Bad, Bad Blu Bloods

by Stunich, C. M.

  I tap out a quick message to Zack: Meet me in The Mess.

  He responds almost instantly: Already there. Join me?

  “Hey,” I say suddenly, lifting my gaze up to meet Miranda’s blue one. “I’m going to go talk to Zack in The Mess for a while. Are you okay in here?”

  “I’ll hang out and wait for you,” she says, leaning back into my pillows and making herself comfy. I grab a sweater and leave her there, knowing that the cameras will catch any suspicious activity. I want with all my heart to believe Miranda’s innocent in everything that’s gone on here at Burberry Prep, but I don’t think I can know that for sure, not just yet. If she does nothing while I’m gone, that’ll help go a long way towards easing my distrust.

  I make my way through the halls as quick as I can. As much as I’m ready to stand up to the Bluebloods, I can’t fight off a dozen people by myself. Fortunately, I manage to slip into the dining hall without anyone seeing me.

  Zack’s the only one there, sitting by himself at a table near the window. I make my way over and flop down in the seat across from him. His dark eyes lift up from his plate, but only briefly before he refocuses on his food. He’s a huge guy, and he works out constantly, so that means he also eats like a horse. He’s polite about it, but it’s almost fascinating to see how quickly he can make food disappear.

  “This is unusual,” he says finally, after we’ve sat in silence for several minutes, and I’ve placed my order with the waiter. Tonight I’m having steak with chimichurri butter, asparagus, and garlic cheddar biscuits. Fancy.

  “What is?” I ask, my heart beating as he sits up and slips out of his letterman jacket, revealing a tight white wifebeater underneath. It looks like it’s about to rip in half it’s so tight. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking? Why does Zack have to have such rock-hard biceps and broad shoulders? It’s infuriating.

  “You, coming to see me.” He sets his fork down and then signals the waiter over with a dessert menu. Have I mentioned how amazing the desserts are here? They serve things like crème brûlée and tiramisu and bread pudding. All so very fancy. Back home in the Train Car with Dad, dessert is about as eclectic as dinner: pudding cups from the fridge, brownies from the bakery section of the supermarket, or if we’re feeling adventurous then ice cream from the shop down the road. “What’s up?”

  I consider thanking him for helping me get on the team, but then I remember the cruel darkness in his eyes when he laid into Ileana, and I’m just not sure I have it in me. Leaning forward, I put my palms on the table and school my face into the most serious expression I can manage.

  “Last year, when Dad got drunk during Parents’ Week, what did he tell you?” Zack goes completely still, his dark eyes lifting up to mine. There’s something strange about the way he’s looking at me that makes my stomach flip over with nausea. It’s bad. Whatever it is, it’s so, so bad.

  “He hasn’t told you?” he asks carefully, and I almost choke on my water as I struggle to take a sip. I push the glass aside and lean even farther forward.

  “Zack, what the hell is going on?” He lets out a string of frustrated curses, and then sits back suddenly in the chair, running his palm over his short, dark hair. He looks like he wants to throw something. His teeth are clenched tight, his right hand is gripping the table for dear life, and I swear there’s a bead of sweat that forms on his temple and runs down the side of his face. “You’re scaring me.”

  He looks at me for a long moment, and then sighs.

  “I can’t lie to you, but I can’t tell you the whole truth either. For that, you’ll have to talk to your dad.” He leans back in his chair and just looks at me, this dark, broody asshole thing going on that I shouldn’t like, but sort of do anyway. He’s as bad as the rest of them, I remind myself, worse maybe. “You know your parents are having an affair, right?”

  I just stare at him unblinking for several seconds.

  “Come again?”

  “Charlie and Jennifer are seeing each other behind Adam Carmichael’s back.” He smiles tightly, but there’s no warmth there. Sympathy, maybe, but that’s it. My mouth opens, closes, opens again. No words come out though. How the hell does Zack know that? Why would my dad confide something like that in him?

