Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel

by Kara Taylor

  I shine my light through the glass pane on the door marked 182. I have to get on my toes to see inside. It looks like a storage room, packed with those old-fashioned desks that have places to hold your inkwell. I’ll come back to this room if I have to, but I’m pretty sure it’s not what I’m looking for. I move on to 184.

  Pointing my light inside reveals some sort of office. I can’t see much except for a large framed black-and-white portrait on the far wall. I stretch up as far as I can on the balls of my feet to get a better look. There are about twenty people in the photo wearing striped shirts with WHEATLEY printed on the front.

  The door lock is as old as the building and easy to pick. When I step inside, I have to cover my nose and mouth to block out the smell of mildew and lime. I load the flashlight app on my phone and place it face-first on the desk as a crappy makeshift lamp and shine my flashlight on the photo.

  Charles River Regatta, 1953

  There are a bunch of vintage-looking photos of action shots hanging on the walls. Also, there are three saggy, mismatched couches arranged in a semicircle. I sit at the desk, noticing something strange in the trash can beside it.

  Protein-bar wrappers.

  I shine my light on them to get a better look. A chill passes over me. I know the wrappers well: They’re the protein bars Brent eats before Brit lit every day.

  I may have found the crew team’s secret lair, and there’s no telling when they’ll be back. I sit up with urgency and shine my light over the floor, searching for some indication that the guys have been down here recently. There’s a discarded chip bag, a copy of the school paper, and … an enormous coil of rope.

  I swallow away the bitter taste on my tongue as I follow my light up the wall by the rope. There’s a six-foot-wide filing cabinet pressed against it.

  Bingo.

  After a bit of a struggle, I pry the first drawer open. A quick browse through faded folders tells me the drawers ascend by date. I thumb to the section labeled 1981.

  Most of the papers inside are records of physical examinations for individual athletes. There’re also a bunch of letters from colleges congratulating the athletic department on having their student recruited.

  The master folder breaks off into sections labeled by sport. I flip through them until I find ROWING. It’s a thin file; two seniors received full scholarships to row at Harvard and Yale. I pause when I find a typewritten letter titled NOTICE.

  March 14, 1981

  As consistent with clause 23 of the Wheatley School Code of Personal and Academic Conduct, all members of the crew team shall be suspended for one (1) race pending charges of inappropriate conduct, including (a) leaving campus after proscribed curfew hours and (b) endangering the welfare of a fellow student.

  Let it be known that the student in question was treated for moderate hypothermia at St. Andrew’s Memorial Hospital in Wheatley at approximately two thirty in the morning on March 11, 1980. When questioned, the disoriented student alleged he succumbed to hypothermia while performing a task ordered on him by his older teammates. Wheatley Athletics prohibits any manner of hazing by or upon its athletes. As punishment, all team members will not compete in their race against Ellison Prep on Saturday, March 21, 1980.

  This is the “hazing incident” the newspaper article on Matt Weaver’s disappearance mentioned. I read through the notice again, trying to pick up on any clues about the younger student’s identity. Matt would have been a sophomore in 1980. If it were his first year on the crew team, he would have known the student who got hypothermia. And if the school did a really good job keeping the student’s identity away from the police and the news, it may have even been Matt.

  I freeze at a sound on the opposite end of the tunnels. No … it’s coming from above, in the garage.

  A car alarm.

  I curse the idiot teacher who decided to hang around until one in the morning. Security will be here in a manner of minutes if the alarm doesn’t shut up. After two failed attempts to get a clear photo of the hazing notice on my phone, I pocket the paper and shut the filing cabinet drawer. It sticks a bit, so I have to shove it.

  I wind up slamming the whole cabinet into the wall. The photo of the 1953 crew team hanging adjacent to the cabinet shivers.

  “No, no—!”

  I lunge for it, but it’s already falling to the ground. The glass shatters everywhere. Above me, the car alarm continues to wail.

  “Damn it.” I bend down to see if there’s anywhere I can hide the broken frame so no one knows I was here. But it’s dark, and there’s a lot of glass. I pick up the frame and photo, which are still intact, and prop it against the wall.

