Wealth, status, and beauty define the elite of Kensington Prep. Every one of them possesses the ability to get away with anything and everything they want, unscathed and remain as privileged and superior as ever.
But Amory Scout decides that tim...
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My heart pounds under the waitress uniform. Every deep, dark thrum of my heartstrings pulsing under my chest vibrating below the button-down polyester shirt and the black apron pinned up to my collar. I adjust the straps of the badge of the girl I stole this uniform. The badge reads Phoebe and I glance at the dirty, smudged mirror on the corner of the locker room, wondering if I can pull off a 'Phoebe'.
Staring at me is a girl with blue-eyed contacts, a red-haired wig tucked in a ponytail with every strand of my real hair safely pinned underneath and soft pale skin I've bleached before transforming my disguise into perfection.
I've come so far in the last three years. From that grieving girl when the cops told her that her parents had died to the person I am now- someone who was willing to take action against the very people who deserve what was coming to them.
Two years of watching, planning, observing, gaining intel, reading them, knowing them, stalking them, reading them, studying them have led to this moment. They're objects of fascination- really. The way they live- the excess, the money, the parties, the beauty, the attention, the fame, the invincible feeling they must feel, the pedestal as if nobody could ever bring them down.
It gives me more pleasure to just take them down one by one. Orson Calloway and all his powerful friends, strip them power by power, skin by skin, and then finally deliver the coup de grace where it hurts the most- his heart.
Even if I'm fairly convinced Orson Calloway doesn't have a heart.
Today is the day I'm gonna see him up-close and personal. After so many years of observing through distances,I'll be the waitress serving him food on the table and launching my ultimate scheme of revenge into works, kicking off senior year with a bang. Before, all I did was watch from afar, sit at the table next to him or on a screen, scrolling through his Instagram feed, hacking his Facebook, studying him like a specimen. Now we'll be interacting, even. Talking. He won't know me, of course. But I would. We may even brush hands, touch for the first time and he won't know that he's rubbing skins with the girl who will be the worst thing that ever happened to him.
"Amory."
My cousin Hadley strides in as she knots her apron around the collar and waist. I didn't recognize her at first when I turned around to look but then I remembered she's in a blonde wig with blue-eyed contacts.
"It's time."
I nod. It means that he has arrived. I look at my watch. 7: 38. He always comes to this restaurant on a Friday around this time, a pattern I pick up after months of shadowing him and data collected from his Facebook check-ins and Instagram locations. These days, social media makes it too easy to snuff these people out especially if they're attention-seeking rich kids, who post their accounts so publicly out for people to follow upon, putting themselves up on pedestals as if they're celebrities, which makes them easier to track, easier to pick up patterns on their dislikes and likes and examine their attitudes from a sideliner standpoint.
