“Oh my god, who is that skank?”
“Why do they even let scholarship kids in here?” another equally bitchy voice muses. “They make the whole school look cheap.”
I turn to see a trio of girls with straight-ironed blonde hair, perfect makeup, heels, matching schoolgirl skirts, and white shirts unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of cleavage. They all wear matching monogram necklaces.
D.
My mind immediately lands on the guy I think is responsible for my scholarship, and I wonder if I’m going to have to join the clone squad and wear his necklace like a brand because I’m now one of his kept girls.
But just as quickly as it comes, I dismiss the ridiculous thought. These must be the southern belles I anticipated, rich bitches who don’t need a scholarship. The necklaces could be anything—a sorority or secret organization or the “harem” of Dolce girls Dixie mentioned. If so, those boys have a very specific type.
I ignore them and walk off down the hall because they’re not worth it. I have no beef with them, and if they’re smart, they won’t start shit with someone they don’t know. They have no idea what I’m capable of. I’m not in a hurry to show them, but if they fuck with me, I’m not going to lie down and take it like a pussy.
“Hey,” one of the girls barks at me, but I keep on walking. “Don’t walk away from me. I’m talking to you!”
I notice a few others looking our way, thirsty for drama. A cluster of nervous looking girls huddles back against their lockers, their eyes darting from me to the hall behind me. I flash them a peace sign and keep going.
When I reach the café doors, a hand clamps around my arm, sharp nails biting in. I turn to see the D girls, all of them looking a bit flustered and indignant, like they can’t believe my audacity just because I wanted to get to lunch. I’m not about to miss a meal for these bitches. Not when I don’t know if I’ll have one at home tonight.
“You’re going to want to take your hands off me,” I warn the girl who grabbed me.
She jerks her hand back and smooths her hair, which is a bit out of place from scurrying down the hall after me.
Her lip curls into a sneer, and she looks me up and down. “Where did you even get that outfit?” she asks with disdain in her voice.
I can’t help but snort at her sheer pettiness. “You chased me all the way down the hall to ask that?”
She huffs and glances at her friends for backup. “You can’t just come up in here wearing that,” she says. “It’s against dress code.”
“Oh no,” I say, covering my mouth in mock horror. “Call security. That extra inch of thigh might cause a riot.”
Her mouth drops open in a way that’s too comical. I drop my hand from my mouth and crack a smile at her.
She doesn’t smile back.
“Seriously,” one of the others asks, giving me some serious stink-eye as she flips her hair back over her shoulder. “What are you wearing?”
“Your boyfriend’s cologne,” I say. I mimic her bitchy hair-flip, though my mess of hair has never seen a flat-iron in its life. Turning on my heel, I walk away again.
*
New Girl
They say her name is Apple
But she doesn’t look like an apple:
Blonde hair to the shoulders
held back with a pastel headband,
A skirt to the knees,
a matching cardigan.
Sweet and bland.
She looks like black cherry: