Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel

by Kara Taylor

  I look down as Brent’s hand moves to my knee. “You okay?” He asks.

  “I’m fine.” I don’t even have the energy to force a smile. Should I be mad, that Brent and Remy hooked up? Technically, it’s none of my business who he’d been with before me, but Remy is my friend. One of them should have at least been honest with me so it didn’t come out like this and become a big deal.

  Unless it was a big deal.

  I don’t want to think about it.

  * * *

  The Shepherds’ Cape Cod home looks like a dollhouse I used to have. It’s a two-story white colonial with a blue door and shutters. I can hear the ocean from the backyard.

  Brent offers to carry my overnight bag, but I hug it to myself and follow Cole and the others up the driveway, past a Range Rover with a Wheatley sticker on the back window. There’s a three-car garage at the head. April and the others are still behind us.

  Casey is waiting for us in the doorway. He’s taken his suit jacket and tie off. “Everyone’s in the kitchen. My mom’s cool with whatever as long as we stay on the first floor.”

  Cole and Murali brush past Casey wordlessly. I pause in the foyer.

  “Great house,” I tell him.

  “It’s all right,” he says. “We only spend half the year here, anyway.”

  I consider the chandelier hanging over the two-story foyer. The marble floor and spiral staircase. I follow Casey down the hall to the kitchen. Everything is sparkling and granite like it’s recently been renovated. Bea Hartley, Vera Cassidy, and a handful of senior girls I don’t know by name are gathered at the island counter. Bea is opening a bottle of wine as Vera arranges cheese and crackers on a platter.

  “Hi, girls,” Bea says. I realize Kelsey is behind me, clawing at the top of her strapless dress. She’s been paranoid about it falling down all night. The girls offer polite smiles. Thankfully, the guys break the awkward silence by parading into the kitchen carrying beer kegs.

  “Bea, get the cups out,” Casey barks.

  Bea’s expression hardens but she goes to the pantry anyway. I motion to help her.

  “I love your dress,” I tell her. She blushes and looks down at her simple cream-colored cocktail dress. I want to like Bea Hartley, I really do. She’s not a psychotic bitch like Alexis Westbrook. Bea just needs to lighten up and realize she’s not a First Lady yet. And ditch the controlling assface of a boyfriend.

  Nausea swirls in my gut as I make eye contact with Brent. His eyebrows knit together, trying to figure out what my problem is. I look away and accept a glass of wine from Vera. I’m going to need plenty of them to get through the night, especially once Remy gets here.

  We move to the living room off the kitchen. I make small talk with the senior girls as the guys set up music and beer pong. I only absorb half of what they’re saying. When Remy arrives, I feel like I’ve been punched in the throat. I drain two more glasses of wine as I pretend to be immersed in conversation with the girl next to me. Her name is Brianne, and she just got into Cornell. Everything else falls short of my ears, which are starting to buzz.

  The wine is making me feel as if I’ve been sitting in the sun all day. Brent is watching me from the beer-pong table across the room. Someone touches my shoulder, and I sway a little as I turn to face Remy.

  “You’re being weird,” she says. Her eyes are glassy and her breath smells like mint schnapps. There’s no way I see this conversation ending well.

  “I’m just tired.” I shrug her off and head for the kitchen, wobbling on my heels. I find Cole leaning against the counter, staring into a glass of beer. His tie is off and the top of his shirt is unbuttoned. His hair is askew.

  He smiles as I join him at the counter. “Not feeling it tonight, either?”

  I shake my head, biting back tears. I want to ask him if knows about Remy and Brent, but these aren’t the answers I came here for tonight. Everything is so fucked up.

  “Why did you and Remy break up?” I blurt.

  Cole drains the rest of his beer as if he can’t get it down fast enough. “Really?”

  “Sorry.”

  He sighs. “She didn’t feel the same way about me. I’m always going to be the fat little kid Alexis bossed around.”

  Cole turns to the counter and cracks open another beer. He hands it to me then opens one for himself. I shouldn’t mix it with the wine, but I’m past caring. We do a pathetic clink of our rims and drink in silence.

