I splash water on my shirt and try to sop up the milk, but I’m sure I don’t get all of it. And the wet spot, while temporary, looks even worse.
Political Science is a nightmare. The class itself isn’t anything too intense, but some kids behind me keep throwing shit at the back of my head when the teacher isn’t looking. That trend continues and grows throughout the rest of the morning, spilling into the halls too. I’m sure everyone who didn’t actually witness the “Pool Girl introduction” this morning has heard the whole story by now, and these rich kids really must be bored as hell, because they all go after me with a fucking vengeance.
Gym sucks, but that’s nothing new. It sucked at my old school too. We run some laps and do some calisthenics, and I don’t push myself, so I barely break a sweat.
Changing back into my street clothes makes me realize my shirt definitely still smells like garbage, and I grimace. Ugh. Gross.
Dressed in my bra and jeans, I take my shirt to the sink to clean it a little better, then hold it under the hand dryer for a few minutes to let it dry. The dryer only works for thirty seconds at a time though, so I have to keep pulling the shirt away and putting it back to re-trigger the sensor.
Behind me, raised voices blare over the hum of the dryer.
“No, Savannah! Jesus, I already told you I don’t want him. You’re such a fucking bitch sometimes!” a high, breathy voice shouts.
“I’m not a bitch. I just expect honesty from my so-called friends!” This voice is harsher, more shrill.
“Oh, like you were honest about why we need to have tryouts for the cheer squad? I know you’re planning on fucking dumping me, so don’t pretend you’re not.”
“Iris, I wasn’t—”
The dryer cuts out again suddenly, and the two girls break off, turning to stare at me. One’s blonde and lithe, and the other has full lips and strawberry red hair. They’re both model pretty, and they’re both glaring at me like I killed their entire families.
“Excuse me,” the redhead drawls with a curl of her lip. I think she’s the one called Savannah. “This is a private conversation.”
My eyebrows shoot up, and a choked laugh escapes my mouth before I can stop it. “Oh, is it?”
Her cheeks flush, and several different emotions cross her face before she settles on anger again.
“It would be, if you’d stop listening in, you skank! Don’t you have something to go clean?”
Oh Jesus. So that really has made it around the entire school.
“I could clean out your locker,” I offer with a shrug. “But I forgot my extra strong bitch bleach.”
“Why don’t you just go? It’s rude to fucking eavesdrop, didn’t anyone ever teach you that?” The blonde girl, Iris, walks up to stand beside the redhead. They may hate each other, but apparently they’re willing to team up against an outside threat.
What’s the word for that? Frenemies?
“Love to.”
I pull my shirt over my head. It’s still damp, but fuck it. It’ll dry eventually. Shoving past them, I grab the rest of my stuff from my locker and sling my backpack over my shoulder. Then I turn back to the two girls.
“Oh, and for the record—if I were going to eavesdrop, I’d pick a much more interesting conversation than one about boys and the fucking cheerleading squad. Try being more predictable next time.”
Someone in the corner behind me giggles. Then someone else. Savannah’s face is now almost as red as her hair, and the other girl, Iris, is glaring at me.
Yep, that’s definitely going to cost me later. At least, it will if these girls are anywhere near as vindictive as their male counterparts in this school. But fuck it. I’ve already got one target painted on my back. Why not make it two?
Shaking my head, I slip out of the locker room before shit can go any further downhill.
I start asking around at lunch, sidling up to a few people I’ve seen in my classes and trying to get a read on the social scene here. I don’t get any bites at first, although I do get several offers from students—mostly douchey-looking guys—to let me clean their trays, their rooms, their “undercarriage”.
Lincoln, River, Dax, and Chase are in a corner, surrounded by a few pretty girls, but I can feel them watching me. Almost as if me walking around the cafeteria talking to other kids is making them nervous somehow. Like they thought I’d be eating lunch in the bathroom or something, and they’re not quite sure why I’m here at all.
I like thinking I’ve surprised them. But I hate the feel of their gazes on me. I try to ignore it, but it prickles against my skin like little ant bites, constantly tugging my attention back toward them.
And that’s the last damn place I want it.
What is it about them that makes it so hard to look away? Partly their looks, I guess. They are fucking hot, asshole tendencies aside. But there’s something else too, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. Is it because of the instinct of a prey animal to keep an eye on the nearby predators at all times? Or is it because of that whole commanding aura they have, and the fact that they somehow, wordlessly, seem to demand my attention?
I don’t want to give it to them, so I finish off my lunch and head to my next class early. I still haven’t found out where a poker game will be happening, but I’m not going to give up. There must be one—probably more than one—and I’m going to find it.
Rich kids love to throw their money around, right?
5
On Friday, I finally find what I’m after.
It comes from an
