The Class Reject: A Martyr in Maelstrom (Book III)

73 | Prom(ise)

Chapter 73: PROM(ISE)

"Dude! How the hell did you forget the amps?" Watching Axel lecture Cliff like a mother getting the house ready for dinner guests was much like watching a leprechaun ride a unicorn.

"Sorry," was Cliff's defense as his eyes frantically skimmed a list in his hands. He wasn't a reader by any means, making his mistake annoying but understandable. "I'll go back to the apartment."

"Thank you," Axel said, rolling his eyes. "And be quick. We're on in seven hours."

As Cliff trudded away, Miren couldn't help but feel a mixture of anxiety and exhilaration rush through her her veins. It didn't help that they were in one (yes, one of two) ballrooms at Soren Bloomberg estate, gearing up to perform not only in front of the joint Rinzen and St. Rosemunde student body but a music producer.

She adjusted her sunglasses before her attention focused on the shinny and intricately designed wood floors below the stage she was on. Around her and the band were the decorating committee composed on mostly St. Rosemunde students, as well as an army of people in uniform either assisting them or assessing other pertinent details, like hanging extravagant floral arrangements, or setting tables. The whole ordeal was a bit ridiculous, but then again, this was rich kid prom.

"Tell Axel to calm down, Sara," Jemma then said from the floor, carrying a bag filled with party favor in one hand. With a headset and clipboard in the other, she looked like she was starring in a reboot of The Wedding Planner. "He's bumming all of us out."

"No offense, Jem, but I don't need your crude assessment," he said sternly. But his fingers were shaking slightly against the frets of his guitar. He closed his eyes. "You know what? I'm going to get some fresh air. And Cliff better be back by the time I am."

Quinn just rolled her eyes before returning to setting up the drumset. Fortunately for Miren, her instrument was her voice, and after memorizing the lyrics of the songs she'd be performing to death, she took it was her cue to get some clarity as well.

When she reached the outdoor garden area, she saw the elegant hedges and the central water feature that looked like it belonged in Italy. But in the bright light of early afternoon, it was hard not to feel exposed. She sucked in a breath.

Exposure.

How much easy would life had been if she had ditched the disguise the second she was pronounced dead, or even a month after?

A sigh rolled off her lips and a small grin replaced it. Sure she regretted the past, but she couldn't see the future, and had no expectations for it. The performance would go well--it had to. And when she pretended that Dr. Edsel didn't exist, her heart no longer felt heavy. She nodded.

She was the queen of pretend. But what she had with Jeno was real.

Fishing out a quarter from her pocket, she tossed it into the fountain. And that was that. Decision made. And for the first time in a long time she knew true peace.

***

"Are you sure this isn't the world's dumbest idea?" Chara asked Penelope as they strolled inside the Bloomfield estate as if they were invited. Well, Chara was, but that was aside from the point.

"I would appreciate if you didn't shit on my plan," Olive replied instead, readjusting her collar. They were dressed as the caterers - just a simple white button-up and slacks and wigs - but apparently this was enough. They were in that odd window of time where most of the decorations and set up was complete, thus most of the St. Rosemunde student body was off being plucked and waxed and painted before being stuffed into glitzy gowns.

"Which is what, exactly?" Chara said through her teeth as they crossed the second ballroom, where the tables for dinner were set. The scene looked like a cross between a midnight escape and the Phantom of the Opera. It was both chic and spooky.

Olive just continued her pace until she spotted a bathroom. She twisted the gold door knob and motioned them to follow. They entered a powder room that lead to a handful of stalls. Marble and Renaissance-level art detail was the name of the game. Once she determined the space was clear, she set her backpack on a lush ottoman by the mirror.

"We plant this in Soren's room, and then make him our personal bitch," she said, pulling out a manilla folder with "I know what u did, Soren" written in all caps in sharpy. Very subtle. "Everything we need to prove that he was responsible for attacking poor Miles."

"And what if his parents hire a team of lawyers and squash our attempt?" Penelope pushed. "Last I checked people still call me a slut in the hallway. Soren and Parker's reputation wasn't even remotely scathed."

"Look, Ms. Cowdry was able to get access to his files for us, and it basically spells out his guilt. Now that Wallace is basically America's It-boy, Soren won't be able to deflect just because he's rich."

"But if Dr. Edsel played a role in allowing a cover-up, doesn't that make him guilty?"

"Rinzen's entire administration is guilty for what happened. But we need to blackmail Soren so that we can--"

"Use him to take down the entire school," Chara announced, her eyes wide. "And then what? I get that you want to be the next Gloria Steinem or whatever, but these are actual lives we're messing with."

Olive raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to imply that the comfort of a bunch of over privileged white men supersedes justice for Miles? Hell, for Parker and Wallace?" Her attention turned to Penelope. "I know you used to bully Miren, but the remorse and action you've taken these past few months is something that I truly commend. You're not a bad person, Penelope. And regardless of what happens, I hope I can call you a friend."

Penelope just nodded. "Same."

"Not to interrupt this love fest, but we're on the clock," Chara said, pointing to a fancy Grandfather clock in the wall.

"Right," Olive said, her brown eyes instantly alert. "Let's get this shit over with."

***

The sun was setting by the time Jeno and Jemma made it to the mansion. A flock of other luxury cars and limos lined the symmetric stone road, and even without the window rolled down, the excited voices of the student body had seized the air. That and a million flashes from their personal photographers. This was prom, but on a whole other level.

"We'll take a picture together for mom's sake and then we don't have to speak for the rest of the night," Jemma informed him as one of the valet workers opened her door.

"Fine by me," Jeno replied, taking a ticket from another worker and handing him his keys. "I'm not planning to be here for long, anyway."

"You should at least try to have fun," she then offered, shrugging. "I know circumstances couldn't be weirder, but in like two seconds high school will be over. And although I will gleefully ignore you at Columbia, I couldn't be happier that I still get to be with my twin." She turned to him before taking his hand. "Now come on, we're already late."

"I'm sorry if I've been an ass to you lately. Well, more of an ass," Jeno then said, sighing. "I know that these past few months have been hard for you too."

"Try the happiest," she said, pinching his hand. "I may have lost Klondike, but Miles is my favorite person on the planet. He's a keeper."

"I know," Jeno agreed in a hush, his eyes shifting to the footsteps of the estate, the glass double-doors open, the lights and music escaping into the now darkened outdoors. The whole scene made his heart swell a bit more than he wanted it to, but it was hard not to feel sentimental. At least, until he spotted Roger against one of the paneled walls, discussing something with the vice-principal as they watched students check into the event. Jeno's eyes narrowed.

"Here, I made you a mask," Jemma then said, pulling the silver mask out of her medium sized clutch. "Let's do one picture with and without." She motioned to a cameraman a couple feet away from them. "And please don't scowl in all of them."

"I'll try." So he offered the camera the Mona Lisa of smiles. But the hardest part was not allowing his glare to return to the brother he was still contemplating whether or not to kill.