  “Brent and Remy,” I finally choke out. “Is it true?”

  His face falls, and I immediately wish I hadn’t asked. Cole puts his arm around me, and I rest my head on his shoulder, vowing not to cry. A cacophony of cheers and frustrated yells sounds over the bass emanating from the living room.

  I look up at Cole, breathing in his Abercrombie & Fitch cologne. He looks back at me, his eyes sad. Or maybe it’s just my double vision that’s making it seem that way. I touch the beauty mark beneath his right eye. He laughs and flicks my bun.

  He pulls me in closer to him, and we stand like that for a little while. It’s completely innocent—just two friends who’ve realized that maybe they’ve fallen for the wrong person. Or people. I think of Brent, then Anthony, and all of the things they’ve kept from me. The things I’ve kept from them. It could be so much simpler if I let myself fall for a safe guy like Cole, but that’s not how it works.

  We break apart at the sound of giggling in the kitchen archway. Remy stumbles across the threshold, her arm on April for support. April dances over to the kitchen, singing along with the song playing in the living room, but Remy pauses, watching us with hurt in her eyes.

  “I have to pee,” I announce. I stumble out of the kitchen, past the pockets of people clogging up the hallway. I was too busy drowning my sorrows in alcohol to notice how many people showed up. I spot Jill Wexler, which only makes me want to throw up even more than I already do.

  The line in the hall suggests there’s a bathroom downstairs, but I don’t want to run into Brent. I sneak up the spiral staircase despite Casey’s warning that his mom said it was off-limits.

  The upstairs smells like cinnamon and pine needles. It’s dark. I lean against the wainscoted wall. Pull yourself together, Anne. It’s not like you didn’t hook up with other guys before Brent. You even hooked up with Anthony.

  But Remy … Remy is the closest thing I have to a best friend here. How could she not tell me? How could Brent not tell me? He had the perfect opening when I told him what happened between Anthony and me.

  I stumble down the hall in search of a bathroom. There’s a light on and jazz playing in one of the bedrooms, so I head in the opposite direction.

  I stop outside one of the doors. Even in my drunken state, I can tell there’s something different about it. It’s closed. Locked.

  I pull a bobby pin out of my bun and force the lock open. I slip into the room and close the door behind me, feeling the wall for a switch. When the light flickers overhead, a weird sensation settles over me.

  I just broke into Travis Shepherd’s office.

  I have to take off my heels so they don’t make noise on the cherrywood floors. An executive desk takes up most of the room, and that’s about the only detail I can absorb in my current state.

  Damn it. I really should have planned this better. I’ve found Travis Shepherd’s office, but I’m too drunk to accomplish anything. What am I looking for? What’s the freaking point, anyway?

  I lean on the wall for support. There are framed degrees and photos on the walls. Travis and Casey fishing. Travis and a rail-thin blonde on their wedding day.

  I stumble over to a framed collage behind the desk. There are a bunch of older photos inside, including a duplicate of the crew team photo that has slowly been ruining my life.

  My pulse races. I haven’t seen the photo that’s below it, though.

  The picture is of Travis and Pierce Conroy. Probably, when it was being taken, they didn’t even realize the person behind the camera was accidentally in t
he frame.

  I squint at the background of the photo. There is a long mirror on the wall behind Travis and Pierce. Someone sits at a desk, snapping the photo. Most of the face is visible around the Polaroid camera.

  I blink a few times to make sure I’m really looking at Matt Weaver.

  A woman’s voice sounds down the hallway.

  I don’t hesitate: I take the frame off the wall, slip the photo out, and replace the frame. I shove the photo in the side of my dress and stumble out of the office, nearly colliding with a woman in a silk sheath dress.

  Her blond hair is swept away from her face, which bears an uncanny resemblance to Casey Shepherd’s. “What’re you doing up here?” she demands. Her words are slurred, as if I’ve interrupted her own private party.

  “I thought this was the bathroom,” I blurt.

