Page 17 of Cruel Games

Part of me wanted to storm over there and demand answers, but common sense dictated that boys that fickle didn’t deserve an ounce of my attention. Especially those whose gorgeousness was only eclipsed by their egos.

Ignoring the stares of students sitting at round tables, I glanced around for somewhere to sit. There was a space in a table of six, where a group of girls from the Textiles class sat. I stole over to them, smiling at the flame-haired girl.

“Is this seat taken?” I asked.

The red-haired girl beamed. “Sure—”

“Maeve made a mistake,” said a girl with a long, pointed jaw and a bushy mane of tawny hair. “You can’t sit here,”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Elizabeth just declared you the whipping girl.”

“So?”

Maeve turned to me, her green eyes dimmed with sorrow. “It means you’ve committed an act so heinous that no one’s going to talk to you. Any pranks or bullying against you won’t be reported or defended.”

“What?” I’d heard of organized crime, but never organized bullying.

She raised a shoulder. “It’s the school’s unofficial form of social control.”

I glanced at the head table. Mr. Burgh hadn’t yet arrived, but Mrs. Campbell sat in her seat, chatting with a man with the same red hair and bushy beard as Mr. McGarr.

Turning back to the girls, I asked, “Do the staff know about this?”

“Go away, or you’ll turn us all into whipping girls,” snapped a dark-haired girl.

“Whatever.” I turned to another table with a free seat.

The two boys sitting on either side of the empty space held onto the back of the chair, making sure I couldn’t pull it out.

I shook my head. What was wrong with these people? In Richley, no one had that kind of power unless they were willing to back it up with thugs, weapons, or money. I doubted that Elizabeth would pay to keep everyone in line.

My stomach rumbled, and I searched around the dining room for signs of friendly or at least indifferent-looking faces. All I found was a sea of hostility. Student after student preventing me from taking a space.

I might have been able to force some of the younger ones to let me have a place, but I didn’t want them whipped, or whatever it was called, for sitting with me.

“Bugger this.” I turned around, looking for the entrance to the kitchens. Someone could plate me up a meal, and I’d stand in the corner and eat it.

“Lilah,” said the poshest voice I’d heard all day.

I turned around. Gideon Adewale sat alone at a table for four, his posture impeccable. A groan slid from my lips.

“Would you care to join me?” he asked with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. “We could practice a few vowels if you like.”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m the whipping girl.”

“The rumor had reached my ears,” he replied. “However, Mrs. Campbell requested that I instruct you on elocution. Given the way you’re standing with a hip thrust out, I can include lessons on deportment.”

I rolled my eyes. “How about I sit at your table, and you stop trying to mold me into something I’m not.”

His brows drew together. “I would never—”

With a sigh, I slid into the seat opposite him. “Never mind.”

The staff served a chunky, cold soup that reminded me of salsa and had a gorgeous basil smell, as though they’d mixed in a shedload of pesto.

Gideon explained that it was gazpacho soup, which was always served cold. I didn’t care what they called it. The fragrant mix of tomatoes, cucumber, cilantro, basil, and a whole host of fresh ingredients had me rolling my eyes to the back of my head.