3

"Miss Cabot," a stern voice says, plucking the white cup from Miranda's thin fingers. "You know that the coffee stands are for staff only." I turn and find a tall, brunette woman in a skirt suit watching us with a raised brow and a wry half-smile. She looks like she'd be more at home in Washington D.C. than in a rural prep school in central California. "There's a sign, after all. And I know you can read. Your mother promises she taught you herself."

My mouth twitches as Miranda tosses her hair in a haughty gesture that doesn't seem to quite fit her personality. And that's a good thing. I've known a lot of hair-tossers in my life, and none of those girls were pleasant. They made my middle school years a living hell with the help of a guy named Zack Brooks. Zack … I'm not going to let myself think about him. This is my chance at a fresh start and new, better memories.

"Ms. Felton, I see the war against caffeine is still on," Miranda grumbles, waiting for Ms. Felton to turn her back, so she can flip her off. "It's a losing battle—like the war on drugs."

"Why don't you wait until tomorrow, and we can discuss politics in class?" Ms. Felton dumps the coffee into the drain of a water fountain as we turn the corner and Miranda rolls her blue eyes at me.

"Sorry, that's Ms. Felton. She's a bit of a rule Nazi. She can get away with it, too, since she was an Idol once upon a time. It's like, that shit never fades." Miranda pauses and then peeps around the corner, like she's checking to see if Ms. Felton's following us. She's not. Miranda grins and then gestures at my belly with loose fingers. "Roll it, or be forever dubbed a Pleb."

"A … what?" I ask as Miranda untucks her shirt, and then proceeds to roll the waistband of her red pleated skirt until it's dangerously short, like can't bend over or reach for too high of a shelf short. A light breeze is liable to blow it right off. "Pleb? Like … Plebeian?"

"Yep," Miranda says with a sigh, tucking her shirt back in and then looking at me like I'm crazy. When I don't move to copy her, she groans and steps forward, tugging the crisp white blouse from my waistband. I sort of just stand there and let her do her thing. It's exhilarating, naughty but in an innocent sort of way. "It's stupid, I know, but it's how it is here."

Once my skirt's the appropriate level of, well, inappropriate, Miranda leans over and taps the piece of paper she wrote out for me. On the bottom, there's the term Pleb with the words everyone else written after it.

"Plebeian means, like, commoner or peasant," Miranda continues, huffing and tucking loose strands of platinum blonde behind her ears. It's so pale, it's practically white, but when the sun leaks in through the stained glass windows and bathes her in light, it's angelic, glowing as golden as a halo. "If you're not an Idol or in the Inner Circle, then you're a Pleb. Once a Pleb, always a Pleb." Miranda pauses and lifts her eyes to the ceiling, long dark lashes fluttering. I think she's got eyelash extensions, but it would be rude to ask. Hell, maybe I'm just jealous and she's just pretty? "Well, except this one time when Karen Evermeet screwed the soccer coach, and shared the video with the whole school." Miranda flashes me a model-esque smile. "She went from Pleb to Idol in a day. But that never happens." 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 actually built this school, and yet … we still pay to be here. What makes you so special that you should get to come 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 terrifying."

My lips curve up in a slight smile, and I squeeze her hand back before letting go.

"I appreciate that," I say, feeling this new sort of comradery simmer between us. There are things in that essay that could destroy me at Burberry Prep.

We turn another corner, and I wonder if she's going to get to this piece of paper in my hand before we reach the chapel for the morning announcements. Or, like, if we're even going to get to the chapel at all. How far did I wander? And how big is this place?!

I mean, I studied the map of Burberry Prep religiously, lying in the hot white heat of summer on my dad's sun-dead lawn, shades on my eyes, headphones on my ears. I memorized the entire layout, and yet … I'm so turned around I don't even remember which door I came in. Looking at a flat illustration of something, and walking it in person are two completely different things.

Lifting my head up, I see something that takes my breath away.

Or … more like someone.

"Who the hell is that?" I choke out as my eyes catch on the platinum blond head of the most beautiful boy I've ever seen. He's lounging in a chair with insouciant disregard, an air of entitled laziness captured in his long limbs. The way he sits there, boneless, bored, but with bright, piercing eyes, it all reminds me of a cat. A lazy, spoiled housecat.

His hair shimmers in the light from outside, bits of sun breaking through the clouds. Outside, there's a rainbow stretching across campus that I can just barely see through the glass, but it's nowhere near as beautiful as the guy in the loose tie and half-tucked shirt. He's still crisp, still polished and put-together, but with an air of effortlessness that Tristan Vanderbilt doesn't have. Nah, that guy has a stick shoved so far up his ass, he could never luxuriate across a chair the way this one does.

"That," Miranda starts as the boy's ice-colored eyes swing our way, "is my twin brother: Creed Cabot."

My mouth opens, and then snaps closed when I realize that I have absolutely nothing productive to say. I'm enthralled, held by that sharp gaze as Creed makes his way over to us. He's tall, sure, but he feels even taller by the way he stands, his fingers just lightly tucked into his pockets, the top two buttons on his shirt undone. His jacket is nowhere to be seen.

"Mandy," he says by way of greeting, looking at his sister's skirt with distaste. Creed Cabot … he doesn't even give me the time of day. Rude much? I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms, waiting for him to acknowledge me. "Was wondering where you'd disappeared to. Andrew's looking for you." Miranda nods and then holds out a hand to indicate me.

"Are you going to say hi to the new student?" she asks, those ice-blue eyes of Creed's sliding over to me. I swear, even from here, I can smell him. He's got this crisp linen scent with just a hint of tobacco, like he's been hanging out with someone who smokes but isn't a smoker himself.

"Am I?" he asks, looking me up and down with a calculating coolness to his gaze. "And why should I?"

"Oh for shit's sake, Creed, this is Marnye Reed." Miranda raises her brows and waits for him to make the connection. Apparently, he already has.

"Yeah, Mom's pet peasant. I already know that." Creed looks at me, his skin like alabaster, his expression as haughty as Tristan's. "Charity work is her thing. Doesn't have to be mine." Creed turns away as Miranda sputters, and I do my best to come up with a quick retort.

"Charity isn't what got me here, Mr. Cabot. It was hard work and dedication."

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 could 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.

"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."