Stuck With The Four Hotties

this year which is weird as hell. We’re in central California, for heaven’s sake.

“Global warming,” Miranda says, as she stands there with her palms lifted toward the sky, tiny flakes melting on her palms. Tonight’s the talent show, but nobody really cares anymore, since all anyone wants to do is play in the snow or-depending on their year in school-talk about the winter formal, the ski trip, or, for us third years, the option of a weekend trip to San Francisco to see the ballet and the symphony.

It’s not hard to figure out what I want to do. Even though Dad and I have used those tickets Zack bought us a couple of times already, I can never get enough. We even used the third pass to take our old neighbor, Mrs. Fleming. She might be deaf, but she said she could feel the vibrations and enjoyed the show anyway.

“You know what John said to me today?” Andrew says, tucking his hands into his pockets and shivering as white fluff settles across the gardens. It’s not thick or heavy enough of a snowfall to be much fun as of yet, but it’s getting there. Every student at Burberry Prep is praying it gets deep enough to go sledding.

“If global warming is real, why is it so Fold out?” Miranda mimics as she rolls her eyes dramatically. “We all heard him today. At least he got in- school suspension from Ms. Felton for snapping that poor first-year girl’s bra. He’s such an asshole.”

“Did you all decide on what you’re doing for winter activities?” I ask, interrupting the conversation. The last person in the world I want to talk about is John Hannibal. He’s a piece of shit human, and his dad’s politics suck, so there. “Because you know I’m going to the orchestra, right?”

“Wherever you go, the boys will follow,” Andrew says, almost longingly. He leans back on the picnic table and stares up at the swirling flakes, a white beanie pulled down over his ears. “I’m beyond jealous. I wish boys followed me around like lost puppies.”

“They would if you’d just let your freak flag fly,” Miranda chides, pausing as Lizzie and Tristan appear, coming out the doors of the chapel building. Ugh. My heart pounds when I see them together, but I ignore it. Like I said, I have to let the pieces fall as they may. I’m not into sabotage.

On Thanksgiving Day, we all ate in The Mess together, and the academy kitchen team prepared a pretty traditional meal. Lizzie sat next to Tristan then, too, and it occurred to me that she really is seeking him out. She’s making an effort. And yet, she’s still wearing her engagement ring. She’s as torn as Andrew is, between reality and a distant dream.

I’m a bit of a plucky optimist: I always choose the dream.

“Tristan, are you going on the San Francisco trip or …” I start, trailing off and huddling deeper into one of Zack’s hoodies. He left it in my room on accident, and well, it’s big and soft, and I love the smell too much to give it back. Grapefruit and nutmeg, that’s what it reminds me of.

“San Francisco trip,” he says, and Lizzie bites her lip.

“I’m going to the winter formal,” she says with a small sigh. “My dad arranged for a visitor’s pass, so Marcel could take me.” She doesn’t sound particularly happy about that, and I notice Tristan’s shoulders get tense.

He moves past her and out from under the awning, so he can glance up at the dusky sky, and the swirling snow.

Zack comes out a moment later, spots me in his hoodie, and grins as he pops over to sit beside me. Even with the stolen hoodie, I’m still freezing, so I burrow into him and eventually end up sitting between his legs, his big, warm body draped over mine. I like it best that way, being swallowed up by Zack and his heavy winter coat.

“We need to get you a new jacket,” he says, but we both know I already have one that Miranda bought for me last year. I’d just rather wear his hoodie is all. “Not that I mind you wearing my sweater.” He chuckles and nuzzles against my ear, giving me serious butterflies, a whole swarm of

them. His muscular arms are banded around me, squeezing tight, and I relax into them.

“You’re going on the San Francisco trip?” I ask, and Miranda sighs dramatically.

“Hey, you, crazy person,” she says, moving over to stand in front of me, looking like a model with her sheet of shiny hair, designer ski outfit, and bright pink jacket. She points at me and pokes me in the forehead. “I told you: wherever you go, the guys will follow, stop asking.”Property belongs to Nôvel(D)r/ama.Org.

“And you?” Zack asks, because Creed isn’t the only one who knows about the kiss between me and Miranda. Somehow, they all do, and they’re jealous as hell about it. Maybe they see her as a serious threat?

“Of course I’m going to San Francisco,” she scoffs, checking the time on her watch. “It’s a third year right to go.” She drops her arm by her side and gives me a look. “It’s almost time to get ready. That is, if you don’t want to get onstage with mussy hair and poorly done makeup.”

“Aren’t you so sweet,” I tease, scooping up a bit of snow and chucking it at her.

“We need to be on time for the talent show,” Tristan says, turning to look at us, his hands buried in the pockets of his gray wool coat. “It’s imperative.” “You guys have something planned,” I say, glancing back at Zack, but he gives nothing away. His face looks like it always does, serious and deep and dark. I reach up and tug on a lock of his brown hair, but he just raises his

brows and says nothing.

I guess it doesn’t matter.

I’m

about to find out anyway.