Stuck With The Four Hotties

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 exFept 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 pterodaFtyl sFreeFh 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.”

I bite my lower lip. Miranda (who still isn’t here yet) and I take the number three spot while Tristan and Harper are in first place. Even though I hate to admit it, keeping up with Tristan on an academic level is tough. Guess he’s smarter than he looks.NôvelDrama.Org: owner of this content.

“Tristan and I are doing well together. What right do you have to separate us?” Harper runs her tongue along her lower lip as she scowls.

“A right that was earned with three doctorates and time spent tutoring royalty in Europe. You are not the most special person in this class, Miss du

Pont. You’re relying on Mr. Vanderbilt to carry your partnership. Same with Miss Reed and Miss Cabot, who I see has chosen not to join us today.” I cringe a little when Miranda stumbles into the class late, tripping as she struggles to make her way down the steps and slide into the seat next to mine. “Ah, you’ve decided to grace us with your presence I see.”

“I’m sorry,” Miranda whispers as Mrs. Z points from her to Harper. “Pair up.”

“What?!” Harper’s got her pterodactyl screech thing going on again.

“Mr. Vanderbilt, Miss Reed, you’re paired up.” She continues down the line, directing students together. Harper’s still gaping when Miranda gets up to sit beside her. Tristan slides onto the stool next to me, his arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t seem nearly as bothered as Harper.

“This must be your worst nightmare, huh?” I ask, and he slides those gray eyes of his in my direction. A smile grabs the edge of that wicked mouth of his.

“My worst nightmare? Hardly. More like yours.” Tristan turns to look at me, reaching out to straighten my tie. His fingers brush across the tops of my breasts, and my breath leaves me in a rush. Harper is staring at us, eyes flaming, like I’m the girl standing between her and her intended future fiance. Ironically, I might be the only girl in the class that Tristan hasn’t slept with. “If we didn’t have our little bet, I’d destroy you.” He pauses, considering. “Although I suppose that somehow, even with your piss poor public school education, you excel academically. I figured you were fucking some of the professors, but I don’t imagine you run to Mrs. Z’s tastes.” He glances toward the front of the room where Harper is now standing, arguing with Mrs. Z in hushed, angry tones.

“That’s such an ignorant, misogynistic thing to say, I’m not even going to comment.” I open my laptop and download next week’s lab materials, opening the documents up and scanning the experiment as Tristan watches me.

“How do you do so well? If you’re not screwing anyone, then what is it?

Pity? Affirmative action?”

“Try hard work and determination,” I snap, slamming the top on my computer closed. My eyes meet Tristan’s, but it’s hard to hold his stare. He’s just so … ugh. He’s got this cavalier attitude toward me that started on day one. Also, he’s too pretty for his own good. The worst part is that he’s fully aware of his looks. “Getting into this school was one of the hardest things

I’ve ever done. I spent my entire eighth grade year gunning for this scholarship and this position.”

“I’ve spent my entire life working to get into this school.” Tristan stares down at me from eyes that are the color of the stormy sky above the sea, a flat gray with incoming clouds, thick with thunder and flickering with lightning. “For four generations, the Vanderbilts have taken valedictorian at Burberry Prep. If that’s your goal, I suggest you move to a different school.”

“Last I checked, I was still number one in the first year class,” I quip, and his face tightens. But Harper’s finally stomped up to sit next to Miranda, seething, her fingers digging into her pale thighs so tightly that I can see red marks. Mrs. Z starts her lecture, and I pull out my tablet to take notes.

Tristan doesn’t speak to me the rest of the day, but I know he heard me. And I know he means to fi

ght back.

Come January, I am so screwed.