Stuck With The Four Hotties

“There’s more to the story than you’re letting on,” Windsor says, sitting on the edge of one of the school’s many planter boxes.

Part of my biology grade this year includes helping out in the academy gardens. I’m supposed to be showing Windsor what to do, but instead he somehow winds up sitting and chatting will I do work. I sit back, wipe my hands on the knees of my overalls, and glare up at him. We’re in the greenhouse, so it’s hot enough to make me sweat. I swipe an arm across my forehead.

“Of course there’s more to the story,” I say, pulling out a carrot and swinging the orange length of it at him for emphasis. “We just met. I’m not about to spill all my secrets to you, despite what you might think.”

Windsor smirks at me until I drop the carrot in his lap, smearing his pristine overalls with dirt. He wrinkles his nose, but tosses the vegetable into the basket before pulling out a few more. I’m guessing this is the most extensive gardening work the prince has ever done.

“I’ve pieced together quite a lot about your escapades from academy gossip, and I’ve seen your efforts reflected back in the party.” Windsor tosses his fourth carrot into the basket before standing up and swiping his palms down the front of his overalls. “I want to help.” I glance skeptically up at him, and he smiles bemusedly down at me. “After all, they threatened me the moment I walked in the door. I can’t exactly let that go, now can I?”

I snort, pulling the last of the carrots out of the dirt, and putting them into the basket before standing up and turning to face Windsor.

“Don’t pretend this is all for my benefit,” I tell him, picking up the basket and moving over to the large, industrial sink in the corner. Carefully, I tip the basket of carrots out into the stainless steel basin and turn on the removable faucet, so I can rinse them off. After this, we’ll deliver them to the kitchen, and we’ll have the rest of the afternoon off. “I researched you: Miranda is practically an expert on your life.” Dirt swirls down the drain as I glance over to the prince’s handsome face. He really does look like royalty, almost too perfect to be real, as if he should exist in a painting or a sculpture and not necessarily in real life. “You have a reputation for being … How should I put this, a bully who enjoys bullying bullies.” I exhale. It’s a mouthful, but it’s true.

Windsor doesn’t pretend to deny that, but he does reach into to the sink, snatch a carrot, and bite off the tip. When he extends his hand and rubs his muddy thumb against my lower lip, my knees get seriously weak, and I have to clutch the edge of the sink to keep from wobbling.

The guy is an incorrigible flirt, and even though I know that, it doesn’t stop me from liking it.

“I like to take down big prey,” he says with a grin, “it’s true. I like a challenge, Marnye. Let me help you the way your friends can’t.” Windsor steps towards me, and cups my face between his dirty palms. “They were all here last year. Whether they were complicit or not, they’re all tied together. But not me. I’m new, no strings attached, no ulterior motives. I just find it amusing to bring down those who think they’re too high to fall.” He releases me suddenly and steps back, leaning against the wall beneath the window. Cold, winter sunshine streams in and makes his hair look like blood. The way his hazel eyes take me in, it feels like he’s stripping me bare. “There’s no harm in that, is there? Besides, what’s it hurt to have an extra pair of eyes to watch your back?”

I sigh, but I don’t answer him. We met a week ago. What can I say, I don’t trust the guy.

By the end of this week however … something happens that makes me start to.Belonging © NôvelDram/a.Org.

There’s nothing I hate so much as swimming; not because of the activity itself, but because it leaves me alone and vulnerable with every girl at that school who hates me.

Now that I’m on the cheerleading team, I don’t have to do it much, but Burberry prep is an old-fashioned school that still requires students to learn how to swim before they’re allowed to graduate. Miranda’s been complaining about it all week, loudly proclaiming that the public schools don’t do this anymore, and that it’s unfair and impractical.

“What does swimming have to do with surviving in today’s society?” she asks anyone that will listen, but it doesn’t matter. On Friday, students dress down in batches and take turns swimming laps in the pool for Coach Hannah.

I’m in the last group of the day to go, clustered up with people like Harper, Becky, and Ilean. Talk about a raw deal.

We dress down, and I’m subject to an inordinate amount of strap-snapping from the other girls. By the time we actually get out the locker room and over to the pool, my back is pink and sore from having my bathing suit yanked and snapped against me. It’s infuriating, but I’ve already broken my no violence rule once, and I won’t stoop that low again. Let them pick on me: I have much better things planned.

We all climb in the pool for warm-ups, stretching, and following Coach Hannah as she runs through the routine on dry land. About halfway through, she gets a phone call from her daughter who’s just days away from having a baby. She briefly excuses herself, and I sigh as I bob in the water, wishing this day would just end. I know I can swim, not only because of last year’s PE classes, but also because I spent the summer practicing.

What I don’t realize until it’s too late, is that the girls are slowly forming a circle around me. Harper smirks at me as I finally take notice of the fact that I’m surrounded by Bluebloods and Plebs alike.

Warily, I sigh, and run my palm over my wet hair. “What do you want, Harper?”

“What do I want?” she asks, eyes widening in shock, like I’ve just personally offended her or something. “I want my fucking hair back.”

“Yeah, we all do,” I retort snootily, tired and overworked and ready for bed. “So what?”

Harper sneers at me, an expression I am well-used to. I don’t mind when she does it, because what she doesn’t know is that she’s no longer pretty when she’s scowling like that.

“I don’t know what you did to get the prince on your side so fast, probably spread your legs or whatever, but I don’t like it. You’ve turned him against us when he should be on our side; frankly, we should kick Zayd or Creed out and Windsor should be an Idol.” Harper swims closer to me, and I back up, but there’s nowhere to go. “I’m going to teach you a little lesson about stirring shit up during my parties. Ladies.” She gestures with her chin, and the girls all swim closer, grabbing onto my shoulders, arms, even

snatching clumps of my hair.