Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel

by Kara Taylor

  “We’re just trying to help,” I say.

  “Yeah, I heard you found a box. What does it look like?” Her forehead creases.

  I pull the photo out of my bag and hand it to the woman. She wipes her hands on her sweatshirt before taking it.

  The woman’s forehead creases. Then she laughs. “That box? No, he definitely didn’t have anything important in there.” She looks up from the photo. “If this is the same box I’m thinking of, there’s nothing in there but Jingles.”

  “Jingles?”

  The woman hands me the photo back. “My hamster. He died when my parents weren’t home, and Matt helped me bury him in the garden. I wanted to use a shoebox, but Matt went home and put him in that box. He said the cats wouldn’t be able to dig him up that way.”

  I blink. “Oh.”

  “Sorry you came out here for nothing,” the woman says. “Good luck with whatever you’re doing.”

  She doesn’t say it unkindly. More like we’re a couple of kids playing Sherlock Holmes and she wants to humor us. We thank her for her time and head back to Anthony’s motorcycle. “I can’t believe we came out here for a dead hamster,” he says.

  I put my hands on his shoulders. It’s weird how much taller than me he is. Brent was my height. I push the thought out of my mind. “We have to come back and dig up that box.”

  “Are you crazy? You heard her.”

  “Yeah, but did that woman say she saw Matt put the hamster in the box?”

  Anthony rubs his eyebrow. “You really think he buried evidence along with a dead pet?”

  “I don’t think he buried the hamster at all. But yeah, I think there’s something important in the box. Why else would he hide the key as well as he did?”

  Anthony doesn’t have an answer for that. “I just…”

  “What?” I ask, as we climb on his motorcycle. He looks over his shoulder and smiles at me.

  “I really don’t want to know what he did with the hamster, then.”

  * * *

  Anthony and I stop at a place called Tia’s Taqueria for lunch. I hang back and let him order, my mind racing around everything Joan Weaver told us.

  He accepts a paper bag from the cashier, and we sit at the counter by the window. “I got tacos and burritos. Which do you want?”

  I shrug. “Whichever.”

  He raises an eyebrow at me. “You want me to pick for you, don’t you? I’m half Mexican, so that makes me real qualified, right?”

  “Actually, I’m just not hungry and didn’t want to be rude,” I mutter. “Ass.”

  A ghost of a smile plays on Anthony’s mouth. “I like when you curse at me.”

  “Trust me. That’s not cursing.” I break off a piece of the shell from the taco Anthony placed in front of me. I can’t bring myself to eat it.

  “What are you thinking?” He asks me around a bite of burrito.

  “That we’d better come up with a plan fast if we want to get to that box before someone else does.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-ONE

  I get an anxious feeling in my stomach as Anthony gets off at the exit for the Wheatley School. I haven’t felt this sick about going there since my mom dropped me off over three months ago. At least then I didn’t know what I was facing. Now I know I’ll eventually have to see Brent, finish my homework, and go to sleep in the room I should be sharing with Isabella.

  I tighten my grip on Anthony. As if he can sense what’s wrong, he stops at Dunkin’ Donuts. He lets me rest his head on his shoulder for a while. I like the way his chin falls right at my hairline, his stubble grazing my forehead.

  “How are we going to pull off sneaking into that woman’s yard and digging up her garden?” I ask.

  Anthony shifts in his seat. “I’ll drive by her house this week and figure out her schedule, see when she’s not home. Did you notice the sticker on her car window?”

  I shake my head.

  “UMass Nursing School,” he says. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find out she works nights.”

  I don’t want to go back to school. I’m fine with staying in this smelly Dunkin’ Donuts with Anthony forever, but he has to get home to watch his dad before his mom leaves for work at seven.

  When he drops me off, we share a kiss good-bye that would probably get a couple thrown out of a church on their wedding day.

  Anthony’s eyes are closed when I pull away.

  “What?” I ask.

  He shakes his head with a little laugh. “I just can’t believe we’re back here.”

