Part of me wonders if I should quit the team. I’m not particularly invested in or excited by cheering, or by sports in general really, but it’s a good way to stay in shape, and it does add some interest to my résumé. Anyway, even though half the girls on the squad are Company members that hate me and my guys, I can’t ditch Coach Hannah and the others just before our first real competition.

We’ve done a few local things, but we haven’t come back with any medals or trophies just yet. I don’t think this time will be different, but we’ve gotten a hell of a lot better since third year started, so who knows?

Zayd is one the first performers to take the stage, and he gets quite the warm welcome from the crowd. Part of that, I’m sure, is because of his outfit: these tight leather pants that cup his ass like a second skin, and a loose, torn tank with some old band logo on the front. He might be playing an acoustic guitar, but he looks like he’s ready for a rock concert.

I sneak out from backstage, and stand at the edge of the auditorium, my heart singing as he plays his song in front of the whole school. Becky calls out some bullshit from behind the curtain, but I don’t let her words bother me because they’re tinged with jealousy. That, and Zayd … he told me he loves me, didn’t he?

It’s a huge thing, those few words. They mean a whole hell of a lot.

Just before he leaves the stage, Zayd gives me a wink and a kiss, takes a bow, and exits stage left.

I’m up just after him, so I have to scramble to get backstage before the harp’s wheeled into place, and I head out in front of the crowd to a mixed reception of boos and cheers. Doesn’t matter at this point. I’m used to it. The first few times I played after the incident during first year were hard, but it’s gotten easier and easier, and I know I can’t let fear keep me from doing what I love.

So I sit down on that stool, and I sweep my fingers across the strings, closing my eyes and letting the melody drift in the air like the snowflakes swirling from the ebon-dark sky outside. There’s a crisp, cold snap to the air that makes the world seem so much more vivid. Sometimes when I play the harp, it feels like I’m weaving sound from the air, tucking random notes into a loom until I’ve crafted something completely new.

As is often the case, I drift away as I pluck the strings, swaying slightly with the music. There’s some noise and movement from backstage, a very distinct grunt, and some arguing, but I don’t pay attention to any of it. I’m at the part of the song where the pace picks up and I feel like I’m tickling the instrument, making it laugh and sing with each brush of my fingers.

My eyes drift up and find several empty seats in the front of the auditorium where the boys should be. Miranda, Lizzie, and Andrew are there, but none of my guys. Not a single one. I finish off my song, and listen to the smattering of clapping and a few raucous shouts that are quickly stifled by the staff.

Rising to my feet, I take a bow and head backstage to find Zack, Windsor, and Zayd in a stand-off with some of the Harpies.

“One day, we’re going to catch you in the right place at the right time,” Jalen Donner sneers, rubbing some blood off his face with his sleeve. “I’m going to fucking kill Tristan Vanderbilt. Where is that pussy anyway? Too busy screwing somebody else’s girlfriend?”

“You are so damn lucky,” Ileana Taittinger sneers at me, dressed up in some ridiculous white jumpsuit. All the Company girls are participating in a song and dance routine set to Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas Is You. From what little I saw of it during auditions, it’s pretty horrendous.

“How so?” I ask, folding my arms over the long, red dress I’m wearing. It’s so sparkly and pretty, and long and flowy enough to be worn while I play.

“These wankers thought they could get one over on us,” Windsor says, stepping forward, and snatching a sword from one of the prop racks for the drama club’s upcoming rendition of the Nutcracker. He whips the wooden blade around in a circle, and takes up a fighting stance that clearly shows he’s had his fair share of fencing lessons. “They were going to throw fire crackers onstage while you were playing.”

My brows go up.

Damn.

A firecracker could easily take my fingers off. Maybe that was the point, huh?

I look down at the floor and see scattered fireworks, matches, and a few lighters. When Harper and Becky come out of the dressing room, they don’t look happy to see me standing there unscathed.

“Nice wigs,” I say, and Kiara seriously throws herself at me. Zack catches her and shoves her back, making her stumble in her heels.

