Stuck With The Four Hotties

“I have an appointment,” I tell the girl at the front. She’s clearly part-time, a student herself if the GHHS pin she’s got on her shirt is any indication. She looks at me … like I’m a god. I tell myself that’s a good thing, that I must be projecting self-confidence, but I don’t like it, using my uniform to intimidate people. That makes me feel like … them.

I force myself to put on a huge smile.

The girl flushes and then checks me in, showing me to a chair right in the front. When the stylist comes over and sees my roots, the pretty but imperfect haircut Miranda gave me, and the fading rose gold dye, she cringes.

“I want this,” I tell her, pointing at my own head, “just … elevated.” Rose gold realness, is what I want to say, but nobody here would appreciate that. But they will, when they see it. At least, I think they will. As far as I could tell, not all of the emotions I shared with the Idol boys were fake. I remember Zayd bobbing in moonlight, his wet hair stuck to his face, eyes shining. No. No, it might’ve been a bet but it wasn’t all fake. Somehow, that makes the whole situation seem even worse.

The stylist gets to work, and two hours later, I’m staring at a different person in the mirror. The color is that perfect mix of dusty pink and glimmering gold, and the cut has gone from passable to edgy. I make myself smile.

“It looks great.” The stylist seems to sigh with relief as I stand up and head over to the register to pay, leaving a generous tip. My eyes meet the receptionist’s as she passes me a bag with some shampoo and conditioner I picked out. She’s too young to have been here when Jennifer was treated so poorly. Same with the stylist. Even if I were interested in exacting revenge for my absentee mother, there’s no justice to be had here.

I turn around to leave just as the door opens and two blond teens step instead the salon.

My heart stops beating.

“Miranda,” I choke out, her blue eyes widening as they meet mine. “Marnye, please open the door!” I Fan see Miranda standing outside the

aFademy’s Far, trying to pull it open with the handle. The other Bluebloods hang baFk as the amphitheater empties out into the Fourtyard. Miranda whirls around when Creed tries to touFh her shoulder, and throws him off. I think she’s defending me. Maybe. But I don’t open the door until Charlie appears. Jennifer … she hangs baFk and says nothing.

“What are you doing here?” Miranda asks me, her eyes flicking from my uniform to my hair. Creed is completely frozen behind her, his bored princely look stuck on his face like a mask. There’s a tension in his shoulders that I don’t miss, a tightness in his jaw. I don’t look at him; I can’t. My hands curl into fists at my sides.

“I …” Words fail me as Miranda and I stare at each other. Did she betray me, too? Did she know what was coming? “I’m sorry.” The words fall out before I can stop them. I really am sorry, sorry that I made that bet with Creed, sorry that I let her down the same way the Idols let me down. I move to rush past her when Creed grabs my arm.

“You can’t be serious?” he asks me, his voice like ice. I shove his hand off, and our eyes lock together. A spark passes between us, sending my still heart into a beating frenzy. My mouth tightens and my eyes narrow. “You can’t possibly expect to survive a week back at Burberry Prep.”

“Get your hand off of me,” I snarl as Miranda steps close and pushes her brother back.NôvelDrama.Org copyrighted © content.

“Leave her alone, Creed,” she says, her voice threaded with steel. “Marnye,” Miranda starts, turning back to look at me, but I’m already turning away and heading out the salon door. I run almost two blocks before I slow down, panting and shaking. How am I going to do this? I wonder as I stand up and lean against the brick wall of a deli. It smells like freshly baked bread out here. If I Fan barely look at them, how am I going to walk in there, purse-first, and tear down the system? For a second there, it’s hard to breathe.

“You Fan’t possibly expeFt to survive a week baFk at Burberry Prep.”

I’ve heard that before, and I proved them wrong, all of them. I can do it again.

Several deep breaths later, and I’m ready to finish up my checklist for the day: new clothes, assorted supplies, and a few other random beauty stops. The best sort of revenge lifts you up, instead of putting others down. So … maybe I don’t need all this superficial stuff, but it’ll make me feel better. I want to get dressed up, and I want to waltz into that school with my head held high, my new hair and makeup a shield against their stares.

Pushing off from the wall, I take off down the street, and I finish my plans.

The morning of my sixteenth birthday, I wake up to fresh coffee and a package neatly wrapped in brown butcher paper. Dad’s even added a pink ribbon to the top. He grins at me as I sit down on the couch with my mug, finishing a gulp of milky, sugary goodness before I set the cup aside to open the gift.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” I say, feeling guilty that I haven’t told him about the money I won. I should just give it all to Dad; he deserves it. Instead, I’m keeping it in case of emergency. And how sad is that, that I expect emergencies during my second year of high school? This should be my time to study, to make music, to make friends. Instead, I’m just … trying to upset the ancient social hierarchy of classism?

I’ve kinda got my work cut out for me.

“Yeah, well,” Dad starts, running his fingers through his shaggy brown hair. He nods his chin in the direction of the package, and I start to unwrap it. His voice is so soft, surprisingly gentle. “Your dad got some news last night.” Zack told me that the day Dad got drunk during Parents’ Week. And yet, I still don’t know what it is. “I hope you like it, honey.”

I’d like it best if it was a jar of blue blood and tears from the Idols.