"I didn't catch your name," Orson drawls out, eyes fixed predatorily on me. I could practically feel traces of a smirk emerging from the corners of his pink, soft mouth, ripe and begging to be open for the taking. All these players. Their weaknesses are so obvious. You go for their ego; you tickle it, stroke it and they'll be putty in your hands.

"Amory," I leak some shyness into my tone, consciously aware of keeping the hatred out of my words and expression. "Scout."

"Why haven't I've seen you around before?'

Parker rolls her eyes, blithely unamused as she sips coolly on her champagne. Everything about her is ice. "She's new, Orson. Why else?"

Phineas Yeong puffs out a thick stream of white vape smoke into my face before leaning his arms onto his thighs. "So which school did you go to before Kensington?"

"Beverly Hills high."

"Public school?" Carmen's eyes widen in amusement. "Ew."

Parker, her mighty sidekick, has faux sympathy in her eyes as she delivers a subsequent blow: "You must feel so lucky to finally be going to a reputable school."

I blink innocently at them. "Yeah, it's so nice to be around to see the practically rampant inbreeding and thinly veiled racism."

Aidan chokes his laughter into his champagne but quickly turns it into a cough as Carmen shoots him a nasty glare. Parker narrows her stare at me. I promptly smile back at her, unnerved.

"A West Coast girl," Hanif exclaims, "How is it like now that you've tasted a dash of New York's bagels and East Coast hospitality?"

"It's definitely less quiet here," I laugh, surprised how easy it is to get along with Hanif. Then my mind makes it an assurance not to jinx myself by reminding me: don't get too cocky. Hanif is the friendlier caliber of sharks.

"So why New York?"

"My aunt got divorced this summer," I explain, "And New York is her hometown so she decided to come back."

"You don't live with your parents?" Carmen asks pointedly, one eyebrow raise.

I arrange my face to prepare a tight smile, "My parents died when I was young."

"Aww, that's so sad," Carmen pouts, and it takes all my willpower not to scratch out her eyes, "By the way, can I have your Insta?"

"Sure." With a skeletal, French-manicured hand, she unlocks her phone and dangles it in front of my face for me to enter my username into her Instagram search bar. My Instagram account only just started two years ago, back when I first hatched my plan of revenge. I knew the only way I could get the Elite to trust me and learn their closets full of skeletons is to become one of them so I know I had to craft a version of a girl that fits right in.

And an Instagram account is the first way to do that.

Luckily for me, my Instagram was made popular due to my stint as a project adopted by the Elites of Beverly Hills High. It allow me to fill my grid with pictures documenting the life of a quintessential California girl with boatloads of daddy's money: shopping trips on Rodeo Drive, dining at the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel, attending red carpet events and award parties.

"Whoa, is that a photo of you and Jack Harlow?" Hanif gapes, leaning over Carmen's shoulder to look at my story.

"Yes, he's signed to my uncle's agency," I say nonchalantly; this is true. After all, the best smokescreen is the truth.

"That's pretty cool," Parker admits and Carmen nods as she taps on the screen. Immediately, my phone ignites with a notification.

"Now that you're on her social media, can you stop getting everyone to give her the third degree?" grumble Luciana at Carmen. "Seriously, Amory is just a new friend I made."

"When you passed out," pointed out Phineas

"Exactly!" Luciana huffs, snatching a piece of sushi- baby tuna fat on vinegar-coated white rice- and plopping it into her mouth. "She helped me, a person she barely knew, in my time of the need. Where the fuck were you guys?'

"Looking for you," shot Parker with incendiary intent, which comes as a surprise since she's more famous for her vaguely amused happiness and mild discontent. Parker is not a person of extreme emotions, having the emotional range of a cold metal teaspoon.

"It doesn't matter," Orson comes to the rescue by clearing all inquiries about that night and I release a breath I didn't even know I'm holding. "That night was fucked either way since I don't remember a single thing."

