Bad, Bad Blu Bloods

by Stunich, C. M.

  His words sting me, like running through a field of nettles, little barbs embedding themselves into my skin. I brush the pain aside by slamming my notebook closed and flicking the lock on the side. Tristan takes note of the action, and then refocuses on me.

  “Did you know they broke my ribs?” I ask, and he stares at me with an impassivity that’s frightening. There’s no sign of any normal, human emotion in there, just cold steel and ice.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t care. Get up and go back to your room before I make you do it.” I smile at him, but I’m not afraid, not at all.

  “Harper, Becky, the other girls …” I trail off, gesturing in their direction with my hand. “Did you know they were going to take it that far?” Tristan narrows his eyes and scowls at me, but at least there’s some humanity in the gesture; I’ll take it.

  “What are you even babbling about?” he snaps, but clearly I’ve touched a nerve because Tristan’s already getting angry with me, and I’ve just started.

  “When the girls cornered me backstage before my harp solo, did you know they were going to beat me so badly that I’d break my ribs and crack a tooth?” My eyes are locked on him, so when his widen imperceptibly, I catch it. He quickly schools himself, standing up straight and running his palm down the length of his red tie. But it was there, that little tell that gives me all the information I need: he didn’t know. Tristan, the self-proclaimed King of the Academy, didn’t know about the girls’ plan.

  The first seed of doubt has been sowed.

  “This is your last warning: take your meal and go back to your room.”

  “Or what, Vanderbilt?” a disturbingly dark voice asks from behind him. Tristan and I turn to find Zack Brooks leaning against the wall with his eyes slitted, his mouth turned up in a crooked scowl. “You gonna beat her like your girlfriend did? Leave her covered in bruises and blood?”

  Tristan’s entire body is so stiff that I have to wonder if his muscles hurt, being held like that for so long. He just stares Zack down, and then finally, moves several steps closer. The two boys are toe-to-toe, and honestly, I’m content to watch. Maybe they’ll beat each other up right here in front of everyone, and then start the year with a suspension on their records?

  “You think you’re so different,” Tristan purrs, reaching up to run his long fingers through his raven-black hair. “You think because you’re sorry that you’re somehow better than us?” Zack’s hands curl into fists by his sides.

  “I never said I was better; I said I was on Marnye’s side. That’s it.” He flicks his gaze past Tristan’s shoulder to meet mine. “I’m already an asshole. I’m already tainted. I won’t let her sully herself to try to combat you. I’ll take you down first.”

  Tristan turns, smirking and raising his brows at me.

  “You? Take us down?” The laugh that spills from his throat tears my heart in half, but I let it happen, let myself bleed. He never cared about me, not when he was kissing me on the steamboat, not when he was giving me the necklace, not when he defended me in the vice principal’s office. Every single second was fake … wasn’t it? “Please. With what resources? That change I tossed in your piggy bank?”

  “I’m going to make you sorry,” I whisper, but not because I’m scared, but because my voice is husky with determination and menace both. Tristan simply laughs at me.

  “You and what army?”

  “This one,” Miranda blurts, and I jump in my seat. I turn to look at her, my mouth dropping open as I realize she snuck in while I was preoccupied with the boys. Her bookbag is held over one shoulder, her blue eyes hard, mouth set in a thin line.

  Creed is standing behind her, frozen in the doorway with his eyes jumping from me to Tristan to Zack, and finally over to Miranda. His mouth curls down in a frown.

  “My family has more money than yours, Tristan,” Miranda snaps, dropping her bag to her side as she waltzes into the room, just as much a Blueblood as the rest of them. Her eyes glitter with frustration. “And if I have to give Marnye every cent to bring you down, I will.”

  “Creed, put a leash on your bitch of a sister,” Tristan drawls, waving his hand absently. Creed’s face tightens up, and I can see a muscle in his neck working as he tries to push back the rage. “If you don’t, then she’s out of the Inner Circle. I’m done with this crap.”

  “Leave it, Tristan,” Creed hisses, taking a few steps forward. “Miranda is off-limits, period. I won’t fight about this again.” Mm. Creed versus Tristan. That’s going to be a useful tool.

