Stuck With The Four Hotties

By the time Monday rolls around again, I’m thoroughly exhausted. I spent all weekend trying to get a hold of my dad, and fending off Miranda’s attempts to get me to go out again. Instead, I convinced her to stay in on Saturday and watch movies. Sunday, she texted to let me know that she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to sleep in.

But even as I’m looking for trouble around every corner, nothing comes.

That’s a form of mental torture right there, expecting all these horrible things, a low-grade anxiety humming through me. The classes, at least, are challenging, more so than I expected. I end up spending most every night that week in the five story library, studying my ass off. The librarians are pretty much book Nazis, so I feel safe in there. Even the Idols can’t touch me in their domain.

Thursday, I scoot into my seat in art class, right next to Miranda, feeling my heart thunder in my chest. Our assignment from last week was to create an abstract piece of media that represented our favorite painting, song, book, poem, or dance. Thinking creatively doesn’t come easily to me. You’d think growing up the way I did that I would’ve wanted to escape into a made-up world. While I was an avid reader, I was also overly practical. As much as I enjoy a good novel or movie or game, I also knew that the only way to change my situation was to fight in the real world. Banishing dragons with magic blades is great, but it wouldn’t get me out of Lower Banks. It wouldn’t get me into a good college. It wouldn’t get me a high-paying job.

So I really struggled with the assignment, settling on J. K. Rowling’s The Tales of Beedle the Bard as my inspiration. One of my favorite childhood memories is of sitting on my bed with both Mom and Dad, neither of them drunk, taking turns reading that book to me. No matter how horrible things got, I had that moment to hold onto.

We don’t just have one art teacher at Burberry Prep, we have three. They each have their own specialties, and their impressive lists of accomplishments and awards. I’ve decided I like Mrs. Amberton best. The way her eyes sparkle when she talks about creative writing makes me wish I could find my own passion. I mean, I did okay with my scholarship essay, but that was all real pain pouring out of me, my entire life story in similes and metaphors. It was so personal that when I wrote it, I cried the whole time. Knowing Miranda’s read it, too, is a weird feeling, but even though we haven’t known each other long, I trust her.NôvelDrama.Org holds text © rights.

Maybe that’s a mistake, but … it’s mine to make, I guess.

“Public speaking can be an art, in and of itself,” Ms. Highland says, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her clothes are playful, but her glasses, makeup, and hairdos are anything but. It makes me wonder what’s going on inside of her, that she should be so controlled and so open all at the same time. “And it’s important in most anything you might think to do with your future. So for today, you’ll be presenting your projects in front of the class-in random order.”

There’s a chorus of groans, and I feel my heart start to pound. Presenting to an audience, I’m okay with. Presenting to Harper, Becky, Zayd, and Tristan … not so much. The four of them sit in the back of the class, not quite together but not far apart either. I’m getting the idea that the three Idol boys don’t much like each other.

Mr. Carter uses his iPad to select a student from the class to go first.

And, because I have the worst luck known to man, that student ends up being me.

“Marnye Reed,” he calls, and I let out a sharp breath. I can feel the eyes of every student in that room swing toward me. It’s not a good feeling.

“Let’s go Working Girl!” one of the girls shouts, and cruel laughter breaks out around the room. I ignore it, taking my art up to the front of the multi- tiered lecture hall. I decided on resin and acrylic, creating this mirror like surface of rainbow colors on the square canvas.

“Miss Fanning, that’s quite enough, thank you,” Mrs. Amberton says, her voice hardening. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her snap quite like that, and I hold back a small smile. It’s nice to feel like I have a member of staff on my side. “Beautiful piece,” she adds, moving to the side to give me the stage. I return her genuine smile and prop the art on the waiting easel.

“You fucking suck!” some guy shouts, but I ignore him. If there’s anything I’m good at, it’s school. This is where I shine. If I could, I’d be a professional student for the rest of my life. Taking a deep breath, I turn and face the class. My eyes catch on Tristan’s gray glare and sharp frown before sliding over to Zayd’s emerald green irises and derisive smirk. I won’t let anyone beat me down, not ever again.

“My inspiration for this piece comes from J. K. Rowling’s The Tales of Beedle the Bard,” I start, projecting my voice toward the audience. I had to do this to win the Cabot Scholarship Award, too, give a speech. What makes this any different? The thing is, I’m definitely not going to be spilling my guts to the Burberry Prep students. No way in hell. “As a child, it was not only my favorite book, but it also gave me my favorite memory. That’s something I’ll forever be grateful for.” Pausing, I run my fingers over the shiny surface of the canvas, marveling at the colors. It wasn’t easy to get the effect I was looking for, this rainbow balayage that fades from violet at the top to red at the bottom.

“Isn’t that a faggot flag?” the asshole guy asks, the one who shouted at me. “Did you make a frigging Pride flag for art?” The laughter that follows his statement is dark and threaded with violence, a sound that’s echoed in the chuckles of those around him. Zayd and Tristan aren’t laughing, but they seem to be enjoying my pain, letting their followers do the dirty work for them.

“Mr. Hannibal, would you like to go to the office with me and discuss your treatment of LGBTQ individuals?” Mrs. Amberton’s lips are pursed, and the way she looks at John Hannibal is less than pleasant. He’s in the Inner Circle, that much I have memorized. Know thy enemies and all that.

“Go ahead and take me in. You know my father’s stance on that stuff.” Mrs. Amberton frowns, but she doesn’t say anything else. I decide then that even if I do like her, she isn’t strong enough to protect me in here. John Hannibal’s father is a conservative senator from Tennessee, and built his platform on keeping gay marriage off the books in his state. Of course, that’s

null and void now with the Supreme Court ruling, but I’d bet my life that his views have rem

ained much the same.