Poison Princess Read Online Free Page B

helmet. He had the advantage on me, and I didn’t like it.
    He stood, unfolding his tall frame. He had to be more than six feet in height, even taller than Brand. He had on scuffed boots, worn jeans, and a black T-shirt that stretched tight over his chest.
    Beside him was a couple on a bike—a kid in camo pants and a girl in a pleather miniskirt. The big boy helped her off the bike, easily swinging her up—
    â€œWheh-hell,” Catherine said, “good to know her panties are hot pink. Shocked she’s wearing them, actually. Classy with a capital K .”
    Mel nodded thoughtfully. “I finally understand who buys vajazzling kits.”
    Grace Anne, proud wearer of a purity ring, screwed her face up into an expression of distaste. “Surely she’s going to get sent home with a skirt that short.”
    Not to mention her midriff-baring shirt, which read: I GOT BOURBON-FACED ON SHIT STREET!
    Once he’d set the girl on her feet, she took off her helmet, revealing long chestnut-brown hair and a face made up to an embarrassing degree with glaring fuchsia lipstick.
    The skinny boy who’d been driving her removed his own helmet. He had dark-blond hair and a long face, which wasn’t un handsome but still reminded me of a fox.
    He revved his motorcycle, startling two passersby, and his friends laughed.
    Or rather a weasel. Strike feeling sorry for them.
    Finally, the big one reached for his helmet. I waited. He yanked it off, shook out his hair, and raised his head. My lips parted.
    Mel voiced my thoughts: “I kind of wasn’t expecting that.”
    A tangle of jet-black hair fell over his forehead, with jutting tousles above his ears. His face was deeply tanned, with a lantern jaw and strong chin.
    He looked to be older than eighteen. Overall his features were pleasing, handsome even. Though he couldn’t hold a candle to Brandon’s Abercrombie looks, the boy was attractive in his own rough way.
    â€œHe’s gorgeous ,” Catherine said, her eyes lighting up with interest. We called her Cat-o-gram because she could never hide her reactions, displaying them for all to see.
    People passed us in the doorway, speculating about the newcomers:
    â€œMy maid comes from Basin. She said all five of them are juvies with records.”
    â€œI heard the tall boy knifed two guys in the French Quarter. He was just released from a year’s stint in a cage-the-rage correctional center!”
    â€œThe blond boy is a sophomore for the third try. . . .”
    Weasel and the big one started for the entrance, leaving the other two and the girl to smoke, right out in the open.
    The big one dug a flask from his back pocket. On school grounds? I noticed his fingers were circled with white medical tape for some reason.
    While Weasel sneered at everyone he passed, his friend just narrowed his eyes with an unnerving resentment, as if he was disgusted by the kids at this school.
    As the boys neared, I could make out some of their words. They spoke Cajun French.
    My grandmother had taught it to me—before she’d been sent away—and for years I’d listened to the farm help speak it. As they’d stomped through Haven’s fields in their work boots, I’d followed in my miniature boots, eagerly listening to their wild tales of life deep in the bayou.
    I understood the dialect well. Not that this was something to brag about, since I could barely understand proper French.
    I saw Weasel glowering at a nearby group of four JV cheerleaders. As he stalked closer, the girls grew visibly nervous; he yelled, “BOO!” and they cried out in fright.
    Weasel snickered at the girls’ reaction, but the other boy just scowled in their direction, muttering, “Couillonnes.” He pronounced it coo-yôns . Idiots.
    Any tiny lingering inclination to be friendly to the new students—as was my usual way—died. They were messing with my khaki tribe.
    Then