Stuck With The Four Hotties

“Figure what out?” I ask, but they’re not here to talk. This time, they don’t just verbally assault me. Two girls come up from behind and grab me by the arms while Harper steps forward and backhands me across the face as hard as she can. I taste blood in my mouth, and I see stars as I look back at her. She grins and moves aside for Becky who’s so gung-ho for violence that she’s practically drooling. She hits me closed-fist in the stomach, and I double over, held up only by the girls on either arm. I’m struggling, kicking and flailing as hard as I can, but I’m not going anywhere. When I do finally break one arm free, there are two more girls to come and help pin it back.

They take turns hitting me until I’m so dizzy and out of breath that when they let go, I fall to my knees. The beating doesn’t stop there. They kick me,

pull my hair, tear the seams from my blouse. The girls keep at it until a round of applause sounds from the stage. That’s their cue to step back and leave me there, panting and bleeding on the floor.

For several minutes, nobody comes, so I force myself up and stumble to the nearest bathroom, using a wad of paper towels from the dispenser to clean myself up as best as I can. I’m panting, soaked in sweat, and ready to cry, but the pain is … it’s damn near unbearable. My first thought is that maybe I should go find someone and report this, but then I remember my dad, and the harp, and my first solo …

No. After.

After I play, I’ll deal with this. They can’t take that away from me.

Marnye, you’re in shoFk. I realize that, but it doesn’t stop me from doing what I’m doing.

So I splash my face with cold water, clean up as much blood as I can, and then button my jacket over my torn blouse. By the time I make it backstage, Harper’s finishing up a piano solo, and bowing gracefully, no sign of the violence she just inflicted anywhere on her face or hands. Her eyes widen as she passes by me, but by then the harp is already being wheeled out, and I’m announced to the stage by Ms. Felton.

A deep hush comes over the room when I walk out, but I don’t think it’s because of the beating I just took. I cleaned up most of the blood, and the majority of the bruises won’t show until later. Maybe the room is just silent because everyone knows who I am, the scholarship winner, the charity case.Contentt bel0ngs to N0ve/lDrâ/ma.O(r)g!

I sit down at the harp and close my eyes. My hands are shaking, and my body’s gone numb with shock. Later, I’m going to be hurting pretty badly. For right now, I’m okay. My love for music covers up any jitters I might have, and I throw myself into my performance, playing the best I’ve ever played. My eyes find Dad’s briefly, then Mom’s.

Most important, I seek out Miranda, but she won’t look at me. The guys are next: Creed then Tristan then Zayd.

They’re all watching me.

I’ve just finished one song and started on the next when I start to hear whispers and laughter, people pointing. I pause briefly and glance behind me to see that the giant screen has come down again, the one that showcased the student awards. It flickers and then comes to laugh, and my jaw drops open

as I see myself, my naked ass in Tristan’s hands in the library. The video is shaky, and clearly taken from the other side of the bookcase, but it’s distinctly me, and distinctly him.

I want to fucking die.

This Fannot be happening, I think, hating that my dad is in that audience.

Worse, my mom.

I stand up, but the video doesn’t stop there. Images of me pressed against Creed in the bathroom pop up, even my make out session with Zayd from last night is there.

“No,” I whisper, but I hardly get the chance to move before I feel the first drops of liquid on my head. I look up just in time for a can of red paint to spatter on my hair and clothes, splashing across the harp and the screen. I’ve just had a Carrie pulled on me.

My mind quite literally goes blank, and I fall to my knees without even realizing it.

Zayd stands up in the audience, but he doesn’t move to help me. Creed follows next, then Tristan. At a nod from the latter, the Idols and a good dozen other boys, all pull out pairs of panties from their pockets.

My panties. The ones that were stolen from my room.

They’re all thrown at me, littering the stage as the audience fades into a roaring silence.

Dad stands up, but I can’t bear to look at him. My heart is pounding, my mind is racing, and then I’m just scrambling to my feet and taking off. I don’t know where I’m going, but when I blink, I end up back at my room.

One of the staff is there, my overnight bag in hand, as they lock up the door and then turn, getting ready to deliver it to the office for me to pick up later. I don’t even think, I just run by and grab it, stumbling as I head outside to the courtyard and the front steps.

I only make it down the first few before I’m surrounded, by Bluebloods and Plebs alike.

Tristan Vanderbilt is front and center, with Creed on one side and Zayd on the other.

My heart breaks, cuts me up, reforms.

The hardest hearts are forged in fire; I’ll need to be made of steel to survive this one.

“Hello Charity,” Tristan says, taking a few steps forward. He’s got a trophy in his hand, a gold one with a white marble base. “Do you know what

this is?” I don’t say anything, not a word. He moves even closer, his gray eyes sparkling with the thrill of the hunt. The way he looked at Harper in The Mess the other day is the way he’s looking at me now, like I’m prey. “This is a trophy.” Tristan turns and hands it over to Zayd.