Stuck With The Four Hotties

“Boo,” Creed drawls when we come around a corner and find him sitting with a few other students, a joint in his hand. He doesn’t even bother to hide it as I stare at him, lifting it to his lips and taking a drag. His blue eyes are narrowed to slits as he frowns at me before switching his attention to Miranda. “You aren’t getting into any trouble, are you?” he asks, and she gapes at him.

“Asks he who has a beer in one hand and a joint in the other? Are you kidding me?” Miranda puffs out her chest as her brother comes to stand beside her, glancing first at Andrew and then back at me again. “Don’t get all preachy on me, Creed. You’re my twin, not my older brother.”

“So that means I can’t protect you?” he asks, still looking at me. “Why are you even hanging out with this girl? Nobody likes it. If it weren’t for me, you’d be committing social suicide.” He hands the joint over to Andrew, and after a split-second of hesitation, he takes it, moving away from Miranda and me to sit with his friends. He gives me an apologetic sort of look, but it’s okay, I understand.

“She’s a good person, unlike some of the other people in this school.” Miranda turns to leave and Creed grabs her arm. When she snaps a look over her shoulder, his face hardens but he lets go. “I bet Mom would agree with me. If she had a choice, she’d swap Marnye for you in a heartbeat.” The edge of Creed’s mouth lifts up in a snarl, but he doesn’t say anything. “Do your new friends know you used to be bullied when we lived in Grenadine Heights? I’d think you, at least, would know better.”

My eyes widen as Creed grits his teeth, but then Miranda’s grabbing my arm and dragging me away from their little group.

“Andrew, fucking traitor,” she grumbles as we head for the exit. I know I shouldn’t look back as we leave, but I do, catching Tristan’s gray gaze on me. He tracks me as I go, even as he’s got a girl straddling his lap, his hands cupping her ass.

Gross.

In their natural element, these guys are even worse than they are at school. The rest of the night, I make it a priority to avoid them. Miranda helps, showing me where to find extra pumpkins, knives, and candles. We carve jack-o-lanterns, sip apple cider, and eat miniature candy bars from an orange

bowl. As long as I steer clear of the Idols, everything is fine.

Reaching up to touch what’s left of my hair, I cringe. Too bad that’s not an option most days.

If I want to stay here, I’m going to have to fight for my own space. I just hope it’s a fight I can actually win.

The next day, I take the off-campus pass Ms. Felton gave me, have one of the academy’s cars take me into town, and buy a box of rose gold hair dye. Since the shower I took this morning washed most of the blood-red out, it takes just fine, and I find that when I look in the mirror … I actually like it.

Take that, BeFky Platter, I think, flicking off the bathroom light and heading for the mixed media room to play the academy’s pedal harp. Bet I’m the only student practicing their instrument tonight.

And that’s how it’s going to be from now on: I’m going to go above and beyond for myself. What other people do or say, I’m going to let roll off of me like water off a duck’s back.

Easier said than done, right?

The Friday after Halloween is the day I make my real stand against Becky.

Revenge can be sweet, especially when it’s only my success that inflicts it. Orchestra auditions are after class, held in the school theater. Everyone is welcome to come and watch. Back at Lower Banks, nobody would. Okay, so maybe an anxious parent or two, a best friend wanting to lend support, butNôvelDrama.Org content rights.

for the most part, nobody cared.

Here … everyone does.

The room is packed so full that some students are standing up in the back, watching as Mr. Carter makes his way through each student on the audition

roster. According to the number pinned on my shirt, I’m dead-last, right after Becky. We’re the only two students in the school gunning for first chair in harp. Good thing, too, because there is only one chair.

Harper is here for support, but she’s not trying out. Instead, she’s focused on the choir, satisfied that at least in some respect, I’ll be under her thumb. Singing for the junior choir for class credit, and trying out for the academy’s performance choir group are two totally different things, but she’s content to rule them both.

“Tristan is starting to come around,” she tells Becky as I stand there, leaning against a column and watching a petite brunette girl fumble around with her flute. She’s so nervous, her hands are sweating and she can barely keep hold of the instrument. “I told him I was done sleeping around and asked if he wanted to make it official this summer.”

Becky chuckles and adjusts the number pinned to her blouse.

