He gives me a face that says just how believable that isn’t. “Whatever, just humor me anyway. Who is that? Who are any of these people? Give me the dirt, Gwen.”
I grimace. “I’m not really much for the whole gossip thing.” That’s what happens when most of the gossip is about you and your family.
He rolls his eyes. “If gossip makes you uncomfortable, consider it my new student orientation. It’s just information to make my day a little easier. Who to admire. Who to avoid. Who’s dating who so I don’t get punched out for talking to another dude’s chick.”
I look at him in disapproval. “Did you just say ‘chick’?”
“I did and I stand by it.”
Tyson is different. Funny. We don’t have a lot of funny moments around here—just cruelty and intimidation. At Preston Prep, jokes are made to humiliate, not entertain. And statistically, if one is being made here, then I’m probably the butt of it. I weigh what my new friend is asking of me and decide that it would be nice to have a few guidelines as a new student, if I were in his shoes.
“Okay.” I survey the room. “The kids at Preston Prep aren’t defined by one thing; academics, jocks, or nerds, for example. Everyone here is smart. Everyone has money. A few are gifted academically, musically, or athletically. A few are genetically superior when it comes to looks. But, of course, that can be paid for as well.”
Tyson nods knowingly. “Plastic surgery.”
“Yep. It’s pretty common for someone to go off for winter break and come back with a new nose.” I glance around the room at my attractive classmates. “The biggest currency here is power.”
Tyson repeats the word. “Power.”
“These kids… they’re obsessed with it. Their parents are politicians, CEOs, college presidents, Fortune 500 board members, partners at the biggest law firms, lobbyists, and don’t forget the secret societies. They’re part of a machine that’s been running since the invention of language, and it only commodifies one thing.” I twirl the spaghetti around my fork. “Legacy. Pedigree. Bloodline. That’s what matters most here.”
He leans back and studies me. “And you’re not a part of that, for some reason.”
I shrug. “My parents are, but I’m not.”
His eyebrows pull together. “Wait, how does that work?”
I shrug, opting to be completely honest. “I’m adopted. So are all my siblings. We live in the right home. We have the right parents who have the right careers. We have money and privilege. But we don’t share the same blood.”
“Damn.” He looks bewildered. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
“Well these people are going to hate me,” he decides, looking around. “I have two moms.”
I let out a surprised laugh. “Really?”
He nods. “One’s a teacher, the other’s a psychologist. So I’m poor, I’m a bastard, and I have gay moms.”
“Yikes, that is a pretty bad draw.” I bump his knees with mine to let him know I’m joking. “Guess we’ll have to stick together.”
He takes a bite of garlic bread and chews slowly. “So back to Blondie. Where does she fit in?”
I roll my eyes. “Her father is a Senator. Her mother was Ms. South Carolina. She got those tits naturally, by the way. No plastic surgery for her—at least not yet.” I take a sly look in her direction. “Otherwise, she’s just like any other girl in that group. I like to call them ‘the Devils' playthings’.”
He chokes on his bread and laughs. “Like the mascot! I like it. Out of curiosity, how exactly does one attain the status of Devil’s plaything?”
I think of Reagan promising to help Hamilton relax earlier. “Okay, this is total gossip… but it’s pretty well known that each Devil has a test they put their potential girlfriends or, you know, playthings through.”
He leans forward, interested. “A test?”
“Most of it’s sexual. Threesomes or whatever. But a few sound a little less deviant.”
A memory flashes in my mind.
Sky was in the kitchen, the hand mixer she was holding dripping with batter. It was two weeks before the party.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked, taking in the state of the kitchen.