by Kate Brian
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“Why . . . why are you showing these to me?” I asked, as the slideshow started up all over again. I turned my face away, from her, from the screen, from the truth of what I'd done.
“Because I want you to understand how very serious I am about what I am about to propose,” Natasha said. She grabbed the chair and spun it around on its wheels so that I had to face her. Bracing her hands on its arms, she leaned forward and looked me dead in the eye. “You do know what these pictures mean, right? You do realize that if I choose to do so, I can get you booted out of here so fast your head will spin.”
Tears prickled at the corners of my eyes. She was right, of course. She had photographic evidence of me breaking some very serious school rules. Even worse, it looked as if Whittaker and I had done it all alone. Even though there had been close to a dozen other people in the woods that night, not a single one of them appeared in these pictures.
“Why are you doing this?”
What was wrong with me? I had believed her when she told me she wanted to be my friend. When had I become so gullible?
“Because there's something I need you to do for me,” she said, standing up straight.
“What?” I was already her indentured servant. Did we need twisted espionage in our relationship?
“Noelle Lange and her friends are responsible for getting Leanne kicked out of school,” Natasha said. “They set her up.”
Her accusation did not surprise me. On the day that Natasha's
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roommate, Leanne Shore, had been escorted from school grounds after being found guilty of breaking the Easton honor code by cheating, Natasha had accused Noelle of having had something to do with it. I had been there, in the quad, when she had gotten right up in Noelle's face. But I had thought Natasha was basically insane.
“How .. . how do you know?” I asked.
“I just know,” Natasha said. “The problem is, I have no proof. That's where you come in.”
Oh, God, no. No, no, no. Please tell me she isn't going to make me--
“Now that you're our new scrub girl, you have unlimited access to their rooms,” Natasha said. “I want you to find the evidence I need. I want you to go through everything they own. They have to have kept something. They're big on trophies. Find me what I need to nail their asses to the wall.”
I stared up at her, my hair dripping cold as ice down my neck. “I... I can't do that,” I said.
I would lose everything. They would find out and they would kick me out of Billings. They would never speak to me again. Everything I had worked for would be gone in an instant.
Plus Noelle would kill me. There was always that.
“Oh, but you can,” she said with a smirk. “Unless you want that e-mailed to the dean and the board and every single student and teacher at this school.”
I glanced up at the screen again. Whittaker's tongue was down
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my throat. I tasted bile. I tried to swallow but couldn't. Tears stung my eyes all over again. These pictures represented the end of me. The end of my life, my future. Didn't she see that?
“I thought we were friends,” I said blankly. Maybe guilt would work. I was grasping at straws.
“Aw! That's so sweet!” Natasha trilled. “So, do we have an understanding? ”
I stared at her, hard. There wasn't a trace of regret or uncertainty in her eyes. This was so wrong. Natasha was supposed to be the moral center of Easton. At least, that was what Noelle had once called her, and Natasha had seemed proud of the moniker. Now here she was taking secret soft-core porn shots of her supposed friends and blackmailing people with them. Where was the morality in that?
Of course, she was also president of the Young Republicans club. From everything I'd read and heard my entire life, this was a maneuver of which any politician would be proud.
“Reed? I asked you a question.”
My hands were trembling. I couldn't do this. Not after everything Noelle had done for me. Not with everything she could take away.
But Natasha could take away more. And I was looking at the proof of that.
The situation was a perfect lose-lose.
'Yeah. We have an understanding," I said.
“Good. Now get to bed,” Natasha told me, mercifully shutting down the slide show. 'You've got a lot of work ahead of you."
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* * *
The next morning I methodically moved through my chores, my mind on ten million other things. For some reason, everyone was up and out of their rooms early, and I was able to make the beds without having to endure snide comments or detailed direction. The entire time I was in Noelle and Ariana's room, Natasha's voice played like a skipping CD in my mind.
Nail their asses to the wall. . . nail their asses to the wall. . . nail their asses to the wall. . .
I stared at Noelle's dresser. It taunted me, begging me to rifle through its drawers. No one was around. It would only take a few minutes. If Natasha made good on her threats, it would mean a one-way ticket back to Croton, Pennsylvania, and my prescription-drug-addict mother and my depressed father. It would mean the end of everything.
And yeah, if I found the proof she was looking for, not only would Noelle and the others hate me, but they would also get thrown out of school. They would be gone and I would still be here, in Billings. Even without them, I would still have a chance, right?
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They might have been the most powerful of the Billings Girls, but I would still have the Billings name behind me. That had to count for something. Didn't it?
So, really, what did I have to lose?
