She started past me and something inside of me clicked. I knew that dismissive tone. There was something Noelle wasn’t telling me. Like I wasn’t worthy of knowing. I couldn’t let her keep me in the dark
again. Not like last year. We were equals now. It was time to remind her of that. And there were things I knew too.
“Did you know that Ivy and Cheyenne were once best friends?” I asked, turning toward the door.
Noelle stopped in her tracks. I had startled her. Ah, sweet satisfaction.
“Who told you that?” she asked, swinging her thick hair back as she turned to face me.
I shrugged. “Just something I heard.”
“Well, you heard about ancient history,” she replied with a condescending smirk. “Whoever your informant is, she should update her dossier.”
“It’s not
so
ancient, from what I understand,” I replied, thinking of the photo of Ivy and Cheyenne on their first day at Easton. That was only three years ago. They had come here as best friends.
“Reed, as long as I knew those two they were like polka dots and plaid,” Noelle said, taking a step toward me. “They never got along. What is your sudden obsession with Ivy Slade anyway? She eats one meal with Hollis and suddenly you’re on the warpath?”
“No warpath,” I replied, ignoring the pang in my chest at the mention of Ivy with Josh. “Just natural curiosity.”
“Well, bag it,” Noelle said. “We have more important things to focus on. Like saving your rep as Billings president. Unless you want to go down in history as the person responsible for bringing this place down.”
Satisfied that she had put me in my place, Noelle turned and strode
out of the room. But she hadn’t put me in my place. Not by a long shot. I was more convinced than ever that Ivy’s past and her current icy demeanor were somehow entwined with Billings and even more so with Cheyenne.
Standing there alone, I suddenly saw something move out of the corner of my eye. Something outside the window. Heart in my throat, I raced over and shoved the lace curtain aside. Someone was just ducking around the corner of Billings, and I could have sworn I saw a dark ponytail being tossed in the breeze. Determined to catch Ivy at her game—whatever that game was—I started toward the lobby, but then I realized I didn’t have my key on me. If I went out there, I’d have to shout up at the front windows to get someone to let me back in. So instead, I took a deep breath and told myself to chill. I didn’t have to chase her. I knew it was her. But what was she doing lurking around Billings after dark? Was she waiting for us all to go upstairs? And if so, why?
Whatever Noelle said, it was clear that Ivy had a major interest in Billings. And I was going to find out what it was.
It’s difficult to research a paper on World War II when your ex-boyfriend may or may not be starting up a relationship with one of the people you loathe most. The only invasion of enemy territory I could think about was Josh potentially invading Ivy’s. Not a pleasant thought. After an hour and a half in front of my computer later that night, I had exactly three sentences, all of which sounded as if they could have been written by a third-grader. I kept endeavoring to focus, sit up straight, pay attention to my notes. Then five minutes later I would find myself staring out the window, thinking about the art cemetery nightmare—with Ivy playing the Cheyenne part this time—and flinch. Only then would I realize I had stopped working. Again.
I had just woken up from one such reverie when I heard Sabine let out a mournful sigh. Propped up against her pillows on her white bedspread, she lazily turned a page in her chemistry book. Then she blew out a loud breath. Clearly, something was on her mind. I closed my laptop and turned toward her in my chair. Not like I was getting anything done here anyway.
“Hey, Sabine?”
“Yeah?” she asked, eyes trained on her book.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“I guess.”
Not exactly a positive tone. She toyed with the silver ring on her left hand, turning it around and around with the pad of her thumb.
“What’s the matter?” I hooked my elbow around the back of my chair.
“Nothing.” Her gaze flicked in my direction. “You’ll just get angry if I tell you.”
She turned the page again, not fooling anyone. The girl was getting about as much work done as I was.
“Did I do something?” I asked, dreading the answer.
I knew I had been in my own, tortured little world the past couple of days, but I couldn’t afford to ostracize my friends. Especially not now. These girls were all I had left.
“It’s not you,” she replied, laying her book aside.
Relief. I got up and walked over to sit at the foot of her bed. “So what’s up? I swear I won’t get mad.”
Unless you’re after Josh too. Then, no guarantees.