  Mrs. Shepherd gets in my face, her eyes gleaming with an emotion that scares me. “I know who you are,” she says. “You’re that little bitch.”

  “Excuse me?” I don’t know who this drunken yuppie is calling a bitch, but I am in no mood to let that comment slide.

  “Did you know Elaine Redmond has been getting death threats?” Mrs. Shepherd’s face is inches from mine. “Apparently some people think she and the senator are responsible for that little whore getting herself killed—”

  “Shut up!” I yell. “You didn’t even know her—”

  “Anne?” The voice makes my blood run cold. I turn to see Brent at the top of the stairs. Mrs. Shepherd smirks at me and stumbles off to her bedroom, and I swear I don’t even know which one of us is drunker.

  Brent’s hand is on my arm before I can go after her. “What the fuck was that about?”

  “Leave me alone,” I snipe at him. I’m totally being unfair, but the floor is spinning out from under me and I’m just so mad.

  “Anne.” His voice and his eyes are hard, and when I look at him I don’t see the Brent I fell for. I see who I’m afraid the Wheatley School will turn him into. I see his father.

  “I can’t deal with this anymore,” he says. “I can’t trust you when you’re acting like this.”

  I reach in my dress and pull out the photo I stole from Travis Shepherd’s office. “You can’t trust me? I thought your dad wasn’t friends with Matt Weaver, Brent.”

  He motions to take the photo in my hand, but I yank it away. His face is furious. “You’ve got to be kidding. I told you to drop this.”

  “Since when do you tell me what to do? I am not Bea-freaking-Hartley,” I yell. He looks over his shoulder and motions to shush me. I take a step back from him. “No! I’m not going to be quiet. Do you have any idea of who your father is, Brent? Because I’m starting to get a picture, and I don’t like it.”

  Brent is speechless. Color floods his face. “I can’t believe you.”

  “What’s so hard to believe? You thought I’d just let this go after what happened with Isabella?”

  “That’s exactly the problem,” Brent hisses. “I don’t get you, Anne. I don’t get this freakish OCD you have about Matt Weaver. You’re out for blood. Goddard’s, my dad’s—I don’t know. It’s like you don’t even know anymore.”

  “Fuck you,” I say. And I mean it ten times more than I did when I said it to Anthony a few weeks ago. I never thought I could be this mad. I stalk past Brent, heading for the stairs.

  “Anne—”

  “No. You can’t take that back. And just because you said no more lies, I know about you and Remy.”

  “What? What does that have to do with anything? That was before we were together—”

  “You didn’t tell me. Just like you didn’t tell me about your diabetes until you freaking almost died.” I can’t stop myself. “When are you going to let me in, Brent? You tell me you love me, then hang up on me? God, at least if I’m crazy and obsessive about things, I let you see that side of me.”

  I expect him to follow me down the stairs, to say something, anything, except what comes out of his mouth next.

  “So this is it?”

  I can’t fight around the pounding in my head and come up with a good reason this shouldn’t be the end. I know it’s wrong because I’m angry—and drunk—but all I want to do is hurt him as much as he hurt me.

  “Yeah, I guess it is it,” I say, and take off down the stairs.

  He doesn’t follow me. When I get back to the living room, I expect something to have changed. But no one has a clue Brent and I broke up. If anything, everyone’s having a better time than before.

  Some genius—definitely a guy—figured out the only way to get girls interested in beer pong is by turning it into a strip game. Two senior guys are down to their boxers, and Remy and Jill Wexler are in their bras and underwear.

  Kelsey and April see me from across the room and start waving. Beer flies out of April’s cup and onto the floor. They’re too drunk to care they’re making a mess. They have the right idea: I join them, because it seems like oblivion is the only thing I’m going to find here tonight.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I wake up with my cheek pressed to what I hope is not vomit. I blink a few times. I’m on a couch, and the wetness on the arm is just spilled beer. The pain behind my eyes is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.

  Something is sticking to my side. I reach down into my dress and pull out the photo I took from Shepherd’s office. I quickly turn it facedown, in case Casey is nearby. Although I’m willing to bet he fell asleep somewhere a little more comfortable.

