Stuck With The Four Hotties

Without a guide, Burberry Preparatory Academy is like a labyrinth of old stone hallways and spiraling staircases. It’s haunted by a melancholy beauty that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, like I can sense the history crouching inside the building, eras long past watching from shadowed eyes.

“Hey.” A voice sounds from behind me, and I jump, stifling a small scream as I spin and find a girl with bright blond hair and a wide smile. If it weren’t for the genuine warmth in her blue eyes, her beauty would be intimidating, almost cold in its perfection. She bears a striking resemblance to the marble statue in the corner, carved infallibility and plaster pale skin. “Are you lost?”

“Am I that obvious?” I ask, risking a small smile and hoping like hell she’s nothing like Tristan. “I’ve been wandering around for half an hour, but I’m too embarrassed to ask for help.” Embarrassed? More like too anxious. The looks I’ve been receiving from the other students haven’t exactly been welcoming. That, and the staff I’ve seen have all been running around in that panicked first-day-of-school state, prepping lesson plans and greeting students they’ve known since preschool. I’ve never felt like more of an outcast-and trust me, I’ve been a pariah before.

“You’re the Cabot Scholarship Award winner, right?” the girl asks, her voice like bells. Wow. Her voice is as pretty as she is. But also, looks like the whole school already knows my socio-economic status, huh? “Oh, no, no,”

she continues, waving her hand in my direction, “it’s not what you’re thinking. I just … my mother is Kathleen Cabot.”

My mouth pops open, and I lean forward, my leather school bag clutched in two hands.

“Your mom is Kathleen?” I ask, feeling this sharp sense of relief wash through me. Kathleen Cabot is a self-made billionaire. Yep, you heard it right: billionaire. She was born in the same neighborhood as me, raised by a single mom in a studio apartment, and ended up becoming a tech mogul. I met her twice: once at the award ceremony, and then later at the celebratory dinner. She’s a freaking saint-and the only reason I’m standing here at Burberry Prep.

“I take it she made an impression?” the girl asks with a wry smile. “Good or bad? She can go either way, depending on the weather, the position of the stars, whether it’s a full moon or not …” A grin takes over my face.

“Good impression, definitely. I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to write the perfect thank you letter.” The girl smiles back at me, holding out a warm, dry palm for me to shake.

“She’ll be happy with anything you send her,” she says as we clasp hands. “Miranda Cabot. And you’re Marnye Reed.” Miranda takes a step back and looks me over. “I hope you’re made of tough stuff,” she says, but not unkindly.

“And why’s that?” I ask as her blue eyes lift to my face and one pale brow goes up.Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

“Because Burberry Prep is a hellhole dressed with money.” Miranda gives me a big, wide smile and then reaches out a hand. “Give me your schedule, and I’ll tell you which demons to avoid.” She pauses and gives me another critical look. “Mostly though, you’ll want to stay away from the devils.”

“The devils?” I ask, digging my wrinkled schedule out of my pocket and passing it over to Miranda. She scans it, chewing her full lower lip and smearing sparkly pink gloss. When she glances back up at me and reaches out to spin my nametag over, her mouth tightens into a thin line.

“The devils,” Miranda says with a sigh. “Nobody calls them that but me. Looks like you already met one this morning?” She’s looking at me with pity now, like she’s well-acquainted with Tristan and his bullshit.

“What does everyone else call them?” I ask, and she sighs, looping her arm through mine and pulling me down the long, wide hallway. It’s big

enough to drive a truck through, small tables with lemon-cucumber water and cups placed every so often. Sometimes there’s fresh fruit or pastries, too. “Oh, girl, you and I have a long talk ahead of us. Stick with me. We have Monday classes together. By the time we’re done, you’ll know everything

you need to know about the Idols.”

The Bluebloods of Burberry Prep A list by Miranda Cabot

The Idols (guys): Tristan Vanderbilt (year one), Zayd Kaiser (year one), and Creed Cabot (year one)

The Idols (girls): Harper du Pont (year one), BeFky Platter (year one), and Gena Whitley (year four)

The Inner CirFle: Andrew Payson, Anna KirkpatriFk, Myron Talbot, Ebony Peterson, Gregory Van Horn, Abigail Fanning, John Hannibal, Valentina Pitt, Sai Patel, Mayleen Zhang, Jalen Donner … and, I guess, me!

Plebs: everyone else, sorry. XOXO

“Why am I holding a list of names in my hand?” I ask as we walk down the hallway, pausing for coffee at one of the side tables. My old school never served coffee to students. Sometimes, kids would break into the teacher’s lounge and steal some, but that’s as close as we’d ever get.

“Memorize that list like your life depends on it,” Miranda says, lifting a mug of black coffee up to her lips.

“Miss Cabot,” a stern voice says, plucking the white cup from Miranda’s thin fingers. “You know that the coffee stands are for staff only.” I turn and find a tall, brunette woman in a skirt suit watching us with a raised brow and

a wry half-smile. She looks like she’d be more at home in Washington D. C. than in a rural prep school in central California. “There’s a sign, after all. And I know you can read. Your mother promises she taught you herself.”

My mouth twitches as Miranda tosses her hair in a haughty gesture that doesn’t seem to quite fit her personality. And that’s a good thing. I’ve known a lot of hair-tossers in my life, and none of those girls were pleasant. They made my middle school years a living hell with the help of a guy named Zack Brooks. ZaFk … I’m not going to let myself think about him. This is my chance at a fresh start and new, better memories.