In the Arms of the Elite

by Stunich, C. M.

  “This first one, from Brown …” Creed trails off, his voice tight. “It’s a rejection.”

  Zayd stiffens with his arms around me, and I feel my lunch threatening to come up in my throat.

  No.

  No fucking way.

  Brown should … that should’ve been a sure thing. I spin around, and find Creed shaking as he stares at the screen, his eyes half-lidded and heavy, but his face so tense that he looks like he could bite and it would hurt.

  “This can’t be,” he whispers, selecting the next email. “Fuck.” I don’t need to be an expert in the language of lazy bad boys to know that the word fuck roughly translates to rejection. “No. How …”

  “Early admissions letters are in,” Harper purrs as she saunters up to us and tickles Creed’s blond hair with her finger. He slaps her hand away so hard, there’s an audible crack that causes the entire student lounge to fall silent. The only noise in that room is the click of the toy train on its tracks around the Christmas tree. “I hope you like your results, Working Girl. I pulled some favors, same as your little friend over here. But the difference between a Cabot and a du Pont is that money doesn’t always have as much pull as a good game of golf with old friends.”

  “You fucking snake,” Creed snaps, standing up so quickly that the iPad falls to the floor. He grabs Harper by her tie and yanks her close. The move doesn’t wipe the smirk off her face, but the murmuring in the lounge starts up anew. “I should’ve fucking known.”

  Harper pushes Creed’s hand off her and steps back, letting her eyes swing over to mine.

  “I hear they have a great community college in Cruz Bay. I’m sure you’ll fit right in with the rest of the peasant trash.” Creed goes to shove Harper, but I move forward and wrap my fingers around his arm to hold him back, Zayd backing us both up from behind. I know these boys. They will beat the shit out of Harper du Pont if given the chance, regardless of her gender.

  “She’s not worth it,” I say, trying to hold back this wash of devastation. I stayed at this school, and I suffered and for what? Of course, I know I’ve gained more over my three and a half years here than just a good schooling. Miranda and Andrew, they’re the type of friends you keep for life. And the boys … the boys … “Let her go. I have other plans for her.”

  “Do you now?” Harper asks, backing up toward the door. “Because I’d like to see them. I was starting to wonder if the kitty had lost its claws.” She curls her fingers at me and makes a slashing motion before spinning away in a flurry of bloodred hair and black skirts.

  Slowly, I bend down and pick the iPad off the floor, sitting down on the couch with it in my lap. Zayd and Creed take up spots on either side of me. Because of the incredible efficiency of the Burberry Prep gossip train, the other Idols know there’s been trouble, and within minutes, everyone’s there, gathered around me.

  “They’re all rejections?” Windsor asks, his jaw clenched tight. “For sure? I thought we worked on this?”

  “We did,” Creed breathes, and I realize just how much effort these guys are having to put in just to keep my life normal. “My mom, she … I told her how important this was.”

  “I got into Bornstead,” Miranda whispers, holding up her tablet, so I can see. “I was coming up here to show you. If I got in, then I bet you did, too. Don’t you think Harper would stop me if she could?”

  “Did you all get in?” I ask, and Creed and Zayd exchange a look over the top of me.

  “Open the email,” Zack encourages as Tristan crosses his arms over his chest and watches with a stoic gaze. I wet my lower lip and then, just because I want to punish myself further, I look at the other three emails. All of them start with Thank you for your application, however … All of them.

  Bornstead is the last one, sitting there at the top of the list, this mocking line of text on the screen of my tablet. I hesitate for a moment, and then decide that if I’m going to go through this pain, I may as well do it here, surrounded by my friends.

  I click the email, and nearly choke.

  Tears spring to my eyes, and I curl forward around the tablet, squeezing it close to my chest.

  “What? What is it?” Creed asks, his half-lidded eyes open wide. They look like saucers in his pale, handsome face. “What the fuck did it say?”

  I close my own eyes for a moment to catch my breath, and then sit back up, breathing heavily, my heart pounding. I turn to Creed first, and he lifts his brows up.

  “I did it. I’m in. I got in. I’m in.”