I started for the dresser, but the moment I did, a sickening dread came over me. I couldn't do it. I couldn't look through their private things. I couldn't help Natasha rat out Noelle and Ariana-- the only people who had shown any real concern for me since Thomas left. Yeah, they made me do chores, but they were also my friends. Sort of. And besides, it was just wrong. So I told myself I didn't have time--that I would deal with it later--and I moved on.
After my shower I pulled my damp hair back into a ponytail, grabbed my books, and rushed out. That was when I heard the party.
“Omigod! Look at this luggage! This is divine!”
“Open the big one! The big one!”
A champagne bottle popped and a bunch of girls squealed. What was going on downstairs? It sounded like a bad episode of The Bachelor. I slowly walked down the carpeted steps and paused. The entire entry room was filled with white helium balloons. All the girls of Billings were gathered around a pile of elaborately decorated gifts in the center of the floor, while already-opened boxes had been flung against the walls. Wrapping paper littered the room and ribbons had been strung from the banister and the wall hangings. I saw Kiran slip a silk scarf around her neck and tip a glass of champagne down her throat.
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It was seven thirty in the morning.
“What's going on?” I asked, arriving at the bottom stair.
“Glass-licker! Just the girl I was looking for!” Kiran trilled. She grabbed a small box and handed it to me with a flourish. "For you!
It was an iPod. A limited-edition sequined aqua iPod.
“What? Why?”
Everyone laughed.
“It's Kiran's birthday!” Taylor announced, looking more rosy-cheeked than she had in days. Everyone whooped and hollered.
“It is? Happy birthday!” I told her with a s
mile.
“And on Kiran's birthday, we all get gifts,” Vienna told me, sipping her champagne.
“I don't get it,” I said.
“Every year it's the same thing,” Kiran said, rolling her eyes. “All these presents roll in from designers and photographers and magazine editors and stylists. So much crap I can't even fit it all in my room.”
“And there are always tons of duplicates,” Noelle said, fingering a Louis Vuitton purse.
“So I give it all away,” Kiran said, throwing her hands up with a smile. “Or most of it, anyway. I think I'm keeping the luggage.”
“Oh,” Rose said, pouting. She had clearly been coveting the five-bag set, hovering over it ever since I arrived.
“So that's for you,” Kiran said, gesturing at me with her champagne glass.
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“Really? Even Cinderella gets a gift?” I joked.
Kiran and Noelle looked at each other and laughed. “Even Cinderella,” Noelle said.
Ah. So that was it. No one else wanted it, so I got it. Still, I couldn't complain. I was impressed that they had thought of me at all.
“Get over here!” Kiran said, throwing her arm around me and pulling me toward the gift pile. “There has to be some more good stuff that hasn't been claimed. Everyone clear out! Let Glass-licker pick something!”
There were a few grumbles, but the girls backed off. I eyed the pile of designer tags, little blue boxes with white bows, big black boxes with gold ribbon. These were Kiran's gifts. Kiran's things. And she was offering to share it all. With me. No strings attached.
“Here! This color would look amazing on you, Reed,” Taylor said, holding up a silky red dress.
“Take the suede jacket. Every girl needs a little suede,” Ariana said, handing over a box.
“We'll make a fashionista out of you yet,” Kiran told me, offering a champagne flute.
“Wow. This is incredible, Kiran. Thanks,” I said.
“Well,” she said, stepping in front of me and looking me in the eye. “What are friends for?”
My insides squeezed with guilt and I took a slug of the champagne. Friends, huh? What would she think if she knew that a few minutes ago I had been considering pawing through her stuff? And Noelle's and Ariana's and Taylor's? Would she still call me a friend then? Not likely.
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I shook my head and tried to clear the negativity. I hadn't done it. I hadn't betrayed them. Not yet anyway. But for the first time, as I looked around at their eager, happy faces, I suddenly realized what I had to lose if I went through with Natasha's plan. It was this. If I went through with it, these girls would all be gone from this place, gone from my life.
I had this to lose.
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PERFECT GENTLEMAN
All throughout my morning classes, I was in a daze. If my art teacher had called on me during her lecture about French Impressionism, I probably would have muttered an answer like, “The ratio of the height to the hypotenuse.” I had no idea where I was.
To spy or not to spy? That was the question. And when that wasn't the question, there was always that other infinitesimal issue: When were the police going to come get me? And when they did, was I or was I not going to tell them about Thomas's note?
I had a few more pressing things on my mind than whether or not Claude Monet could be considered a revolutionary.
When I was finally released from my fourth class of the day, I was the first one out the door. I practically jogged down the hallway, in desperate need of oxygen. I had to clear my head. I had to go somewhere and think. I had no idea what any of my teachers had said all morning long. If I didn't figure all this out soon, Natasha's blackmail would be a moot point. I would flunk out before she could get me expelled.