  I decide to ask.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but … how do you know that?” I lean forward, putting my forearms on the table. Zack watches me carefully, like he’s trying to absorb my every movement. The attention makes me feel fidgety, and I wiggle in my seat, refusing to think about that time I wiggled in Creed’s lap … Ahem. “I mean, why would my dad tell something like that to a high school student?”

  “He didn’t.” Zack shrugs his massive shoulders. That seems to be his go-to response to everything. “I came over once to help him fix a leak in the roof and walked in on them …”

  He trails off, and I add with a dry note to my voice, “kissing?”

  Zack raises his dark brows at me, but then smiles a little.

  “Something like that. Anyway, he said they were in love and they’d been seeing each other.” Zack looks down at his empty plate as the waiter comes back to deliver my food and take his dessert order. Then, of course, he clams up and leans back in his seat, like that’s all there is to say on the matter.

  “So the news he received …?” Because even if Zack is telling the truth—which I’m not sure of—then what drove my dad to drink during Parents’ Week last year? Clearly, he would already be aware that he was having an affair with Jennifer, even though it’s news that would drive me to drink. “Maybe … she was going back to that Carmichael guy?” Zack just stares at me, and I groan in frustration.

  “That’s all you’re going to tell me, isn’t it?”

  He smiles, and it’s a much prettier smile, so much so that I feel a bead of sweat run down my spine. Yikes. I’m not entirely sure he’s ever smiled at me like that before.

  “Are you excited for your first game?” he asks me, and I narrow my eyes. Coach Hannah has been working us hard for the last week, and I expect that even though this is Parents’ Week, she’s going to be working us just as hard, if not harder. Newbies weren’t allowed to cheer at Friday’s game, but Parents’ Week culminates with the final game of the season for Burberry Prep’s new all-star football team. Just adding Zack to varsity has shaken up the entire school; it’s like we actually have some pride in sports now. Of course, the cheerleading team is so green there is no JV/varsity distinction at this point, but that’s not why I joined. I don’t actually care for sports at all.

  “Mm.” I make a non-committal noise and Zack chuckles, picking up his fork to poke at his tiramisu. What spoiled brats this school breeds. The only time I've ever had tiramisu was when Dad worked two weekend jobs to save up to take me out to a fancy Italian dinner to celebrate making the honor roll in middle school. So yeah, it's been years. I decide the next time the waiter pops over, I'll order some, too.

  Because not only am I going to make honor roll again, I'm going to steamroll right over Tristan to do it.

  “I'll be playing extra hard, knowing you're there to cheer me on,” Zack purrs—yeah, really, purrs—and I frown. If I didn't hold myself to higher standards, I'd break his knee cap so he'd be forced to sit out the game, and miss out on the scouts that are supposed to be showing up. Zack Brooks doesn't need scouts though, nobody at this school does. If any one of them actually decides to play for a university, it’ll just be for fun. None of these guys is actually interested in a career in the NFL. NFL players are poor compared to the net worth of the average Burberry Prep players' family.

  “Oh, trust me,” I tell him as I pick up my fork and stab it dramatically into my slab of steak. I'm smiling when I cut into it. “I won't be cheering you on. I'm just there for intel. I hear the Idols have gone to every game this year.” Lifting my eyes from my plate, I see Zack clenching his jaw. He's moved pieces of his tiramisu around his plate, but has yet to actually eat any of it. A chill travels down my spine. �
�They hate sports. Last year, they didn't go to a single sporting event, except once or twice to see Gena swim.” I cock my head to one side. “And they really hate you, so … I'm guessing this has something to do with the Infinity Club?”

  “Haven't you learned your lesson with the Infinity Club?” Zack whispers, and then he's standing up and pushing away from the table. He grabs his letterman jacket off the back of his chair and storms out of the room.

  Bingo.

  Looks like I hit a nerve.

  Zack needs to win this game on Friday, I'll bet.

  And I really need to have a conversation with Charlie.

  The next morning, I'm up bright and early, using the iron in my room to smooth out the pleats in my white skirt and jacket. The second-year uniform is one of my favorites, all of that crisp white linen with just a touch of color in the red of the tie, the shiny black of the shoes, and the little stripes of black and red on the elbows of the jacket and the tops of the socks.