  His mouth opens in shock as Miranda squeals, and I soon find myself in Creed’s lap. He’s a sloth sure, but when he wants to be, he’s lightning quick. His mouth is on mine, and he’s kissing me with slow, lazy perfection until Zayd clears his throat and draws both of us up and out of our stupor.

  “So, the twins got in, I got in …” He glances over at the rest of the group.

  “I already told you, Milady, I’d follow you to the ends of the earth. Of course, I’m coming. If you’ll have me, that is.” Windsor shrugs, the weird gold epaulette things he attached to his uniform shimmering as he shrugs. Of course he has to break the severe nature of the fourth-year uniform with gold dangling bits on his shoulders. He wouldn’t be Windsor York if he didn’t.

  “I’m playing football for Bornstead, it’s official,” Zack says, but Andrew’s shaking his head.

  “I’m gonna miss you assholes, but I’m going to Stanford. Sorry.” He cringes slightly and makes a prayer shape with his hands. “And it’s not because Gary’s going there, so don’t believe the rumor. I always knew we were a temporary thing. Actually, I’ve been casually emailing this guy who goes to Adamson All-Boys Academy … now that might be a thing.”

  “You keep talking to these internet weirdos, and one day you’re going to get turned into a lampshade,” Miranda warns him, but I’m so happy I’m crying. There are literal tears streaming down my face, and I can’t stop them.

  I stand up suddenly, and everyone goes quiet. I look right at Tristan, but he says nothing. He doesn’t have to. I know he got in. The question is: is he going to go to Bornstead with me … or somewhere else? Somewhere with Lizzie, perhaps?

  My mind is holding onto that information about his dad, the possibility of reclaiming his father and a fortune bolstered by his father’s new bride … My eyes stray to Zack briefly, and he meets my gaze dead-on. There’s family issues there, too, that I want to sort through.

  But first …

  “Popcorn and movie time, my room. We can make sharing that bed work.”

  “And tea,” Windsor adds, holding up a finger. “Please don’t forget.”

  Everyone stands up and shuffles toward the door, laughing, talking … it feels too good to be true.

  I’ve noticed in life that when something feels that way, there’s usually a reason for it.

  “You’re not going to Bornstead, are you?” I ask Tristan, but he just stares at me like he’s waiting for something.

  “Is that what you’d like, Charity? Would that make you happy?”

  “Where did you get that black eye?” I ask, sidestepping his question. It feels too personal to answer anyhow, and I swear, we probably only have like thirty seconds before Miranda comes back in here and yells at me for taking too long. “During fall break, where—”

  “I know all about my own black eye; I don’t need you to describe it to me.” He reaches up and touches the side of his face in remembrance. I frown, but I know being a dickhead is his way of practicing self-defense. “And you, better than anyone, know perfectly well who gave it to me.”

  “Your dad?” Tristan shrugs and turns away. I step toward him, a question on my lips that I know I shouldn’t ask but can’t help and then …

  It’s actually Zayd this time that comes tromping in to bug us.

  “Come on, Charity, it’s celebration time,” Zayd scoops me up in his arms and carries me out the door and down the steps.

  We head down to my dorm and go inside, tea is s
erved all around, and the movie is started.

  It’s nearly ten minutes before there’s a knock on the door, and Zack gets up to answer. Without a word, Tristan steps inside and joins us.

  Now the bullying and behind-the-scenes manipulation from Harper, that’s expected.

  Seeing the king of the school in my room eating popcorn?

  That’s the shock of a lifetime.

  To celebrate my acceptance into Bornstead, Dad and I go out for waffles first thing. He has to take a seriously loaded edible before we go because he’s having trouble eating. Or rather, he says he just doesn’t feel much like eating.

  I’ve missed him like crazy, and sitting across from him in the Station, I feel this inescapable fear that takes hold of every part of my body and won’t let go. My dreams of getting rich and putting Dad up in a mansion to enjoy his retirement seem like a bunch of bullshit right now, like the naïve whimsy of a sheltered girl.

  Charlie … he’s dying.