  The car alarm wails on. There’s the sound of a door slamming—the same garage door that leads down into the tunnel entrance.

  I turn and don’t stop running until I’m back in the basement of Amherst.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  My own alarm goes off at what feels like the exact moment I finally fall asleep. I manage to make it to breakfast, but when I get there, everyone is quiet and facing the far side of the dining room.

  I grab an orange juice and creep to our table. That’s when I see him at the front of the room. The headmaster.

  His watery eyes almost seem to twinkle with amusement as he watches me. As if he’s purposely waiting for me to sit down before he starts talking. He nods to me as I settle into my seat.

  “Ladies and gentleman. I’d like to introduce you to our new physics instructor, Dr. Rowan Muller.”

  There’s tepid applause. No one except Brent and I knows the real reason Professor Andreev took “a leave of absence”: He was using Isabella and Sebastian to decode information he stole from a military lab. For the past few weeks, an old guy named Mr. McShane was his temporary replacement. Brent and Cole loved him: Instead of teaching physics, he told stories about serving in World War II and regularly fell asleep in class.

  “Hallo.” A clean-shaven man in a V-neck sweater with a dress shirt and tie underneath stands where Goddard was standing moments before. “Um, well then. Morning, everyone.”

  Everything else he says dissolves just short of my ears, because Dr. Muller is cute. He’s young—not as young as Ms. C, but probably thirty at the most—and he’s from South Africa. I’m not the only one practically drooling into my juice over his accent. He’s what Chelsea would call “a perfect specimen.” He almost makes me want to take physics next year. Almost.

  Apparently I’m not the only one charmed by Dr. Muller. Ms. C never grabs breakfast in the dining hall on her way to class like some of the other teachers, but today, she’s hanging around the group of people waiting to introduce themselves. And there’s a dare I say girlish flush to her cheeks.

  Not everyone shares our enthusiasm for the newest addition to the staff.

  “Why do you look bent out of shape?” I ask Brent as we leave the hall.

  “Now we’ll have to do stuff in class again.”

  “Imagine that.” I poke him in the side. “Having your parents pay thirty grand a year for you to actually do stuff.”

  “Hey, my dad’s the one who told me to bring up that time Robinson met Andy Warhol right before he’s about to assign homework,” Brent says.

  I’m about to ask Brent why he never told me this valuable nugget of info about my art-history teacher, when wind chimes sound from my bag. My text message alert.

  My fingers feel like they don’t work when I see the message is from Anthony’s number:

  so what do u want from me anyway?

  “Who’s that?” Brent says it casually, but guilt ignites in me nonetheless.

  “Just a friend from back home.”

  Brent nods, thoughtful and unsuspicious, which totally makes me feel worse. “Does it seem weird to you that Goddard showed up this morning?”

  “Well, he did have a reason.”

  “Yeah, but Goddard never used to talk to us. He would always send Harrow or one of the deans.”

  “
Maybe it’s because Harrow is gone, so Goddard has to help Dean Snaggletooth out?”

  “I guess.” Brent looks unsettled. “I don’t know. I just feel like he’s trying to send a message or something. That he’s watching.”

  We’re quiet on the rest of the walk to class, but I can tell we’re thinking the same thing. If Goddard is trying to let someone know he’s watching, it’s me.

  * * *

  I hang back at the end of art-history class next morning, waiting for a sophomore boy to stop kissing Robinson’s ass so I can talk to him. While I’m waiting, I get another response from Anthony:

  Drunk dialing me now?

  I ignore it, swallowing away annoyance.

  Robinson squints at his projector remote when the sophomore is gone, trying to find the power-down button.

  “Here, let me help.”

  Robinson looks surprised to see that I’m still here. I smile and slide the remote out of his long thin fingers. “It’s the red button.”

  He watches me with amused eyes. Robinson is about a hundred and a half years old, six feet tall, and ninety-five pounds. “Did you know that I’m color-blind, Miss Dowling?”