"Who told you to mix ketamine with coke?" Phineas lectured like a scolding mother, shaking his head at his best friend, who shrugs indifferently. "The high is great but the comedown fucking sucks. You don't remember shit afterward."

"That's the point, Yeong."

Hanif stretches his neck muscles by cracking it around. "What's the point of crazy memories when you can't remember them?"

"All of you need Jesus," Carmen emits a dazy sigh, earning a bout of laughter from her friends. I awkwardly shift in my chair and continue to gulp down my drink to fill in awkward silences, keeping hushed as I fail to fit in their dynamics while observing them from this acceptable distance.

"Coming from you, Carms," I hear Luciana says from behind me, paying mass attention to her as if her approval is paramount.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Luce," Carmen replies sedately, twisting a glass rod around to create a mini hurricane in her drink. "I'm just drinking water."

Orson straightens up from his position and sends his sister a dirty look, "We'll see, step-sister," he hums, then switches his attention to me as he notices me quietly drinking in the corner of the massive banana couch, disconsolate with the scene.

Orson Calloway is sort of the guy who gets more attractive as you spend more time with him. Because you'll start to see his personality and his demeanor in his features, you'll see his wit in the curve of his nose, his smugness in his cheeks where I find myself waiting for the dimples to cave in, that spark of mischief in his eyes that flare up in the light of a cigarette being lit. When I'm up close enough to stop and notice something for what it is, pay attention to detail and see it in a different light, it gets much more intriguing. "So, Amory, how many drinks have you had so far?"

"Oh my God," Carmen rubs her temple, "Don't you dare try to bed her. I have enough of you trying to bed everyone we meet."

Orson puckers up his lip mockingly at Carmen. He dangles his body on the edge of his couch, with some buttons of his white top are undone to expose a toned chest underneath, polished shoes he wears to be perceived as expensive. "Have your ballet friend Marissa told you when she'll be coming over with her boyfriend?"

"You're disgusting."

"You love me," retorts Orson blithely. "But that aside, Amory, how many drinks have you helped yourself to?

"Um...three?"

"Shit," Hanif whistles, "Hope you don't get shitfaced."

I gulp down another easy swallow and shower him a curt grin. "It's not that easy to get me drunk."

"Oh really?" Orson questions. He moves closer towards me so our faces are almost leveled. God, his eyes are so beautifully blue, like gems of sapphires. I swallow, suddenly losing concentration. Wake up. I scream at myself. You know he does this. "High tolerance?"

"The highest. My family has German roots," I say, licking my lips. I let him watch my pink tongue swipe softly across my bottom lip, painting it slick with saliva. "Been drinking since I was twelve so good luck in getting me drunk."

"Limit?" It slips out of his mouth so perfectly. His low voice indicates he's about half a pickup line away from putting his hand on my thigh, stroking my skin. He thinks he has me.

I narrow my eyes, "What are you trying to do? Get me drunk? You just met me. Shouldn't you at least buy me dinner first before any attempts to get into my pants?"

It's a bold move to taunt but I'm willing to risk it. The others laugh a little. Hanif pat Orson on the back. Aidan shouts out a burn. But Orson doesn't say anything. Painful seconds tick by for his reaction to come. And then he chuckles, putting his hand up in surrender. "Well, beautiful girls like you are a weakness of mine."

I return the favor by graciously smiling back. I stand up from the seat and just as I'm about to exit the balcony, acknowledging that this is what I need to leave him hanging for more, I crane my head to give him one last look. His eyes trail down from the intricate crisscrosses over my open back to my clothed, toned rear, hidden by my very, very short skirt.

Look but don't touch. At least not yet.

Because boys like Orson Calloway, who is born with everything you could possibly have, crave a challenge for something he can't have. He's spoiled and narcissistic to the point of disbelief; nothing pisses him off more than something beyond his reach, even if he's not really interested in it. And the perfect way to lure him in, like bait for a fish, is to be exactly what he cannot attain: somebody who wouldn't fall in line like every other one.

"Well, Mr. Calloway, I'm sorry to say but you're simply just not my type."

