Stuck With The Four Hotties

It actually snows at Burberry Prep

The auditorium is packed, but there’s a general sense of irritation from the crowd. Attendance is compulsory, but everyone really just wants to dick around in the snow. Doesn’t bother me. I’m just using the show as a point of interest on my college application, and also to practice for the winter concert. Next week, I’m traveling for a cheer competition in Los Angeles, so I won’t be able to play the harp all weekend.

Part of me wonders if I should quit the team. I’m not particularly invested in or excited by cheering, or by sports in general really, but it’s a good way to stay in shape, and it does add some interest to my resume. Anyway, even though half the girls on the squad are Company members that hate me and my guys, I can’t ditch Coach Hannah and the others just before our first real competition.

We’ve done a few local things, but we haven’t come back with any medals or trophies just yet. I don’t think this time will be different, but we’ve gotten a hell of a lot better since third year started, so who knows?

Zayd is one the first performers to take the stage, and he gets quite the warm welcome from the crowd. Part of that, I’m sure, is because of his outfit: these tight leather pants that cup his ass like a second skin, and a loose, torn tank with some old band logo on the front. He might be playing an acoustic guitar, but he looks like he’s ready for a rock concert.

I sneak out from backstage, and stand at the edge of the auditorium, my heart singing as he plays his song in front of the whole school. Becky calls out some bullshit from behind the curtain, but I don’t let her words bother me because they’re tinged with jealousy. That, and Zayd … he told me he loves me, didn’t he?

It’s a huge thing, those few words. They mean a whole hell of a lot.

Just before he leaves the stage, Zayd gives me a wink and a kiss, takes a bow, and exits stage left.

I’m up just after him, so I have to scramble to get backstage before the harp’s wheeled into place, and I head out in front of the crowd to a mixed reception of boos and cheers. Doesn’t matter at this point. I’m used to it. The first few times I played after the incident during first year were hard, but it’s gotten easier and easier, and I know I can’t let fear keep me from doing what I love.

So I sit down on that stool, and I sweep my fingers across the strings, closing my eyes and letting the melody drift in the air like the snowflakes swirling from the ebon-dark sky outside. There’s a crisp, cold snap to the air that makes the world seem so much more vivid. Sometimes when I play the harp, it feels like I’m weaving sound from the air, tucking random notes into a loom until I’ve crafted something completely new.

As is often the case, I drift away as I pluck the strings, swaying slightly with the music. There’s some noise and movement from backstage, a very distinct grunt, and some arguing, but I don’t pay attention to any of it. I’m at

the part of the song where the pace picks up and I feel like I’m tickling the instrument, making it laugh and sing with each brush of my fingers.

My eyes drift up and find several empty seats in the front of the auditorium where the boys should be. Miranda, Lizzie, and Andrew are there, but none of my guys. Not a single one. I finish off my song, and listen to the smattering of clapping and a few raucous shouts that are quickly stifled by the staff.

Rising to my feet, I take a bow and head backstage to find Zack, Windsor, and Zayd in a stand-off with some of the Harpies.

“One day, we’re going to catch you in the right place at the right time,” Jalen Donner sneers, rubbing some blood off his face with his sleeve. “I’m going to fucking kill Tristan Vanderbilt. Where is that pussy anyway? Too busy screwing somebody else’s girlfriend?”

“You are so damn lucky,” Ileana Taittinger sneers at me, dressed up in some ridiculous white jumpsuit. All the Company girls are participating in a song and dance routine set to Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas Is You. From what little I saw of it during auditions, it’s pretty horrendous.

“How so?” I ask, folding my arms over the long, red dress I’m wearing. It’s so sparkly and pretty, and long and flowy enough to be worn while I play.

“These wankers thought they could get one over on us,” Windsor says, stepping forward, and snatching a sword from one of the prop racks for the drama club’s upcoming rendition of the NutFraFker. He whips the wooden blade around in a circle, and takes up a fighting stance that clearly shows he’s had his fair share of fencing lessons. “They were going to throw fire crackers onstage while you were playing.”

My brows go up. Damn.

A firecracker could easily take my fingers off. Maybe that was the point, huh?

I look down at the floor and see scattered fireworks, matches, and a few lighters. When Harper and Becky come out of the dressing room, they don’t look happy to see me standing there unscathed.

“Nice wigs,” I say, and Kiara seriously throws herself at me. Zack catches her and shoves her back, making her stumble in her heels.

“Don’t touch my fucking girlfriend, or you’ll see how quickly I break that no violence rule of hers. See, she’s a real class act. Me, I’m a fucking

asshole. I’m not afraid to talk about your daddy’s affairs, or the three young pregnant women suing him for child support.”

“Shut your goddamn mouth!” Kiara snaps, hissing under her breath. There’s a trio of Pleb girls onstage whose music is loud enough to drown out our fight. Of Fourse there are zero staff members back here. Makes me wonder how many of the teachers Harper’s paid to look the other way.

But then Mrs. Amberton and Ms. Highland come in from outside, a weepy Ebony Peterson standing between them. I have no idea what ruse she’s pulling, but she scowls as soon as she sees me.

“Where did all of these fireworks come from?” Mrs. Amberton asks, her gaze flying up to meet mine. She seems genuinely concerned which is nice. I make myself smile.

“One of the first year boys dropped a box of them and took off,” Harper says, fanning herself. Her bodysuit is so tight, she’s got a camel toe. Swear on my life, I couldn’t make that up if I tried. Her wig is clearly expensive, made of real human hair, and as glossy and shiny as Miranda’s real hair.

First opportunity I get, I’m snatching it off.

The song playing onstage peters out, and we can hear the crowd clapping. “Harper du Pont and the Bluebloods,” Mr. Carter announces, and I roll myC0pyright © 2024 Nôv)(elDrama.Org.

eyes. Ex-Bluebloods is more like it.

“Break a leg,” Zayd purrs as the girls strut past him. “Literally, please. I want to see some bone.”

“Eat shit, Zayd,” Becky growls as she saunters past.

“Hey,” Zack says, taking me by the elbow. “Go sit i

n the audience with Miranda, okay?”