  “You’re … a color-blind art teacher?” I stare into his milky blue eyes. “Huh. Doesn’t that make your job harder?”

  “Who says?” Robinson is British, so he pronounces it funny. Like “say-z,” not “sez.” I shrug.

  “One doesn’t need to view a piece of art in color to appreciate its beauty.” He smiles at me. “How are you faring with this week’s assignment?”

  “Fine.” And by fine, I mean that at least now I know an assignment, in fact, exists. “I actually wanted to show you something.”

  “Oh?”

  I open my Brit-lit anthology to the page with Matt Weaver’s drawing.

  “Adam and Eve,” Robinson says automatically. He putters over to his bookshelf, mumbling to himself. I’m about to explode with impatience by the time he selects a book that probably weighs more than he does and drags it over to the desk.

  “Henrick Goltzius. The Fall of Man.” He licks his fingers and flips to a busy colored painting. “Many artists have been inspired by the story of Genesis. If the subject holds interest for you, I’d be happy to lend you this book for your final paper.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “But it’s not me who drew this. I was hoping you might recognize the drawing as a former student’s.”

  Robinson chuckles. “I’ve had many students over the years, Miss Dowling. I can’t say I can be of much help.”

  “Oh…” I trace Eve’s hair. “Well, Matt Weaver was one of the students who had this book before me.”

  “Well, then. Isn’t that interesting.” Robinson rubs his chin. “Matthew was very talented.”

  “Could he have drawn this?”

  Robinson’s face falls. “It’s possible. May I escort you to fourth hour? We don’t want to be late.”

  Robinson extends an arm to me. I study his face as we leave the classroom.

  He couldn’t be more full of crap if he were constipated. He knows exactly who drew that picture.

  * * *

  Reason number 1 Ms. C is awesome: She hates Mondays as much as we do. Every week, she lets us quietly work on exercises from the textbook. Once we’re done, we can chill and work on whatever we want as long as we’re not obnoxious about it.

  I finish my work faster than everyone except Lee Andersen, who is browsing Stanford’s Web site. If that’s where he wants to go to college, I’m totally on board with that, because California is nice and far away from me.

  When Ms. C’s back is turned, I send a response to Anthony:

  what do you know about Matthew Weaver?

  I tuck my phone in my lap, beneath the folds of my skirt, even though I know it’ll probably be another whole day before Anthony bothers to respond, if he responds at all. I have to wonder if he’s making me wait for his responses on purpose.

  If this is a game, I’m tired of it. But a part of me hopes it is, because the alternative is that he really doesn’t care that I reached out to him after all.

  I let my laptop whir to life and set out to do what I meant to do over a week ago.

  I type the first name on my list into Google: Lawrence Tretter. The results are as I expected. Larry Tretter is still beefy, sour looking, and living in Wheatley. He’s been the Wheatley crew coach for the past seventeen years. Under his leadership, the team has won six high school championships and various college invitational events.

  Thom Ennis is trickier. There are tons of people with the same name in Massachusetts alone. I refine my search terms to include Wheatley School. I get a hit for Thom W. Ennis, attorney at law. He lives and practices in New York City. My brain races, wondering if my father knows of him.

  I copy the number for Ennis’s office into my phone before I move on to Travis Shepherd.

  Travis Shepherd is important enough to have his own Google bio. I know it’s the same Travis Shepherd as the guy in the photo because the bio has a recent picture of him. He’s striking: brown hair streaked with gray and thick dark eyebrows above brown eyes. And he’s apparently the CEO of Shepherd and McLoughlin Associates.

  I almost miss that some of the most popular hits for Shepherd are news stories dated 2008. I peruse some of the headlines:

  FORTUNE 500 CEO DENIES ACCOUNTING FRAUD CHARGES AGAINST COMPANY

  INSURANCE BROKERAGE FIRM SETTLES $100M LAWSUIT

  ACCOUNTANTS AT SHEPHERD AND MCLOUGHLIN FIRED IN WAKE OF STATE DEPARTMENT INVESTIGATION

  Looks like Steven Westbrook isn’t the only Wheatley alum having trouble keeping his nose clean. From what I can tell, Shepherd didn’t know about the alleged accounting fraud until the lawsuit was filed. But something about his smile strikes me as sketchy. Sketchy enough to murder a classmate?—I don’t know.

