All I've Never Wanted (6 page)

"No, it's fine," I croaked, patting her awkwardly on her back. "It's not your fault. This was bound to happen anyway. I've held my tongue too long." I inhaled deeply and stood up. "Besides, it'll be ok," I said with forced cheer. "I'm not some prissy little thing. I can handle whatever they throw at me."

She just stared at me worriedly.

I bit my lip. "Is it that bad?"

"Well, I don't really know," she admitted. "I mean, I ran out here after you as fast as I can, but the party's definitely over, that's for sure."

We both looked at the house, and sure enough, people were starting to stream through the doors.

"Get in the car, I'll drive you home," Venice said.

I quickly made my way around the car and slammed the door shut. I had barely put on my seatbelt before we were already halfway down the road.

"Thanks, V," I said gratefully, leaning my head on the headrest. "You're the best."

"Hey, what are friends for?"

When we pulled up in front of my house, she gave me another hug.

"Listen, just know I'll always have your back, ok?" she whispered. "Whatever happens Monday, I won't give up on you."

I smiled for real this time, feeling unbearably touched. As I got out, she added, "And Maya?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really proud of you tonight. I wish had the courage to do what you did."

As I lay in my bed that night, her words echoed through my mind, strengthening my resolve to not to bow down to Roman or any of the other Scions anymore. To hell with what they'll do to me—whatever that may be.

In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced I'd done the right thing. My parents had always raised me to stand up for what I believe in and to not let others push me around; it was about time I made them proud. Besides, I comforted myself with the thought Roman Fiori and his ilk would get what they deserved sooner or later.

I drifted off into a light, fitful sleep.

CHAPTER 4

"That's four games in a row!" Zack crowed, raising his arms triumphantly in the air and nearly jabbing Parker in the eye with the pool stick he was still holding in his hand. "Who's the man?"

"Whatever, Perry," Parker said, tossing his golden brown hair out of his eyes. "I guess you're paying me back for what? The Six thousand times I've beaten you before?"

"Yeah, right," Zack retorted, his spirits not seeming the least bit dampened by Parker's reminder that he usually was not the Michael Jordan of pool, to say the least. "You're just mad because you owe me your custom Rolex."

Parker laughed. "Dude, I don't care about the Rolex. I have a dozen of those things. My grandparents send me one every Christmas."

"Still." Zack set his pool stick on the ground and leaned his weight against it, glancing at the opposite end of the lounge. Carlo was lounging on the couch, deeply engrossed in 
Grapes of Wrath, 
his favorite book. Roman was standing in front of the dartboard, where a cluster of darts neatly punctuated the center. There were so many they spilled out of the bull's eye and into the surrounding ring.

Zack couldn't see Roman's face, but he was pretty sure there was an angry scowl on it.

Like anything else is new.

"Hey, Rome, you wanna play? We can do doubles," he called out hopefully.

The four of them had spent all day hanging out in Roman's game room, one of the dozen or so rooms that made up his wing of the Fiori mansion. They had started off hashing and rehashing last night's shocking events, with Roman getting progressively redder and angrier each time, until Zack, Carlo, and Parker all threatened to jump off the balcony if they didn't talk about something else.

From that point on, Roman had alternated between sulking in the corner, no doubt planning the demise of that poor girl, and venting his anger at the dartboard. The other three had amused themselves with the endless entertainment the game room provided, but it was hard to enjoy themselves when their friend was being such an obvious downer.

Roman didn't answer; instead, he ferociously hurled yet another dart at the board. It went whizzing through the air and precisely pierced the tiny area between two other darts.

Parker and Zack exchanged glances.

"Maybe we should start drinking," Parker half-joked, even though it was barely four in the afternoon.

"I'll get the vodka," Zack offered helpfully. He started to make his way over to the fully stocked bar in the corner.

Before he could take two steps, Roman turned and stormed over. As Zack had predicted, he was scowling.

"Who does that girl think she is?" he demanded to no one in particular. "To have the nerve to talk to me like that? Doesn't she know who I fucking am?"

Parker yawned, bored. He'd already heard this rant at least thirty times by now. "She's hot," he commented, completely ignoring Roman's previous statement.

Zack nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

"I mean, she can't possibly fucking think she'll get away with that," Roman continued. "I need to teach her a fucking lesson."

"I'm kind of surprised I haven't noticed her before, though," Parker mused thoughtfully, obviously a little put out that a cute girl had slipped past his radar like that.

"Maybe you're losing your touch," Zack offered innocently.

"When I'm done with her, she'll regret the day she ever stepped foot in this town!" Roman rambled on. His monologue seemed to be making him feel better, since his face was no longer a fire-engine shade of red, but his eyebrows were still drawn together so fiercely he could probably re-kill an army of zombies with just one look.

"That'll never happen," Parker stated confidently in response to Zack’s remark. "I think I've found myself a new goal."

"You mean conquest."

Parker looked offended. "I do not have 
conquests, 
I have…fleeting girlfriends."

"Euphemisms," Zack scoffed.

Neither noticed that Roman was now glaring directly at them.

"ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?" he roared so loud Zack swore he saw the glasses at the bar rattle a bit.

There was silence as his friends stared blankly at him.

"No, not really," Zack finally answered earnestly.

Before Roman could fly off the handle again, Carlo spoke up for the first time. "Why are you getting so worked up?" he asked, not even looking up from his book. He was leaning leisurely against one arm of the couch while his feet were crossed on top of the other arm. "Just do what you usually do."

"But he doesn't usually do anything," Zack pointed out.

"Exactly."

The meaning behind Carlo's words had obviously already registered with Roman, and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "You're right. Why would I trouble myself dealing with her when I can let everyone else do it?"

