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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With Carmen's reign gone, the frost hanging over the Kensington crown has dissipated and been replaced with a lighter and friendlier air anticipated by Parker's new rule. No longer do the freshmen and sophomores quake in fear as the Elites stride down the halls and people in cliques are not as hierarchical and structured as they used to be.
Carmen not being around means the social calendar has been super dry, which is fine since it's time for our winter midterms. The Elite during exam week is a sight so different from how I usually see them- replacing frequent visits to trendy bar spots and new clubs with all-nighters at the library and weekend study sessions at quirky cafes at SoHo. The way the Elites does studying is definitely with style.
I take these moments of quietness and tranquillity I have with Orson to work on making him succumb to me. I've only two weeks left until my "punishment" is over and I no longer have to be Orson's girlfriend for the month. I need to find a way to further cement my role as his confidante, his girl more permanently. Which means I need to make him trust me, to make him feel that I can see every inch of his dark side and not run away. I need him to see me as his Bonnie, his real-life suicide blonde, his ride or die.
How do you make a person who has never so much cared about anything in his life fall for you?
Well, you start with his trust.
"Bronte."
I lift my eyes from the menu to see the person in front of me and even though my face is masked by enormous Chanel sunglasses, I tilt my head and beckon Helena Marx to take the seat opposite of me.
Helena Marx looks nothing like the girl I met out in Chicago; scraping by with Guess and Victoria Secret, making her own money by tutoring kids in private schools. Now she's a bonafide socialite in the Manhattan private school scene, which she helped secure by exposing Luciana Santiago's STD. Dressed in a Tom Ford mink-lined dark denim jumpsuit with a hat and brown leather ski boots, Helena was stunning with her waist-length almost-black hair fanning out behind her like a cape.
"Hey, Helena," I greeted her sweetly, "Love the bag." I eyed her not really cruelty-free mink-and-armadillo-skin Fendi baguette purse, thinking I should get on the wait-list for that as well.
"Thanks, a girl in my school got it for me." She sat down as I continued to scan the surroundings for anyone who could recognize Helena and potentially, me.
Across the street, the neon sign for Ferra's Cheesesteaks blinked off and on. Women in capri pants and big Chanel sunglasses went in and out of the Aveda salon. The bells on the door of Wordsmith's Books jingled cheerfully. Aside from the occasionally stinky exhaust from the passing cars, the whole world smelled like spring flowers and hot caramel from Pinkberry's toppings bar. But no one who looked like they were part of Manhattan's private school social scene was around.
"Two espresso martinis, double shot," I said to the waitress when she came over. She didn't even have the guts to ask for ID as I waved her a fifty-dollar tip taken from my Louis Vuitton purse.