Sabine shot me a hesitant look. Then she seemed to make up her mind. She pulled her knees up and hugged them to her, resting her chin on the left one.
“It’s Noelle,” she said, deep resignation in her voice.
Of course. Instantly, my shoulder muscles coiled. Truth? I was sick of Sabine complaining about Noelle. She had been doing it ever since the day Noelle had returned to Easton, and it was starting to grate on
my nerves. Why couldn’t the two of them just get along? Or at the very least, let each other be.
“What about Noelle?” I asked, sounding defensive.
“See?” Her green eyes widened. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you! You’re just going to defend her.”
I took a deep breath and pulled myself all the way up onto her bed, sitting with my legs curled under so I could face my roommate. Patience, Reed. This girl is one of your best friends. Don’t bite her head off for having feelings.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just . . . you guys are my best friends. I wish you could just bury the hatchet or whatever. But if she did something, I want to know about it. So what happened?” Sabine dropped her knees down, plopped a green throw pillow onto her lap, and toyed with the chenille fringe along the edge. “I just don’t understand why it’s automatically assumed that
she’ll
be the one to go to New York with you. It’s like whatever you do, she just expects to be included.”
“Well, Noelle lives in New York. She knows the place like the back of her hand. And I’ve been there exactly three times,” I replied. “I need her there.”
“But London and Vienna are going, no?” Sabine asked. “They know the city well too.”
I shifted my legs into a more comfortable position. “Well, yeah . . .”
Sabine tossed the pillow aside and leaned forward. “It just felt like once again she was in charge,” she told me. “She’s so proprietary when it comes to everything Billings. It’s like she can’t accept the fact that you’re the president now.”
I sighed at the overplayed riff. Sabine had been telling me this
for weeks. She hadn’t trusted Noelle from the moment they met, and she was overly protective of me and my presidency. I knew it must have been hard for Noelle to see someone else running things around here, but she hadn’t let it show. Not once. For some reason, however, Sabine couldn’t recognize that.
“It doesn’t matter if she accepts it or not. It’s fact,” I told her. “And when it comes down to it, she has way more experience planning these events than I do. I need her help if we’re going to save Billings.”
Sabine slumped and looked away, reaching for the pillow again. “It just . . . it would have been nice to be invited to New York,” she said morosely. “I’ve always wanted to see it.”
Instantly, a big cartoon lightbulb snapped on over my head. This wasn’t about the fact that Noelle was going on my Save Billings road trip. It was about the fact that Sabine wasn’t.
“You want to go?” I said, brightening. “Why didn’t you just say so?”
Sabine shrugged. “Well, you and Noelle acted like it was just for you and the Twin Cities, so . . .”
“Sabine, there is no law stating that only the four of us can go. You should totally come.”
“I should?” she asked, her mood doing a quick one-eighty.
“Definitely! You have an artistic eye. I’d love to have your opinion too,” I told her, pushing myself up off the bed. “Besides, every Billings Girl has to see New York. It’s, like, a cultural imperative.”
Sabine laughed and my heart felt a lot lighter. “Are you sure Noelle won’t mind?” she asked.
I paused and looked over my shoulder at her with a mischievous grin. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?” I said. “It’s not up to her.”
Somehow, getting up the next morning was harder than it had been all week. It was like I suddenly realized that the nightmare of being without Josh was not going to end. That I was actually going to have to do this brave-face thing every day. The thought was exhausting.
But tonight was my study date with Jason. The first date of the rest of my life. I had to get up. Get psyched. Act like the girl who was super-fine with moving on. So I stripped off my covers and swung my legs out of bed, forcing myself to smile, even though Sabine was in the shower and there was no one there to see me. I could do this. I could be fun, confident Reed. I had to be.
Then I heard a loud spattering sound and glanced at the window behind my bed. It was gray outside and raindrops battered the pane. Wind whistled past, as if to hammer home the message that stepping outside today would be frigid, wet, and decidedly unfun. I groaned, shoved my feet into my slippers to protect myself from the alwaysfreezing
wood floors, and trudged over to my closet. Forget the Single Reed power uniform. This was a jeans-and-sweatshirt day if I had ever seen one.
