When I’m almost there, I see that there are no empty chairs. But Dixie waves frantically and scoots back to snag a chair from the next table. Bless her fucking heart. I could just about hug the girl, if I was the kind of person who did that sort of thing.
“Come sit with us,” she calls.
I scoot into the chair and shoot her a smile. “Thanks.”
“Everybody, this is Harper,” Dixie says. “The new girl. Harper, everybody.” She gestures around her packed table. Everyone sitting here is female, but none of them fit the stereotype of ‘rich bitch’ I had in my head, unlike the girls who accosted me in the hall. One girl even has blue hair, though it’s a deep, rich blue that looks like she probably had it done at a professional salon rather than in her bathroom sink. Still, it sends a pang through me, and I wonder what Blue’s up to right now. Probably choking down the prison food served in that cafeteria. I feel almost guilty as I bite into the warm, fried chicken.
“What did Baron say to you?” Dixie asks, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. Everyone goes quiet, like this is something worth gossiping about.
“Nothing,” I say with a shrug. “Just stupid-boy stuff.”
“Baron’s not stupid,” Dixie says. “He acts like a thug like the rest of them, but he’s really smart. Like, genius level.”
“I heard he got a perfect score on the SATandthe ACT last year,” says another redhead.
“Oh, this is my cousin, Quinn,” Dixie says. “The one I was telling you about.”
Aside from the similar hair and eye color, the girls look nothing alike. Dixie’s hair is curly and unruly, most of it hanging around her shoulders while the rest is still pulled up. Quinn’s is straight and shiny, setting off a tan that’s probably the result of some darker-skinned heritage than Dixie’s pale, freckled face. While Dixie’s big all over, Quinn is small and curvy.
“Huh,” I say. “Never woulda guessed.”
“I know, I’m the fattie of the family,” Dixie says cheerfully. She bites into her roll, and I salivate at the look of it. Damn that stupid boy and his roll hoarding.
“You’re not that big,” Quinn mutters.
Dixie waves off her comment and pops a Brussel sprout into her mouth.
“We don’t care what size you are,” says the blue-haired girl, throwing an arm around Dixie’s shoulders and kissing her cheek with a loud smack. “We love every inch. I’m Susanna, by the way.” She flashes me a smile. “We like to mix things up around here, keep the school on its toes, if you couldn’t tell.”
I arch a brow, thinking it must be pretty quiet around here if dyeing your hair keeps the school on its toes. But I don’t comment. If this girl wants to think she’s a badass, who am I to stop her?
“Susie was new last year. We met the first day of school, and it was insta-friendship,” Dixie says. “Quinn just started in August this year. How come you started a month in?”
“That’s when they offered me a scholarship,” I say, polishing off my chicken. An uncomfortable silence falls over the table, everyone concentrating on their food.
“We don’t really talk about that here,” Dixie stage-whispers.
“My bad,” I say with a shrug. I’m poor and everyone knows it. There’s no point in hiding it. It’s not something I’m embarrassed about. “I figured it was obvious. Those bitches in the hall took one look at me and knew. So, where do the scholarship kids sit? I’ll sit there tomorrow.”
“They don’t really have their own spot,” Quinn says, her cheeks reddening through her golden complexion. “They’d just rather not advertise it.”
“Got it,” I say. Rich people are so weird. They don’t want to talk about money, but they’ll wear a thousand-dollar pair of shades with a brand name right on it for all the world to see. Maybe they have so much it makes them feel guilty to admit it out loud, so they let their clothes and cars do the talking.
On my side of town, it’s the opposite. My mom and her friends can’tstoptalking about how broke they are.
Another uncomfortable silence falls, and since I’m the cause, I figure I owe it to them to change the topic and put everyone at ease again. “So, what’s up with the southern belles from hell over there?” I ask.
Dixie and a couple other girls giggle.
“Those are the populars,” Susanna says.
“Also known as the revolving door the Dolces go through every week,” Dixie says. “Those are their girls. They’re almost as mean as the guys.”
“Worse,” Quinn says. “Don’t get on their radar, either. Especially the Walton girls.”
“Which are those?” I ask, though knowing my luck, I already have an idea.
“The three who look like Barbies,” Dixie says, pointing to the girls from the hall. “Gloria, Eleanor, and Everleigh. There’s also a brother, Dawson. I personally like all of them, but then, I like everyone.”