10

The rest of the flags, I tuck into my nightstand drawer for safe keeping.

If the students at Burberry Prep want to break me, they'll have to try much, much harder than that."This week wasn't so bad, right?" Miranda asks, sitting on the edge of the table in the library and kicking her legs. Her skirt is so short today that I can see that she's wearing a garter belt and thigh-highs instead of just tights like I'd thought. I wonder about that, but I don't feel like we're good enough friends to ask. A part of me thinks she might be dating Tristan Vanderbilt, but it's such a horrible thought that I don't want to put words to it.

"If you call opening my locker and having rainbow condoms spill out not that bad, then you're right: it wasn't." I lean in close to my laptop, and squint at the screen, like I'm super focused on the essay I'm writing for government. Really, I'm distracted as can be. While everyone else is excited that it's Friday again, I'm dreading getting an invite from Miranda to attend whatever party happens to be on.

She doesn't say anything, sipping an iced coffee that she swiped from the teacher's lounge.

"Evening ladies," Andrew says, pausing next to our table. His eyes land on mine and hold there, a smile taking over his mouth. I swallow hard and pretend to be so engrossed in my work that I can barely look away. Lie. I like the way he's staring at me, like he might actually be interested. "What are you two up to tonight?"

Miranda adjusts her skirt to cover the straps of her garter belt, raising an eyebrow at his question.

"If you're fishing and trying to find out whether we're attending Tristan's party, the answer is … it's up to Marnye." Ah. So it's Tristan's party tonight. Based on the gossip Miranda's been feeding me, the bonfire thing was Zayd's idea. Guess it's true that the three Idol boys don't get along all that well. They take turns entertaining their loyal subjects.

"It's on his father's yacht," Andrew adds with a shrug of his shoulders, like having a weekend party on a yacht is no big thing. "Since it's parked in the harbor behind the school, we don't even need off-campus permits to go." I lift my eyes to meet his again, a sparkling blue that matches his smile. When he lifts his fingers up and runs them through his chestnut hair, I almost smile for real. Andrew Payson really is pretty cute. "If you don't have a date already, Marnye, I'd love to take you. If you're with me, the others won't bother you."

"As much as I appreciate the offer, I don't think my presence there would be appreciated." Just the idea of lounging on Tristan's yacht makes me sick to my stomach. I gather up my books, and rise to my feet. I'd rather walk back to my room with Miranda than risk going alone. Zayd promised me pain this week, and I have yet to see much of it.

I imagine he's just waiting for the right time.

"If you're with me and Miranda," Andrew starts, but I give him a look and he raises his hands in surrender. "Promise: by the time we get there, Zayd will be too drunk to mess with you. Tristan will be on the top deck, surrounded by girls. And Creed …" He glances over at Miranda and she gives me a sympathetic look. She knows what he did to me; everyone does. "We'll just stick to drinking soda, and dancing. What do you say?" Andrew grins with those pearly whites of his, but all I really want to do is go back to my room and see if I can get ahold of my dad. I'm starting to get worried.

"Oh, come on, Marnye," Miranda pleads, putting her hands into a prayer position. "I'm not saying throw caution to the wind, but you're not going to let them win either, right?" Crap, she has a point. Sighing and nodding my head slightly sends Miranda into a squeal, and she wraps her arms around me, giving me a squeeze. "You won't regret this," she promises me, but I'm already certain that I will.Tristan's yacht is like nothing I've ever seen before. It has several tiers of decks, some with furniture, one with a hot tub, another where students are already in the midst of drunken dancing. Miranda tells me that The Idol cost over a hundred million dollars to build custom, and my stomach feels sick with the level of excess. A hundred million dollars for a boat? It's like a floating freaking palace.

"And naming it The Idol?" I start as we walk across the grass toward the dock. "Is that because of Tristan?"

"Nah," Miranda says, giving me a sympathetic half-smile, "that's because his great-grandfather started the Idol tradition here at Burberry Prep. All the Vanderbilts have been Idols since."

Great.

So even Tristan's bullying has a legacy. That does not bode well for me.

There are so many people already on the boat and the dock that I wonder if there's going to be anything more than standing room. My palms are sweaty as I swipe them down the front of my jeans. Wearing a fancy dress to the last party didn't do me any good, so this time I'm dressed in my own clothes. At least when I'm dressed like this, I know how to act, how to respond.

"This is not a good idea," I groan as Andrew puts his arm through my left, and Miranda does the same on my right. They drag me through the crowd and onto the boat, locating a couch in the downstairs cabin that we can sit on. Drinks are passed around, but I don't touch a thing. Not that I'd planned to, but this time, I don't even pretend.

I was trying to fit in, and all it did was make me stand out. I think I'll stick to being myself for now.

Miranda's already on her second glass of champagne, but it looks like Andrew is willing to go total teetotaler with me. He sees me looking his way and smiles; I smile back and take a sip of my cherry Coke.

"So, are Idols supposed to date each other?" I ask as I see Harper du Pont leaning on some guy in a black t-shirt and ripped jeans that I'm damn near positive he bought pre-torn. I could recognize a pair of well-worn denim jeans anywhere, and those starched monstrosities are not it. "Because I sort of see them … all over the place."

"Everybody knows year one is, like, the time to experiment," Miranda says, her eyes wandering around the room and lingering on Tristan for a minute. There it is again, her strange obsession with him. They have to be dating, or at least sleeping together. Something. "But everyone also knows that Harper and Tristan will get together at the end of the year."

"And why's that?" I ask, as Andrew adjusts himself on the cushions and leans back. He's still wearing his academy uniform, like several of the other guys. Most every girl in there is wearing a designer dress and heels of some sort. I think I might be the only one in jeans and sneakers.

"His family is old money, good breeding, flawless reputation." Miranda turns her ice-blue eyes over to me. For a moment there, I'm reminded of Creed, staring at me down the length of the hallway, and I get the chills. "Harper's grandfather is the one who brought the du Ponts into money, so relatively speaking, they're new on the scene." She smiles and answers the question I'm about to ask before I get a chance to voice it. "If we weren't the richest family in this school, Creed and I would be Plebs for sure." She waves her hand around dismissively, sloshing champagne onto her rhinestone studded nude dress. "Harper's family wants the prestige of the Vanderbilts, and the Vanderbilts want the du Ponts' money. It's just simple economics."

"How … romantic," I hedge as my eyes wander back to Tristan, standing in the corner with his arms crossed over his chest. He's listening to some play-by-play from one of his friends, the edge of his lips curving up in a cocksure smile. His gray eyes turn my way, and I meet his gaze. It only lasts a second because a group of drunk girls stumbles between us, but it was enough. He knows I'm here.

"I'm going to get more champagne," Miranda declares, rising to her feet and stumbling a bit in her heels. I get the feeling she hasn't worn many pairs in the past. She flicks her blond hair over one shoulder, succeeding only in tangling it around her long nails, and I grin. Like I said, she's too nice to be able to hair flip properly.

"I'll grab some more soda, before Greg uses it all for his rum and cokes," I mumble with a roll of my eyes. "You need anything?" Andrew shows off his nearly full cup, and I take off, weaving through the crowd and heading for the kitchenette in the back half of the room.

Creed is there, unfortunately, and his eyes narrow when he sees me.

"If it isn't the Working Girl," he drawls, his fingers curved around the top of his cup. He swishes the alcohol around inside as he watches me. "Come to work the party? There's a lot of money to be made here for a girl like you."

"Your sister brought me," I deadpan, grabbing a handful of ice from the bucket on the counter, and pouring soda over it. "If you have a problem with that, take it up with her."

"Miranda's always liked having pets," Creed says, pushing off the fridge with his shoulder and dislodging the blonde on his arm. She pouts at him and gives me a death glare, but I raise my eyebrows. I assure you, you have nothing to worry about, sweetheart. "She's too nice, always willing to overlook other people's flaws."

"Being poor is a flaw?" I ask, and Creed shrugs his shoulders. He's wearing his academy uniform, too, and in that same lazy, elegant style I recognized on day one. His entire persona is based around not caring, even though it's obvious to me that he cares. Oh, he cares a whole hell of a lot.

"I hear Tristan brought a special gift tonight," he continues, circling me like a predator would. I can feel it, too, the restrained violence in him. Creed Cabot really and truly hates me. I stay where I am, sipping my soda and watching him. My first instinct is to run, but where would I go? The crowd is thick around us, the heat from so many bodies cloying. He gets close to me, so close that his breath feathers against the back of my neck, and I stiffen up. "A gift, just for you, Working Girl."

"Are you okay?" Andrew appears on my left, pushing through the well-dressed crowd. Creed looks him up and down, gives an arrogant little smirk, and turns away. The students move out of his way, giving him a clear path to the door. "I was thinking maybe we could go, just me and you." I look over at Andrew and find him with a strained smile on his handsome face. One of my brows goes up. "We could walk on the beach instead."

"Are you trying to get me off this boat, after working so hard to get me here?" I ask, this knot in my stomach tightening. Dread washes over me, and I know for a fact that I'm about to get all the week's bullying in one, big dollop. At my old school, that would've meant getting my ass kicked behind the science building.

At Burberry Prep Academy, I have no idea what it means. And that scares the crap out of me.

"Let's just go for a walk or something," Andrew says, almost pleadingly, but then I notice the crowd is funneling out of the door and up the steps to the top deck. Even though I know I shouldn't, even though I know I'm going to regret this … I follow after. "Marnye, wait!"

Andrew chases after me, but I'm too far ahead, weaving between girls in Alexander McQueen and boys in Givenchy. It's like the crowd is parting for me, too, but for all the wrong reasons. Miranda's up top when I get there, red-faced and disheveled. She's looking at Tristan Vanderbilt with narrowed eyes.

"What's going on?" I choke out, and she startles, turning to look at me with wide eyes.

"Oh, look, Charity's here, everyone," Tristan says, and he doesn't bother to raise his voice. It's low, and dark, as cool as the fog rolling in across the bay. "I'm glad you could make it to the party tonight." His smile, when he gives it, is about as warm as the ice in my cup. His dark hair is smooth and shiny, falling across his forehead in a way that makes my stomach clench, but his silver eyes are about as inviting as his smile.

Zayd crows with laughter from the corner, a brunette snuggling up against his left side. He doesn't look at me, just tilts a bottle of what looks to be rum to his mouth and makes a joke about pirates that I can barely hear.

Tristan, meanwhile, is busy unwrapping something from a cloth bundle that's sitting on the edge of the railing. The breath of the crowd is hushed, their excitement subdued. Every now and again, a pair of eyes flicks my way, and I feel them burning into my skin like flames. When Tristan gets the wrappings undone, I see that he's got a book in his hand.

"Just don't ever say we don't listen when you talk," he continues, flipping the book around, so I can get a look at the cover. My heartrate picks up speed, and it's suddenly hard to breathe. Even without touching it, I can see what title he has in his hand. And even without asking, I know it's the real deal. "Do you know what this is, Charity?"

"One of the seven hand-written copies of The Tales of Beedle the Bard by J.K. Rowling," I whisper. I know I'm playing right into their hands right now, but I can't seem to help myself. There are only seven total copies of that book in the world. Six were given to friends and family, and one was auctioned off for a charity benefit.

Oh.

Oh no.

No, no, no.