Stuck With The Four Hotties

The impressive stone facade of Burberry Prep hides a host of wicked souls with pretty faces. I don’t know that yet, standing at the bottom of the wide, worn steps with my heart thundering in my throat. My school schedule is clutched in my right hand, wrinkled and well-loved; I’ve been staring at it since the fourth of July.

Deep breath, Marnye. My red, pleated skirt is freshly-pressed and fluttering around my thighs as I move across the old brick walkway towards the front entrance. According to the orientation email, I should be meeting my guide just inside the inner courtyard. I wonder if I look poor? I swallow hard against my own paranoia, but it’s not easy. The dean assured me that my scholarship status would not be advertised; that doesn’t mean nobody knows about it.

I hear the trickle of a fountain before I see it, a soft tinkling sound, like wind chimes. As I come up the last step, the sound’s matched to a bronze statue of a stag, water spouting from the rocky base he’s standing on. There’s a boy sitting on the edge of the fountain, wearing a uniform that matches mine. So he’s a first year, too, I think, reminding myself that most of the students here have been attending the academy since preschool. Different buildings, same campus. So a first year guide isn’t totally out of the question. In fact, only two percent of new students enroll during their first year of high school.

Good for me, I muse as the boy stands up and I catch a glimpse of how incredibly handsome he is: silky chestnut hair with blond highlights, bright blue eyes, full pink lips. Always working outside the box. Now if I can only keep the rest of the students here from finding out just how outside the box I really am, like wrong side of the tracks sort of out.

“Tristan?” I ask hopefully as my new loafers clack across the intricate brick patio. I’m already holding out my hand in invitation, a bright smile tracing its way across my lips. I’ve decided that if anyone asks me about my family, I won’t lie. No, I’m not shamed of where I come from. Actually, I’m proud of myself. Not only am I going to be the first person in my family to finish high school, but I’m going to do it at a prestigious academy usually reserved for the filthy rich.

“Actually, no,” the boy says as he takes my hand with a smooth, dry palm. He smells like coconuts and sunshine, if that’s even possible, to smell like sunshine. “I’m Andrew Payson. Tristan should be …” Andrew trails off for a moment, and I catch the briefest flick of his eyes in the direction of a janitor’s closet. “Around here somewhere.” Andrew’s gaze switches back over to me and for a split-second, I see a flare of interest before he blinks, and it’s gone. Or maybe I just imagined it? I wonder, realizing for the first time that my dating life here … is probably gonna be pretty slim.

Guys might show interest at first, but no loaded teen wants to date someone without two nickels to rub together.

“I’m guessing he’s your student guide?” Andrew adds, dropping my hand. He gestures for me to take a seat on the fountain beside him, and I oblige, hissing a little at the cold of the bronze against my thighs. Wearing a skirt like this is going to take some serious getting used to. But I asked about wearing pants and was given a very firm no. Like in many elitist endeavors, there’s a very prevalent sense of gender roles regarding uniforms.

“Yep,” I reply with another smile, flipping up the tag around my neck. My name’s on one side; the name Tristan on the other. “I’ll be shadowing him all day.” Andrew smiles back at me, but there’s a slight grimace to his expression. Uh-oh. I have a feeling Mr. Payson doesn’t much like this Tristan guy. “Why? Is there something I should be worrying about?”

“You’ll see,” Andrew says, leaning back on his palms as he studies me. In the rafters above, a flock of birds lands, scattering feathers. The wind catches them and sends them dancing around my face along with the brunette waves

of my hair. “He’s an interesting sort of guy.” Andrew cocks his head slightly, chucking under his breath. “He’s damn lucky to be paired with you though.”

“Sure thing,” I say with a laugh, holding the handle of my new leather book bag in my left hand, being careful to keep it from falling into the water. This thing not only holds my new laptop and tablet, but it also cost the scholarship foundation a small fortune. Frankly, it’s worth more than my dad’s car. I nod my chin in Andrew’s direction. “What’s your girl’s name?”This content provided by N(o)velDrama].[Org.

“Girl? Nah.” Andrew shrugs. “I’m not quite that lucky.” He reaches up and flips his badge over, revealing the name Rob. Ah. I grin as sunlight streams between the four bell towers that surround the courtyard, turning Andrew’s hair a generous gold. “And I’m definitely not that gay- unfortunately. Between you and me, most of the girls here are already engaged.” I raise an eyebrow, but Andrew just smiles. “Old money, you know.”

Right.

“How about you?” I ask, and even though I don’t mean to, I end up flirting with the guy. Great. My mother’s daughter, I guess. “Are you engaged?”

“I,” Andrew begins, his eyes twinkling, “am perfectly single.”

We both pause as a boy in the red pants, black jacket, and white shirt of a first year comes up the steps and pauses awkwardly, raising his hand in a hello. After he introduces himself as Rob Whitney, I step back and lean against the cool stone walls of one of the bell towers, excited that classes are actually still held in these narrow buildings. I’m trying to give the boys a little space, so I tug one of the books from my bag, crack it open, and wait for my guide to show up. Normally, I’d be all over my phone, but the academy is super strict about electronics: school-issued laptops and tablets only.

Before Andrew and Rob even get a chance to start their own tour, the door to the janitor’s closet flies open and a girl in a fourth year uniform-black skirt, black shirt, black jacket-comes out, one shoulder of her top falling down, her lipstick smeared.

A boy comes out behind her, a boy with silver eyes and an awful, awful smirk. The moment I see him changes everything. Hell, it changes my whole life, rearranges my past, dictates my future. When I first lay eyes on Tristan Vanderbilt, I become a different person.

Heat rushes through my body, and it feels suddenly hot, like I should take off my jacket and loosen my tie. Tristan’s fixing the buttons on his white

first year shirt as he makes his way over to me with long, confident strides, his hair glossy and raven-black, his mouth too dangerous to be tempting. My fingers curl tight around the side of my book bag and my heart races, sweat beading at my temples.

What a reaction.

What the hell is wrong with me?! I wonder with increasing panic as Tristan marches right up to me, towering a good half a foot over me. He takes the jacket that’s lying over his arm and shrugs into it, fixes the two center buttons, and then leans forward, putting his forearm on the wall above my head. I can smell him, too, like peppermint and cinnamon. It’s damn-near intoxicating.

“You’re the charity case, huh?” he asks me, his smile growing even wider. There’s nothing at all nice about it. Tristan looks downright vicious. I open my mouth to respond, wishing I’d never made the decision not to lie. It’d feel good right now, to deny this boy’s accusation. But it’s true, isn’t it? I am the charity case. But how the fuck does he know?

“My name is Marnye Reed, and yes, I’m the scholarship recipient.” Jesus, I sound like a sFhool teaFher or something. So much for acting cool. Not that it would matter to this guy: he’s already made up his mind about me. It’s written all over his face, a dash of disdain drowning in haughty arrogance.