Nine

“Good morning everyone,” Ms. Felton says, standing up and smoothing her hands down the front of her skirt suit. Politician. That’s what I get when

I look at her. That, or maybe lawyer. Lobbyist. Something of that sort. She looks far too smart, and far too cunning to be holed away at a private university in the middle of nowhere. “My name is Carrie-Anne Felton, and I’ll be your homeroom teacher for the rest of the year.” Plastering a smile on her face, she makes her way around the room. “This is your safe space, so to speak, in the world of academics, a place to feel grounded, to discuss problems—”

Ms. Felton pauses, and the entire room turns to look as the elevator opens, and a guy with razored mint green hair appears, the sleeves of his crisp, white shirt pushed up, his muscular forearms covered in tattoos. My eyes widen and my heart skips several beats as he steps into the room like he owns the place.

“Sorry I’m late, Carrie-Anne,” he says, green eyes sweeping the room and coming to rest on me. Pretty sure I’m the only person in this room he doesn’t recognize. He surveys me for a moment, and then flicks his attention back to our teacher. “No seat for me?”

“It seems we’re short one chair,” Ms. Felton says, checking the iPad in her arms. “We have one more student than originally planned …”

“Get up, Charity,” Tristan whispers, leaning over and focusing quite clearly on me. “You’re the one who’s attending for free. Zayd’s family actually pays for him to go here. Don’t you think he deserves a chair?”

My cheeks heat up with anger, but I don’t move from where I’m sitting. I’d rather die. Little do I know in that moment, the Idols will try their hardest to achieve that end.

“I think if Burberry Prep can afford elevators, it can afford an extra chair.” My voice is quiet, but firm. Miranda makes a small, helpless sound from beside me, and Tristan sits up, lifting his chin like I’ve just seriously pissed him off.

“It’s not a matter of affording chairs,” Ms. Felton interrupts, misreading the situation and waving her hand dismissively. “This is a small room, and we didn’t want more furniture than necessary. I’ll have the maintenance staff bring another up. Mr. Kaiser, seeing as you’re the only person who refused to show up on time, you can stand for the time being.”

“My pleasure, Ms. Felton,” he purrs, swaggering over to the window and propping himself on one of the wide, stone sills. His eyes go half-lidded, and he looks the teacher up and down appreciatively. “Anything for you.” Most of the students chuckle, but I can’t seem to stop studying this guy. Colored

hair is expressly prohibited in the student dress code, and here this guy is with mint green hair, piercings in his lips and brow, and arms covered in tattoos.

“Zayd’s agent got him some special working contract,” Miranda whispers, reading my mind. “Like, he has to maintain a certain look for his career. That, and it’s rumored this his agent, Bob Rosenberg, is fucking Vice Principal Castor.” My mouth twitches at the corner, but I’m not surprised. Nothing at this school could surprise me at this point.

“And what’s his career?” I ask, casting another glance in Zayd’s direction. He’s easy on the eyes, that’s for sure. My stomach twists into a little knot, and I bite my lower lip.

“Rock star.” Miranda grins when I give her a questioning look. “Lead singer of the band Afterglow. They’re kind of a big deal; they had over a hundred thousand downloads of their debut album last year, and like a hundred million streams.”

Ms. Felton gives Zayd a narrow-eyed look, like she’s used to this sort of bullshit from entitled teens, and goes back to her speech, telling us all how we should be able to speak freely in here, how there are no limits to the discussions we can have, and so on and so forth. Pretty sure I’m the only person listening, and when the bell in the chapel sounds, I’m also the last one out.

Except for Zayd Kaiser.

“You,” he says, like he expects me to leap at his beck and call. “You’re new here?”

“This is Marnye Reed,” Miranda says, beaming happily and gesturing at me like I’m her newest, greatest find. I think she senses a possible Idol ally for me, but … I don’t think so. The way Zayd’s looking at me, like I’m a piece of meat he might use and throw away, I’m pretty sure she’s dead- wrong. I have a way of reading people. Been doing it my whole life. Back at LBH, it could literally be the difference between life and death. At the end of last year, one of the freshmen was murdered by two seniors.

“Marnye Reed,” Zayd starts, his voice this husky purr that gets under your skin in the best possible way. He taps an inked finger against his mouth for a moment, and then snaps his fingers. “Right. A few of the others texted me about you this morning, before the great phone purge.” He crinkles his brow and then flicks at one of his silver lip rings with a tattooed finger. “What they’re saying about you, it’s just not right.” My mouth pops open, and I feel

the briefest inkling of relief. Maybe I don’t have to be in a feud with every popular kid on campus. “They’re calling you the Working Girl, but they’re also saying you’re not fuckable.”

“Excuse me?” I choke, but Zayd’s already smiling at me with sharp, sharp lips, like a razorblade threatening to cut. His hair is spiked up, his shirt mussed, and half his buttons are undone. I can see another tattoo lingering on the fine planes of his chest.

“What I’m saying is, you can’t be a Working Girl and an unfuckabl

e virgin all at once.”