Page 38 of Kingmakers, Year Two

When our eyes meet, she isn’t smiling, but she isn’t scowling either.

“Not bad,” she says.

I headto the dining hall for lunch at the usual time, but I don’t see Zoe anywhere.

I stand by the chafing dishes, craning my neck to find her, until a Junior slams into me and says, “Get your food or get the fuck out of the way.”

Hastily, I fill a plate with pork chops, applesauce, and carrots.

I have no complaint about the food at Kingmakers. Most of it is from the local farms and orchards on the island, so it’s all fresh and well-prepared. I just wish I didn’t have to eat it all alone. Zoe usually meets me here.

I straighten my shoulders and tell myself to stop being such a fucking pussy. Zoe’s eaten every single meal with me so far—it’s not fair to expect her to babysit me.

I look around the dining hall, wishing I paid better attention to where everybody sits.

I see a table of Seniors, so muscular and overgrown that they can barely fit next to each other on the narrow bench seats. I’m definitely not going anywhere near them.

Next to the Seniors are a bunch of Heirs. I recognize a couple of them from my year, and a few who are older. One is that friend of Miles Griffin that I met on my first day—the friendly one with the mohawk and the tattoos and piercings all over his body. I think his name’s Ozzy. But I only met him the one time, so I don’t feel comfortable plopping down next to him.

I spot a group of French students, most of whom are blond. Every one of which looks like they came out of some high-fashion editorial spread. I’ve never been able to understand how some of the Kingmakers students make their uniforms look so damn stylish.

One of the girls has on a gorgeously tailored white blouse with the collar popped and a stunning gold chain lying across her décolletage. Her wavy sun-streaked hair lays over one shoulder like a mermaid, and her dewy skin looks like it’s never been touched by human hands.

The boy on her left resembles her—long surfer hair, high cheekbones, and full lips. He’s got a cross earring dangling from one ear, and he’s picking at his food with an expression of disgust.

The French students only take up half the table—the other side is empty. I recognize the girl sitting on the end, next to the empty seats. She’s the redhead I met on the wagon ride up to the school. Her name is Sadie Grant, I’m pretty sure.

I approach cautiously, ready to be turned away. Sadie gives me a quick smile, saying, “It’s Cat, right?”

“Yes,” I reply, relieved. I slide onto the empty bench, feeling like I accomplished something momentous by finding somewhere to sit.

“What’s your name?” the haughty blond boy scoffs. “Chatte?”

“Cat,” the glamorous girl corrects him. “It’s probably short for something else. Isn’t it, Cat?”

She smiles at me, showing lovely pearly white teeth.

“Yes,” I say. “Short for Catalina.”

“Are you from Spain?” she asks.

“Barcelona,” I nod.

“We’re from Paris,” she tells me. “I’m Claire Turgenev. That’s Jules.” She nods toward the boy currently regarding me like a raccoon scavenging at his table.

“You’re all from Paris?” I ask.

“Mostly. Isn’t it funny how we group up at Kingmakers? Sometimes by division, sometimes by year . . . and then some of us came all the way across the world just to sit with the people we knew back home.” She laughs at herself in a way that’s instantly disarming.

“I’d sit with someone else, if there was anyone worth sitting with,” Jules says, his full lip curling up in a sneer.

“You’re such a snob,” Claire says to him. “I meet people I like every day here. I’m just a creature of habit.”

Though Claire’s hands are clean, and her fingernails manicured, I can see a hint of dark staining on the cuticles and in the crevices around her knuckles. The same thing happens to my hands when I’ve been drawing with charcoal or ink. I wonder if she draws. I’m too shy to ask her.

“What’s your last name?” Jules demands of me. I can tell by his tone that he’s going to judge my answer. I wouldn’t be surprised if he told me to take my tray somewhere else if my response doesn’t meet his standards.

“Romero,” I reply.

---