Stuck With The Four Hotties

While the Idol boys are being, for the most part, pleasant, the girls are at their worst. And the Inner Circle isn’t much better. On the last Friday of the month, just after grades are posted and I take second place behind Tristan (damn it!), I get a call that Vice Principal Castor wants to see me.

His office is located in the administration building just outside the chapel. My heart is thundering, my palms sweaty as I make my way out the door and along the windy gravel path. The gardens on either side are beautiful, carefully manicured, and filled with late winter flowers like daffodils, California golden currants, and fragrant rosemary. The sun is shining, and the air is perfumed with sweetness. I’m nervous, but not overly so.

Not until I knock on the man’s door and hear a gruff invitation from the other side.

Vice Principal Paul Castor is in his late fifties, early sixties with graying hair, a short beard and mustache, and arms thick from strenuous workouts. Sometimes I see him jogging around campus after school and on weekends. He lives on the Burberry Prep campus, several miles down the road in the staff housing.

“Come in and take a seat, Miss Reed,” he says, his voice hard. The way his gray-blue eyes track me, I know right away I’m in trouble. He’s staring at me like I’ve already done something wrong, and he’s simply deciding on the correct form of punishment.

I do as he asks, folding my skirt underneath my thighs, and doing my best not to think about Tristan’s hands roaming around down there. As soon as that thought enters my mind, a hot flush comes to my cheeks, and I have to swallow around a lump in my throat.

Last night, I had a three hour texting conversation with Lizzie about Tristan. The way she talks about him, you’d think he walked on water. She actually likes the guy. When I tried asking her how she felt about breaking up with him, she waited almost a half an hour before texting me back.

If I had any other FhoiFe, I’d still be with them.

And what sort of answer is that?

“Miss Reed,” Mr. Castor repeats, folding his hands on the top of his desk. He stares me down like we’re in an interrogation room. “Do you know why I called you here?” I shake my head, but I’m still all jumbled up with thoughts of Tristan, so it’s hard to force my mouth to speak coherent thoughts. “We’ve received almost two dozen complaints from students across all four years here at Burberry Prep, that you’ve been selling your services.”

My mouth drops open, and my cheeks flame red.

Services … as in … does Mr. Castor think I’m a Working Girl from the Brothel, too?

“Homework, essays, answers to test,” he continues, and I almost breathe a sigh of relief. Oh, those sorts of serviFes. But then I realize the implications present in that. Over two dozen Fomplaints?! “The accusations have come from students with very credible reputations, and we need to take them seriously.”

“As seriously as you took the accusations about my out of control drinking?” I snap, a high note of panic in my voice. Mr. Castor looks chagrined, and sighs.

“Look, I understand you’ve been having trouble fitting in, but two dozen complaints is too many. Miss Reed, you are talented and bright, but unless there’s some secret coup against you then-”

“There is a secret coup!” I shout. I don’t mean to raise my voice, but I’m starting to panic here. My hands curl into fists in the red pleats of my skirt.

“We have proof, copies of identical homework assignments with your handwriting on them.”

My brows crinkle up, but I can’t figure out how exactly they swung that one.

“Can I see these copies?” I ask, because I know if I take a look at them, then I’ll be able to determine if it really is my handwriting. Mr. Castor gives me a tight half-smile and opens a folder on his desk, passing over a sheet of paper that most definitely has my writing on it. The only difference is that the name’s been changed. Two minutes with Photoshop could fix that. I wrack my brain as I stare at the sheet of paper, and then it all clicks.

My locker, the day my panties were stolen. I had this exact assignment in there, and when I couldn’t find it, I just asked our Japanese teacher, Mrs. Suzuki-Suzuki Sensei-for another one.

“We have four students who turned this in as proof, another dozen with identical math homework, and so on. Miss Reed, if you confess right now and give up the names of all the students involved, we’ll make the punishment light. After all, buying these services is nearly as bad as selling them, and we can’t exactly expel over two dozen students.” He sighs and sits back in his chair. “We’ll start with a two week suspension wherein you’ll return home, but take your schoolwork with you. Any assignment that’s been copied will have a grade of zero, and you’ll lose your place in the student rankings.”

My heart turns to ice and plummets into my stomach, shattering to pieces. I clamp my hand over my mouth and feel so sick that I’m not sure I’ve even got the strength to stand up and make it over to one of the potted plants in the corner. I’ve been working hard, so fucking hard.

The Idol boys, Tristan in particular, come to mind. He just surpassed me in rank, but it wouldn’t surprise me if-

There’s a sharp knock on the double doors, but whoever it is that’s on the other side doesn’t wait for confirmation. They swing inward, and Tristan Vanderbilt strolls in with Zayd Kaiser on one side, and Creed Cabot on the other.

“Boys,” Mr. Castor begins as they stroll up, Zayd on my left, Creed on my right. Tristan stands behind me and puts both of his hands on my shoulders. When he squeezes, a swarm of butterflies takes off in my belly.

“Vice Principal Castor,” Tristan begins, his voice cold and arrogant and full of disdain. It’s quite clear in the way he speaks to the man that he doesn’t respect him. “I’ve just been made aware of the accusations leveled at Miss Reed.”

“Mr. Vanderbilt, you know I can’t discuss the business of other students

-”

Tristan halts the man’s words with a wave of his hand. With the other, he starts to massage my shoulder, and I almost melt in my chair. Zayd is grinning on my left, winking at me when I glance his way. Creed just looks bored and completely and utterly put out. If he were a cat, his tail would be flicking in irritation.

“I can name every student who came to you with a complaint,” Tristan continues, his voice like an inky night sky, endless and black but with a few stars here and there to brighten things up. “And I can tell you exactly how they got the assignments in question.” He reaches into the pocket of his academy jacket and pulls out a set of keys. “I found these on the floor in the chapel.” He tosses them over to Mr. Castor.

“You expect me to believe that?” Mr. Castor asks, and when I look back at him, Tristan has one brow cocked over his steel gray eyes.

“Believe it,” Creed drawls, yawning and rolling his shoulders. “We have a lot of influence in this school, or haven’t you noticed?” His blue eyes sharpen, and I’m reminded of his confrontation with Derrick. Only this time, it’s not Miranda he’s defending, it’s me.

A warmth suffuses my chest that I can’t put a name to. But it feels good.

Really, really good.

“A lot of the other students are jealous of Marnye,” Zayd says, sliding his inked hands into the pockets of his slacks. “So they ganged up on her. We took care of it.” He tilts his head to the side, and reaches up to rake his fingers through his mint green hair, turning it into a sea of sharp spikes. “It won’t happen again.”

Creed smiles wickedly and for a moment there, I almost forget that he was the first one to try to go to the staff to get me in trouble. Is this all a game? Did they report me so they could save me? But no, what would be the point of that?

“We’ll be taking Marnye now. Punish the accusers however you want.” Creed turns to leave and Tristan drops his hands from my shoulders, offering me one to help me out of the chair. I take it cautiously, glancing back at Mr. Castor, but his mouth is flattened into a thin line and it doesn’t look like he’s going to protest.

“Let’s get out of here before he finds something else to bitch about,” Zayd whispers, and the four of us sweep out the doors and into the sunshine.

“What was that all about?” I ask as Tristan pulls me down the path and then pushes me into a little alcove. His hands are on either side of the

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y, and his face is so close we could kiss.