  It’s almost too much for me to handle, that rush of feeling, but for Dad, I crush it all down and hide it away. Later, it’s going to rear its ugly head and bite me in the ass, I just know it.

  “Can we talk?” I ask him later that evening, as he sits on the couch and sips a hot chocolate with whipped cream, red and green sprinkles dotting the top. I’m hanging ornaments, but my hands are shaking. I hide the emotion from Charlie, turning back to the sweet scent of pine and sap-covered branches. All the guys are in town—and I don’t think it’s by accident. No, it’s most definitely by design.

  Either they want to be close to me … or else they feel sorry for me. I can’t decide. But honestly, I’m glad they’re in Cruz Bay for winter break. Knowing that I have people out there in case I need support, that’s priceless. Text messages are nice, video chatting is better, but there’s nothing like holding the hand of someone you love.

  That’s irreplaceable.

  Tears sting my eyes, but I continue hanging ornaments, pulling one after the other from the box. There’s a glazed ceramic circle with a picture of me as a baby, cradled in Dad’s arms. He looks like a different person there, his skin smooth, cheeks full, mouth turned up in a genuine sort of smile. I almost lose it when I see that ornament.

  “Of course, Marnye-bear, what about?”

  I glance over my shoulder, and I wonder if it’s even worth it to bring this up. The thing is, I have to know. And I imagine that Charlie Reed is the only person who might be willing to tell me the truth.

  “Isabella, is she …” Dad pauses, his mug of hot cocoa halfway to his lips. “Is she your daughter?”

  There’s a long stretch of tense silence, so much so that I wonder if he’s even going to answer me.

  “Why would you think that, honey?”

  I hang the special ornament near the top of the tree before I turn around, dressed in fuzzy flannel pajamas that I’m sure the guys would lose their shit over. If they liked the duck pj’s, well, this reindeer onesie with the giant horns on the hood could seriously rock their boat.

  “She looks like you, and me, really. And when I walked in after school let out last year, you were crying. I know you said you were just happy for me to finally meet my sister, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

  Dad glances away, like he can’t bear to have this conversation.

  “I didn’t know,” he whispers, voice tight, so strained that I feel suddenly like an asshole. I never should’ve brought this up, not with him in this condition. He looks back at me, face set in a determined frown. “I didn’t know she was mine, or I would’ve … I wouldn’t have let Jennifer keep us apart.”

  “I know that,” I breathe, moving over to sit beside him. I lean in close, and he puts his arm around me. “You love your kids more than anything. Trust me, I’m the consummate expert on the subject.” Charlie laughs, but it ends in a coughing fit that leaves the handkerchief he’s using dotted with flecks of red. Coincidently, it’s the same handkerchief that Tristan gave me on the first day of third year. “Are you okay?” I whisper, but Charlie just shakes his head and waves me away.

  “Marnye, I want you to have a relationship with your mother. With your sister, too. That way, when I’m gone—”

  “Don’t please,” I snap, sitting up suddenly and rubbing my hands down my face. “Please don’t talk like that.”

  “Marnye, there’s a difference between staying positive and burying your head in the sand. You know I love you, honey, and if I could I’d be by your side until I was old and gray. Sometimes though, the universe doesn’t give us what we want.”

  “The new baby, Marley, is she yours, too?” I glance over at Charlie, but he just shakes his head.

  “I don’t know. Jennifer seems to think she is, but we don’t know for sure. At this point, it doesn’t matter. It’s better for us not to know, really.”

  “How can you say that?” I whisper, feeling myself start to break. I try to stay strong, but sometimes even the hardiest of us have our breaking points. “If she’s your kid, you have a right to know. She has a right to know. You’re a better father than a thousand Adam Carmichaels. His money doesn’t make him a good person or a good dad, and you know it.”

  “Better for her to have a young, healthy absentee father than no father at all. Marnye, I hate it, too. I do. But what good will it do to break up their family? Isabella loves the man she’s always thought of as her dad, and she’s well-taken care of. Jennifer, too, and Marley. You have a place there now, and—”

  “I love you, but I’m tired,” I blurt, cutting off the conversation and standing up to give Charlie a kiss on the forehead. I can only handle so much at once without breaking. “Do you want me to help you into bed?”

