Home > Charmfall (The Dark Elite #3)(14)

Charmfall (The Dark Elite #3)(14)
Author: Chloe Neill

When my messenger bag was packed with books and my key was around my neck, I met Scout in the hallway, and we joined the horde of girls in plaid headed down to the classroom building.

The caffeine had definitely helped, but I couldn’t stifle a yawn. It should be mandatory, some kind of national health rule, that teenagers didn’t have to go to class until noon. We needed our rest—especially after spending our nights saving lives!

Unfortunately, the junior class at St. Sophia’s was small, so we had every class with the brat pack, including art history. Over the past couple of months, I’d realized that each class had a different brat pack theme:

1. Art history: Art history was brat pack wake-up time. It usually involved putting on whatever expensive makeup they hadn’t had time to apply in their rooms and drinking coffee from the expensive Italian machine in M.K.’s room. Sometimes they also made snarky remarks about naked male statues.

2. Trigonometry: The brat packers were usually awake by now, so this was when the text messaging began. We weren’t supposed to have phones in class, but everyone did. The brat packers usually kept theirs hidden in pencil bags they kept on their desks. Dorsey, our trig teacher, probably just thought they were really picky about their pencils.

3. Civics: The brat pack decided Mr. Forrest, our civics teacher, was a catch—probably because he was the son of a senator from Vermont. He’d come to St. Sophia’s after working on an unsuccessful election campaign, and the brat packers seemed to think he was their ticket to a fancy life as a senator’s wife. Even Amie was totally smitten, and she was usually the rational one. Forrest wasn’t bad to look at, but he was a believer. He worked on political stuff because he had real conviction, and there was just no way he was falling for brat pack flirting, no matter how much M.K. batted her eyelashes at him. (Seriously. He was, like, forty. It was gross.)

4. British literature: Brit lit was our first class after lunch, so the brat packers were finally wide-awake. Amie and Veronica actually seemed to like reading Jane Eyre and Pride and Prejudice. I guess the romance got to them. Mary Katherine just whined that “nobody actually did anything” in the books. There was really no hope for her.

5. Chemistry: This was brat pack sleepy time. I don’t know if they had an official rotation, but it seemed like they took turns taking naps in class. One day M.K. got a snooze while Amie kept watch, and then it was Veronica’s turn, et cetera. If they were in danger of getting caught, the lookout would cough really loudly. Our chem teacher probably thought we were the least healthy group of St. Sophia’s girls he’d ever seen.

6. European history: This class was boring for everyone, but the brat pack made the best of it. This was when they started prepping for another fun-filled day at the convent. Nails were buffed. Jewelry and shoe combinations for the next day’s uniform were arranged. On more exciting days, M.K. would arrange an evening meet-up with a boy who was probably too old for her.

Somehow, even though they rarely paid attention in class, they still managed to get pretty good grades. Either they were crazy smart—and hiding it really well—or they’d made some kind of deal with the teachers. Or maybe they just all copied off one another.

Probably it was that.

Today’s art history was pretty typical.

M.K. sat with her chin in her hand, looking bored and half-asleep. Amie scribbled notes furiously while Mr. Hollis, our teacher, talked about the Renaissance. Every few seconds, she’d take a sip from a paper cup that I assume held really strong coffee, because with every drink her handwriting got a little bit faster.

Veronica, the girl who had entranced a vampire so much he’d broken into St. Sophia’s just for the chance to get a look at her, stared off into space. To each her own, I guess.

When the convent bells sounded after class, we all grabbed our books and headed to our lockers. Since St. Sophia’s was a fancy-pants private school, juniors and seniors had glossy wooden lockers in a separate bay outside the classrooms. Mine was right below Scout’s, my name engraved on a small metal plate on the outside.

Veronica and M.K. stood a few lockers down. Both of them had decided on lots of jewelry today. Yellow necklaces were loaded around their necks in gleaming tangles. If that was high fashion, I wanted no part of it.

M.K. had her back to a locker while Veronica pulled books from hers.

My mind on Nicu, I eavesdropped while I exchanged my books.

“I thought you wanted to go to Sneak with Creed,” M.K. was telling her. “You talked about him for, like, two weeks.”

John Creed was a friend of Jason’s, and the guy Veronica had crushed—at least before she ran into Nicu.

“I did,” Veronica said with a shrug. She paused, hand in her locker, and looked over at Mary Katherine. “I’m just not feeling him right now.”

“Um, why? He’s rich, hot, and rich. And he’s a fantastic kisser.”

Ick. Turned out that when Veronica had been crushing on Creed, M.K. had been hitting on him. (I know. She was totally a class act.) Veronica looked as disgusted—and betrayed—as I felt.

“He isn’t my type,” Veronica said dryly. I had to agree with her. Anyone who would make out with Mary Katherine wasn’t my type, either.

“He was your type two weeks ago,” M.K. persisted. “You were totally crazy about him.”

My stomach turned nervously as I waited for her answer—and silently bet that I knew what had changed. Yes, I’d kind-of-sort-of agreed to let Nicu meet Veronica. But if she was already so smitten that she didn’t care about Creed, there was going to be fireworks. And fireworks probably meant drama for me.

“I don’t know,” Veronica repeated, her voice testier this time. Books in hand, she slammed her locker shut. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

She started walking my way, and I turned my gaze back to my own locker, but not fast enough. She caught me staring and gave me a look. “You totally interrupted Lisbeth and Charlie last night. I hear you’re the one who called Foley, and you practically assaulted Charlie. What are you, some kind of freak?”

“And you were with that freak Barnaby,” M.K. threw in, like that was a crime.

Was Lisbeth’s story that we interrupted a make-out session on purpose? So much for gratitude.

“I didn’t interrupt anyone,” I said, “and I didn’t tell Foley. Lisbeth can do whatever she wants. We were just walking back to my room.”

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