In previous cases, of course, the other Valesca students had taken it upon themselves to get rid of anyone who offended the Scions. There was no reason this time would be any different.

Roman's lips curved up into a small, triumphant smirk. "She won't last a week."

*              *              *

Well, D-Day was here. Surprisingly, it didn't feel particularly different than any other day as I trudged toward school, basking in the warmth of the sun against my skin and letting it comfort me. But then again, that could be because I dreaded going to school every day anyway.

As I neared the school, however, my calmness left me little by little. I could feel about 10,000 butterflies fluttering away in my stomach, my heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest, and I might even possibly throw up. It didn't make it any better that Venice had contracted the flu over the weekend and wouldn't be able to come to school today.

Although, now that I think about it, it might be better if she wasn't here for the carnage that was about to ensue.

When I arrived at school, the parking lot was empty. This might be due to the fact I've arrived a full hour and a half early.

Ok, fine. I'm still a bit of a coward, but what else can I do? I've used up all my courage for the month Saturday night, and now, I wanted nothing more than to hide away in a place where no Valesca student would ever, ever go to: the library.

I stepped cautiously into the building, relieved but unsurprised to find the halls empty save for a lone janitor. It was the earliest I'd ever come in here, and I was suddenly struck by how beautiful the interior was when it uncluttered by the masses of students.

The floors were pure, unveined Italian marble, decorated with the giant forest green-and gold falcon school crest in the entrance hall. The "lockers" were built into the walls and looked more like high-tech cabinets; instead of clunky, ugly combination locks, they were secured by a small biometric pad where you press your thumb, making it quick and easy to get into the precious space (considering the extravagance of the items some kids threw in their lockers, 'precious' takes on a whole new meaning). Above them hung oil portraits of the school's many illustrious alumni, and enormous, glittering crystal chandeliers took the place of fluorescent lights.

Suddenly realizing I was in a bit of a stupor, I shook my head and mentally kicked myself for buying into Valesca's superficial perfection, even if it was only for a second.

I made my way into one of the wood-paneled elevators and pressed '3', staring at myself in the mirror.

I was wearing the female version of Valesca's uniform: a short-sleeve, white button-down shirt under a fitted green blazer with the school crest on the upper left side, a green and gold plaid skirt, and my own black ballet flats. The school's handbook never specified a specific shoe for the uniform, except that it had to be black, brown, and 'appropriate,' whatever the hell that meant.

The guys' uniform was the same, except with more masculine tops and green slacks instead of skirts. They also had to wear green-and-gold striped ties. All the uniforms were custom-made by Ralph Lauren, but I hated them. They made me feel constricted, conformed, and the last thing I wanted was to look anything like my classmates.

Of course, the only students exempt from the uniform rule were the Scions. 
And Adriana, 
I added silently, thinking about the gorgeous dress she'd worn yesterday. I still hadn't quite made up my mind about her yet. She was obviously cut from the same mold as her brother and his friends, and indulged in the same ridiculous privileges, but she also seemed…different, somehow. I just couldn't quite put my finger why.

The elevator let out a low, musical ping, announcing the arrival at my destination. As the doors slid open silently, I took a deep breath and pushed all thoughts of the Scions out of my mind. It didn't really matter if Adriana was different or not. It's not like we'll ever be friends. We just didn't come from the same world.

Since the library, which contained practically every book you could ever think of, dominated the entire third floor, I could enter it directly from the elevator. I stepped into the giant, hushed, bookworm's paradise, the silence enveloping me like a warm blanket on a cold winter night. I breathed in the comforting smell of leather-bound books, and managed to muster up a smile to flash at the elderly librarian.

I beelined past the checkout counter and bank of computers toward my favorite nook in the back, which consisted of a simple armchair and small table but had a picture window that provided the best view of the school's undeniably gorgeous, landscaped grounds.

I settled comfortably into the chair and pulled out my favorite book, 
Grapes of Wrath. 
I've literally read it a hundred times but I never got tired of it.

The next hour and a half flew by, and all too soon, the bell signaling the start of class rang shrilly, rudely jolting me from my book. A tight, familiar knot instantly formed in my stomach, and I felt myself freeze in my chair. I knew I should get moving, but my muscles wouldn't listen to me. It was like I'd been spontaneously paralyzed.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the librarian cast a half-curious, half-disapproving glance in my direction, but I was so immersed in my panic I didn't care. I 
know 
everyone who hadn't witnessed my showdown with Roman Saturday night—and that number was small—would've definitely heard about it by now, and I wasn't looking forward to their harassment, which, judging from past cases, was inevitable.

I placed my book into my backpack and reluctantly trudged toward the elevator. My finger hesitated over the down button, until I pressed it firmly, quickly, before I could change my mind. The doors immediately opened, suddenly looking like the gates of hell.

By the time I reached the second floor hallway, it was fairly empty, and I was relieved to find that, despite the frequent dirty looks and whispering, no one outright confronted me.

When I burst into my English class a few minutes later, the teacher, Mrs. Lavinsky, was in the middle of instructions for our end-of-the-term paper.

"—minimum fifteen pages, double-spaced—" She broke off when she saw me. "Miss Lindberg, you're late," she said pointedly.

"I'm sorry," I apologized, blushing. "It won't happen again."

"I certainly hope not." She signed and waved me towards my seat. "I'll let it slide this time, but next time I'll have to give you a written warning.”

I nodded meekly, embarrassed. I've never gotten a written warning before, and Mrs. Lavinsky was actually my favorite teacher. I knew she didn’t have an easy job. The rest of my classmates, while smart, were always giving her attitude. I hated having to disappoint her, too.

I slid into my seat and instantly felt something cold and sticky on the back of my skirt and thighs.