Zayd deals, we play … and I lose. Again.

Lunch with Andrew the next day is pleasant, easy, no hidden threads of intent in his voice. We talk about his family’s beach home in Hawaii, about the winter formal next month, and I briefly tell him about my home in the old train car. There’s no judgement in his face, and when he asks me if we can go out sometime, it’s a yes. That spark of interest I thought I saw the first day of school is still there; I can see it when he looks at me.

Andrew invites me to spend Thanksgiving with a family friend of his who has a country home near the academy, but I’ve already made plans with Zack. Dinner at his family’s lake house ends up involving just the two of us, and a huge catered meal with all the usual fixings. It’s delicious, but kind of lonely, especially since I can sense that Zack’s frustrated about something. I figure it’s about his parents and their friends cancelling over a last-minute business meeting, but he’s impossible to read and I don’t ask.

I still don’t quite get why he invited me over in the first place, or why he’s suddenly so interested in me and my dad again.

“Who cares why he showed up?” Miranda groans, putting her hands over her face and then dropping them into her lap. She’s definitely shipping me and Zack. When I told her what happened while she was gone, she was strangely close-lipped about everything. She didn’t even weigh in on my date with Andrew. But right now, I can’t seem to shut her up. “He clearly likes you. Besides that, he has an amazing body, he could go pro in football if he wanted, and he’s got that overprotective quality that I like.”

“Are you dating him or am I?” I ask, smiling as we walk down the halls to the sound of sweet, sweet anonymity. It’s been two weeks since the party at the casino, and nobody’s bothered me. No rude notes shoved into my locker, or condoms pushed under my door. They’ve briefly stopped calling me the Working Girl, and I’ve been left alone to practice the harp in peace, eat in The Mess, or even go for a swim in the academy pool.

“I’m just saying, Zack’s a good guy. I like him.” Miranda swings her leather bookbag as we walk, heading for the gym. Harper, Becky, Abigail, and Valentina have made this class a living hell for me, snickering about my body behind raised hands, shouting at me when I’m on the diving board, stealing my towel when I’m in the showers. But not since casino night. I’m actually starting to enjoy learning how to swim properly. Before coming to Burberry Prep, all I could manage was a shaky dog paddle.

Of course, in the back of my mind, I know this peace is on a time-limit, and I’m counting down the days until the first of the new year with dread. That, and … there’s all the rest of it. I didn’t just play the guys once and lose. I played three times, and lost three times. How that happened, I have no idea. I should’ve just let it go after the first loss.

At least I now have fifty-five thousand dollars in my account—forty for the first game we played, and an additional five for each of the three rounds I lost. I feel like I let my greed get the best of me, and my cheeks flush just remembering it.

I’ve decided that for now, I’m going to save it for college.

On the plus side, Lizzie and I have been texting since the casino, and I feel like we’re actually starting to become friends. Miranda seems guarded whenever I mention her, but I’m guessing that has more to do with Tristan than Lizzie herself.

I try not to think about what I owe the Idols.

A favor. A kiss. A secret.

Miranda holds open the door to the gym, and I step inside, slamming into a chest so hard that it hurts my nose.

Creed is standing there, and he narrows his eyes as I reach up to rub at my face.

“Your pecs are painful,” I grumble, but he’s already ignoring me, focusing on his sister instead.

“You haven’t spoken to me in weeks. I’m sick of it.”

“So you’ll follow me into the girls’ locker room?” Miranda asks, pursing her lips. Her eyes brim with sudden tears. “Why don’t you just control my entire life?” She turns to leave, and I’m so shocked that I just stand there. Creed, however, reaches out and grabs hold of her upper arm, keeping her in place. “Tristan told me you were sniffing around, asking everyone at the party about me.” She tries to pull from her brother’s grip, but his fingers tighten until she winces. He sees, and an almost imperceptible muscle in his jaw twitches before he lets go. “If you want to know something, Creed, then ask me yourself.” She glares at her brother, nostrils flaring, left hand curled in the pleats of her skirt.

“Who are you dating, and how did Derrick fuck-face get a hold of nude photos?”

“Derrick …” Miranda starts, cheeks flushing. I told her what happened at the lodge, but she laughed it off, saying that Derrick Barr was just a texting fling. She showed me the images that Creed was referring to, rationalizing that she was wearing a bra so they ‘weren’t really nudes’. I didn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t matter how naked she was in those pics, that didn’t give Derrick and his friends a right to pass them around and make vulgar commentary. I’m almost glad he got his ass handed to him by Creed and Tristan. “He’s nothing.”

