Stuck With The Four Hotties

“Ms. Felton, I see the war against caffeine is still on,” Miranda grumbles, waiting for Ms. Felton to turn her back, so she can flip her off. “It’s a losing battle-like the war on drugs.”

“Why don’t you wait until tomorrow, and we can discuss politics in class?” Ms. Felton dumps the coffee into the drain of a water fountain as we turn the corner and Miranda rolls her blue eyes at me.

“Sorry, that’s Ms. Felton. She’s a bit of a rule Nazi. She can get away with it, too, since she was an Idol once upon a time. It’s like, that shit never fades.” Miranda pauses and then peeps around the corner, like she’s checking to see if Ms. Felton’s following us. She’s not. Miranda grins and then gestures at my belly with loose fingers. “Roll it, or be forever dubbed a Pleb.”

“A … what?” I ask as Miranda untucks her shirt, and then proceeds to roll the waistband of her red pleated skirt until it’s dangerously short, like Fan’t bend over or reaFh for too high of a shelf short. A light breeze is liable to blow it right off. “Pleb? Like … Plebeian?”Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.

“Yep,” Miranda says with a sigh, tucking her shirt back in and then looking at me like I’m crazy. When I don’t move to copy her, she groans and steps forward, tugging the crisp white blouse from my waistband. I sort of just stand there and let her do her thing. It’s exhilarating, naughty but in an innocent sort of way. “It’s stupid, I know, but it’s how it is here.”

Once my skirt’s the appropriate level of, well, inappropriate, Miranda leans over and taps the piece of paper she wrote out for me. On the bottom, there’s the term Pleb with the words everyone else written after it.

“Plebeian means, like, commoner or peasant,” Miranda continues, huffing and tucking loose strands of platinum blonde behind her ears. It’s so pale, it’s practically white, but when the sun leaks in through the stained glass windows and bathes her in light, it’s angelic, glowing as golden as a halo. “If

you’re not an Idol or in the Inner Circle, then you’re a Pleb. Once a Pleb, always a Pleb.” Miranda pauses and lifts her eyes to the ceiling, long dark lashes fluttering. I think she’s got eyelash extensions, but it would be rude to ask. Hell, maybe I’m just jealous and she’s just pretty? “Well, except this one time when Karen Evermeet screwed the soccer coach, and shared the video with the whole school.” Miranda flashes me a model-esque smile. “She went from Pleb to Idol in a day. But that never happens.”

My lips curve up in a slight smile, and I squeeze her hand back before letting go.

“I appreciate that,” I say, feeling this new sort of comradery simmer between us. There are things in that essay that could destroy me at Burberry

Prep.

We turn another corner, and I wonder if she’s going to get to this piece of paper in my hand before we reach the chapel for the morning announcements. Or, like, if we’re even going to get to the chapel at all. How far did I wander? And how big is this plaFe?!

I mean, I studied the map of Burberry Prep religiously, lying in the hot white heat of summer on my dad’s sun-dead lawn, shades on my eyes, headphones on my ears. I memorized the entire layout, and yet … I’m so turned around I don’t even remember which door I came in. Looking at a flat illustration of something, and walking it in person are two completely different things.

Lifting my head up, I see something that takes my breath away. Or … more like someone.

“Who the hell is that?” I choke out as my eyes catch on the platinum blond head of the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. He’s lounging in a chair with insouciant disregard, an air of entitled laziness captured in his long limbs. The way he sits there, boneless, bored, but with bright, piercing eyes, it all reminds me of a cat. A lazy, spoiled housecat.

His hair shimmers in the light from outside, bits of sun breaking through the clouds. Outside, there’s a rainbow stretching across campus that I can just barely see through the glass, but it’s nowhere near as beautiful as the guy in the loose tie and half-tucked shirt. He’s still crisp, still polished and put- together, but with an air of effortlessness that Tristan Vanderbilt doesn’t have. Nah, that guy has a stick shoved so far up his ass, he could never luxuriate across a chair the way this one does.

“That,” Miranda starts as the boy’s ice-colored eyes swing our way, “is my twin brother: Creed Cabot.”

My mouth opens, and then snaps closed when I realize that I have absolutely nothing productive to say. I’m enthralled, held by that sharp gaze as Creed makes his way over to us. He’s tall, sure, but he feels even taller by the way he stands, his fingers just lightly tucked into his pockets, the top two buttons on his shirt undone. His jacket is nowhere to be seen.

“Mandy,” he says by way of greeting, looking at his sister’s skirt with distaste. Creed Cabot … he doesn’t even give me the time of day. Rude muFh? I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms, waiting for him to acknowledge me. “Was wondering where you’d disappeared to. Andrew’s looking for you.” Miranda nods and then holds out a hand to indicate me.

“Are you going to say hi to the new student?” she asks, those ice-blue eyes of Creed’s sliding over to me. I swear, even from here, I can smell him. He’s got this crisp linen scent with just a hint of tobacco, like he’s been hanging out with someone who smokes but isn’t a smoker himself.

“Am I?” he asks, looking me up and down with a calculating coolness to his gaze. “And why should I?”

“Oh for shit’s sake, Creed, this is Marnye Reed.” Miranda raises her brows and waits for him to make the connection. Apparently, he already has. “Yeah, Mom’s pet peasant. I already know that.” Creed looks at me, his skin like alabaster, his expression as haughty as Tristan’s. “Charity work is her thing. Doesn’t have to be mine.” Creed turns away as Miranda sputters,

and I do my best to come up with a quick retort.

“Charity isn’t what got me here, Mr. Cabot. It was hard work and dedication.”