Stuck With The Four Hotties

“At least unblock Lizzie and talk to her,” he says, but there’s no way. Even if I were inclined to speak to Lizzie again, she’s too tangled up with Tristan. “Give her a chance to apologize. She’s been sick over the whole thing, and not just about our bet. She’s furious with the Burberry Bluebloods. Hell, she basically pit Coventry Prep Elite against them this summer. The HamptonsThis is property © of NôvelDrama.Org.

… turned into a social bloodbath.”

My interest is piqued at that, but to get more information, I’ll have to either talk to Lizzie or Zack. Neither of whom is someone I want in my life right now. The majority of my anger is focused on the Idol boys. I have to go

back to that school, with those people, and I need to do more than just stay on the defensive. If I want to have a successful career at Burberry Prep, I need to show the others that I won’t be pushed around, not anymore.

“I don’t care,” I whisper, and Zack grunts, pushing up from the wall and taking a step toward me. The space is so small, it basically puts us toe-to-toe. “You do care. Because Tristan Vanderbilt is in love with Lizzie Walton, and she put him through the wringer this summer. All I’m saying is that

you’ve got an ally there, if you want her.”

“What good does that do me when she’s in a completely different school?” I snap, feeling that anger overtake me again. That’s going to be the hardest part, holding it back and channeling it appropriately. “It’s just me against the world at Burberry Prep; I’ve already accepted that.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Zack tells me, his eyes like hot coals as they rake over my body. After a moment, he turns and heads back down the hall, pausing just before he slips out the front door. “See you on Friday.”

“Don’t count on it,” I whisper, and then I stand up and grab my notebook from my bag. The cover is just one, giant red infinity symbol with a slash through it. The Infinity Club. Their parents might have unlimited resources, as Lizzie said they might control the world, but this is the junior version.

It’s never too early to learn humility.

The next day, I slip out of the house after dad leaves for work, and walk six blocks to a tattoo parlor called Shade’s Dungeon. The guy who runs it is a creep, but he’s also the only person in town that I know of who’ll tattoo an almost-sixteen year old girl, actually do a good job, use a clean needle, and avoid infection.

“You actually showed up,” he says when I walk inside, wiping down the chair with a strong antiseptic. “You got the money?” I take out the wad of cash I got from the ATM and hand it over. He counts it-twice-and then tucks it in his back pocket. “Take a seat, and let’s get this over with.”

I pause, my hand still resting on the door. It’s not too late for me to turn around and walk away. Part of me wonders if I should, if I should give up

this stupid revenge plot and just leave Burberry Prep. Grenadine Heights is a good school, and I’d still get into a great university after graduation …

But no. No.

The Idols … they need to know that their money doesn’t make them gods. They have no right to play with peoples’ lives the way they played with mine. My eyes close suddenly and tears come, but I’ve fought them off a number of times throughout the summer. What’s one more?

“Look, kid, if you’re not gonna get the ink-” My eyes flick open.

“I’m getting it.” I move over to the leather seat and sit down as the tattoo artist rolls his eyes at me and curses inappropriately under his breath, something about fuFking idiot kids or whatnot. I ignore him. This is important to me, a physical manifestation of all the pain I suffered on that day, that year.

Tristan, Zayd, and Creed played on my vulnerabilities and offered me the one thing I wanted most: friendship.

My throat closes again, and my hands tremble, but I roll up my tank top to expose my stomach and then push down the waistband on my leggings. The tattoo artist-I think his name is something old-fashioned like Sybil-holds up a design.

“How does this look?”

There’s an infinity symbol on the piece of paper, one with a horizontal slash through it, just like I saw on Derrick Barr when he was booted from the Club.

“That’s perfect,” I say, waiting as Sybil transfers the design to my skin and then picks up the tattoo machine.

“You ready?” he asks me, sounding bored. I suck in a breath and nod. The needle touches my skin, pain rockets through me, and I grit my teeth. This is nothing compared to how I felt that last day, with paint running down my shirt and between my breasts, my ribs and face aching, my heart shattered.

I had a chipped tooth, and a broken rib. The day after I got home, I went to the doctor and found out about the latter. I’d told Dad that I’d fallen down the stairs; he hadn’t believed me. But then, we hadn’t talked much about what happened, not about the video of me with the boys, the panties, any of it. Instead of being upset about it, I feel like Charlie’s been in an exceptional mood for weeks. He hasn’t had a single drink that I know of either.

“Done.” Sybil steps back and then grabs a mirror, handing it over to me. “Take a look.”

I do, and it’s perfect, a solid black mark on my skin, a permanent reminder.

‘Marnye, you forgive too easily,’ Dad says, smiling down at me.

Maybe before, but not now. Not anymore.

“It’s perfect,” I say, staring at the design in the mirror. He cleans me up, bandages it, and off I go.

Before school starts next week, I have a couple of errands I need to run. They’re imperative.

Grenadine Heights is the place to go for designer clothes, top-notch salons, and preppy assholes flashing me looks. Only, this time they’re looking at me like maybe they should be scared.

At the risk of getting a mark on my first day back, I’ve worn my new second-year Burberry Prep uniform to go shopping in downtown Grenadine Heights. The skirt is solid white, as opposed to first-year red. The black shoes and white blouse are the same, but the tie is red and there’s a single red and a single black stripe on each elbow of the jacket, a perfect match to the red and black Burberry Prep crest on the pocket, complete with pair of griffins. I’ve even got on the thigh-high socks with the matching stripe at the top.

Every student at GHHS knows where Burberry Prep is and who goes to it. Their football team kicks Burberry’s ass every year, but it doesn’t matter: everyone on the GHHS side gazes across the field and knows the grass is greener on the other side.

So when I walk into the salon with my head held high, wearing my Burberry uniform, the women in there treat me like I have money.

It’s kind of … sad, actually. According to my dad, my mother once saved up for a haircut and dye job here for months, and then when she walked in, she was treated like less than dirt. He said she came home crying.

I guess I picked this place for a reason.