6

I refuse to give these guys the satisfaction.By the time lunch rolls around, Miranda's done some recon, sliding into the seat across from me and picking up the menu from her plate. And yes, I said it: menu. The 'cafeteria' is set up like a restaurant with servers and busboys, tables set with plates and cloth napkins, small menus printed on cardstock that make me think of two birthdays ago when Dad splurged and took me to a fancy restaurant for dinner.

My mind is racing, and I feel cold all over, like I'm so far out of my element I may never get warm again.

"It's bad, Marnye," she says, sighing and then pausing to place her order with our waiter. Me, I've already got a plate of souvlaki chicken with roasted lemon potatoes topped with feta. Frankly, I don't know what half of those things are. Back home, we have sloppy joes, burgers, and hot dogs. That's dinner at the Train Car with Dad. "It's really, really bad."

"What's bad?" I ask, wondering how my day can get any worse. I came into Burberry Prep this morning with high hopes, ready to take on the world. Right now, I feel like I'm living a social apocalypse.

"The Idols, they've declared war on you." My mouth pops open, but I'm not really sure what to say to that. How do you respond when someone tells you the richest, most popular kids at your school want you socially killed?

"All of them?" I ask, glancing over at the large table in the corner where Tristan, Creed, and Zayd sit next to Harper, Becky, and a girl who I can only assume is Gena Whitley. They aren't looking at me. Instead, they're laughing and eating, drawing all of the energy out of the room. I have to admit, they've got charisma, all six of them. Then again, Hitler had charisma, too, and look how that turned out.

"All of them," Miranda confirms, lifting her glass of ice water to her lips and glancing at the round table and all of its royalty. "They don't want you here."

"Why?" I ask, but I needn't have bothered. Miranda glances at me, but her face says it all: they don't want me here because I grew up in a neighborhood of trailers and mobile homes, because I lived in an old train car most of my life, because I don't have a net worth or a family legacy. "What am I supposed to do about that? I was thinking about reporting Tristan and Zayd to the administration. There's an anti-bullying policy that I read about in the student handbook—"

Miranda's look stops me dead in my tracks.

"What?" I ask, picking up my fork and poking at my fancy Greek-inspired chicken dish. It tastes … strange. Maybe my palette just isn't as refined as everyone else's? I wonder if I could ask the kitchen to make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? "Am I supposed to just let them get away with their bullshit?" My eyes wander back to the table again and I catch Creed staring at me. His blue eyes narrow, and he reaches up to brush some blond hair back from his forehead. If it's possible to arrogantly brush hair from one's face, he manages it. Zayd and Tristan notice him looking my way, and soon all three Idols are glaring at me.

Fantastic.

At my old school, I saw the effects of bullying firsthand; I felt them. I felt them in ways I can never forget, never erase. My heart begins to thunder in my chest, and my palms grow so sweaty I have to put down my fork.

I glance back at Miranda.

"If you report them, that's it," she says, exhaling sharply. Her eyes stray over to the Idols' table again, watching as Andrew approaches and starts up a conversation with Tristan. "They will end you."

My mouth flattens into a thin line, but I don't doubt that what Miranda's telling me is true. These kids, they have more money than the GDP of a small country. Shit, than several small countries combined. If I think that has no influence over the administration and staff, then I haven't learned as many hard life lessons as I think.

Closing my eyes, I sit stone-still for a moment, thinking. There has to be a way out of this; there's always a way out if you know how to be patient and look. For the moment, I'm drawing a blank, but give me time, and I'll work it out.

There's a reason I got chosen for this scholarship, and it wasn't my ability to roll over and take it.

No, I'm a fighter, always have been.

I just think I'm going to have to fight harder than I ever have before.As my first week at Burberry Prep progresses, it seems like the Idols have forgotten about me.

I know in my gut that's not true.

Bullies don't quit until circumstances force them to. It's the nature of the beast, and humans are the worst animal of all. Smart enough to manipulate, stupid enough to care. My mind flickers with images best left forgotten: ribbons of silken red, the smell of wet pennies, peaceful blackness closing in.

Running my tongue across my lower lip, I double check my schedule. The first and third Friday of the month I have my Monday schedule; the second and fourth Friday I have my Tuesday schedule. The last Friday—if there is one—is a day off.

Period 3: Government, History, and Civics, Room CH3

The CH in CH3 stands for chapel, meaning the classrooms located in the building attached to the old chapel. Miranda disappeared during the second half of lunch, but I think I know my way around now. Following the maze of hallways, I slip unnoticed by the other students—the Plebs, as they're supposedly called—enjoying my anonymity. Only the Idols and their Inner Circle look at me sideways. Nobody else cares.

I pass unscathed into the classroom, breathing a sigh of relief as I slide into the chair in the back corner. Tristan Vanderbilt is the only member of the Bluebloods—their term, not mine—that shares this class with me and Miranda. He glances up when I walk in, his blade gray eyes slicing through me before he returns his attention to the short, raven-haired girl in front of him.

