“Yeah, well, I guess I’m not worthy,” she said wryly. “So who got in? You can tell me. I can take it.”
“Actually, as far as I know, no one has gotten in. We haven’t had a
vote or anything. I guess I’ll find out what’s going on later. Maybe you still have a chance,” I told her.
“You think?” Constance’s eyes widened with hope, and I instantly regretted saying anything. Now she was going to be crushed all over again if she didn’t get in.
“But don’t freak out until I find out what’s up,” I warned her. “Honestly, after last year, I’m surprised anyone actually wants to get into Billings anymore,” I added.
Not only was it partially true, but it would also give her something to rationalize on later if she didn’t make the cut.
“Oh, please. That? Not even a murder could tarnish the mystique of Billings House,” she blurted. Then slapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry.”
“No. It’s okay,” I said, forcing a smile. I wondered if she was right. If Thomas’s death and Ariana’s guilt—and my own near-death experience—had really left no lasting effect on anything. The idea made my insides squirm.
“No, really. I can’t believe I said that,” Constance continued. “You must think I’m totally—”
The sound of the heavy chapel doors closing cut her off, and the crowd fell silent. I was saved from having to comfort Constance any further for her verbal vomit. Diana reached over Constance’s legs to nudge me and wave hello. As I leaned in, a tall, slim girl with light brown skin and long black hair slid into the last seat at the far end of the pew. She looked around uncertainly, then hugged her sheer turquoise wrap to her. With her gold braided thongs, skimpy dress, and
dewy skin, she looked as if she’d just stepped off a plane from some exotic Caribbean locale and walked right into the chapel. She had to be new. Anyone who’d ever been in the Easton chapel before knew that even on the hottest days it was frigid in here. We’d all come prepared with fall sweaters. This girl must have been covered in goose bumps.
“Check out Miss Island Nation,” Missy Thurber sneered behind me. Missy, of course, was wearing the tightest T-shirt possible, all the better to show off her massive chest, and her blond hair was done in a perfect French braid. Not perfect enough to distract from her tunnel-like nostrils, of course.
“Is she wearing
shells
for earrings?” Lorna Gross—Missy’s ever-present worshipper—whispered back. Lorna was not down with originality. Every day, she donned almost the exact same outfit Missy had worn the day before. Like, in case you ever missed one of Missy’s “ripped from
Teen Vogue
” fashion choices, you had a second chance to check it out on Lorna the following morning. Apparently yesterday Missy had worn a black jersey dress and diamond earrings, because that was what Lorna had on today.
I rolled my eyes and shot the new girl what I hoped was a welcoming smile. Unfortunately, she didn’t see me. Her eyes were transfixed on two freshman boys lighting the lanterns at the front of the chapel. The new-year ritual had begun.
There was a loud rap on the chapel doors. A tall man with white hair and a full square face stood up from behind the lectern, his chin raised imperiously. Everything about him was stiff and pressed, from
the collar of his white shirt to the perfectly straight cuffs on his gray suit pants. There was an American flag lapel pin tacked to his red power tie. He reminded me of some distinguished family patriarch from the low-rent soap opera Natasha’s little sister had been addicted to all summer. The type of person who always knew what was going on around him, and approved of none of it. Whispers filled the room.
“Guess that’s the new headmaster,” I whispered to Constance.
“Headmaster Cromwell,” she confirmed. “I heard he actually went here, like, a zillion years ago.”
An Easton man. Interesting. My eyes were riveted on the headmaster as he strode down the aisle, his hands straight down at his sides like one of the Queen’s guard. He didn’t look left or right. Felt no need to check out his new charges. He stopped at the door and spoke.
“Who requests entrance to this sacred place?” he asked.
“Eager minds in search of knowledge,” came the reply.
“Then you are welcome,” he said.