  “Anne?” An arm brushes against the couch cushion. I look down at the floor. Kelsey waves to me. “What are you doing down there?” I ask.

  “We both fell asleep on the couch,” she croaks. “Kind of like … snuggling. I guess I fell.”

  I massage my temples. I need a scalding hot shower and a coffee.

  “Damn,” Kelsey says from the floor.

  I don’t know why that’s what finally sets me off. I lock myself in the bathroom while everyone else wakes up. I pull out the photo I stole from Travis Shepherd’s office and clutch it to my chest as I sit on the edge of the Jacuzzi tub.

  And I let myself cry.

  * * *

  I’m silent as everyone loads their stuff into the cars, ready to head back to school. Brent doesn’t look at me as he opens the back door for Kelsey, who crawls in, moaning, “I’m never drinking again.”

  I turn to April. “Can I ride back to school with you?”

  She looks from me to Brent’s car, confused. “Sure.”

  I climb into the backseat. Murali calls shotgun, so Remy gets in next to me. Phil opens the door and yawns. “I guess I’ll ride with Brent.”

  I watch him head over to the jeep and say something to Brent that I can’t hear. Brent’s face is emotionless as he climbs into the driver’s seat.

  As we pull away from the Shepherds’ house, Murali and April rehash Brooke Dempsey’s meltdown after someone spilled wine on the back of her white dress. I close my eyes and lean back in the seat, avoiding Remy’s probing gaze.

  “All right, what is going on?” she cries out when we pull onto the highway.

  “What? What happened?” April nearly slams on the brakes in the merging lane.

  “Jesus, Apes, pay attention,” Murali yells. “Remy, you can’t just yell things when she’s driving, or we’re all going to die.”

  “Sorry. I’m just confused. But Anne is avoiding me. What did I do?”

  “Nothing,” I lie. “Brent and I broke up. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  A hush falls over the car. April murmurs Oh, no, and Murali stares out the window.

  “Can we not act like someone died?” I snap. My brain is pounding against the walls of my skull. “It’s not a big deal.”

  Remy pats my knee. “It happens, when you’re dating someone you have to see every day.…”

  I shut my eyes again. If she keeps using her This is why we can’t have nice things voice on me, I’m going to puke. Or maybe it’s
April’s constant slamming on the brakes whenever a car passes in front of us. In their defense, she’s going thirty in a sixty-mile-an-hour zone.

  “You guys will be okay,” Remy says. “Maybe you just need space from each other—”

  I grab the back of April’s headrest. “Pull over.”

  Murali turns and looks at me. “Oh, crap—”

  “PULL OVER!”

  “I can’t get over!” April cries. “No one will fucking let me over!”

  Her response is to stop in the middle of the highway. The driver behind us leans on his horn, and Murali yells at April to keep driving and put on her signal.

  And that’s how I wind up vomiting all over the backseat of her mother’s SUV.

  * * *

  We have to stop at a car wash, so we don’t get back to campus until after four. When I go to power my phone on and see if Brent left me any messages, nothing happens. There is a layer of sugary film on the screen.

  “Shit.” I try to piece together the events of last night, but everything after doing shots of cake-flavored vodka with April and Kelsey is a blur. I sniff my phone and gag. Yup, that’s cake vodka all right.

  I flop on my bed and entertain a series of angry thoughts. One: If alcohol companies don’t want teenagers to drink, why make vodka taste like my favorite dessert? Two: My favorite dessert is ruined for me, because every time I smell cake now, I’m going to think of that cake vodka and want to puke. Three: Now I need a new damn phone.

  I’m not going to sit around all day feeling hung over and sorry for myself. I spend a good forty minutes in the shower, scrubbing all evidence of last night off my body. The tears and crusted mascara under my eyes. The kisses Brent traced along the back of my neck while we waited to go inside the dance.

  I’m toweling off in my room when there’s a knock at the door. I freeze. Even though I have no desire to forgive him for what he said last night, part of me hopes Brent got someone to let him into Amherst so he could see me.