Stuck With The Four Hotties

Leaning back into my pillows, I cover my face with my hands.

From sixth grade through the first half of eighth, I was bullied so badly that I wanted to die. So badly that I tried to end it not once but twice. After that, things got better. People let up, and I realized I had to embrace the positive or the negative would drown me. When I came to Burberry Prep, I came with that idea in mind: embrace my new life, make a fresh start.

And now I’m drowning in it.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I whisper, shoving up from the bed. I just barely make it into the bathroom before what little I had for lunch makes its way back up. Miranda moves into the bathroom and helps me hold my hair back, stroking my forehead for comfort. “I’ll never be able to go to class again.”

“Don’t let them win, Marnye,” she whispers, voice warbly, like maybe she might cry, too. “Creed is … he’s the worst kind of bully there is. Him, and Zayd, Tristan and Harper and Becky. Don’t give into them.”

Without meaning to, I end up crying and hating myself for it. I can take a lot of crap, but that essay was my soul on a page. Now the Idols have everything they need to make my life a living hell. They know all about my father’s alcoholism, his struggle to make ends meet, the things my mother did to me.

After I finish throwing up, I kick Miranda out and climb in the shower, letting the water scald away my humiliation. It’s just never-ending with these people. And all because I’m poor. That’s it. I thought the reasons for my bullying at Lower Banks were bullshit. This is even more arbitrary.

Climbing out of the shower, I find that Miranda’s snuck a stack of pjs into the room, so I change into them and head back out to find that Andrew’s already left.

“I had to beg him not to beat Creed up,” she says, wringing her hands. I raise an eyebrow, but I’m too tired to ask why Andrew would even bother. We’re friends, sure, but just barely. I can’t imagine him beating up an Idol for me. “Do you want me to stay with you for a while?”

I shake my head.

“No, I just … I want to be alone for tonight.”

“Yeah, okay,” she says, giving me a hug before she lets herself out.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I seriously consider walking to the principal’s office and asking to go home. If I left, maybe I could breathe again. It feels like I haven’t taken a single breath since I got here.

All I want is to study and graduate, that’s it. Why does that have to be so hard?

Lying back on the bed, I close my eyes, and within minutes I’m asleep.

Navigating the school without running into the Idols or their cronies is impossible. They’re everywhere, and they’ve amped up their game. Even homeroom with Ms. Felton isn’t safe. When her back is turned, I get pills thrown at me. Most everyone’s drawn on their wrists with red Sharpie, lifting up the sleeves of their academy jackets and flashing me in the halls.

The only person who doesn’t seem thrilled by my destruction is Tristan. He’s always moody and frowning, and just barely makes it to class. The Thursday before Halloween, I slip out of third period to go to the bathroom.

As soon as I step inside, I hear the moans.

Tristan has a girl bent over the sink, and he’s fucking her.

He glances over at me when I come in, but he doesn’t stop. His eyes narrow, glittering with some unreadable motion.

Me, I just stand there gaping, completely and utterly shocked by the sight in front of me.

“You gonna stand there and watch?” he snaps at me after a minute. Backing away, I turn and run from the bathroom, turning the corner and leaning my back against the stone wall. I’d thought Tristan was dating Miranda behind the scenes, but … that most definitely wasn’t Miranda. Pretty sure that was Kiara Xiao, another first-year student.

For some reason, my body feels hot with frustration, and I want to punch something. Mostly I want to punch Tristan. He doesn’t care about that girl. He doesn’t care about anyone.

When I tell Miranda about it later, she chokes on her iced tea and raises huge eyes to me.

“Right there in the girls’ bathroom?” she asks, blinking rapidly. “He’s usually more discreet about it.”Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

“More discreet?” I whisper back, face flaming. All those times he touched me or got close to me and I felt sparks … make me sick. What a creep. “So

… all the girls know he’ll sleep with whoever he can get his hands on, and they don’t care?”

Miranda shrugs her shoulders and takes a sip of her drink. We’re the only ones in The Mess, taking advantage of the early dinner service. I’ve tried to come in here while everyone else is eating, but it’s just too much. I’ve been relegated to slinking around the halls. Believe it or not, for someone who tried to hurt themselves, the constant flashes of red-lined wrists, and the bottles of pills are pretty triggering.

“He’s handsome, popular, and rich. Of course they all want to sleep with him.” Not for the first time, I wonder if she is also sleeping with him. I hate to think that of my friend, but she disappears randomly and doesn’t tell me where she’s been. She sometimes shows up places with him, and he’s always giving her looks.

Honestly, I don’t want to know.

I focus on my food, but I don’t feel like eating. My stomach feels like it’s been encased in ice.

“Well, I don’t want to sleep with him,” I murmur, putting my fork down as anxiety prickles across my ski

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