Bad, Bad Blu Bloods

by Stunich, C. M.

  For a while there, I really and truly believed I had them.

  Of course, those friendships slipped through my fingers like sand, and Dad had to see … well, more than a dad should ever see. He saw me kissing Creed in a towel, making out with Zayd on my bed, and letting Tristan grope me in the library. And my panties …

  Humiliation washes over me in wave, but I’ve had an entire summer to learn how to channel it into anger. My eyes flick over to my leather bookbag, resting on the edge of my desk. I’ve taped my revenge list into a notebook and filled it with ideas. Ideas, and rules. Because if you can’t trust yourself, then you’re doomed to fail.

  “Friday …” Zack starts, and then sighs as he tucks his hands into his pockets. “I’ll be here.”

  “Great! We leave at eight sharp, no later. It’s tradition to have pancakes at the Railroad Station on Marnye’s birthday.” Dad slips back outside, letting the door slam behind him. I can hear him wheeling the grill into place.

  “I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I wanted to at least come and tell you that I’d planned on having a conversation with you that night.”

  “Sure you did,” I say, debating the chances of me getting up and down the hall before Zack cuts me off. “Look, you’re a little bit off my radar right now, so why don’t you just leave and we can pretend we’ve never met each other?”

  “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 Hamptons … 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 fucking 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.

  “I have an appointment,” I tell the girl at the front. She’s clearly part-time, a student herself if the GHHS pin she’s got on her shirt is any indication. She looks at me … like I’m a god. I tell myself that’s a good thing, that I must be projecting self-confidence, but I don’t like it, using my uniform to intimidate people. That makes me feel like … them.

  I force myself to put on a huge smile.

  The girl flushes and then checks me in, showing me to a chair right in the front. When the stylist comes over and sees my roots, the pretty but imperfect haircut Miranda gave me, and the fading rose gold dye, she cringes.

  “I want this,” I tell her, pointing at my own head, “just … elevated.” Rose gold realness, is what I want to say, but nobody here would appreciate that. But they will, when they see it. At least, I think they will. As far as I could tell, not all of the emotions I shared with the Idol boys were fake. I remember Zayd bobbing in moonlight, his wet hair stuck to his face, eyes shining. No. No, it might’ve been a bet but it wasn’t all fake. Somehow, that makes the whole situation seem even worse.

  The stylist gets to work, and two hours later, I’m staring at a different person in the mirror. The color is that perfect mix of dusty pink and glimmering gold, and the cut has gone from passable to edgy. I make myself smile.

  “It looks great.” The stylist seems to sigh with relief as I stand up and head over to the register to pay, leaving a generous tip. My eyes meet the receptionist’s as she passes me a bag with some shampoo and conditioner I picked out. She’s too young to have been here when Jennifer was treated so poorly. Same with the stylist. Even if I were interested in exacting revenge for my absentee mother, there’s no justice to be had here.

  I turn around to leave just as the door opens and two blond teens step instead the salon.

  My heart stops beating.

  “Miranda,” I choke out, her blue eyes widening as they meet mine.

  “Marnye, please open the door!” I can see Miranda standing outside the academy’s car, trying to pull it open with the handle. The other Bluebloods hang back as the amphitheater empties out into the courtyard. Miranda whirls around when Creed tries to touch her shoulder, and throws him off. I think she’s defending me. Maybe. But I don’t open the door until Charlie appears. Jennifer … she hangs back and says nothing.

  “What are you doing here?” Miranda asks me, her eyes flicking from my uniform to my hair. Creed is completely frozen behind her, his bored princely look stuck on his face like a mask. There’s a tension in his shoulders that I don’t miss, a tightness in his jaw. I don’t look at him; I can’t. My hands curl into fists at my sides.

  “I …” Words fail me as Miranda and I stare at each other. Did she betray me, too? Did she know what was coming? “I’m sorry.” The words fall out before I can stop them. I really am sorry, sorry that I made that bet with Creed, sorry that I let her down the same way the Idols let me down. I move to rush past her when Creed grabs my arm.

  “You can’t be serious?” he asks me, his voice like ice. I shove his hand off, and our eyes lock together. A spark passes between us, sending my still heart into a beating frenzy. My mouth tightens and my eyes narrow. “You can’t possibly expect to survive a week back at Burberry Prep.”

  “Get your hand off of me,” I snarl as Miranda steps close and pushes her brother back.

  “Leave her alone, Creed,” she says, her voice threaded with steel. “Marnye,” Miranda starts, turning back to look at me, but I’m already turning away and heading out the salon door. I run almost two blocks before I slow down, panting and shaking. How am I going to do this? I wonder as I stand up and lean against the brick wall of a deli. It smells like freshly baked bread out here. If I can barely look at them, how am I going to walk in there, purse-first, and tear down the system? For a second there, it’s hard to breathe.

  “You can’t possibly expect to survive a week back at Burberry Prep.”

  I’ve heard that before, and I proved them wrong, all of them.

  I can do it again.