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As I shoved open the door of the classroom building and emerged into the sun, I took a nice deep breath of the crisp autumn air. This was what I needed. I would stroll at a leisurely pace across campus to the cafeteria. I would take a second to breathe and regroup. A few minutes of alone time were just what the shrink ordered.
“Hello, Reed.”
Walt Whittaker was leaning up against the stone pillar at the bottom of the stairs. Instantly Natasha's nasty slide show replayed itself in my brain. Lips, hands, tongues. Ugh. Apparently he had finally decided it was time to talk to me. The boy officially had my nomination for the Worst Timing Award.
“Hi,” I said, walking right by him.
As always, a few gossiping girls were watching me and I was hoping he would be embarrassed in front of them and take the hint. I physically shuddered as I passed him. What should have been a quickly forgotten, detail-fuzzy hookup had now turned into a messy encounter that was permanently burned into my brain.
“I was hoping we could talk.”
With his long legs, he had caught up to me in two simple strides.
I took a deep breath and let it out audibly. Okay. This was not his fault. He wasn't the one blackmailing me. As far as I knew he didn't even have a clue that those pictures existed. And it wasn't as if I could avoid the guy forever. Might as well get this over with, I thought. At least it would be one less thing to think about. I stepped off the cobbled path and under the shade of a golden maple.
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I tried not to cringe when I looked at him.
“How are you?” Whittaker asked me, his brown eyes full of concern.
“Fine,” I told him. “You?”
“I'm well. Thank you for asking. Listen, about the other night,” he began, causing my insides to squirm. “I wanted to apologize. I was a tad over my limit and I think you may have been as well.” He looked at me for confirmation.
“A tad.”
Understatement of the millennium.
“Well, I think I may have taken advantage,” he said, looking down briefly at his loafers. “And for that I am truly sorry.”
Wow. A guy approximately my own age who was actually a gentleman. My shoulder muscles uncoiled slightly. Clearly I had been right about Whit from the beginning, even though my original judgment had been made in the midst of an alcohol blitz. This was a genuinely nice guy. I couldn't take Natasha's evilness out on him.
“It's okay,” I said.
“No. It's not. I-”
“Really, Whittaker,” I said. “I was there too. I knew what I was doing.” At least I thought I knew. Until last night, when I found out what it actually looked like. “It's not all on you.”
Whittaker smiled his thanks. “Still, you are a lady. You deserve to be treated like one.”
Oh, I am so not a lady.
“Thank you,” I said, trying to smile.
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“So,” he said, then laughed. “Now that the awkward part is over, shall we agree to be . . . friends?”
Friends? Yes. Oh, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
“Sure,” I said.
“Good. Friends it is,” Whittaker said. Then he caught my hand in his, lifted it, and kissed it lightly.
Right. None of my other friends did that, but okay.
“I have a meeting with the dean now, but I'll see you at dinner?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
“See ya then,” I replied.
As he turned and strolled away, I wondered if he was telling the truth about this friends thing, but I decided not to dwell on it. I had too many other things to dwell on. For now, I'd take the gentleman at his word. And lat
er, if need be, I'd hold him to it.
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SKELETONS
The more people the police interviewed, the more the Easton Academy rumor mill took on a life of its own. If Leanne's expulsion had been an eight, then Thomas's disappearance was a ten- plus. Everywhere I went, everyone was asking everyone else what they knew, what they'd heard--and yet, no one seemed to know anything. It was all very frustrating. The longer we all went without a clue, the more panicked the vibe became, until I felt as if the kinetic energy of the student body might actually cause a nuclear meltdown.
“So, have you heard anything?” Constance asked me, sliding into the seat next to mine in trig class, our last of the day.
“No. You?” I asked.
“I heard they kept Dash McCafferty in there for over an hour,” Constance said breathlessly. “And apparently Taylor Bell came out in tears.”
“What? No,” I said. “Why would Taylor be crying?”
“Who knows?” Constance said. “Maybe she has a secret crush on Thomas or something.”
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Taylor? Not possible. Or was it? I had never seen her look twice at Thomas, and that was hard to keep from doing. More likely she had just gotten overwrought by the whole situation. Or someone had just made this whole crying thing up.
I remembered Noelle's theory and wondered if Thomas really was out there having a big laugh at the drama he was causing. Was that the real reason he hadn't told anyone where he was going? I wished for the ten millionth time that I could just see him, just ask him what the hell he was thinking. But there was a way. If I could just find out more about this Legacy thing and score an invite, I might have a chance to finally, finally track him down.
“Hey, let me ask you a question. Do you know anything about this thing called the Legacy?” I asked.
Constance snorted derisively and sank down in her seat. 'Yeah. It's pretty much all anyone can talk about. Besides you, of course."
