Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways 1)

“He is doing you a huge favor, you know,” Headmaster Plath continued, staring idly at his students through the window. His eyes growing large and greedy. I always got the idea that he liked what he saw just a little too much when he looked at some of the boys. “Nothing would have become of you if you’d stayed in New York.”

“It’d have been nice to have a choice in the matter,” I muttered, changing the angle of my arm while scrubbing the pot. My muscles were burning with exhaustion. It was not unheard of for my arms to be numb all night after hours of kitchen duty.

“What’d you say?” His head spun so fast that for a second I thought his neck might snap.

“Nothing,” I hissed. Students weren’t supposed to take on kitchen or laundry duties unless they’d misbehaved. It was supposed to be a detention of sorts, but I seemed to be a part of the staff here. Arsène and Riggs always told me it was bullshit, and I agreed, but there was little I could do about it.

“No.” Plath rushed toward me, eager to pick a fight. “Say it again.”

I turned to face him. My face felt red and hot. I was furious with him for pulling this kind of crap, and with myself for putting up with it. And with Conrad, who kept taunting me years later, albeit from a safe distance, just because I’d dared to touch his precious, stupid, spoiled girl.

“I said it’d have been nice if he gave me a choice!” I turned around, sticking my chin up.

He took a step closer, his nose almost brushing mine. “Do you have any idea how much he pays to keep you here every year?”

“I bet I shell out most of the fee, since I work here all year round.”

Plath pressed his nose against mine, towering over me, pushing my face backward, his eyes boring into mine. “You work here all year round because you’re a piece of trash who cannot stay out of trouble,” he jeered. “Because you’re a useless little prick whose entire contribution to society is cleaning and ironing good boys’ clothes.”

Something inside me snapped just then. I was tired. Tired of waking up at 5:00 a.m. to do other people’s laundry. Tired of doing my homework at two in the morning because I had to clean and scrub pots and pans. Tired of mowing the lawn on hot summer days without getting water breaks. Exhausted from being punished for something I hadn’t even wanted to do. At the same time, I knew Plath was challenging me. He waited for me to talk back. To retaliate. Wanted an excuse to strike me. I wouldn’t put it past him to put his hands on me. He’d been careful so far, but his mean streak overrode all his other traits.

So even though I knew I was going to regret it, I forced myself to smile. Stretching my mouth across my cheeks hurt my face, but I still did it, then uttered the words I should have told Conrad that time he’d beaten me up: “Fuck. You.”

I spit in his face, but not before gathering a respectable amount of phlegm. I knew I was going to pay for it, but it felt good. The spit landed on Plath’s right cheek and slithered down to his neck. He made no move to wipe it off. Just stared at me with an expression I was too anxious to decode.

The next few seconds were a blur. Headmaster Plath cracked his knuckles loudly. On cue, the kitchen door flung open, and three burly seniors who were on the rowing team walked in.

“Gentlemen.” Plath stepped backward, my saliva still on his cheek. Crap on a cracker. They’d been waiting that entire time. This was all a plan to aggravate me. “I have to step away to clean up this mess. Please keep Mr. Ivanov company while I’m away. Care to do that for me?”

“No problem, sir.”

One of the boys—the biggest, dumbest one, naturally—waved his hand like a fortune cat toward the headmaster as he stomped toward me. The door to the kitchen closed with a click. I looked between the three of them. I knew what was about to happen. Still, I wasn’t sorry.

Shithead Number One cracked his knuckles, while Shithead Number Two slammed me against the wall. Shithead Number Three stood by the door, making sure no one was coming. I knew it was the end for me. That I’d probably die.

“Why, hello there, Oliver Twist. Found your way into the upper crust and thought we’d just let you walk in like you own the place, huh?” Shithead One asked. I didn’t answer. He punched me square in the jaw, sending my head flying to the other side, while Shithead Two held me firmly in place.