An email pops up on my academy-issued iPad from Mr. Carter, and I tap on it, glancing down the length of the form as he explains how to fill it out.

“You think any of these uptight assholes can outplay you?” Zack asks, and I shrug. Harper du Pont is sitting right behind me, and the last thing I want to do is draw attention to my instrument of choice. The way she looks at me, it wouldn’t be surprising if she picked the harp just to spite me.

“Guess we’ll find out,” I murmur as I submit the form, and then sit back to wait for everyone else, listening to Mr. Carter drone on about the choir program, the orchestra, and the music industry internship opportunities. The door to the lecture hall opens, and I glance lazily over my shoulder to see who it is.

It’s Charlie.

And he’s drunk off his ass.

He stumbles into the classroom, tripping over his own feet, one hand landing on Anna Kirkpatrick’s shoulder. She twists her face in disgust and pulls away from him as I stand up, dropping my iPad to the ground.

“Marnye, baby?” Dad calls out, and a bevy of dark snickers takes over the room. “Where are you?”

My whole body’s frozen over, and I feel rooted to the spot. Zack is quicker to react than me, bulldozing his way out of the aisle and grabbing Charlie by the shoulders.

“No, I want to see Marnye,” Dad slurs, trying to throw Zack off. But despite their age difference, Zack is about a million times stronger. He gets my father under control, hustling him toward the door as the entire class looks on in silence.

“Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Becky Platter sneers, and the room lights up with laughter.

“If you need a minute, you can excuse yourself, Miss Reed,” Mr. Carter says, but he doesn’t correct Becky for her comment. Why should he? Most of these kids have the staff wrapped around their fingers. Cheeks flaming, I pick my way down the aisle, and head up the steps, holding back tears.

Shoving my way out of the mixed media room, I find my dad slumped against a wall, Zack’s hold just barely keeping him upright. I’m torn between being worried and upset, my emotions a wild turmoil inside of me. I love my dad, but his behavior, it’s … it’s fucking unacceptable.

“Do you know what you’ve just done?” I whisper, choking back the tears. “You’ve given them the ammo they really need to take shots at me.”

“They?” Zack asks as Dad groans. The man’s barely conscious. My yelling at him isn’t going to do a thing. So much as I want to voice my anger, I take up his other side and help Zack lead him toward the front where the cars are waiting to ferry parents back and forth from the cabins.

“Don’t worry about it,” I murmur, feeling Zack’s dark eyes still on me. He says nothing as we move down the hall and out the door, along the corridor, and into the courtyard.

“Your dad got some news last night,” Zack tells me, but when I ask what it is, he clamps all the way up. Jerk.

I’m soaked in sweat by the time I get my dad into the back of the car. Zack pauses, like he’s not sure whether he should stay or go.

“He needs you,” I say lamely, holding up a palm. “He can barely walk let alone change his clothes and get into bed. Just make sure he sleeps facedown.” My eyes lift up to meet Zack’s, those dark pits that are completely and utterly unreadable. “I don’t know why you’re helping me, but … thank you.”

“Don’t bother,” Zack says, sliding into the backseat next to my dad. He slams the door, and the car starts off down the side road that leads to the lake. I watch it until it disappears, closing my eyes and doing my best to gather myself before going back to class. It isn’t easy, not with my hands shaking, my shirt sticking to my back with sweat, but I manage.

As soon as I walk in the door, I can feel it, the weight of their judgement, the depth of their hatred.

I settle myself into my seat and manage to hold back my tears for the rest of the day.

Next week, I might not be so lucky.

“Please tell me more about Zack,” Miranda begs, lounging on my bed and watching as I examine my borrowed costume in the mirror. We still have two weeks until Halloween, but apparently, the party here at Burberry is a huge deal. Not that I’m surprised. I’m pretty sure all the parties here are big deals.

“What’s there to tell?” I ask, turning to the side and wondering why every costume Miranda’s brought over for me to try on is so short and low-cut. Oh wait. Remember that scene in Mean Girls when Lindsay Lohan has the voiceover about Halloween, explaining that it’s a day for girls to dress slutty without actually being called sluts? Not that I agree with slut-shaming, but that statement is still, unfortunately, true.

“He was so dark and mysterious,” she mumbles, burying the lower half of her face in my pillow. “Pretty sure he has a thing for you.” I snort and decide that wearing a red bodycon dress with horns and Prada heels isn’t going to work for me. Miranda sees the expression on my face and slaps the bed with her palm. “How clever is that outfit?! It’s a conceptual thing, like The Devil Wears Prada, you know?”