  When I hear Ms. C’s voice behind me, I close my laptop.

  “Anne. I have something for you.” She hands me three brochures for colleges: Brown, Wesleyan, Barnard.

  I stare at them. “I can’t get into any of these.”

  Ms. C just smiles and tucks a strand of penny-colored hair back into her bun. “We’ll see.”

  I run my hands over the glossy finish on the Barnard brochure. Last year, a rep from the admissions office came to speak at St. Augustine’s. I was texting back and forth with Chelsea during the presentation. We have special text-notification sounds for each other, and mine is a cow. Anyway, her phone mooed right in the middle of the admission rep’s speech, and I laughed so hard I snorted. Ms. Cavanaugh kicked me out and made me see Headmaster Bailey.

  I thought Bailey would find a mooing phone as hilarious as I did, but she wasn’t laughing when I got to her office. Instead, the first thing she said to me was, “Anne, at some point you’re going to realize that the only person standing in your way is you.”

  I think I understand what she meant, now.

  * * *

  Cole, Brent, and Murali are hanging outside the athletic building when I get out of my last class. They all have final-period athletics together, during which they get special access to the rowing equipment. The rest of us have to take a sport that’s not really a sport, like squash or dance.

  Phil isn’t with them. The looks on their faces tell me I don’t want to go there, though. When they see me, Brent smiles, but I get the feeling it’s only for my benefit.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” Brent says, ignoring the way Cole’s eyes are probing him. “Coach was just a little rough on us today.”

  I can’t help but look through the doors of the athletic facility. It’s a newer building, with clean locker rooms and a pool we’re allowed to use when the swimming team isn’t using it. I’ve only ever been on the girls’ side, where the dance studio is.

  It’s possible Larry Tretter is still in the building.

  “Hey, I left my bag in there after dance today,” I say. “I’ll meet you guys in the Amherst lounge to study fo
r Matthews’s history exam in fifteen?”

  Cole grunts in approval, and Murali blathers on about how it’s not fair we’re being tested on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict since we wrote an essay on it two weeks ago. They start heading for the dorms, but Brent hangs behind.

  “You have dance class on Tuesdays,” he says.

  Fricking frick.

  “I left it there Thursday. I just remembered now ’cause I have class tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” Brent’s eyes are focused on a point beyond me as he leans in and kisses my cheek. “I’ll see you in a few, I guess.”

  I’m completely stunned that he I-guessed me. I mean, I guess isn’t that bad in itself, but it’s a sign that next time I’m going to get a Do what you want. Or even worse: Whatever.

  For a split second, I consider forgetting the whole thing and going with Brent. I hate keeping things from him. But I can’t let the Matt Weaver thing go until I know his dad wasn’t involved. And telling Brent about the photo is not an option.

  There are a couple of stragglers leaving the boys’ locker room. A few of them wave to me on their way out, even though I can’t remember or don’t know their names. The girls’ locker room is at the end of the hall. I study the plaques and pennants on the walls as I amble down there.

  I stop in front of a trophy case with two bronze oars crossed over the top. There are lots of championship trophies inside, but the one on the center shelf catches my eye. There’s a photo beneath it of the crew team gathered around the trophy.

  In minuscule letters, the words IN LOVING MEMORY OF MATTHEW WEAVER are etched into the frame.

  I turn my head to the office next to the trophy case. ROWING, the inscription on the door says. It’s cracked open just enough for me to see inside.

  Larry Tretter is a carbon copy of his photo on the athletics Web site, down to his maroon Wheatley crew T-shirt. A tall blond guy with ridiculously good hair sits across his desk, his back to me.

  “Heyward looks pretty good so far,” the guy says. “The freshman.”