Stuck With The Four Hotties

Just like last year, the San Francisco trip overlaps with winter break. That Friday before break, when all the first years are preparing for winter formal, we’re piling suitcases in the courtyard and taking stock of the students gathering around the stag statue.

They’re all there, every single one of the Harpies. The Company.

Whatever you want to call them. I like synonyms; I’ll take both names.

“Of course they’re all here,” Creed sneers, leaning back against a pillar with an insouciant air of privilege. He waves his hand around dismissively. “No third year wants to get stuck at winter formal, unless you’re Lizzie Walton and your father hates you.”

“Stop it,” Tristan snaps, and I watch carefully as the two of them share a long, angry look. They both glance away without a clear winner, and Tristan crosses his arms over his chest, staring Harper down. Rightfully so. She stalks me in the halls, I swear. If I get lax for one second, it’s going to be my hair that’s shaved, my ass kicked, or … worse. Because clearly, they’re all capable of it.

“Let’s just steer clear of them and try to have a good time,” Zayd says, mumbling around a cigarette as he hides around the corner of Tower Two and tries to get his lighter to work in the wind while simultaneously trying to avoid getting caught by one of the teachers. “Lord knows my winter break is going to suck serious ass. Dad’s on tour in Europe, so I’ll be treated like a

fucking roadie, hauling equipment and fighting off wrinkly old groupies. Ugh. I just want a tree and a friggin’ fruitcake.”

“You’re always welcome to join me,” I say, and he smiles. It’s not an entirely happy expression though.

“If I thought Billy,” Zayd says with a dramatic roll of his green eyes, “would let me, I’d take you up on that offer in a heartbeat.”

“I’m interested in the offer,” Windsor says, studying me. He’s wearing the plastic crown again, and I’m not sure if it’s meant to be ironic, or if it’s a reminder that even in a cheap crown, he’s still a prince. That Billie Eilish song comes to mind: you should see me in a Frown.

“If you don’t have any plans with family, then there’s always room for you at our table.” At least, I think there is. Dad might not be thrilled if I brought Zack or one of the Idols home, but at least he doesn’t have reason to hate Windsor York. Not yet anyway. Hopefully not ever.

“Alright everyone,” Ms. Felton says, blowing a whistle and making Tristan scowl. “In the vans, please.”

“Like we’re freaking dogs,” he murmurs, but he pushes off the wall anyway, capturing my hand and pulling me to one of the luxe black Mercedes Benz vans parked around the circular driveway. They’ve got just enough room for six students, three in each row. One of the rows is rear- facing, so that all six occupants can look at each other.

Miranda grumbles and kicks Creed in the shin, but she ends up getting relegated to the next van over with Lizzie, Myron, Andrew, and some random Pleb boys that I don’t recognize. That’s usually a good thing around here: if I don’t recognize them, they haven’t bullied me bad enough to be noticed.

The drive to San Francisco is a bit of a trek, just north of Cruz Bay, and along the same coastal route. But I don’t mind. As we pull away from the Burberry Prep campus, snowflakes falling and melting in an instant, I actually find myself jittery with excitement.

Not only is the San Francisco ballet and symphony famous, but I get to spend a whole four days with the guys before the long stretch of winter break. I never minded it before. Actually, I looked forward to it, but this year

… my feelings are mixed. I’m excited to see Charlie, and to sleep in my own bed, but I wish I could take the guys with me.

Windsor turns around and fiddles with the stereo, despite Ms. Felton’s dramatic sigh, and we end up with Tony Bennett’s (I Left My Heart) In San

FranFisFo playing. This song, at least, I do recognize. I’m better with oldies than I am with current hits.

“My mom spends most of her time in San Fran in this stuffy little house on Nob Hill,” Creed says, tucking one knee up on the seat and wrapping his arms around it. “Working in Silicon Valley and trying to compete with all the misogynic assholes in the tech industry. The funny thing is, she’s so much better at what she does than any of them.”

“Did you know Nob Hill used to have mansions belonging to all of the Big Four railroad barons?” I ask, and Tristan smiles. His family’s wealth was built on railroads, too, but the Vanderbilts aren’t considered part of the Big Four. As far as I know, there are no Vanderbilt mansions in San Francisco. “One of the magnates, Crocker, he got so mad at this poor undertaker named Nicholas Yung for refusing to sell his property. The rest of Yung’s neighbors sold out, so the Crockers owned the entire block but for their property. Out of spite, Crocker built a three-story tall fence to block out the sun for the Yungs.”

I exhale and Zack smiles.This is from NôvelDrama.Org.

“So freaking hot when you talk history, Marnye.” I grin back at him, and then shrug my shoulders.

“Just let that be a lesson to you: that’s how I see the super-rich. Disgusting, spiteful, and greedy. Crocker couldn’t even appreciate that this poor man, this undertaker, had property rights, too. He had just as much right to live there as a railroad baron.” I push some strands of hair back from my face. While I’m home, I’ll pop into the salon and have it cut again. Long hair is nice, and it’s so pretty, but once you’ve gone short and see how much easier the maintenance side of things gets, it’s hard to want to go back.

“Those old money types can be clueless like that, can’t they?” Creed asks, and Tristan sneers at him.

“Like your mother isn’t literally one of the reasons San Francisco property values are through the roof, and far too expensive for the average plebian to purchase a home.” Tristan lifts his chin triumphantly, like he’s done good, and I roll my eyes, and face palm.

“Please don’t call regular people plebeians in everyday conversation. At school, it’s just a term. In rea

l life, it’s embarrassing.”