In the past week, I've seen him with a good dozen different girls, flirting and smiling and leaning in close. Even when the guy's trying to get laid, that arrogance of his sits like a mask over his handsome face. He never seems to let his guard down, or show any emotion that isn't tainted with superiority and entitlement.

Just looking at the jerk makes me sick to my stomach.

"Sorry I'm late," Miranda breathes, sliding into the chair next to me. Her eyes flick up to Tristan, and he meets her gaze dead-on before returning his attention back to his newest conquest. Miranda's cheeks burn pink, and I raise an eyebrow.

"Don't apologize. You've sat with me during every class and every lunch period for the entire week. You're not going to get, like, put on probation by the Bluebloods for that, are you?"

Miranda pulls her iPad out of her bag and sets it on the desk. The tech policy here is crazy strict, so all the laptops and tablets are school-issued and locked down on a private network. It's insane. I miss my phone like crazy, but today after school, I get it back for the weekend.

Even a digital escape from Burberry Prep sounds like heaven right about now.

"No. I mean, I don't think so since Creed is my brother …" Miranda trails off, and exhales, swiping her hand across her forehead before tossing a genuine smile my way. "I know he's been a royal prick to you, but he's pretty overprotective when it comes to me. Once, back in middle school, this guy stood me up for a date, and Creed held me while I cried. After I fell asleep though, he went over to the boy's house and punched him." Her smile gets a little wider, and I smile back.

That is, until I realize that Tristan's standing directly in front of my desk, this enormous shadow collapsing the good-natured humor of the moment. I glare up at him in challenge. I'm not afraid of anyone, not even billionaire boys like Tristan Vanderbilt.

"Party tonight, Mandy," he says, his face a cold, cruel mask. "You gonna be there?"

"Is Marnye invited?" Miranda echoes, and although I appreciate her trying to stand up for me, I cringe on the inside. Tristan lets his eyes swing over to me, his gaze darkening with distaste. He really and truly seems to hate me, and I can't seem to figure out why.

"There'll be enough willing girls at the party; we don't need Working Girls there, too." His delivery is ice-cold, and somehow, that makes his hatred of me even worse. It's a cold, empty loathing that settles across my skin like salty fog off a quiet sea.

"She's my friend, Tristan," Miranda says, but he's already turning away, dismissing the conversation before it's even begun. With a sigh, she turns back to me. "If you want to go to the party, Marnye, we'll find a way to make it work."

"I don't think I want to," I say, watching Tristan's back as he makes his way over to the dark-haired girl again. "Go, I mean. I don't want to go." My eyes flick over to Miranda, watching as she settles into her seat with her iPad on her lap. "Watching that guy hit on every available girl at the party, not my thing."

"The parties here are epic though," Miranda says, lifting her eyes up from the screen as our professor calls for the class' attention. She's talking to me, but she's distracted. I may not have known her for long, but I can already tell. "You can't go through your entire high school career without going to any. I'll talk to Creed after class."

I open my mouth to tell her not to bother, but class has already started, and if there's one thing I do know about my career at Burberry Prep, it's that my grades are more important than any party, any bullshit from entitled rich boys. But if Miranda wants to try to get me in, I'll go, if only for the experience.

And what an experience it turns out to be.My new apartment is located on the bottom floor of the chapel building, as opposed to Tower Three like all the rest of the students. While they enjoy penthouses and sprawling studios with views of the ocean, I'm placed in the old janitor's quarters. Doesn't bother me. Honestly, the one bedroom, one bath space is twice as large as the Train Car back home.

"Spoiled rich brats," I mumble, flopping onto the edge of my bed and putting my face in my hands. Walking these halls is like running a gauntlet; I've never been so exhausted in all my life. "I would've been fine with a regular sized dorm." Throwing my arm across my eyes, I take a breather before sitting up and turning my phone on.

Every Friday after third period, the entire student body gets their phones backs. Until then, phones are banned on campus. If anyone needs to make a call, they're required to check in with the vice principal. Burberry Prep is hardcore. Supposedly, taking away technology helps students focus on their studies and cuts down on bullying. I'd say sure on the first premise … and most definitely not on the second.

Sitting up, I cast a glance around my new apartment. All the furniture, including the bed, was purchased via the scholarship fund, and while I'm sure it's a far cry from what my fellow students have in their rooms, it looks like luxury to me.

My headboard's almost as tall as the ceiling, this lavishly tufted white velvet arch with crystal sconces on either side. It sets the tone for the whole room, this effortless elegance in creams and grays, draped across the ancient stone floors and walls with an expert's touch.

"Okay, Dad, let's see how much trouble you've managed to get yourself into during the week." Powering my phone on, I do a brief check of my email, texts, and social media, but there's not much to see. A few goodbyes, and greetings from casual acquaintances, but nothing substantial. I haven't had any real friends since …

No. Banish that thought. I'm not interested in entertaining shadows of the past, not when I have a fairly grim present to deal with.

I dial up my voicemail and wait, smiling when my dad's voice comes over the line.