And then I'm gone, leaving the glass door open as I confidently stride out, but I can feel him watching me leave. I try not to smile.

Hook, line, and sinker.

-

Yellow rays shine through the flimsy curtains, casting light over the naked walls of my bedroom. As a gentle breeze tangles through the sheer fabric, the luminous fingers seem to solidify into solid bands, mercilessly painting my slumbering face curled up on a bed in solid gold. The breeze sweeps through the room, leaving an afterwave of chaos in its wake: a flutter of papers, an errant lock of gilded hair tickling my nose, an eyelid cracking open in sleepy irritation.

I stir, yawning as I run a hand through my blonde hair. I didn't wake up with a hangover because I didn't have that much to drink, at least not much in my standards. I sigh in content, flopping down in my sheets and pillows. The weeknd is finally here. Now I don't have to worry about what scheme to pull as I don't have to face them until Monday, giving my brain some breathing space.

Stepping out of my bed, I sluggishly sit upright and throw the Egyptian cotton sheets off of my body, revealing the pink booty shorts and tank top I wear as pajamas. I make a beeline to the study table, where my iPhone 13 is charging. Three text messages.

I notice an unknown number has texted me. Tapping on the message, I read what it said:

Amory, this is Orson. Hope you don't mind me keeping your number. I got it from Luciana.

Happiness swells in my chest. It worked. It couldn't have fallen into place even more perfectly. And to seal the plan with a perfect little bow, I left him on read.

Once I unplug my phone out of my charger, I turn back to my bedroom which was a museum of white. Everything in my room is white: the leather chaise by the bain windows, the sheepskin rug, the cream walls, the Christmas lights strung above the bed, the dozen fresh tulips by the ceramic vase on her bedside table, her flat-screen Apple Laptop, the signboard of pictures collected over the years. The only splash of color is me and me only. I like how crisp and orderly everything looked- neutral and minimalistic.

My morning routine is just like my bedroom: ordered and mechanical. First, I dash into her bedroom to shower and rinse myself with my favourite shampoo- Unite U Luxury, which provided a blend of white honey, argan oil, and crushed pearls, helping keep my dyed blonde hair free of split ends and maintain it's silky softness as popular girls would like the state of my hair. After I have cleansed my face and set my hair up into the towel to dry, I sprint over to my walk-in closet to choose an outfit for the ANON420 meeting. But before I do that, I step onto the weight scales and see the dreaded number in bold before me. 48 kg.

I sigh heavily. I haven't gained any weight. It's good; I need to keep this shape. Any slip-ups, any pound of fat, any inch put on will be murder to my attempts to assimilate into their ranks.

When I have finally finished putting together my clothes, happy that I'll get to spend one day in comfortable jeans and a rag-tag Brooklyn Forever t-shirt, I head out of my bedroom and follow the morning conversation down the modern rectangle staircase with the metal and glass railings of Hadley's family's penthouse apartment.

Downstairs, Hadley is already dressed, halfway through her breakfast and scrolling down her phone, reading the latest gossip on her feed when I appear. "How was it?" she asks, "I didn't even hear you come home."

"Came back around, like, 10:30," I say, "Nothing much happens."

"Any progress?" she arches her eyebrow. I nod and smile.

"Soon, they'll be yours."

"Don't assume," I warn her and grab a bag of frozen bananas and fruits in the refrigerator. I pour them into a blender, along with some almond milk and acai berry powder before crushing them into a thick ice-cream like texture. I spread it into a bowl and top it off with some coconut shavings, chia seeds, and chopped strawberries. I position it into the morning light against the all-white background of the kitchen countertop and snap a picture on my phone before uploading it to Snapchat and my Instagram. In order to get girls like Carmen and Parker to like me, I must start acting like them- which means smoothie bowl pictures, squad selfies, and a picturesque feed; all things essential for a popular social media following- perfect as a potential candidate for their exclusive circle.

