Bad, Bad Blu Bloods

by Stunich, C. M.

  Zayd’s just started another song, so I wait there and record the entire thing.

  “Pretty sure I’m as fucked-up as they come, the only one who knows the loneliness of my throne. Through the darkest nights there’s only one bright star, but when I reach up, it’s just way up there, off in the void, the black too far.”

  Mm.

  I’m not sure I believe the ghostwriter bit.

  Those lyrics scream Zayd Kaiser to me.

  After it’s over, there’s a bit of silence before Sai Patel’s laughter snaps out like a whip. He has a pretty strong New York accent, so it’s easy to tell who’s speaking. Other than the usual bits and barbs, he hasn’t stood out to me much.

  “That’s the dumbest shit. Holy crap, man, that’s garbage.” The other boys laugh, Mayleen’s feminine giggles interspersed throughout. When I peep around the corner, I wonder if I’m the only person who sees how tight Zayd’s jaw is.

  On Monday, I head out into the hall and a storm of chaos ensues.

  “Marnye, oh my god,” Miranda gushes, grabbing my hands, her face flushed pink. Her eyes are sparkling as she yanks me down the hall, our white skirts billowing, as we head to the courtyard and push through the throng of people to the front. There’s a fancy black sports car down there, no driver in sight.

  “Um, what?” I ask, as Miranda spins to me, smacking me in the face with her shiny blond hair. She almost smells like Creed, too. Is it weird that I notice that?

  “That’s Zayd’s agent’s car,” she chokes out, pointing at it. “Before Ms. Felton collects our phones, look it up.” I pull my phone from my bookbag and do as she’s asking. Not that I need to, since I know exactly what’s going on. “This has your signature all over it,” she whispers, leaning in toward me as several staff members try to herd the students away from the courtyard. I glance up and our eyes meet. Miranda squeals, and I smile sheepishly.

  All I did was upload Zayd’s conversation, and part of his song. That’s it.

  His own words, however, are like a hole in the side of a ship, slowly filling with water. Zayd Kaiser is going to sink.

  Son of Famous Rocker Billy Kaiser Rips on his Fans

  That’s the first article that pops up. They didn’t even identify him by name in the headline, just by his dad’s accomplishments. Good. My brows go up as I keep scrolling.

  Easy-to-Love Zayd Kaiser is Actually Full of Shit

  Oh, I like that headline.

  “Marnye,” Zack says, coming to stand beside us. His hair is still wet from his morning shower—he always makes time to shower after his morning run—but his uniform is in order, even if his tie is slightly crooked. “This is brilliant.”

  The crowd parts and a hush falls over the gathered students as a man in a suit storms forward, a shaggy-haired guy in jeans close on his heels. Zayd is right there, trailing along behind him, his face crestfallen, his eyes wet with angry tears.

  He follows the other two men down the steps to stand by the car, and they speak in hushed tones for several minutes before Zayd steps back and the others climb in and speed off.

  “That was Billy Kaiser,” Miranda whispers in my ear. It’s pretty easy to tell, even without her confirming it. The way Zayd watches him, with this mix of hatred and yearning, he couldn’t be anyone else. After a moment, Zayd turns and heads back up the steps. At first, I think he’s going to walk on by, but then he stops and turns.

  Our gazes met, and the crowd takes in a collective inhale as Zayd makes his way over to stand in front of me. His chest is heaving, and he’s soaked in sweat, his pale blue hair stuck to his forehead. There’s no gel in it this morning, no liner around his eyes. He looks like he wants to kill me.

  “What have you done?” he snaps, but all I do is stand there and stare. I make myself remember my panties in his hand, that video of us kissing on the screen. The trophy, his face, the way he just stood there with his arm around freaking Becky Platter instead of me.

  “Challenge accepted, met, and executed,” I say, and Zayd lets out this scream that’s strangely melodic. He was born to sing. Also born to be a dick, apparently. He reaches up and grabs his hair in two fists like he might be this close to having a nervous breakdown.

  Zack steps up next to me, crossing his arms over his massive chest, like he’s a bodyguard or something.