“Don’t touch my fucking girlfriend, or you’ll see how quickly I break that no violence rule of hers. See, she’s a real class act. Me, I’m a fucking asshole. I’m not afraid to talk about your daddy’s affairs, or the three young pregnant women suing him for child support.”

“Shut your goddamn mouth!” Kiara snaps, hissing under her breath. There’s a trio of Pleb girls onstage whose music is loud enough to drown out our fight. Of course there are zero staff members back here. Makes me wonder how many of the teachers Harper’s paid to look the other way.

But then Mrs. Amberton and Ms. Highland come in from outside, a weepy Ebony Peterson standing between them. I have no idea what ruse she’s pulling, but she scowls as soon as she sees me.

“Where did all of these fireworks come from?” Mrs. Amberton asks, her gaze flying up to meet mine. She seems genuinely concerned which is nice. I make myself smile.

“One of the first year boys dropped a box of them and took off,” Harper says, fanning herself. Her bodysuit is so tight, she’s got a camel toe. Swear on my life, I couldn’t make that up if I tried. Her wig is clearly expensive, made of real human hair, and as glossy and shiny as Miranda’s real hair.

First opportunity I get, I’m snatching it off.

The song playing onstage peters out, and we can hear the crowd clapping.

“Harper du Pont and the Bluebloods,” Mr. Carter announces, and I roll my eyes. Ex-Bluebloods is more like it.

“Break a leg,” Zayd purrs as the girls strut past him. “Literally, please. I want to see some bone.”

“Eat shit, Zayd,” Becky growls as she saunters past.

“Hey,” Zack says, taking me by the elbow. “Go sit in the audience with Miranda, okay?”

I give him a look.

“Remember our little conversation?” Windsor asks, spinning the wooden sword in a circle as the Company boys look on suspiciously. I think the prince might actually be able to kick their asses with it if he wanted to. That is, until he gets a scolding and a mark from Ms. Highland for messing with props he’s not supposed to be touching.

“Our turn to play dirty,” Zayd whispers, pushing me toward the stairs.

I do as he asks, taking the seat between Miranda and Lizzie.

The stage lights darken, and the song starts up. Slowly, the spotlight fades to life and Harper turns around, grabbing the microphone and singing Mariah’s notes in a fairly impressive imitation of the famous song. I guess there’s a reason she’s head of the choir.

Once she starts dancing however, I can’t keep the giggles back.

“She looks like a deranged snow bunny,” I whisper, and both Miranda and Lizzie join in. The other girls—Becky, Ileana, Abigail, Valentina, Kiara, Mayleen, Anna, and Ebony—join in with a choreographed dance, taking up mics of their own.

The whole thing is just … it’s hilarious. I’m sorry, I try not to belittle others, but the girls tried to kill me, so I figure they’re fair game for an honest critique.

About halfway through the song, when I’m pretty sure I just can’t take it anymore … nine Pleb boys that I barely recognize appear from behind the curtain, moving up behind the girls while they’re busy singing and focusing on the audience.

Wigs get snatched, and there’s chaos, the song playing in the background with the faintest hint of Mariah’s vocals crooning through the speakers. Harper’s pterodactyl screech echoes in her mic just before the boys retreat back like they’re expecting something more.

That’s when viscous red pours down from above, coating the Harpies from head-to-toe as they scream.

This time though, I don’t think it’s paint. Creed wasn’t lying. No, my boys have gone full-out: this is blood.

The whole room is silent as the song nears the end, and Tristan and Creed appear from the opposite side of the auditorium, sliding surreptitiously into two empty seats. Zack, Windsor, and Zayd come out just after, sitting on the end of the front row about ten seats down from me.

Harper is standing there panting and shaking, her girls on either side of her, most of them crying.

The curtain tumbles down in front of them, and there are panties pinned all over it.

Holy … freaking crap.

The music fades out, and the auditorium bursts into laughter.

It’s a good thing I go out of town for the cheer competition: blood is being shed at Burberry Prep. Now, when I took revenge, I let them hang themselves with their own rope. My boys … are definitely stretching the rules a bit with their creativity. They chisel cruelty into flawless perfection much the same way as a sculptor chips at marble or stone.