  I wait for him to say more, to ask what exactly we are, or if I’m using him to get over Brent. But we both know those kinds of questions aren’t Anthony’s style. I close my eyes and wait for the wave of guilt at kissing him, but it never comes. Instead, I feel free. Brazen. Like myself, only amplified. It’s how I’ve always felt around Anthony.

  “I’ll e-mail you until they ship my new phone,” I tell him.

  He nods, his eyes tracing a line from my face down to the hips of my jeans. I flush.

  “Be careful,” he says. Then he rides away.

  * * *

  Maybe it’s because she still feels like she’s the reason Brent and I broke up, but Remy follows me around like a sad basset hound until dinner. Kelsey and April are quiet in a way that makes me seriously curious about what went down at the party after I passed out. When we get to the dining hall, Remy leads us to a table for four.

  “Thanks,” I say, as we settle in. “I’m not ready to face him yet … or any of them really.”

  The way April and Kelsey stiffen across the table from me says that the guys have just walked in.

  “They look confused,” April narrates. “Wait, now Brent is telling them to find another table. Okay, they’re moving away from us.”

  “Apes,” Remy hisses. “Really?”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Everything will be fine in a few days.”

  “Do you think you’ll get back together?” Kelsey asks, pushing her glasses up and down like she does when she’s nervous.

  I bring myself to look over at Brent. I’ll admit, I half expected him to show up outside my door after our fight, professing apologies and undying love. But he looks unfazed as he cuts Cole on the soda-fountain line. They exchange jabs. Cole looks over at us and offers me a meek smile. I return it, but Brent keeps his eyes on his cup as he fills it with half root beer, half Diet Coke.

  I ignore the pang in my chest. I guess this is what a real breakup is supposed to feel like—getting crushed just seeing the other person going on with his or her life, doing the little things you used to do together, like experimenting with different soda combinations. I’ve never known this feeling before. I’d always considered guys disposable, and I’ve dumped my fair share. A breakup is new territory for me.

  I realize the girls are still waiting for my answer.

  “No, I don’t want to get back together. He’s just … not the person I thought he was.”

  Remy rubs my back, holding in her usual advice and judgment. I hear her voice in my head, the things she said after she told me she slept with Casey Shepherd.

  Anne, just promise me you won’t hate me. If they start saying stuff about me.

  How many other people know about her and Brent? How many people are going around thinking my best friend here is the reason Brent and I broke up?

  Kelsey’s voice pulls me back to the table. “I don’t think anyone knows what kind of person Brent is. He doesn’t let us.”

  I don’t know what to say, even though I know she’s right. The only times I felt like I truly got to see the real Brent were in moments of desperation—three months ago, when he got sick and had to tell me he had diabetes and was scared of telling people, and then three days ago, when he got so angry at me he snapped.

  “Let’s eat,” I announce. “I’m not feeling sorry for myself, so you guys definitely are not going to sit around feeling sorry for me.”

  We split up to go to our usual din
ner stations—mine is the salad bar. I’m scooping grilled chicken onto my lettuce when I notice him down by the dressings. Our eyes connect. He turns away as I set my plate down and call his name.

  “Brent.”

  He doesn’t look at me. Real mature. But he doesn’t run away or anything, so that’s progress.

  We meet each other halfway, at the middle of the salad bar. He runs a hand through his hair, and I get this weird, hopeless feeling, knowing I can’t do that to him anymore. I half expect him to hug me or something, even though that’s stupid.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi.” Brent scratches the back of his neck and eyes me. “Is this really how we’re going to do this?”

  “I’m not sure what you want me to do. Pretend I don’t care that you don’t trust me? Promise you didn’t say those awful things?”

  Brent takes a step toward me. “You cannot put this all on me, Anne. You spied on me and my friends. That’s psychotic.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Now you want me to believe my father killed Matt Weaver? What’s next, I’m leading a double life as a Craigslist killer or something?”

  I can barely look at him I’m so angry. “You think I’m crazy.”

  He sighs. “No, I don’t.”

