Bad, Bad Bluebloods (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2)(5)

At the risk of getting a mark on my first day back, I’ve worn my new second-year Burberry Prep uniform to go shopping in downtown Grenadine Heights. The skirt is solid white, as opposed to first-year red. The black shoes and white blouse are the same, but the tie is red and there’s a single red and a single black stripe on each elbow of the jacket, a perfect match to the red and black Burberry Prep crest on the pocket, complete with pair of griffins. I’ve even got on the thigh-high socks with the matching stripe at the top.

Every student at GHHS knows where Burberry Prep is and who goes to it. Their football team kicks Burberry’s ass every year, but it doesn’t matter: everyone on the GHHS side gazes across the field and knows the grass is greener on the other side.

So when I walk into the salon with my head held high, wearing my Burberry uniform, the women in there treat me like I have money.

It’s kind of … sad, actually. According to my dad, my mother once saved up for a haircut and dye job here for months, and then when she walked in, she was treated like less than dirt. He said she came home crying.

I guess I picked this place for a reason.

“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 can see Miranda standing outside the academy’s car, trying to pull it open with the handle. The other Bluebloods hang back as the amphitheater empties out into the courtyard. Miranda whirls around when Creed tries to touch 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 back 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.

“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 can 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 can’t possibly expect to survive a week back 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.