“I got it,” I tell her with a small laugh. “I just don’t think it’s going to help my reputation as the Working Girl, you know?” Grabbing the next outfit off the stack, I head into the bathroom and start to change into another nearly identical costume. “And Zack does not have a thing for me. He’s always hated me.”

“Hated you? He was practically drooling.” I hear the bed creak as Miranda gets up, covering her eyes with her hand and leaning in the doorway of the bathroom. “Come on, don’t tell me you don’t think he’s hot.”

“He’s … Zack Brooks.” My lips purse as I slip into an angel costume that’s even shorter and tighter than the devil one I just tried on. Nope. If I do go to this Halloween party, then I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt. “He treated me like crap for all three years of middle school. I’ve hated him since I was twelve.” Except for those last few months when we dated. Ugh. I haven’t told Miranda about that part yet.

“Yeah, but, people change …” Miranda hedges, peeking out from behind her hand, her eyes lighting up. “You look so freaking cute in that,” she says, but I’m not even going to put the halo on. It’s just not happening. “Although the devil costume was my favorite.” She steps into the bathroom and scoops the massive fall of my hair into an artful chignon. “Maybe with an updo? You have fabulous hair, by the way. Combine it with that costume, and you’ll be the hottest girl at the party.”

I smile, she’s sweet, she really is, but there’s just no way.

“You should wear it,” I tell Miranda, shooing her out of the bathroom, so I can change again. She goes, grabbing the red Prada heels and dress on the way. When I hear her rummaging around in my wardrobe, I roll my eyes, yanking a gray tank top and shorts on before I go out to confront her with a hand on my hip. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going as Farrah Moan, I told you that.” She peeks out at me from behind the wardrobe door. “The drag queen? From RuPaul’s Drag Race. Oh, come on, Marnye.”

I cross my arms over my chest and gesture at her with my chin.

“I know what RuPaul’s Drag Race is. What I’m asking is why you’re shoving that outfit into my closet?”

“If I leave it here, maybe the subtle suggestion will take over you in your sleep, and you’ll wear this to the party.” Miranda shuts the doors and raises her eyebrows at me. “Now stop avoiding the subject, and tell me about Zack.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. He … his family used to know my dad. Sometimes he comes around and helps out. That’s all I know.” Miranda sighs at me and grabs her bag, giving me a hard look.

“You better not be holding out on me.” She pauses and her expression softens. When she reaches out to tuck some hair behind my ear, I smile. Everything she does comes from a good place. It’s hard to be angry with her. “Remember, I read your essay. You put your heart and soul into that, and there was no mention of Zack. I smell a mystery.”

“Zack wasn’t in there because he’s not a part of my heart and soul,” I tell her, grabbing her arm and steering her to the door. “Now go home and go to sleep.”

“Love you, night!” she calls out as I close the door and lock it.

Miranda’s nowhere to be found the next morning, so I muddle through morning classes without her. I catch a glimpse of Andrew with his friends, but only in passing. He raises a hand to wave, and I wave back, but that’s about it. My day is a social desert, and surprisingly, I’m grateful for it. It’s nice to have a break from being bullied and asked if I’d like a drink. Come on guys, the first few times it’s clever, but really, as an alcoholic’s daughter, I’ve heard it all. They’ll have to come up with some new material if they want to mess with me.

Flopping into my seat in mixed media, I take out my iPad and, as per the instructions on the screen at the front of the class, check my email for my instrument assignment. Instead of being assigned the harp, the only instrument I checked on the form, I’ve been put into choir.

My mouth pops open, and I glance up, noticing a pedal harp on the stage up front.

A squeal breaks out behind me, and Becky is up and moving down the steps in a blur, her skirt at least two or three inches shorter than mine and Miranda’s. I see flashes of her panties as she scrambles down to Mr. Carter. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but she’s gesturing wildly, and then … sitting down at the harp.

“What the ever-loving hell?” I grumble, my hands tightening on the edges of my tablet. The smell of vanillas and peaches wafts over me as Harper leans forward, her brunette hair fluttering forward and tickling my right cheek. Slowly, I slide my eyes her direction.

“What do you think, Working Girl? My mother’s on the schoolboard, and she really likes Becky. After all, we’ve been friends for years.” She taps a sharp nailed pink fingernail on my tablet screen. “I noticed you checked off choir in the No Thank You section of the form. But girls like you need to expand their horizons, don’t you think?”