  “Really? ’Cause I’m pretty sure like five seconds ago you called me psychotic.”

  “I said what you did was psychotic.” Brent tugs at the roots of his curls. “God, Anne. Would you listen to me?”

  “No.” I lean in closer to him, so I don’t have to raise my voice to make my point and therefore make a scene. “You listen to me. One: What you guys to do the new recruits is psychotic. Two: No, I’m not going to stop until I get the truth about what happened to Matt Weaver. And three: I didn’t ruin Cole’s mother’s or Sleazebag Westbrook’s lives. They did, when they screwed each other.”

  Brent’s face contorts and my stomach dips. Oh no. I turn over my shoulder to see Cole watching us from the soda machine, his cheeks pink. He looks away from us. I want to rush over and apologize to him, but I know he’ll just pretend he didn’t hear.

  “Nice.” Brent shakes his head.

  I don’t know how I got here, from falling headfirst for Brent to wanting to shove his face into a wall. But I never wanted to hurt Cole. Brent calls my name as I grab my salad and head back to my table.

  “Why can’t we talk about this?” His voice is pleading. It cuts right through me and makes me think maybe I do want him back. I search his face, trying to see the Brent I fell for: the guy who doesn’t really care about being crew team cocaptain or SGA president—the guy who always believed me when no one else did.

  “My dad is an asshole,” he says. “But he’s not a criminal. Think about my family and what this could do to them.”

  One of the guys at his table calls him over, and Brent looks from him to me. I can see him calculating: Does he keep talking to me, or does he go back to his dinner as if nothing is wrong?

  He lets out a little sigh of frustration. “Can we talk later—?”

  “Whatever, Brent.” I turn away from him, blinking away the pressure building behind my eyes. If he wants to choose his stupid crew team over me, that’s fine. I’ve already made my choice.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-TWO

  I’m one of the first people to get to art history the next morning. I sit at my desk in the back corner of the room; Cole and Murali sit to the front and left of me. They’re later than usual today, so I open my notebook while I wait for them.

  My leg jiggles when I see there’s only a minute to the start of class. I can’t help it: The thought of being late (and watching other people being late) gives me hives. I inherited my compulsive need to be early everywhere from my anal father. I may not always be a model student, but at least I’m always on time.

  Anyway, Cole and Murali are usually here early, too. So when Robinson hobbles into the room, sloshing coffee onto the floor and tittering about an upcoming exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, I get a little worried.

  The classroom door bangs behind me, and Cole and Murali trail in. I raise my hand to wave them over, but they slip into the empty seats in the opposite corner, by the door. Murali’s eyes meet mine, his mouth unsmiling. Cole doesn’t look at me as he sets his laptop case down. His hair, which is usually neatly combed to the side, falls in front of his eyes.

  I’m still watching them unpack as if there’s no circle of empty seats around me. As if they haven’t sat next to me every morning since I started this class. Robinson is passing out glossy cards with the MFA exhibition information on them.

  “Friday night is the opening.” Robinson beams. “As curator of paintings of the Americas, I’ll be hosting the event. Free admittance for Wheatley students. The free champagne, on the other hand…”

  I tuck the card in my bag, my gaze still on Cole. Please look at me. He does, for half a second, as if he’s checking to see if I’m watching him. The hurt in his eyes cuts me to a million pieces, and I wish, for the hundred-thousandth time in my life, that I had the ability to keep my mouth shut.

  What I said about Cole’s mom and the senator was awful, but I was only trying to get to Brent, to make him show some sort of indication he gives a crap we broke up. I don’t know if he just doesn’t care or if he’s really that emotionally challenged. Or maybe it’s my fault because he finally felt comfortable enough to tell me he loved me and then found out I lied to him about the Matt Weaver thing.

  I watch Cole, thinking about how he wears his hurt for everyone to see. Then Anthony, who wears his anger like a badge. For the first time, I feel the weight of how much I miss Brent. Not because of his adorable, not-perfect smile or the way he hugs me from behind or even the way he’ll stay on the phone with me until midnight because I’m bored or need him to explain the complicated sci-fi movie we watched earlier. I miss the way that with Brent, things felt simple. Even when they weren’t.