I scoop a bite of the acai bowl and wince at the coldness but the taste isn't bad. It's delicately sweet and refreshing so I carry on eating. Veronica strides out in her nightgown, her silk eye mask upon her head. She eyes my breakfast, "That's nutritious," she compliments, "Hadley, why can't you be more like Amory? You see that breakfast? All fruit based."

Hadley rolls her eyes, "That's because I've found the deliciousness of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, duh."

"I'm just trying to get into a fitter alternative," I elaborate, scooping up another bite. Veronica hums in appreciation, squeezes my cheeks and pat me on the shoulder.

"You know with that blonde hair of yours, you're looking more like my brother every day," Veronica smiles at me, then proceeds to walk back up to her bedroom where she'll start her morning off with an alcoholic Bloody Mary and two pills of Valium. Her 'brother' is my father and I find it strange how she says I look like my father. Atticus looked like my father while I copied my mother's features.

After Hadley and I have chowed down our breakfasts, we collect all our materials to make a move towards the Village for our meeting. I pull my hoodie up and stuff my blonde hair into my jumper so nobody could notice it's me. As the weather lulls into September, Manhattan is just getting colder and colder. My converse squelches with the sound of wet cement, making sure to avoid puddles. It has just rained last night so the scent of petrichor is pungent in the air, hanging stagnant like a wet cloud. As Hadley and I head towards the nearest Subway underground station, our conversations remain null but I don't mind the silence. Silence helps my brain function. We swipe our Metrocards when we reach the station and are told by the dashboard to wait for five minutes for the next train on the dirt-specked platform.

"So, how was the party?" Hadley suddenly asks me as she leans against the subpar hygiene-level wall, propping herself up with one leg upright. Her t-shirt slouches lazily on her slim figure and her jeans are extremely baggy, her glasses sliding down the slim bridge of her nose. I think of ways I can fix her; starting with her posture, swapping those glasses for clear contact lenses, some light make up to just conceal the burgeoning red spot on her chin and enhance her thick dark eyelashes, her baggy shirt for something a little form fitting and tailor her jeans so it'll match her body better. I hold my tongue because Hadley isn't the type that aspires to care much about her appearances so I know no matter how many times I ask her to blow out her wet hair before stepping out of the house, she'll never do it.

"It was good," I smile at her, "Nothing much happened, came home around twelve."

"You could've stayed if you wanted to," Hadley reasons inquisitively, "You know, Veronica doesn't mind if you stayed a little longer."

"I didn't want to. Bored me," I shrug. It's sort of the truth. I came to the party to plant the seed. Mission accomplished. Nothing much else to be done.

"Of course it did," she chastises, grinning from ear to ear. "You left before twelve; everybody knows good shit only happens after midnight."

"I came to do what I needed to do," I tell her simply, "After that was finished, I didn't see the need to hang around." My lack of appearance also creates an air of mystery to them, I want to add. They're the sort of people who have deluded everyone else into thinking they're hot shit. The fact that I got invited to join them by the balcony must make them feel as if I'll be fawning all over them and because I ditch the scene without a single care, they'll garner interest in me and wonder why I haven't bought into the hype. They'll try my best to get me to admire them, win my idolization and therefore, like me because I don't throw myself on them just like everybody else. It's basically playing hard to get. It's simple psychology, Hadley.

"You could have fun, you know?" Hadley nudges me on the elbow, dropping her tone into a mere whisper, "Not everything has to be dedicated to destroying them."

A swell of anger overcomes me. Doesn't she understand? They destroyed every piece of me, every emotion, every good thing in my life until I'm nothing but a numb, medicated shell, begging for a sliver of true, genuine feeling. I'm scarred for life. They deserved to feel the same way.

"You don't get it, do you?" Every syllable shakes. "I have to remain focused on my task."

Hadley frowns, her eyebrows scrunching. "Amory-"

But she's cut off by the screechy whistle of the train arriving, a whoosh of wind and then a silver bullet rushing past us until it finally stabilizes into slow-motion. The subway has arrived.

dedicated to revalien.