  “You do not fucking intimidate me,” Zayd hisses, sneering. “You’re no angel, Zack Brooks. Eventually, Marnye will see it, and she’ll dump you for someone like me.” This last part snaps off his tongue like an insult before he spins away and storms through the crowd, elbowing people out of the way as he goes.

  My list is in the front pocket of my bag, so I pull it out, unfold it, and enjoy the squeak of the red Sharpie in the silence of the courtyard.

  It feels so good to cross Zayd’s name off my list.

  Tristan is a tricky little Idol to pin down. I almost feel like he’s actively avoiding me which makes zero sense, considering all the threats he’s leveled my way.

  So my next step is sitting down with Miranda and going over exactly what happened in the Hamptons during the summer. According to her—and she is the gossip queen—Lizzie Walton declared war on the Burberry Prep Idols. Tristan, in particular, was on the receiving end of her wrath.

  “She did it all for you, I think,” Miranda hazards, but even though I’ve sort of forgiven Zack, how can I deal with Lizzie? What can I do to get back at her that will even the odds? But contacting her is probably the best chance I have at finding some way to get under Tristan’s skin. I mean, I’m still kicking his ass in the academics department, but I did that last year, too. It’s not enough, not even close.

  Besides, I won’t admit it aloud, but … I miss Lizzie. Every Friday, I looked forward to our conversations. Burberry Prep life feels much emptier without her.

  “She’s still in love with him, too,” Miranda adds with a wistful, sad sounding sigh. “She’s going to marry that douche guy, what’s-his-face, the one that always adjusts his junk and licks his lips while he does it? Anyway, she’s going to marry him, but it’s going to be Tristan she’s dreaming about on her wedding night.”

  “Do you think he still loves her?” I ask, an idea taking place in the back of my mind. Even though I know it’s ridiculous, I wait with bated breath for Miranda to answer my question.

  “Definitely,” she says, and it’s like an arrow’s just gone through my heart. Doesn’t make any sense. As soon as I saw Tristan look at Lizzie Walton last year, I knew it, too. Everyone knows it. He never loved me. How could he? It was a game all along. Although Zack … Nope. I shut that part of my brain down and refuse to go there. Dating Zack won’t work, not with the plans I already have in mind. “Why? You want to share a room with him on the ski trip or something?” Miranda chuckles, and I wrinkle my nose. “Are you jealous?”

  “Gross,” I laugh, pushing at her as she pushes back at me. “I’m not going on the ski trip.” Miranda blinks stupidly at me. Instead of the winter formal, second-years are given the option to attend an academy-sponsored ski trip. The cars leave the last Friday before winter break, and drop students at their houses (or the airport) on Tuesday which is Christmas Eve.

  “You have to go on the ski trip,” she groans, putting her forehead down on the picnic table. We’re sitting outside, enjoying the icy morning and the bright rays of sunshine that make the frost evaporate like fog. “It’s a rite of passage.”

  “The last time you used that phrase on me, you dragged me to that beach party.”

  “And you had fun, despite the assholes in residence, right?” she asks, lifting her head up from the table. I sigh, and Miranda smiles softly. “I know you want to get back home to your dad, but it’s just a few days.” I give her a skeptical look, tapping my fingers on the table. “Oh, at least think about, Ms. Revenge. But factor this in, at least: there’s so much cheating and fooling around on the ski trip that it’s now academy legend to call the lodge Hookup Point.” She grins at me as I raise my eyebro
ws. “Do you see how messed-up Jalen and Ebony still are from the journal? Come on the ski trip, and I guarantee you’ll find some dirt worth digging up.”

  “After some careful consideration …” I begin, and Miranda squeals with laughter, giving me a huge hug. From the corner of my eye, I see Creed watching us and flip him off.

  His sister would rather be with me than with him.

  He smirks at me as he rounds the corner, and I see then that he’s got Anna Kirkpatrick on his arm.

  Hmm.

  Fine. Challenge accepted is right.

  “I’ll go,” I tell Miranda, watching Anna carefully.

  If she’s not messing around with one of the other Bluebloods, I’ll be shocked.

