Stuck With The Four Hotties

After break, school starts off at a run and doesn’t slow down. I have so little downtime that my revenge plans come to a brief halt while I catch up on my studies, cheer team practices, and orchestra rehearsals. Zack has started training for track and field in February, and Miranda is off in la-la land with Jessie. They are now officially dating. I’m excited for them, but sometimes I catch Miranda gazing off into the distance like she’s daydreaming about someone else.

Uh-oh.

My tutoring activities with Creed continue, and the school’s so impressed with my ‘resilience’ (as they’ve called it), that I’ve been drafted into being a student mentor. Basically, I’m there to help students who are having issues with bullying, or help guide first-years who are struggling. Of course, nobody ever signs up to work with me. I still get credit for it though, so that’s fine.

During the end of our first week back, I strike gold by pure accident.

I’m on my way from my dorm-somebody’s scratched the word Brothel into the door yet again-to the mixed media room to practice some songs for the winter concert. When I get there, however, the room is occupied by Zayd and his cronies.

His howling laughter echoes out into the hall as I pause and glance in. Becky is all over him, making my stomach turn as she nuzzles up against him. She’s changed out of her uniform into a pink tank with no bra, and

she’s pressing her chest against his. I wonder if they’ve had sex? I figure they probably have, and my stomach twists in disgusts.

I end up clutching a fist against my chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of my heart.

Did I … get my heart broken by Zayd?

It certainly feels that way, watching him laugh and joke with his friends. When he presses a flat kiss to Becky’s mouth, a sour taste rises in the back of my throat. His hair is now dyed a pale blue with dark roots, and his makeup is stage-dark, like he’s getting ready for a concert. All that eyeliner highlights how beautiful his green eyes are, how long his lashes.

“Like, my new album sucks, but it’s going to sell, you know that I mean?” Zayd asks, his husky rockstar voice giving me the chills. Without a second’s hesitation, I pull out my phone and start recording. There’s nothing like letting these Idol idiots hang themselves.

“You mean because Plebs are so fucking stupid, they’ll buy it regardless?” Becky asks, her laugh this grating sound that makes my skin crawl. She enjoys torture and pain like nobody but Harper du Pont.

“Yeah, like,” Zayd starts, and then he gets out a cigarette and lights up. Smoking inside the chapel building is a strict taboo, but he doesn’t seem to care, blowing gray smoke out from between his sexy lips. Watching his tattooed fingers clutch the cigarette shouldn’t turn me on-I hate smoking, as a rule-but some random rebellious part of me is turned one. “I write this profound shit, and it does well, but not good enough. The record label is breathing down my neck for another hit. So they have some ghost writers drum up this drivel, and tell me it’s going to make me famous. Maybe there’s a reason some people are poor? They’re stupid enough to spend what little money they have on this crap album.”

The whole crowd laughs, and my gut turns to ice. Wow. How fucking dare he insult his fans like that? Raking in their hard-earned money and mocking them for it.

“Anyway, you guys want to hear the new single? The peons are going to absolutely lap it up.” Becky climbs Zayd like a koala, and I swear, there’s this flash of annoyance on his face as he gets out his phone and presses play on a pop-rock song that’s a bit catchier than I’d like to admit.

Guess there’s a reason I’m a peon, right? DiFk.

“Once this is over, let’s go back to my room and I’ll suck you off,” Becky purrs, rubbing herself all over Zayd and licking along the length of his ear.

He pushes her back a step and she stumbles.

“Can we, like listen to this damn song?” he snaps, and her blue eyes go wide. She reaches out and pinches Zayd’s tattooed arm with her long nails, and he sneers at her.

“You were all down for fucking until you started playing around with the Working Girl. Guess I can’t compete with a prostitute’s skillset, huh?”

“Becky, shut the hell up,” Zayd groans, letting his head fall back, ink crawling up from underneath his wrinkled academy shirt.

“No, I will not shut up,” she continues, and Sai Patel, Mayleen Zhang, Greg, and John all exchange looks with each other. “You have been so freaking weird. All summer you were weird. What is it about that low-class bitch that you’re so obsessed with?”

Zayd drops his head and narrows his green eyes. I sense vitriol in the air. “Low-class? Marnye might be trailer trash”-ouch, Zayd-“but she’s a

hundred times classier than you. I’m so done with your shit, Becky. You want me to be your boyfriend or something? Newsflash: I’m not interested anymore. Fuck, I was never interested. It was a game to see if I could get you, and guess what? You were a hundred times easier to dupe than Charity ever was.”All text © NôvelD(r)a'ma.Org.

Becky reaches out and slaps Zayd as hard as she can before turning and storming up the steps toward me. I scramble out of the way and duck into The Mess before she gets out the door. There’s no one inside, fortunately, and once I think she’s had enough time to leave, I creep back out.

Zayd’s just started another song, so I wait there and record the entire thing.

“Pretty sure I’m as fuFked-up as they Fome, the only one who knows the loneliness of my throne. Through the darkest nights there’s only one bright star, but when I reaFh up, it’s just way up there, off in the void, the blaFk too far.”

Mm.

I’m not sure I believe the ghostwriter bit. Those lyrics sFream Zayd Kaiser to me.

After it’s over, there’s a bit of silence before Sai Patel’s laughter snaps out like a whip. He has a pretty strong New York accent, so it’s easy to tell who’s speaking. Other than the usual bits and barbs, he hasn’t stood out to me much.

“That’s the dumbest shit. Holy crap, man, that’s garbage.” The other boys laugh, Mayleen’s feminine giggles interspersed throughout. When I peep around the corner, I wonder if I’m the only person who sees how tight Zayd’s jaw is.

On Monday, I head out into the hall and a storm of chaos ensues. “Marnye, oh my god,” Miranda gushes, grabbing my hands, her face

flushed pink. Her eyes are sparkling as she yanks me down the hall, our white skirts billowing, as we head to the courtyard and push through the throng of people to the front. There’s a fancy black sports car down there, no driver in sight.

“Um, what?” I ask, as Miranda spins to me, smacking me in the face with her shiny blond hair. She almost smells like Creed, too. Is it weird that I notice that?

“That’s Zayd’s agent’s car,” she chokes out, pointing at it. “Before Ms. Felton collects our phones, look it up.” I pull my phone from my bookbag and do as she’s asking. Not that I need to, since I know exactly what’s going on. “This has your signature all over it,” she whispers, leaning in toward me as several staff members try to herd the students away from the courtyard. I glance up and our eyes meet. Miranda squeals, and I smile sheepishly.

All I did was upload Zayd’s conversation, and part of his song. That’s it.