  Even if they’ll never be, and that’s why we’re not together anymore.

  I remind myself that I’m not going to pull my grade up from a B+ in this class by thinking about boys, and I turn my laptop on. Every Sunday night, Robinson e-mails us links to the paintings we’re going to discuss during the week so we can look at them on our computers while he lectures (read: play Bubble Breaker and read the online edition of Entertainment Weekly).

  Today, I actually want to pay attention.

  Until I see the e-mail from the unknown recipient in my inbox.

  To: dowlinga@Wheatleyschool.edu

  From: luvspugs95@gmail.com

  Subject: I have what you need

  I open the e-mail, expecting a message from a Nigerian prince requesting a business partnership with me. I definitely don’t expect what the first line says:

  I can tell you what happened to Matt Weaver.

  I look around to make sure everyone is watching his or her own computer. I scroll down to see how long the e-mail is before I read the rest. It’s only a couple of lines.

  Meet me by the Massacre Monument in Boston Common, today at 5. E-mail me back to let me know you’ll be there.

  And I would be, if I were you. I have proof.

  I bang out a response so fast I retype it three times to get it right, no typos.

  Who are you??

  I sit back as the e-mail floats into cyberspace. Robinson starts walking down the aisle, noticing people are starting to doze off. I minimize my e-mail window and pull up the painting we’re looking at today: Thomas Sully’s The Passage of the Delaware.

  I keep my eye on the e-mail tab for the rest of class, waiting for it to change to “Inbox: (1).” It never does.

  * * *

  I can’t tell Anthony about the e-mail. He’ll tell me not to go and insist it’s probably a trap. He’d say it might even be one of the men in the photo, in which case it would be totally stupid to go alone. He’d be right, too—but that’s what pepper spray purchased off the Internet is for.

  Also, I figure my chan
ces of being kidnapped or killed in a place as crowded as the Boston Common are significantly lower than being killed by my vice-principal in the forest. And that didn’t happen, so there you go.

  I don’t have to make excuses to Remy about why I’m missing dinner, since everyone assumes I just don’t want to see Brent. Good. I hope they all sit together like the big dysfunctional-yet-happy family they were before I came and messed everything up.

  The map I printed tells me to get off at the T station called Downtown Crossing. I have to switch train lines fifteen minutes out of Wheatley. The one I get onto is packed with commuters.

  I spend the train ride trying to figure out who sent me the e-mail. He or she said to meet at “5,” and it looks like I’ll be at Downtown Crossing by 4:40. I do some calculating in my head: The person must have known how long it would take me to get to the Common at the end of the day, which could mean they know what time the last class at Wheatley ends.

  The train car lurches, taking my stomach with it. I have a horrible feeling I’m walking into a trap set by a Wheatley alum. What are the chances of someone who could actually help me waiting by the Boston Massacre Monument? Someone like Vanessa Reardon?

  I’m sweating a little beneath my sweater. There’s only one person who could have told Vanessa Reardon I was searching for answers about Matt Weaver, and the thought of seeing her again makes my insides shrink.

  An automated voice overhead announces we’re at Downtown Crossing. I head northwest on the street above the T station.

  Boston Common is not the tiny-ass little park I pictured in my head. My map says that Beacon Hill, where most of my friends’ parents live in multimillion-dollar brownstones, is nearby. The minutes tick by as I wander through the Common, past couples lying on blankets and kids flying kites. Stupid, archaic map. I desperately need a working phone again. It’s already 4:58. I don’t know how much time whoever is waiting for me will give me to show up.

  A cool wind sweeps through the trees, and I wish I’d grabbed my jacket before I left. A statue that sort of looks like a giant white crayon emerges in my line of sight, and I pick up my pace. I’m happy to note that there are plenty of people around to witness what could very quickly turn into an ugly situation.