The doors opened, and in walked Cheyenne Martin and Lance Reagan, the sunlight pouring in behind them. This was the first I had seen of my housemate Cheyenne, and I was stunned by how beautiful she looked. Her blond hair had been cut into a pin-straight chin-length bob, and her skin was pale, smooth, and flawless. She wore just a hint of makeup—pink cheeks, pink lips, curled lashes—and looked every bit the preppy trust fund princess in her full-skirted dress and cropped cardigan. She and Lance kept their eyes trained on the lectern as they carried the traditional tomes up the aisle. As Cheyenne
walked by the senior boys, I noticed Trey Prescott, handsome as ever in a crisp white shirt that set off his dark skin, staring straight ahead. Not so much as a glance in Cheyenne’s direction. I could practically feel the chill coming off him. Guess that relationship hadn’t survived the summer.
Cheyenne and Lance placed their books down on the lectern.
“Tradition, honor, excellence,” they said in unison.
“Tradition, honor, excellence,” we intoned, our voices filling the chapel.
The doors were closed again, and Headmaster Cromwell walked down the aisle and took his place at the lectern. He took a long moment to survey the rows and rows of pews, the expectantly upturned faces. From the slight sneer on his lips, he didn’t seem all that impressed.
“Welcome, students, to a new year at Easton Academy. I am Headmaster Cromwell,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “I am honored to have been chosen by the Easton Academy board of directors to take the helm and help usher you all into a new era. As of today, we put the past behind us. As of today, we are no longer a community torn by scandal and tragedy. We have all had our time to heal, and it is now that we must look to the future. A future that is bright with hope, with integrity, with knowledge, and with respect.”
Constance and I shared an impressed glance.
“With this in mind, you should know that I will not accept anything other than the absolute best from the students of this academy. I will not brook insolence from my students. I will not tolerate indiscretion
or immaturity. I will not allow any behavior whatsoever that could reflect negatively on this school. Hear me now, people, and hear me well. Things are going to change.”
He said these last few words slowly, deliberately, as if hammering them into each and every adolescent brain one by one. So much for impressed. Now I was a tad freaked. From the looks on the faces around me, everyone felt the same.
“From this moment on, I expect each and every one of you to work toward a new Easton Academy,” he said, his voice rising like a dictator’s. “This school will hereafter be known as an institution that breeds character. That breeds decorum. And that turns out the very finest young men and women this country has to offer.”
Suddenly, a loud, long farting noise filled the chapel. All the senior guys cracked up and shifted in their seats. I heard a cackle that could only belong to one person: Gage Coolidge.
The entire room tensed. My heart pounded as Headmaster Cromwell glowered toward the back of the chapel. He glanced right and nodded at a dark, shadowy figure in the corner behind him.
“Mr. White, if you please?” the headmaster asked.
A slim yet powerful-looking man with the sunken cheeks of a vampire and white-blond hair slipped down the side aisle and walked right over to Gage’s pew. He leaned in and crooked a finger at Gage. It was all very grim reaper.
No one moved. Gage ducked his head and wagged it, like there was no way he was going anywhere. All the man did was lean even farther over the guy at the end of the pew and crook his finger again. Gage
was beet red by this point. He shoved himself up and followed the creature out.
“Who. The hell. Is that?” Missy hissed behind me.
“The new Easton Academy henchman?” I suggested under my breath.
The chapel door slammed. I wasn’t the only one who jumped.
“Now. Where were we?” Headmaster Cromwell asked. He seemed more chipper now, somehow. “Ah. Yes. This year we will be instituting a mentoring program. Several returning Easton students have been selected to mentor transfer students and the members of the incoming freshman class. When you are excused from here, kindly check your mailboxes to see if you have been so honored.”
Missy and Lorna grumbled as many of my fellow students exchanged overwhelmed looks. This new headmaster was not messing around. The welcoming program lasted another thirty minutes, and for those thirty minutes, not a soul had the courage to move.
INTERESTING
“Can you believe that guy?” Missy fumed on our way out into the quad. Her nostrils somehow seemed even larger when she was angry. Like they were getting ready to breathe fire.
“I know. Like anything ever changes around here,” Lorna added.
Well, she sure had. Lorna Gross had not only grown her dark hair out so that the frizzy curls formed less of a triangle, but she’d had an obvious nose job. She was almost pretty. Too bad she had no personality whatsoever to help her cause.
“I don’t know. Everything just feels kind of different anyway. Doesn’t it?” I asked, turning to Constance, Kiki, and Diana. I knew Missy and Lorna would answer me snidely, if at all.