  “Then kick me out,” Miranda says, reaching under her shirt and pulling out a set of keys. I wonder what those are for and then remember the Gallery and the locked door. A special set of keys, just for the elite members of the school. She chucks them at Tristan’s chest, and just like with the necklace, he manages to catch these, too. “Good riddance.” She moves over to my table, stares Tristan dead in the face, and then hip bumps him out of the way while the Idol girls gasp and squeal like stuck pigs. Miranda grabs her menu, tosses her hair (or tries to anyway), and then looks across the table with a smile. “I have soooo much gossip to tell you,” she begins, and then I know for certain that things are going to be okay between us.

  We have a lot of work to do, hard conversations to be had, but this is our new beginning.

  I focus on my menu as Andrew moves into the room and takes the third seat. Zack moves for the fourth, but my hand lashes out, and I curl my fingers around the back of the chair.

  “I’m not ready,” I tell him, and he nods. But then, of course, he takes up a table one over from us, watching and waiting.

  “She’s eating in The Mess,” Zack says, lifting his eyes to look up at Tristan, and then Creed. Zayd comes in a moment later with Becky clinging to his arm like a leech. My blood goes cold at the sight, and I whip out my journal again, scribbling furiously in it. My eyes lift from the page to find Tristan’s gaze locked on me. He scowls and turns away, storming out of the dining hall and slamming the door behind him.

  Zayd and Creed say nothing, moving past me to sit at the Bluebloods’ table in the corner.

  I glance at Zack, and he gives me a small, private little smile that Miranda notices, sucking in a deep breath.

  “You have so much to tell me,” she whispers, and I grin.

  It’s good to have her back … even if I don’t trust her. Not yet anyway.

  My room is much the same as it was last year with the exception of one thing: new locks on the door. Not that I think it’ll stop the Bluebloods completely, but it should buy me some extra time.

  Miranda takes a spot on the end of my bed, and this strenuous silence falls between us. I bite my lip and lean my back against the door, searching for the right words to say.

  “There’s so much I need to tell you,” she starts, taking the words right out of my mouth. Her blue eyes flick up to mine, and I hate that her gaze reminds me so much of Creed. I don’t want to think about Creed unless I’m thinking about how to destroy him. “First off: have you heard about Windsor York?”

  My brows go up. The name isn’t familiar, so I shake my head, pushing off from the door and moving over to the fridge in the kitchenette for a pair of sodas. I toss one to Miranda as she grins big.

  “He’s tenth in line for the throne, you know,” she continues, popping the top on her can and taking a sip.

  “The throne … what throne?” I ask, and Miranda laughs.

  “You really don’t keep up on current events, do you?” she asks, cocking a brow. She flashes me a smile before continuing on. “The throne of England, silly, duh. You know, like Prince William and his wife, Kate?” I just stare at her. “Kate Middleton? Like, everyone is talking about her? Prince Harry and Meghan Markle? No?!” Miranda exhales and stands up, like this is too important to let go of. Personally, I think this is a stall tactic to keep us from discussing real issues. She waves her hand dismissively. “Windsor is, like, well, technically he’s a prince. He’s the qu
een’s great-grandson” I just stare at her as she bites her lower lip. “He stole his parents’ yacht and crashed into a dock, sent ten people to the hospital. He’s just lucky he didn’t kill anyone.”

  “What does this have to do with anything?” I ask, opening my own soda and taking a drink. The fizzy liquid coats my tongue as I look Miranda in the eyes and try to pretend like nothing happened between us. So much did. So, so much. But how do I even broach the subject? “Miranda, I’m—” I move to apologize again, but she cuts me off. Maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it at all?

  “He’s been kicked out of so many schools all over Europe. They really want him to get his act together, so they’re sending him overseas.” She grins at me and then picks at the top of one of her socks. She’s got on the super tall ones today, too. I wonder if she’s still seeing that girl, Jessie Maker. Do I even have a right to ask? I figure I probably don’t. “Specifically, they’re sending him to America.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “California.”

