“Agreed. But you’ve gotta find a way to get them off your ass,” Greg looked pained. “Because I can’t stand to see good bacon wasted.”
“Me neither.” I wrapped my arms around his neck and returned the hug he’d given me before breakfast. “I promise, the monarchs are going to regret the day they ruined my breakfast.”
Greg’s smile wobbled a little. “It’s when you say things like that, I start to worry.”
“Why?”
“Because you look like you could do some serious damage to them. And the monarchs aren’t the kind of people to take retaliation lying down.”
“Good.” I linked arms with his and dragged him away from the dining hall. “Bring it the fuck on.”
* * *
The rest of the day, I barely heard a word of my classes. My eyes kept flicking to Ayaz, trying to glimpse that penetrating sadness I’d seen at breakfast, trying to understand what was going on in his head. But he gave me no glimpse behind the cruel mask he wore. The memory of his scent itched at the back of my throat, and I had the stupid urge to walk past him and inhale deeply. That was insane, so of course, I didn’t. But I wanted to, and I hated that I wanted to.
Tuesday was a non-elective day, which meant that after our final class students were required to spend time on extracurricular activities before dinner. It was when clubs and societies met and sports teams practiced on the fields. Greg and I had booked one of the music suites to practice our song for the audition. As soon as we shut and locked the door, I slumped onto the piano stool, kicked off my shoes and wiggled my toes. The run in my stocking now ran all the way up to my knee. Super classy, Hazel. Oh yeah, I definitely fit in here.
“What are you doing?” Greg whispered. “Being seen without full uniform is an automatic 10-point demerit.”
“Look around. No one’s watching. We’re safe in here,” I reminded him. “No teachers. No Kings or Queens or court jesters. No maggots.”
“Hey, yeah.” Greg kicked off his own shoes and sat cross-legged on the floor beside the piano. “So, how are we going to wow them at this audition?”
I tapped on the piano keys. “I was thinking something fromHeathers. ‘Dead Girl Walking’ or ‘Seventeen,’ or maybe a medley?”
“How meta. I love it.” Greg gestured to the piano. “Let’s hear your chops.”
Grinning, I pressed my fingers to the keys and let rip with the melody for ‘Dead Girl Walking.’ Even though I’d never been able to afford tickets to see a live show, I loved musicals, especiallyHeathers. The songs were punchy, rock-infused, dripping with high school angst and dark humor. I opened my mouth and belted out the words from main character Veronica, as she realizes she’s going to be crucified at school the next day, and she goes to bed with the dark, mysterious JD. I close my eyes when I sing, remembering the pages of Dante’s journal floating in the fountain and the flames engulfing my home as my mom screamed from inside, until her screams stopped and I became a dead girl walking. I poured all of my pain into the song, loving the way my voice soared in the bright room. When I finished, I opened my eyes. Greg was standing up, clapping like mad.
“That was brilliant, honey. Where did you learn to sing like that?” he asked.
“My mother taught me,” I said. “She sang like an angel. She used to perform at a jazz club in Philly on Friday and Saturday nights. I’d hide in the dressing room and listen to her entertain the whole room. Men would send her flowers backstage. But stripping paid more so she had to give up singing.”
“And now she’s dead, right? And your dad, too?”
What?My hand flew to my wrist, touching the faded scar. “How did you—”
Greg looked horrified. “I didn’t mean to sound insensitive. I just meant that the other scholarship students are orphans, so I assumed you are, too.”
“All of us?” That couldnotbe a coincidence.
“Yeah.” He rolled his eyes. “I guess that’s one of the criteria for the scholarship. Rich pricks throwing the poor orphans a bone so they can feel good about themselves. Thing is, I never applied for the scholarship, and when I looked it up online I couldn’t find anything about it.”
“Me too. They said that my school had put me forward for it. I wasn’t in a position to go back and ask.”
“They told Loretta that, too. But she asked her old principal on her last day and he didn’t know anything about it.”
“That’s weird.” Why would the scholarship committee lie about that? It didn’t make sense. The scholarship definitely wasn’t a scam. We were here at Derleth Academy, our books and board and fees paid. And if Trey’s father put up money for it, then it must be a legitimate affair.
“Yep. But what can we do?” Greg shrugged. “This school is a dream come true. Too bad it’s a nightmare.”
“You can say that again.” I leaned over the piano. “Hey, since you know so much about me, what’s your story?”
“Me? Oh, what you see is what you get.” Greg spread his arms wide. “I’m a show tune-loving, fashion-obsessedfabulousgay teen with dead parents. I’m not going to be able to help you climb the social ladder, but I will paint your nails and gossip when we’re both alone on a Saturday night.”
“Suits me.” I smiled. Greg was the opposite of Dante in so many ways, and yet, he reminded me of my old best friend. Something in the way I felt instantly comfortable around him, like we’d been friends for years instead of less than twenty-four hours. I knew Greg had my back, and I had his – and that started with taking down every miserable rich snob who called him a faggot, starting with Ayaz Demir.
“I’ve been thinking,” I twirled a dreadlock around my fingers. “I want to get revenge on the Kings for the maggots and the journal. And for putting your head through that wall. And mostly, for taking away your ability to come out in your own time.”