“Are you screwing Tristan?” Creed asks, blue eyes sparking with rage. My mouth drops open. He came to the same conclusion as I did … I remember Abigail’s face when Tristan whispered in her ear. He’s a monster, no doubt about that. Just before Zayd and I left the casino, I found him and asked what he’d said, and he smiled at me. “I told her she could never have me. Nobody can. And if by some miracle, I were going to choose a girl, it sure as hell wouldn’t be her.” Tristan smirked at me then, leaning close and putting his cheek against mine. “I said I’d rather date the eager little charity case.” And then he’d pulled back and left in his father’s car.

“Tristan?” Miranda chokes out, sounding nervous. She flicks her gaze in my direction, and then shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Marnye, just … tell coach I’m having period cramps.” She turns and takes off down the hall, her bookbag and ponytail bobbing.

Creed and I turn and look at each other, almost in unison. He frowns at me.

“You’ve had two weeks, and I haven’t heard shit.”

“Whoa,” I start, as he reaches up and shoves some of that white-blonde hair of his from his face. He’s scowling now, and I’m reminded of his expression when he challenged Derrick on the back deck. When it comes to family, Creed is dead serious. “She hasn’t told me anything, Creed. We talk about everything except for her love life. Literally, I could tell you your sister’s favorite brand of tampons, but not who she’s dating.”

“Please don’t,” Creed says, closing his eyes. He looks tired for real right now, leaning up against the wall with his shoulder. The bored princely routine is put on hold for the briefest of instances, and I find my cheeks heating up. I imagine this doesn’t happen often. “I’d rather not know that about Miranda.”

“She is your twin, after all,” I joke, trying to force a smile. Too much. Creed’s eyes snap open and he stands up straight, locking his insouciant expression back into place. “But I’m worried about her, too. She’s being kind of … distant. She barely talks to me, she got mad at me for texting Lizzie, and when Tristan comes around, she bolts. The only other person she seems to talk to besides me is Andrew.”

“Andrew, huh?” Creed starts, thinking for a moment.

“Creed!” Harper calls out, waving enthusiastically from the other side of the gym. “Hurry up and get changed. We’ve got a bet going on which boy can get the best lap times.” She drops her hand and turns to go, but not before giving me an angry little scowl and a supremely bitchy hair-toss.

“You think Miranda’s dating Andrew?” I ask. “But what about Tristan?” At the sound of his fellow Idol’s name, Creed starts scowling again.

“If I find out he’s banging my sister, I’ll kill him.” Creed pauses, like he’s just realized who he’s talking to. His face shuts down, like he’s got that arrogant heir look on speed dial. “Don’t forget our bet.”

I roll my eyes.

“Like I could if I tried. I don’t know anything.”

He looks me up and down, narrows his eyes, and then turns to head in the direction of the boys’ locker room. The tardy bell in the chapel sounds, and I groan.

I am now officially late to class.

Thanks, Creed.

Our chemistry teacher, Mrs. Zimmerman, is ancient, like eighty-something years old. She moves slow, but her mind is like a whip. I’ve seen her silence Tristan with a single command. On Friday, she has us meet in the lecture hall instead of the lab room.

“What the hell is this for?” Harper asks, popping her hip out. She seems to hate Mrs. Zimmerman with a fiery passion. Maybe because she’s one of the only teachers on campus that doesn’t bow to the Bluebloods?

“We’re switching lab partners,” Mrs. Z croaks, glaring at Harper through the thick lenses of her glasses. Her white hair is gathered into a bun on the top of her head, and she looks elegant in a white button-down blouse and floral skirt. She may be the only teacher at Burberry Prep besides Mrs. Amberton and Ms. Highland that doesn’t dress like a politician.

“Switching?” Harper shrieks, and I cringe. She sounds like a dinosaur sometimes. Every time she shouts like that, I imagine that gif with the screaming guy and the words pterodactyl screech written across the bottom. “Why?” She immediately looks to me, like I’ve somehow orchestrated this whole thing.

“Familiarity breeds laziness.” Mrs. Z turns on the screen at the front of the classroom, and shows off a list of grades with names next to them. Shame, never underestimate its effect on student motivation. Before I was even allowed to sign up for classes at Burberry Prep, Dad and I had to sign a waiver that allowed the school to publish student grades. “Take a good look at this list.”