  “So?” I ask again, and Miranda leaps to her feet.

  “There are only three prep schools in California worthy of a prince: Coventry Prep, Beverly Hills Prep, and Burberry Prep. Marnye, I’m pretty sure he’s coming here.” I’m not entirely sure what this conversation has to do with anything, but I also don’t want to spit on Miranda’s goodwill, so I make myself smile.

  “That’s amazing,” I tell her, my voice far too soft for such a normal conversation. She stops talking and her mouth purses into a thin line, eyes flicking to the side, like she can’t quite bear to look at me full-on just yet. I try one last time. “Miranda, I …”

  “Marnye,” she blurts, lifting her gaze up to my face. “You know I tried to message you over the summer, right?” I nod, and hold back a sniffle. I’m not going to cry, and I’m not going to be wishy-washy. I’m going to kick some Blueblood ass is what I’m going to do. Just … not Miranda’s. “But I understood when you didn’t reply. We both needed time, and Creed …” She trails off as my lips curl into a slight sneer. “What my brother did to you was unforgivable. I’ve barely spoken to him since. If it gives you any peace of mind, it’s killing him inside.” She smiles at me, but there’s not a lot of joy in it; she doesn’t like hurting her twin.

  But that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  “I’m going to make him suffer,” I tell her, and she bites her lip for a moment before nodding.

  “Yeah, I figured as much.” Her smile gets a little bigger, a little wider. “I wouldn’t expect anything less out of you. And besides,” she pauses to reach into her shirt, pulling out the necklace that Tristan gave me, “if you did anything less, they would crucify you. Fight back, Marnye, and show them what I already know: you deserve to be here even more than they do.”

  She takes my hand and drops the necklace into my palm.

  “What is this?” I choke out, and Miranda’s smile gets even bigger.

  “Tristan stashed this in his pocket, and then he and Harper and a full-on screaming match in the hall about it. Everyone saw, and I mean everyone.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Anyway, when he wasn’t paying attention, Harper took it. She threw it in the trash, and I dug it out. Keep it. You might find a use for it later.” Miranda leans in and gives me a kiss on the cheek before heading for the door. My hand curls around the necklace and squeezes it tight. “Meet me in the morning for breakfast, and watch your back. They’re gunning for you, Marnye, and it’s going to so much worse than last year.”

  The most important items I packed in my duffel bag were cameras that I ordered online. They connect wirelessly to my phone, so I can watch the footage at any time. As I position them around my room, I feel a smirk working its way over my face. The best way to bring the Bluebloods down is to let them drown themselves. If they break into my room again, I’ll have proof.

  As soon as that’s done, I get dressed in the crisp perfection of my academy uniform, put on some makeup, and fix my hair as best as I can. It doesn’t look as nice as it did at the salon, but it’s still edgy and pretty, just long to curl around my ears. Next, I collect my schedule, and head into the hall. I bump face to chest into Zack Brooks.

  “What are you doing here?” I groan as I rub at my nose, looking up at him with a scowl. “We’re not exactly friends.”

  “Only because you don’t want to be,” he says, eyes, face, and voice dark and unreadable as always. My attention goes straight to his mouth, remembering that one, fierce make-out session we had during our brief dating session, and the magical way his tongue traced my lower lip.

  Shivers take over me, but I’m not interested in Zack or Creed or Tristan or Zayd. Not anymore. Screw them all. Zack’s sins might be older than the other boys’ transgressions, but honestly, they’re almost worse. He made me want to take my life, him and Lizzie. I exhale. The only reason she’s not on my list is because she doesn’t go to this school, and I have no way of getting back at her. Zack is on it because I always have a connection to him because of his friendship with my dad. But now, at least, I’ve got him right here in front of me.

  “Please move,” I say, tucking my bookbag against my chest. Zack stares at me for a moment, and I can’t help but notice that scent of his, sporty and cool and well-rounded. It gives me butterflies and that just pisses me off, too. “Move.”

  “You don’t have to be on my side, but I’m on yours,” he says, but I’m done listening, so I brush past him and continue on down the hall and around the corner.