  He laughs, but it’s a sound that’s equally mixed with melancholy and mirth both.

  “I can put myself to bed still, Marnye-bear, don’t you worry.” I help him up off the couch, and he gives me one more hug before bed. “Think about what I said, okay? Sometimes things aren’t perfect, but we do the best we can with what we have.”

  He heads off down the hall and closes his door behind him.

  I sink down on the ground in front of the Christmas tree and look at that ornament, tears streaming down my face. After a while, I can’t take it anymore. I get my phone and text Zack, slipping out the front door to meet him when he pulls up in his orange McLaren.

  “I can’t go anywhere, I don’t want to leave him alone, but I can’t take it. Zack, I can’t do it. I can’t just sit here and watch him die.”

  Zack folds me in his arms and pulls me close, holding me so tight that for the briefest of moments, I feel shielded from the ugliness in the world. How weird is that? The boy who was once the source of much of my darkness is now the light that chases it away.

  “You can, Marnye, you’re strong enough for that. And if for some reason, you feel yourself faltering, I’ll be that strength for you.” I bury my face under Zack’s letterman jacket, hiding the freezing tip of my nose from the cold, winter air. He smells like grapefruit and freshly laundered clothes and maybe a little like apple cider and cinnamon.

  “You smell like Christmas,” I whisper, closing my eyes. Zack strokes his hand over the back of my head, running his fingers through my hair.

  “My mom and sister heard about me cooking on Thanksgiving and demanded a repeat performance. We made molasses cookies from scratch and drank cider.” There’s a pause and Zack exhales as I step back and look up at his face. He’s all serious and shit until he notices the reindeer antlers on my hood. “Are you … dressed up like Rudolph?” He flips the hood up over my head, and then leans down to peer in at me with those dark, brooding eyes of his.

  “Rudolph would imply a red nose,” I grumble, reaching up to rub at my own. “Is it that red already? Because I seriously thought I was just dressed up like Blitzen … or something.”

  Zack laughs, this low, soft sweet sound that’s so at odds with his big, broad shoulders and imposing stare that I smile. Despite everythin
g, I actually smile.

  “Come on, let’s get inside before your nose starts glowing. Cute as it is, I’d rather hang out with you than watch Santa hook you to his sleigh.”

  “You still believe in Santa, huh?” I ask as Zack opens the front door for me and ushers me in. The delicate whisper of Christmas carols drifts from the kitchen, and Charlie’s loud snores reverberate down the hall. His snoring used to bug me, so much so that sometimes I’d sleep with ear plugs or put a pillow over my face. But now … I wish I could fall sleep to that bear-like grumble forever.

  “Duh. Who doesn’t? You want to invite Krampus in to wreak havoc?” I head toward my room, but Zack pulls me into the kitchen instead. “Do you mind?” he asks, pointing at the fridge, and I nod, noticing that small but important difference between him and Windsor.

  The prince just waltzes around like he owns the world. He opens cabinets and fridges without even thinking to ask. I like that about him, but I also like that Zack, at least, has learned some humility. Other people’s boundaries actually mean something to him now.

  “Go right ahead.” I watch as Zack gathers ingredients from around the kitchen and lays them out on the counter. “You believe in Krampus, too, huh? Scary.”

  “So scary. But not as scary as the epic fights between my dad and grandpa.” Zack pulls his phone out, looks up a recipe, and sets it aside before he moves to the sink to wash his big hands. Mm. Football player, rich boy, baking Christmas cookies in my house at midnight on Christmas Eve-Eve, that is, the day before Christmas Eve. Maybe I’m the only person in the world that calls it Eve-Eve?

  “What were they fighting about this time?” I ask as Zack pulls me forward and puts an egg in my hand. There’s a bottle of molasses on the counter, so I’m guessing we’re recreating the same cookies he made with his family. None of the lamps are on in the house, just the colored strands of lights on the tree, and the single white strand wrapped in garland over the sink.