I yanked open the door and reached up to the left side of the first shelf for the cozy Penn State sweatshirt my brother had given me last Christmas. As my hand fell on the embroidered white letters, I froze. Hanging at the far end of my closet, perfectly spaced on unfamiliar wooden hangers, were three items of petal pink clothing. A cardigan. An oxford. A short-sleeved silk blouse. Three items of pink clothing. Not one of them mine.
Shaking, I withdrew my hand and took a step back, as if the clothes were going to jump off their hangers and attack. Pink? I owned nothing pink. But I knew those clothes. Would have known them anywhere. They were Cheyenne’s. Some of her favorites.
My hand shot forward and slid the closet door shut with a bang. My heartbeat pounded in my chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe. What were Cheyenne’s clothes doing in my closet? How the hell had they gotten there?
Okay, Reed, think. Take a deep breath and think. Maybe they’re not Cheyenne’s. Maybe they’re Sabine’s. She likes colorful clothing. Maybe she hung them up in your closet by mistake.
Feeling slightly comforted by this theory, I breathed in again and opened the closet door. I tentatively reached for the sweater and held it out at arm’s length. Little white roses embroidered around the collar. Tiny mother-of-pearl buttons. Instantly, I was assaulted by images of Cheyenne wearing this sweater. Laughing at some stupid joke of
Gage’s in the dining hall, slipping it over her shoulders in the parlor when she got cold one Friday night last spring. It was Cheyenne’s, definitely Cheyenne’s.
There had to be a logical explanation for this. Maybe someone had taken these clothes from Cheyenne’s room before her parents had packed it up. Maybe they had sent them out to get laundered and somehow they had ended up in here. London and Vienna had a cleaning woman come every week to work on their room. Maybe she’d been confused and had left their cleaning in my closet.
But these things hadn’t been here yesterday. Had their cleaning woman, Rosaline, come yesterday? I doubted it. No, she usually came on weekends. And I was sure I hadn’t heard those heavy steps of hers plodding around the hallway.
Of course, there was another, more disturbing explanation for this. Whoever had planted the black marbles in my desk drawer had planted these clothes here as well. Someone was messing with me. But why? Why would anyone want to keep reminding me of Cheyenne? Did someone know about her final e-mail? Did someone blame me for Cheyenne’s death, like Cheyenne had?
Ivy. She had been skulking around Billings yesterday evening. She had claimed we had done something to her. Did she think I had driven Cheyenne to suicide? But if she was doing this to get back at me, how was she getting into Billings?
The bathroom door opened, startling me out of my skin. Sabine drew a hair pick through her long hair as she approached in her
skimpy white waffle-weave robe, checking out the sweater that was clutched in my hands.
“I thought you didn’t take any of Cheyenne’s things after the funeral,” she said, raising her eyebrows.
“So this
is
Cheyenne’s,” I said, my temples throbbing.
“Yes.” She looked at me, confused. And why not? Shouldn’t I know if I had appropriated the sweater of our dead housemate? One would think. “Remember? She spilled coffee on the cuff the morning of initiation and went into that temper.” Sabine reached for the sleeve and turned it over, revealing the small, dark stain. “Why would you take a stained sweater of all things?”
“I don’t . . . I didn’t. . . .” Sabine’s brow creased as I fought for an answer to what was, to her, a simple question. “I didn’t realize it was stained.”
I shoved the sweater back into the closet and slammed the door closed before Sabine could spot the rest of the pink clothing.
“Too bad.” Sabine turned around and continued combing through her hair. “It was a nice sweater.”
“Yeah. Nice.”
I turned away from the closet. I’d wear something from my dresser instead. My fingers slipped from the knobs of the drawer as I tugged on it, slick with nervous sweat. I paused for a moment and forced myself to breathe. Sabine, meanwhile, hummed to herself as she got dressed in the far corner, oblivious to my panic.
I hadn’t taken those clothes, had I? Maybe I . . . maybe I had taken
them and just didn’t remember. Those few days were still a blur. Everything that had gone on . . . the freaky e-mail, the funeral, the stuff with Josh . . . Maybe I had gone in there and taken some of her clothes from her room and had just blocked it out.