossy mane of chestnut hair swinging, her skirt even shorter than Miranda’s, makeup professionally done. She pauses in front of me, several inches taller. Several inches skinnier, too. We both notice. My hands tighten on my schoolbag. “Do you know what Social Darwinism is, Working Girl?”

“The name’s Marnye,” I say, my voice edging dangerously close to a growl. I can take a lot of shit, but I’ve already had my fill for the day. “And yeah, I do know what that is: a bunch of bullshit propaganda perpetuated by the super-rich to explain why they eat cake and everyone else suffers.”

“Aw,” Harper purrs, pouting her perfectly painted pink lips, “look at you, so smart, using a Marie Antoinette reference.” She leans in toward me, her sweet vanilla-peach smell making me sick. “If you think you’ve got what it takes, bring your pitchforks, peasant, and take my head.” With a laugh like sparkling water, Harper stands back up and flips her hair over her shoulder.

And there it is, the supreme hair flip. She executed it perfectly; it suits her. I knew we were never going to get along.

Harper brushes past me, glancing down at the guy on the windowsill, Greg.

“No Working Girls in the Gallery,” she says, and he nods, raising his eyebrows at Miranda as she sputters and flushes. When she turns to me, I hold up a hand to stop her from trying to explain.

“It’s okay,” I tell her, stepping back. “I get it.” I turn around and head back down the hallway, leaving the way I came and making for the crowd jostling to get into the chapel.

“Hey!” Miranda calls after a moment, running after me and pausing to pant when she catches up. Her face is firm with resolve. “I’ll sit with you today.”

A smile lights my face and warmth fills my chest. That’s when I know we’re going to be friends for sure.

Based on how things are going, she very well might be the only one I’ll have.