  At breakfast, I pull out my journal and start writing furiously. There are so many things I need to say with messy cursive between those lines. The girls are in The Mess, but the boys are nowhere to be seen. They watch me as I eat, voices muted, hatred muffled.

  With the extra security provided by the school, we're all going to have to be careful. It's why I'm not making my move until Friday, at the first party the year.

  The door to The Mess opens, and Zack walks in, pausing briefly, eyes landing on me before he makes his way over to his own table. A few minutes later, Miranda and Andrew appear, taking up seats across from me.

  “What are you planning on doing?” Miranda whispers as she leans in to look at me, white-blond hair swinging forward and brushing across the table. The color reminds me of Creed yet again, but I don't let my thoughts go there, so I smile instead.

  “Whatever do you mean?” I ask grinning sheepishly. I close the journal with a smack, making sure to take extra care to secure the lock and slide it into my bookbag. Andrew watches me the whole time, one brow raised.

  “Well,” he begins looking from Miranda to me, “Miranda here thinks revenge is best served hot and steaming, but I think it's best served cold.” Andrew gives me a slow, easy smile, and I can see how I thought he was flirting with me those few times. He's a genuinely open person, naturally friendly and charismatic. I guess my gay-dar just doesn't work properly. “But you are planning on doing something to the Bluebloods, aren't you?” He leans his forearms on the table, and his smile gets a little bigger. “Let me in on it, please. They already kicked me out …” Andrew exhales, like he’s just remembered his own fate. When he looks back at me, it's with a slightly more serious expression. “I want to be a part of this.”

  “You know we’re going to help you, whether you like or not,” Miranda says, leaning back and tucking her hair behind her ear. “So you may as well tell us all about your genius plans now.” She attempts a hair toss, but it fails miserably. I grin.

  I'm not about to tell Andrew and Miranda anything, especially not the fact that I’m not putting my trust in anyone this year. I can barely trust myself. I decided I needed to make a stand, that I needed to make the Bluebloods pay, that I needed to pave a spot for myself at the school. But it's a slippery slope, and I don't want to end up like them. It took me a long time to find out who I am, and an even longer time to start to like the person that I’m becoming, so I can't let this ruin me. It's going to be a challenge. For now though, I’m going to ke
ep any thoughts of revenge to myself.

  “Oh, if I’ve got something planned … you’ll see.”

  On Friday, I intend to show them, what, exactly I’ve got up my sleeve.

  The first week of school comes to a close without any major events. There are too many staff members in the halls, and even though I turned down that bodyguard guy, Kyle or Keith or whatever, he’s still around, acting like the Burberry prep campus cop. It doesn't stop the girls from saying things to me as they pass in the hall, but all I do is smile. I know what I’ve got planned.

  The Idol boys seem to be going out of their way to steer clear of me. Whether that's because they're having a hard time facing up to what they did (doubtful) or because they hate me so much they're not sure if they can control themselves in my presence, I’m not sure. For whatever reason, I see very little of the three boys I started falling for last year.

  Zack, however, is a different story. He sits next to me during the morning announcements and in every class we share. On Friday, as I’m getting ready for the party, he shows up at my door again.

  I check the peephole and sigh, throwing the door open and moving back, so he can step inside the room. He’s so freaking tall and wide, he takes up the whole space with his presence. My heart skips a few beats before I manage to get a hold of myself. It helps that Andrew’s lounging on my bed, and Miranda’s in the bathroom spinning her long hair into curls. My rose gold locks are twisted in gentle waves around my face, hair-sprayed to hell, and covered in glitter.

  Zack looks me over with those dark eyes of his, taking me in from head to toe, his face entirely impassive. He rarely shows emotion. The face he has on now could be the same one he used when he was tormenting me at Lower Banks. Hell, it could be the same expression he wore when he cupped my face in his big hands and kissed me on the mouth. My first kiss. Our last kiss.

  I cross my arms over my chest, fully aware that I’m wearing nothing but a robe with lingerie underneath. Don’t get any ideas: the lingerie isn’t for anyone but me. It makes me feel more confident.