  Just for fun, I put on the necklace Tristan gave me. I imagine it'll mess with his head, making him wonder how exactly I ended up getting it back. Knowing that Dad's likely to be late, I hold back and wait to head for the courtyard until I'm sure most of the other students will have cleared out. I'm out for blue blood this year, and I’m willing to take punches to get it, but I won't accept any attacks from those assholes that are directed at my father.

  On my way down the hall, I notice that one of the office doors is open. It's of note to me because I come down this way all the time and never once have I seen it open. In fact, it's usually locked. The school staff has officially moved into the new outbuildings, and nobody uses the old chapel offices anymore.

  “You've disappointed me, son.” I hear a patronizing tone that sets me on edge. It's so frustratingly condescending that it makes my teeth hurt. Even though I know I shouldn't, I end up creeping forward to peep in the glass window on the door.

  What I see in there makes me raise my brows.

  Tristan's standing with his back straight, his face frozen into an expression of bored disinterest. Unlike Creed, however, he doesn't quite manage to pull it off. Actually, for the first time ever, he looks truly terrified beneath the mask. Even when he saw his dad's car floating in the pool, it wasn't this bad.

  Tristan Vanderbilt is scared of something, huh?

  Apparently, he's scared of … his dad?

  The man sitting on the edge of the old desk looks like a mature—and if possible crueler—version of his son. He's got that same raven-dark hair, those gray eyes, and a smile like a snake. The moment I lay eyes on him, I know he's bad news. Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

  Tristan doesn't say anything, just stands there and stares his father down. There's the slightest quiver in his shoulders that doesn't seem right. Is he actually trembling? That's when I notice the slight glisten of red at the corner of his mouth. Is that … blood?

  “You're right,” Tristan says, and that's it, just those two words. His uniform is as perfectly pressed as always, just sharp lines and creases that could cut. His tie is straight, his jacket buttoned, his hair smooth and shiny. But his eyes are disturbingly empty. Even his usual cruelty is missing. “I messed up.”

  Mr. Vanderbilt sighs and taps his fingers against the leg of his immaculately pressed suit. Just like his son, there's not a single thread, button, or hair out of place. And there's no doubt in my mind that his suit costs more than my father's yearly salary.

  “I'm still struggling to understand how my car ended up in a swimming pool.”

  Tristan flinches, and my heart begins to race. If he hasn't ratted me out yet, he's not going to. But still …

  “I told you: it was a senior prank.” His voice is cold, empty, dark.

  After a moment, Mr. Vanderbilt goes to reach for something in his pocket, and Tristan flinches like he's been struck. But all his dad does is produce a black box with a little crown on the top. He passes it over to his son, and Tristan takes it warily, cracking the top to reveal a black and red Rolex watch. He turns it over and I see a custom engraved infinity symbol on the back.

  Well, damn.

  “A senior prank?” Mr. Vanderbilt asks as he takes the box back, removes the watch, and gestures for his son to hold out his arm. “And how, exactly, did the seniors get my car out of our garage in Los Angeles?”

  Tristan says nothing, just lets his dad put the watch on for him.

  “I haven't seen the class rankings posted yet. Have you?” Mr. Vanderbilt's voice just drips with menace; the high cheekbones and straight, ridged nose that look so regal on his son become villainous when he reaches out and snatches Tristan by the tie, yanking him close.

  Tristan simply licks the blood from the corner of his mouth and stares his father down.

  “You are a Vanderbilt, son. This country was built on our dime and our whims. Do I need to reiterate the shame you bring on our entire family, on the company, when you let yourself lose to commoner trash?”

  My mouth drops open, and my entire body goes ice-cold.

  Based on Tristan's lack of empathy, I just sort of assumed his family was awful, but seeing it in person? I'm gobsmacked. Despite my dad's many faults, I love him and he loves me. I can't even imagine being treated like this by him. Hell, I can't even imagine Jennifer treating me like this.

