Novel Palace
10
Zayd leans in close to me, close enough that I can smell cloves and tobacco on his skin. Maybe he thinks smoking clove cigarettes makes him a badass. It doesn’t. All it does is make him look like a douche. “And really,” he reaches out to tease some of the loose hair hanging by my face. “I’d fuck you, if you were game.” Zayd grins at me, but it’s not a kind expression. It’s derisive, mocking, demeaning. “That’s the best offer you’ll get all year, so I suggest you take it.”
“Why don’t you go to hell?” I blurt back, my cheeks flushed, my head swimming. How is this happening? I haven’t even had my first class yet, and I’ve already been put through the wringer. I’m exhausted. I wonder how long it’ll take them to get tired of picking on me. Maybe never. In middle school, they didn’t get tired until … Zack changed things.
“Last chance, Working Girl.” Zayd leans in even closer and puts his mouth near my ear. “I’ll even pay you for your services: whatever the fee is, I can afford it.”
Without thinking, I lift a hand, intending to slap him in the face. Zayd intercepts the motion, giving my wrist a squeeze before smirking and stepping back. He releases me, but not before looking me up and down with a dark glimmer in his green eyes.All content is property © NôvelDrama.Org.
“You’re going to regret that move,” he tells me, and I’m so flustered that I can’t seem to come up with a response.
Me? Regret this moment? The only person who’s going to regret anything today is Zayd Kaiser when I report him to the school administration.
“It’s not worth it,” Miranda whispers, putting her arm through mine. “Come on, let’s go to class and hopefully by the end of the day, they’ll forget about tormenting you.”
With a nod, I follow along behind her. My eyes are stinging with tears, but I won’t shed them.
I refuse to give these guys the satisfaction.
By the time lunch rolls around, Miranda’s done some recon, sliding into the seat across from me and picking up the menu from her plate. And yes, I said it: menu. The ‘cafeteria’ is set up like a restaurant with servers and busboys, tables set with plates and cloth napkins, small menus printed on cardstock that make me think of two birthdays ago when Dad splurged and took me to a fancy restaurant for dinner.
My mind is racing, and I feel cold all over, like I’m so far out of my element I may never get warm again.
“It’s bad, Marnye,” she says, sighing and then pausing to place her order with our waiter. Me, I’ve already got a plate of souvlaki FhiFken with roasted lemon potatoes topped with feta. Frankly, I don’t know what half of those things are. Back home, we have sloppy joes, burgers, and hot dogs. That’s dinner at the Train Car with Dad. “It’s really, really bad.”
“What’s bad?” I ask, wondering how my day can get any worse. I came into Burberry Prep this morning with high hopes, ready to take on the world. Right now, I feel like I’m living a social apocalypse.
“The Idols, they’ve declared war on you.” My mouth pops open, but I’m not really sure what to say to that. How do you respond when someone tells you the richest, most popular kids at your school want you socially killed?
“All of them?” I ask, glancing over at the large table in the corner where Tristan, Creed, and Zayd sit next to Harper, Becky, and a girl who I can only assume is Gena Whitley. They aren’t looking at me. Instead, they’re laughing and eating, drawing all of the energy out of the room. I have to admit, they’ve got charisma, all six of them. Then again, Hitler had charisma, too, and look how that turned out.
“All of them,” Miranda confirms, lifting her glass of ice water to her lips and glancing at the round table and all of its royalty. “They don’t want you here.”
“Why?” I ask, but I needn’t have bothered. Miranda glances at me, but her face says it all: they don’t want me here because I grew up in a neighborhood of trailers and mobile homes, because I lived in an old train
car most of my life, because I don’t have a net worth or a family legacy. “What am I supposed to do about that? I was thinking about reporting Tristan and Zayd to the administration. There’s an anti-bullying policy that I read about in the student handbook-”
Miranda’s look stops me dead in my tracks.
“What?” I ask, picking up my fork and poking at my fancy Greek-inspired chicken dish. It tastes … strange. Maybe my palette just isn’t as refined as everyone else’s? I wonder if I could ask the kitchen to make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? “Am I supposed to just let them get away with their bullshit?” My eyes wander back to the table again and I catch Creed staring at me. His blue eyes narrow, and he reaches up to brush some blond hair back from his forehead. If it’s possible to arrogantly brush hair from one’s face, he manages it. Zayd and Tristan notice him looking my way, and soon all three Idols are glaring at me.
Fantastic.
At my old school, I saw the effects of bullying firsthand; I felt them. I felt them in ways I can never forget, never erase. My heart begins to thunder in my chest, and my palms grow so sweaty I have to put down my fork.
I glance back at Miranda.
“If you report them, that’s it,” she says, exhaling sharply. Her eyes stray over to the Idols’ table again, watching as Andrew approaches and starts up a conversation with Tristan. “They will end you.”
My mouth flattens into a thin line, but I don’t doubt that what Miranda’s telling me is true. These kids, they have more money than the GDP of a small country. Shit, than several small countries Fombined. If I think that has no influence over the administration and staff, then I haven’t learned as many hard life lessons as I think.
Closing my eyes, I sit stone-still for a moment, thinking. There has to be a way out of this; there’s always a way out if you know how to be patient and look. For the moment, I’m drawing a blank, but give me time, and I’ll work it out.
There’s a reason I got chosen for this scholarship, and it wasn’t my ability to roll over and take it.
No, I’m a fighter, always have been.
I just think I’m going to have to fight h
arder than I ever have before.