Sweet Torture by Kira Saito Page A

waffles that were waiting downstairs.
    “Good morning, Miss. Claudia.” Vlada never sounded cheerful even when she was. “Did you have good sleep?” she asked, while she adjusted her impeccable, white apron. Vlada was a perfectionist. Her blond hair was always tied up in a severe bun, her posture was perfect, and her cherry red lipstick was never out of place.
    “Yeah, thanks,” I muttered through mouthfuls of waffle mush and chocolate milk.
    “Dream about Mr. Dante again?”
    I rolled my eyes in an attempt to prevent myself from turning blood red. “No.”
    “Sure,” she continued. “Sit up straight, Miss. Claudia, he’ll never notice you if you have posture like wobbly jello.”
    “Not that it’s any of your business Vlada, but I’m sure the last thing Dante cares about is posture.”
    “In my country, all men care about posture. We say good posture, makes even the ugliest woman beautiful. Not, that you are ugly Miss. Claudia. Mamba Clara says she sees bright future for you and Mr. Dante.”
    “Thanks for the advice.” I gulped down the rest of my chocolate milk, so I could get out of there as soon as possible and avoid any more conversations about Dante, posture and Mamba Clara. Mamba Clara was Vlada’s trusty voodoo queen. Yes, that’s right. Vlada always went to Mamba Clara when some lame dude dumped her, or she put on a few pounds. Supposedly, the woman was a miracle worker.   Obviously, Vlada though I was in need of some desperate help if she was discussing me with Mamba Clara.
      On the way to school, I couldn’t help but fantasize about Dante. A mere glimpse of him was sweet torture. The thing was, my crush on Dante Torres was epic. He was hot. No, he was super-hot. With perfect olive skin, pouty lips and icy blue eyes, if Johnny Depp and Jonathan Rhys Meyers had a love child, I’m pretty sure he would look exactly like Dante. His features were like a box of exotic, assorted chocolates. Each piece was distinct and unique, but blended together in sublime harmony. On top of being ridiculously hot, Dante was an incredible writer. His latest short story had been published in The New Yorker, and rumor had it that he was working out a lucrative deal with one of the big six publishers for his debut novel. The guy was only seventeen. The only problem was every other girl at school had their sights set on him, including Beatrice.
    Beatrice was only one of the hottest and most popular girls at school. With her shiny, chestnut, brown hair, waif-like figure and Bambi like brown eyes, she was Upper East Side royalty at its finest. I’m pretty sure her parents had her genetically engineered rather than conceived naturally. Lucky for me, I was one of Beatrice’s handpicked minions. Probably because my family was rich enough to mingle with her crowd, but I wasn’t pretty or thin enough to ever threaten her status as queen bee.
    The rumors were fake that pretty girls often liked to hang out with other pretty girls. The truth was, pretty girls liked to surround themselves with less attractive girls to make them appear even shinier than they actually were. Beatrice knew she was hot (gorgeous), but she never went near other girls who were almost as hot as her or hotter. She never wanted her status threatened.  
      Lucky for Beatrice, it was common knowledge that Dante had been in love with her since summer. Supposedly, she had been his muse for the story that had gotten published in The New Yorker. I knew for a fact that Beatrice was totally into Dante as well, but she would never just admit it. You see, one of Beatrice’s hobbies was testing boys and how far they would go to get a date with her. Her tests weren’t the typical flower and chocolates kind. No, they were far more daring.
    Last year when Carl Rutherford wanted to take her to the Winter Ball, Beatrice dared him to randomly kiss another dude in front of his conservative parents at a fancy Upper East Side Brunch. Being the lovesick puppy he was,