  “I understand, Father,” Tristan whispers as his dad releases him abruptly, and he stumbles.

  “Good. Then get out there and check the roster. If I don't like what I see, this isn't going to be a pleasant week for you, son.” Tristan nods, and then turns abruptly, heading for the door so quickly that I don't have time to scramble out of the way.

  All I manage to do is back away from the door, so that it's somewhat plausible that I was just walking by.

  Tristan freezes in place, and a hundred emotions work their way across his face before he shuts them all down and just stares at me with a storm gray gaze.

  “Hey.” It's the only word that'll come out of my mouth.

  After a moment, I hear Mr. Vanderbilt answer his phone, false laughter ringing out from the open door. Tristan pushes it closed with a palm, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths that don't show on that stoic face of his.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, even though I know I shouldn't bother. He was horrible to me, the worst of all the Idols. And yet … I can't control that small surge of empathy. Tristan turns on me in an instant, storming across the hall. I end up backing up, even though I don't mean to.

  He gets right up in my face, jaw clenched, anger surging through him in waves.

  Without a word, he reaches up and snatches the necklace from my throat, breaking the chain in the process. My heart is racing so hard and fast that I can barely breathe. When he turns and storms over to the trash can, I'm left gaping as he yanks the Rolex off his wrist and shoves both pieces of jewelry as deep into the bin as he can get them, staining the sleeve of his perfect white jacket with something red that I think is ketchup. But then he sniffles and I realize that blood is actually running from his nose. It drips onto his chest and sleeve as he turns back to face me.

  “Do not talk to me, Charity,” he snaps, practically grinding his teeth. “Do not look at me. Don't even think about me. If you do, I'll break you worse than Zack did. And I won't be there to make you throw up the pills when I'm done.” He spins on his heel and storms down the hallway, leaving me gaping behind him.

  What the hell was that all about?!

  I flip him off behind his back … and then I dig through the garbage again.

  I know things are going to get bad for me this week when I step into the courtyard with the stag statue and the fountain, and find Harper du Pont deep in conversation with my father. Shit, I took too long.

  Moving as fast as I can, I close the distance between us and step up beside Charlie with a huge smile on my face.

  “Dad.”

  “Marnye-bear!” he says, giving me a huge hug. It feels so good to be
in his arms that for a split-second, I forget that the queen bitch of Burberry Prep Academy is standing right next to us, her glorious brunette hair blowing in the wind. My jaw clenches, but I manage to maintain a grimace, if not an actual smile. “I was just talking to your friend, Harper.”

  “Well, friend wouldn't quite be the right word.” It takes physical effort, but I resist the urge to tell Charlie that Harper is one of the ones who beat me, and that it was on her orders that it happened at all. I had that chance, last year, when I was questioned by the staff. They all saw what the boys did, how they threw the panties, but hardly anything came of it. Ratting the girls out would likely do little to nothing. No, I'll take my own revenge, thank you very much.

  As things stand, the only punishment the boys received was a slap on the freaking wrist. They had their honors and letters from first year rescinded, and I’m pretty sure the academy squeezed some fat donations from their parents. Once again, their money saved them from facing any consequences for their actions.

  “Oh?” Charlie asks, looking between Harper and me with a confused expression on his gently wrinkled face. Harper smirks at me, but I could give a shit less. Instead, I reach under my shirt and pull out the necklace. When Tristan ripped it from my neck, the clasp snapped, but I simply tied the chain into a knot. Crafty, right?

  When her blue eyes land on the pair of roses dangling on the end, I see her face light up with fury.

  “Dad, among other ventures, Harper's family runs Myler Medical Technologies,” I begin as Harper glares at me. “Her sister took over as CEO about ten years ago, and slowly raised the price of the epinephrine injector pen from fifty dollars per injector to six hundred for a two-pack. It raised the company's profits to a record-level two billion dollars per year, and her own salary to nineteen million.” I look from Harper to Charlie. “You know how our neighbor was allergic to bees? And how her insurance wouldn't cover the price difference, so they went without? And then Erica ended up dying from—”