“What are you on, Brennan?” Diana asked with a laugh. “Same old, same old, if you ask me.”
“Maybe it just feels different because Noelle Lange isn’t here
casting her big bitch-slapping shadow over everyone,” Missy said with a triumphant sneer.
Like Missy Thurber was even remotely good enough to look down on someone like Noelle Lange. But I knew that if anyone was happy to have Noelle gone, it was her. Last year Noelle had pretty much told Missy she had zero shot of getting into Billings—even though her mother had been a Billings girl. Now Missy’s chances were wide open again. Unless I had anything to say about it.
“Did you ever hear from her this summer?” Constance asked me. “Or from any of them?”
Everyone eyed me expectantly. I, after all, was the only one among us who had any connection to the four girls who used to run Billings. Who used to run Easton, really. They were all looking to me as the person in the know. Someone special. The girl who had actually brushed with greatness. So I felt like a heel when I had to say:
“No. I haven’t heard from any of them.”
It wasn’t as if I didn’t want to hear from them. Wasn’t as if I hadn’t tried to track them down. But Noelle, Kiran, and Taylor had all changed their e-mails and their cell phone numbers. Every time I tried, I got an error message in my in-box or heard a nasal voice telling me the number was no longer in service. After a while I had to grow some pride and accept the fact that they had moved on. Without me. Natasha maintained that I should be glad to be rid of them. And maybe I should have been on some level. But it still hurt to be so easily and callously cut out.
Missy scoffed and rolled her eyes and kept walking, so Lorna did
the same. I wanted to conk their heads together, but held my hands behind my back instead.
“I heard Ariana’s in some mental facility in, like, the Southwest or something,” Diana said. “Total maximum security.”
I’d heard that one, too, but I’d heard it was in upstate New York. Every time I thought of Ariana, I pictured her in a straitjacket, her light blue eyes staring out some window as she contemplated her next move, Hannibal Lecter–style. Then I’d have to shake my head to clear the image and the awful tingling sensation it gave me down my spine.
“Taylor Bell’s living in Portugal,” Lorna said.
“No. It was Prague,” Missy shot back.
“Nuh-uh,” Kiki said, speaking up for the first time—loudly since her iPod was blasting into her ears. “Rehab.”
“What? No. Taylor didn’t even like to drink that much,” I said.
“Pills,” Kiki said seriously. “It’s always the quiet ones.” Ironic, since she herself was among the taciturn.
“Well, I know for a fact that Kiran’s living in Paris and modeling,” Diana said. “I saw her new CK billboard on the Champs-Élysées over the summer, and my mom knows the photographer. He said she’s totally professional now. No partying. No late nights. No crazy diets. Just shows up for work and goes home to read.”
“Now I
know
that is a lie,” I joked.
“I just think it’s weird that none of them came back,” Constance said as we reached the break in the path between Billings and Pemberly, one of the junior and senior girls’ dorms. “I mean, unless they’re all in jail or something, why wouldn’t they come back?”
“Uh, because of the extreme personal humiliation?” Missy said sarcastically. She studied the end of her braid before flicking it over her shoulder. “They’re a bunch of psychos anyway. We’re better off without them.”
My fingers curled into a fist behind my back. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Problem?” Missy asked, flicking her eyes over me. “I’d think you of all people would want to see Noelle and her posse burn at the stake. They did murder your boyfriend.”
“No,
they
didn’t. Ariana did. The rest of them made a mistake,” I told her, barely holding back my fury. Even though some small part of me agreed with some small part of what she said, I felt that she was the last person who had any right saying it. “They were my friends.”
“Nice friends,” Missy said derisively. “I guess that’s why you never liked me? Because I’m not a sociopath?”
“You little—”
“Oh. My. God,” Lorna interrupted me. “Speaking of coming back—”
I whipped around, half-expecting to see Noelle or Taylor or Kiran. But no. The girl walking toward us had sharp features, milk-white skin, and very long, perfectly straight and glossy black hair. Her coal-black eyes looked us over as she walked by, as if studying a new and unattractive species. Her look was so cold I almost shivered under the blazing late-summer sun. No way this girl had been at Easton last year. I would have remembered her.