  Several deep breaths later, and I’m ready to finish up my checklist for the day: new clothes, assorted supplies, and a few other random beauty stops. The best sort of revenge lifts you up, instead of putting others down. So … maybe I don’t need all this superficial stuff, but it’ll make me feel better. I want to get dressed up, and I want to waltz into that school with my head held high, my new hair and makeup a shield against their stares.

  Pushing off from the wall, I take off down the street, and I finish my plans.

  The morning of my sixteenth birthday, I wake up to fresh coffee and a package neatly wrapped in brown butcher paper. Dad’s even added a pink ribbon to the top. He grins at me as I sit down on the couch with my mug, finishing a gulp of milky, sugary goodness before I set the cup aside to open the gift.

  “You didn’t have to get me anything,” I say, feeling guilty that I haven’t told him about the money I won. I should just give it all to Dad; he deserves it. Instead, I’m keeping it in case of emergency. And how sad is that, that I expect emergencies during my second year of high school? This should be my time to study, to make music, to make friends. Instead, I’m just … trying to upset the ancient social hierarchy of classism?

  I’ve kinda got my work cut out for me.

  “Yeah, well,” Dad starts, running his fingers through his shaggy brown hair. He nods his chin in the direction of the package, and I start to unwrap it. His voice is so soft, surprisingly gentle. “Your dad got some news last night.” Zack told me that the day Dad got drunk during Parents’ Week. And yet, I still don’t know what it is. “I hope you like it, honey.”

  I’d like it best if it was a jar of blue blood and tears from the Idols.

  “I’m sure I will,” I tell him as I get the ribbon and paper off, opening the box to find mounds of tissue paper. Inside, a blue velvet box is nestled, and when I crack it open, I find Grandma June’s antique bracelet. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with this thing. It’s always hung on Dad’s side of the bed, and I can remember countless times that I’ve walked in and found him, head bent over, fingers rubbing the little copper charms. There are four of them: a tiny steam train, a loaf of bread, a dress, and a baby. But one charm was always missing, right in the center: all that remains is a tiny ring where it used to hang. Now, that ring has something else dangling from it: Dad’s wedding band.

  “What …?” I start, holding the bracelet up. It’s clearly been polished to a shine, the dull patina gone, the copper gleaming as I hold it up to the light. “Why are you giving me this?” My eyes drift to Dad’s, but he’s completely unreadable. He tucks his hands in the pockets of his jeans and forces a smile.

  “You should have a piece of our family history with you. It’ll give you strength.” My mouth opens, but no words come out. How am I supposed to respond to that? “Are you sure you want to go back to that awful school?”

  A groan escapes me, and I look away, clutching the bracelet in my palm.

  “The academy will set me up for the best possible future—” I start, but Dad cuts me off, coming over to kneel beside me. He puts his hand on my knee, and I turn back to look at him.

  “Don’t go back to that school for boys, Marnye,” he says, voice rough. He almost sounds like he’s pleading with me, and my heart hurts. “Just don’t do it. And … don’t go back because you think you have something to prove.”

  “I …” How can I really respond to that? Is that what I’m doing? Going back to prove myself? To exact revenge? Or is it really because I want the best academic career possible? I can’t even answer that question for myself, so how can I tell Dad what’s going on inside me?

  “You could move in with your mother, and go to Grenadine Heights High
—”

  My turn to cut him off.

  “Move in with Jennifer?” I choke out, pulling away and pushing my body into the worn couch cushions, as if putting distance between me and Charlie will erase his suggestion from the air. “I barely know her.”

  “Marnye,” Dad says, uncurling my palm and taking the bracelet. He puts it on my wrist as I sit there, staring at him like he’s grown a second head. “I’m not saying your mother hasn’t made mistakes in the past, but she’s really trying here. She wants to get to know you.”

  “The feeling is not mutual,” I reply, pulling my arm to my chest and playing with the bracelet. “I’m not giving up my scholarship because of some bullying.”

  “That was more than just bullying, Marnye. Those boys—” My eyes close and Dad stops talking, like he can see how pained just the mention of that day makes me. “Look, you’re a smart girl, always have been. You’re more driven than I ever was, smarter, too. If you want to go back there, I won’t question it, but know that you have other options.” Dad sighs and rises to his feet, pausing at a knock on the door. “That should be Zack,” he says, and my eyes go wide.

  I rise from the couch, but I’m not fast enough to get past before Zack Brooks steps into the trailer, dressed in a tight black tee that pulls across his muscles, dark denim jeans, and brown boots. He stares at me from those dark brown eyes of his, gaze flickering over my black leggings, tight black tank, and total lack of bra, before he returns his attention to my face.

  “Happy birthday,” he says, but it’s hard to take him seriously when he made it his mission to see that I would never have another birthday again.

  “Excuse me.” I push past the two men, being careful not to even brush against Zack, and get dressed in one of my new outfits from yesterday. May as well test it out on him before heading back to that den of wolves.

  If Dad notices that I’m wearing a new pink jumpsuit and black wedges, he doesn’t say anything. If he asks, I’ll … well, I won’t lie about it. But he doesn’t. Zack takes me in carefully, my new hairdo, the bit of makeup I managed to put on with a YouTube tutorial, and my eyelash extensions. Didn’t even know that was a thing until I Googled it.