  Loyalty isn’t exactly in their DNA.

  The door to the music room opens, and Zayd walks in, surprising me. He's got his fingers tucked into the pockets of his wrinkled white academy slacks. His jacket is nowhere to be seen, and his tie is loose and flipped over his right shoulder. With the sleeves rolled up, I can see two muscular arms wrapped in ink.

  My fingers pause in their dance across the harp strings, putting an end to the harp solo from Donizetti's opera Lucia di Lammermoor. I sit back in my chair and watch him warily as he approaches. Mr. Carter is in his attached office with the door closed, so nothing truly bad can happen here. I cross my arms over my chest and wait.

  Oddly enough, one of the things I miss most from last year is having Tristan attend my orchestra practices. Having him sit in one of the back rows, fingers steepled, eyes locked on me … There was an intensity in him that transferred to my music. I feel like I played better when he was around.

  Zayd comes all the way down the steps of the auditorium and pauses next to the raised platform in the front. I’d call it a stage, but it's only ever used for teachers giving lectures. No performances actually happen here.

  “Is this how you got me?” he asks, reaching up to rake his fingers through his pale blue hair. He looks around the room like he's never seen it before. But I know he's in here all the time. That look of sweet, mussy confusion is bullshit, just like all his other expressions. Zayd plays charming very, very well. “Eavesdropped outside this door and fucked me?”

  “All I did was upload your own words to one website.” I hold up a single finger. “One.” His green eyes meet my brown ones, and I can't deny that there's chemistry between us. There’s always chemistry between us, whether I want to admit it or not. His being a jerk doesn't change that. “If you hadn't said those things, then they wouldn’t be around to haunt you.”

  I lift my hands back to the strings of the harp, and get ready to play again, dismissing him. He doesn't go anywhere though, just sits down to watch and listen. I play through three songs before I realize he's not going away, dropping my hands to my lap and glaring.

  “What do you want?” I ask, and Zayd smiles tightly. He uses his tongue and plays with his lip rings for a moment before responding.

  “I have to admit,” he says, tapping inked fingers on the arm of the chair, “you’ve got bigger balls than I thought.”

  I frown at him.

  “Bigger ovaries, maybe?” I almost smile, but Zayd just shrugs and stands up. He's like a dream in the white second-year uniform. It's as if the total lack of color on his outfit emphasizes how much color he's got all over his skin. He moves over to stand beside me, and my breath catches in my throat. I know I'm not the only one that notices. Zayd reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and I let him, even though I know I shouldn't.

  “Whatever you want to call it, you’ve got it. Big balls, ironclad uterus, deep dark mojo … Anyway,” he points two fingers at me, like he's miming a gun, “you shot me right in the crotch with that one. Bull's-eye, bingo, win for you. The record label’s just pulled my new album.” He frowns down at me, and there's a well of sadness in his emerald green eyes that surprises me. It mirrors the face of the girl whose expression I saw in my reflection that day last year. So good. He's hurting. It's what I wanted, isn't it?

  “There will be a new album,” I say with a sigh, putting my hands in my lap. I have special permission to wear white academy slacks when playing the harp. It's a pedal harp, so I need to use my foot, and if I wore the standard second-year skirt there would be more on display than just my music. “That's the problem with all of you; you’ll never know what it's truly like to hurt. There's always more money, new opportunities, underhanded favors …”

  Zayd shakes his head, and reaches into his pocket to pull out a small packet of papers. He hands them over to me, and I hesitate a moment before taking them.

  “Nah, not this time. My dad is so pissed, he thinks this might affect his career too, so he’s asked the label to drop me completely.” Zayd waits a moment as I unfold the papers, frowning as I find a copy of the test I took on Friday. Well, the test is the same, but the answers are not the ones I gave. My name might be on top of the paper, but this is not my test. “You are now looking at an unsigned, penniless musician.” Zayd laughs and reaches up to twist his gelled hair into little spikes.

  I'm so distracted by the test, and the essay underneath it which also has my name but not my words, that it takes me a moment to register what he’s just said. I look up.

