Bad, Bad Bluebloods (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2)(13)

There’s a list in my notebook with his name on it.





Creed Cabot’s Weaknesses

  Miranda  Cabot



Kathleen  Cabot



Jealous  of Tristan



Desperate  to shed the ‘new money’ name



Bullied  in public school





Repairing my relationship with Miranda is paramount, not just for my own sake, but for … everything else, too. I need her on my side.

Principal Collins moves up to stand beside Ms. Felton, and clears her throat. The room is already quiet, save for the gossipy whispers of some of the students, but it falls into a deathly silence at the sound of her voice.

“Welcome back,” she begins, her gray eyes scanning the crowd. When her gaze passes over me, there’s a small flicker of sympathy and regret. I’ve been seeing it on the faces of every adult here, and I’m sick of it. My mouth flattens into a thin line as I flick my attention to Zack. His words suddenly make a lot more sense to me.

“It’s just me against the world at Burberry Prep; I’ve already accepted that.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

I wonder how long Zack’s been planning this.

“As I’m sure most of you are aware,” Principal Collins continues, moving across the stage with slow, deliberate footsteps, “the way last year ended was an embarrassment to the Burberry Prep name, a smear on our traditions, and a horrific example of unchecked privilege.” She pauses at the very edge of the platform, and I definitely don’t miss it when she turns her attention briefly up to the Gallery and the gathered Bluebloods. I shift in my seat; I sense a possible ally in Mrs. Collins. I’ll have to be careful to cultivate that relationship. “This year, we won’t make the same mistakes again. Read up on the school handbook because you’re responsible for being aware of all the changes to our academic policies. Those in violation will face suspension or expulsion, no exceptions.”

She pauses, stares the crowd down once more, and then proceeds with the usual first day announcements.

But there’s not an eye in that room that isn’t on me.

Good.

Let them look.

There’s going to be a lot to see.





By the end of the first day, I’m exhausted, and my mind is spinning with possibilities, desperate for some way to right the wrong that was committed against me. I’ve already got a head start, my summer plans unfolding into glorious action. But not yet. Not quite yet.

I head for The Mess, taking a seat by the window at the table I used to share with Miranda. We have pretty different schedules this year it seems, so if she wants to find me, this is her chance. I’m not going to chase her, not if she isn’t ready.

So I sit down, ignoring the stares and the whispers, the way the Idols’ table goes silent as I pull out a journal (not my revenge one, a different one), lay it on the table, and leave it there while I check the menu. After I’ve placed my order, I hunch over and begin to write.

It takes all of two minutes for Tristan Vanderbilt to make his way over to me.

“You’re not allowed in here this year,” he tells me, voice as smooth as silk. I can practically feel it trailing across my body, awakening every nerve ending in my skin. Goose bumps prickle my arms, but I ignore them. Lust is an emotion I can ignore if I have to. Screw Tristan Vanderbilt. “Did you hear me, Charity?” He leans over and puts his elbows on the table. I wonder at his lack of back-up, but take advantage of it by looking up and meeting his gray gaze. “I know you’ve been given permission to take your meals in your room. Get your ass up and go stuff your fat face in there.”

His words sting me, like running through a field of nettles, little barbs embedding themselves into my skin. I brush the pain aside by slamming my notebook closed and flicking the lock on the side. Tristan takes note of the action, and then refocuses on me.

“Did you know they broke my ribs?” I ask, and he stares at me with an impassivity that’s frightening. There’s no sign of any normal, human emotion in there, just cold steel and ice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t care. Get up and go back to your room before I make you do it.” I smile at him, but I’m not afraid, not at all.

“Harper, Becky, the other girls …” I trail off, gesturing in their direction with my hand. “Did you know they were going to take it that far?” Tristan narrows his eyes and scowls at me, but at least there’s some humanity in the gesture; I’ll take it.

“What are you even babbling about?” he snaps, but clearly I’ve touched a nerve because Tristan’s already getting angry with me, and I’ve just started.

“When the girls cornered me backstage before my harp solo, did you know they were going to beat me so badly that I’d break my ribs and crack a tooth?” My eyes are locked on him, so when his widen imperceptibly, I catch it. He quickly schools himself, standing up straight and running his palm down the length of his red tie. But it was there, that little tell that gives me all the information I need: he didn’t know. Tristan, the self-proclaimed King of the Academy, didn’t know about the girls’ plan.

The first seed of doubt has been sowed.