“Well, I’m not sure I’m done playing around with the boys, but to snag Tristan, I’d do it, too.” Becky pauses, and the two girls glance over at me like they’ve just realized I’m standing there. “Getting engaged to someone like him this early and locking him down is probably a good idea.” My mouth tightens, but I don’t turn to look at them. What do I care if one female monster wants to get engaged to another male monster? They can make little monster babies and go on to terrorize the world together. They deserve each other.

My lips twitch as I think about Tristan, bending Kiara over the sink. Harper can have her man-whore fiance. And yet … my stomach twists, and my good humor is short-lived.

There are some incredibly talented students in this school, and watching them play onstage is awe-inspiring. So much so that I soon forget that weird twinge of jealousy, my mind numbing to the constant chatter of the two Idol girls. Zayd is front and center in the auditorium, sitting right next to Mr. Carter. He’s a student ‘helper’, along with a half-dozen fourth-years who are all in the advanced orchestra. How that jerk got to be on the panel is beyond me. He’s a rock star, not a concert pianist.

I don’t think about that kiss. Bet he was too drunk to remember it anyway. Once Becky’s turn rolls around, she shoves her way past me, nearly knocking me over. I let it go, gritting my teeth, and wait as she sits down to play. A hush falls over the crowd because there’s not a student at this school

-first-year or fourth-year alike-that doesn’t know what’s going on with me.

Becky inhales, tossing her blond hair over one shoulder, and flashes a winning smile to the crowd. She starts to play, and I recognize it as the one and only piece Mozart ever wrote for the harp: ConFerto for Flute, Harp, and OrFhestra. It’s a good choice, and one of my personal favorites. Becky, however, just doesn’t have the skills to pull it off, not even with her friends from the Inner Circle accompanying her.

She’s pretty when she plays, her eyes half-lidded, that evil smirk of hers wiped clean for a brief moment in time. Makes me love the harp all that much more, knowing it has the power to ward off hate. Her expression is clear and open, as if she wasn’t the daughter of Satan. Well … I glance over at Harper, running her fingers through her long, brunette hair and completely ignoring her friend’s performance in favor of her phone. Maybe Harper is the daughter of Satan, and Becky’s just her bestie.

Becky finishes to a standing ovation, bowing and blushing, touching a hand to her chest. When she turns to look at me, her eyes flash with darkness, and I make sure to give her a wide berth as she passes, moving onstage to the sound of booing and hissing.

“Alright, alright,” Mr. Carter shouts, standing up and lifting his palms until there’s silence. “Next sound I hear out of someone’s mouth that’s anything but encouraging, and you’re out.” He sits back down and nods for me to continue. A smile lights my face, and I take a seat.

I’ve chosen a more contemporary piece, at my own risk, but it speaks to me, and I need to feel that joy to sit up here and play in front of such a hostile audience. My eyes wander the crowd and catch on Zayd’s emerald gaze, sparkling as he leans forward and rests his chin on his folded hands. Tristan and Creed are easy to spot, sitting on opposite ends of the auditorium. Their pull is equally strong, and I flick my gaze between them before refocusing on the Lyon & Healy harp in front of me. It’s a beautiful instrument, easily worth more than my father’s house … err, Train Car.

Closing my eyes, I center myself and take a deep breath.

My fingers begin to move, playing How Hill by Patrick Hawes, written for royal harpist Claire Jones. The tune starts off nice and light, like sunshine through clouds, and I do my best to convey that feeling in my playing, a smile curving across my lips. Pedal harps are no joke, one of the most expensive instruments out there. To rent even a shitty one, Dad had to work

a second job. He brought me here, to this place, and even if I’m upset with him for Parents’ Weekend, I love him to bits.

That, too, I try to put into my music, feeling the vibrations on my skin, like I’m bathing in sound. The song slows, stops, and picks its way back to life, the upbeat tune reminiscent of rain on a warm summer day, feeding the parched earth. I lean into that feeling, forgetting for a moment where I am, and who’s watching me.

The song finishes with a little flourish that fades out, softens, and says good-bye with a kiss.

Exhaling, I drop my arms to my sides and look out at the audience.

Zayd’s mouth has dropped open, and before I even get a chance to stand up, he’s on his feet and clapping. I’m a little … shocked, to say the least. He’s been nothing but rude to me, and now he’s clapping? Mr. Carter stands up, too, and then everyone else follows suit.

Tristan doesn’t clap, and neither does Creed, but they watch me with a certain level of appreciation that’s impossible to hide. My cheeks flush, and I take a small bow before scurrying offstage.

Later that night, when the

results are posted online … I get first chair.