  “They don't want you to, like, give a statement or something?” I ask. Zayd gives me this wry little smirk, like he could care less. It's quite obvious he cares a whole hell of a lot.

  He ignores my question, brushing it aside with a wave of his hand.

  “Look, you’re not going to catch Tristan with his hands in the cookie jar.” Zayd reaches out to tap the papers in my hand, and our fingers brush together. Heat leaps from his skin to mine, and we both shiver. It's not fair. It's not fair that I have chemistry with an asshole like Zayd Kaiser. “That's a test with a score of about …” Zayd pauses to think for a minute. “Sixty-five percent? In the essay, that's a copy of Gena Whitley's essay from last year. Plagiarism and all that.”

  “Why do these things have my name on them?” I ask, feeling my heart thunder wrapped rapidly in my chest. It should've occurred to me that the idols would try to strike me where it would hurt most (other than my dad, of course): academics. I look up at Zayd. “And why are you showing me these?”

  “Becky left her jacket with me the other day,” Zayd starts, rolling his eyes like he just can't with her. The funny thing is, they are two peas in a pod; they deserve each other. “These fell out of it. I have to take them to her now, and I figure when she does her third period office work tomorrow, organizing Miss Peregrine’s papers, she'll swap these out for your real test and essay.”

  Zayd reaches out to take the papers, and I let him, thoroughly confused.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I repeat, as Zayd tucks the papers away into his bookbag. “I don't understand.”

  The guys have been much easier on me this year than last year, but that doesn't make any sense. They must be gearing up for something big.

  “For what it's worth,” Zayd says, turning away and glancing over his shoulder at me, “as soon as I found out that Becky had hit you, I haven't touched her. I just couldn't.” Zayd wrinkles his nose, and shakes his head. “I don't want you to get hurt, so please, for the love of all that's holy, Charity, just go.”

  Zayd turns back around and heads up the stairs. I watch him go, and then I do my best to come up with a plan.

  After cheerleading practice the next day, I head to the office of our English teacher, Miss Peregrine. The room is locked and dark, the lights off, and the shade over the small window pulled down. To get in, I'm either going to need a key… or a lockpick.

  Cursing under my breath, I head back to the chapel building, down the hall and out the stained glass doors on the other side. Once I get to Tower Three, I take the elevator to the fifth floor and head over to Zack's room. I barely raise my fist to knock when he's opening it, dressed in low-slung sweats, no shirt, and a fine layer of fresh sweat.

  “Marnye?”
he asks, stepping aside to let me in. There is some seriously sexy jazz music on, and all the shades are pulled down. For a moment there, I wonder if I'm interrupting something that I don't want to see.

  I spin around, and find Zack is suddenly standing far too close to me. He smells good too, which is really weird considering he's all sweaty. But seriously, there's something so different between fresh sweat and old sweat. The latter is disgusting, but the former … it's almost like a cologne. I find myself attracted to it even though I don't want to be.

  “Is there a girl in here?” I ask, and Zack narrows his eyes on me. He takes a step forward, and I take one back. The movement surprises him, and he ends up raising one of his dark brows.

  “That bother you?” he replies, his voice dark and smooth and cold as bittersweet chocolate ice cream. He takes a step toward me again, but I have nowhere to go. My butt bumps up against the table, and Zack puts one hand on either side of me.

  “No,” I lie, ducking out from underneath his arm and stepping aside. When I turn back to face him again, he’s smirking. My first instinct is to wipe that look off of his face, but instead I just sigh. “When we went to Lower Banks, didn’t you get in trouble for stealing a car?”

  Zack is still smirking as he leans back against the table and crosses his muscular arms over his bare, sweaty chest. We always seem to be together when he’s shirtless, Zack and me. Like the universe is trying to throw us together.

  “Yeah, so?” He looks me up and down appreciatively, and I shiver. I'm wearing the short black practice shorts with the rhinestones on the butt cheeks that I hate, a pair of red bike shorts underneath, and a black razorback tank top with the Burberry crest logo on the front. Even cheerleading practice comes with required uniforms.

  “I need your help,” I say, hating the phrase even as it leaves my mouth. “Could you pick a lock on a teacher's door?”