Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel

by Kara Taylor

  “Ms. C … be careful. People here don’t like to talk.”

  A small smile spreads across her lips. “That depends on who they think is listening.”

  * * *

  I have a pink note waiting in my mailbox Thursday afternoon that says there is a package waiting for me at Student Support Services.

  My phone is here!

  I feel whole again.

  I peruse the obscene amount of voice mails I managed to collect over the past few days. One from my father, saying he hopes my phone arrived safely and that I’ll be less irresponsible in the future. A few from Chelsea, from before I e-mailed her to tell her my phone was broken. One from a very angry man with a Brooklyn area code who says if I don’t get rid of all the birds in my apartment, he’s calling the county board of health. I’m pretty sure that was a wrong number.

  There’s only one message left, and I hate the part of me that wishes it was from Brent. But when I hear Anthony’s voice, I have to sit down on one of the student center lounge couches.

  “Hey. I know you won’t get this for a few days, but call me. If I don’t hear from you by Friday, I’ll swing by.”

  I replay the message twice, loving how the throaty bass of his voice warms me from the inside. Part of me wants to ignore the message, just so he’ll show up tomorrow and I can hold on to that time when Anthony was this mysterious bad boy who came in and out of my life without warning.

  But things are different now. Anthony is different now—at least to me. He’s just a boy who works too hard. A boy with a messed-up family and a sister he’ll never get to reconcile with. A boy who’s good at poker and likes Pearl Jam and eats too fast and makes me feel like he wants more than any guy ever has when he kisses me.

  I can’t play games anymore. Not with Anthony.

  I call him back.

  “You have a phone again,” he answers. “I’m sure it was a very difficult week for you.”

  “For your information, it was.”

  Anthony laughs over the sound of a vacuum. “Are you at work?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Are you alone?”

  I stick my feet up on the couch I have all to myself. He doesn’t know the half of it. “Yep.”

  There’s a beat of silence on his end. “The neighbor … she’s gone every week night from seven to eleven.”

  “It sounds like there’s a but involved.”

  Anthony sighs. “Her father lives with her. Doesn’t go anywhere, from what I can tell.”

  “Damn.” I pull at a thread hanging off the hem of my skirt. “So what are we going to do?”

  “I have some ideas.” Anthony’s tone tells me he’s not going to tell me these ideas over the phone. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Want to grab dinner and dig up a dead hamster with me?”

  “Are you asking me out on a date, Anthony?”

  He’s quiet, but not in an awkward way. “Give me a little credit. I can do a lot better than that. Take you somewhere real classy, like you’re used to.”

  I blush all the way to my toes. “So you do want to take me on a date.”

  “You’re not gonna stop ’til you get me to answer that, are you?”

  I can’t stop smiling. “Yeah, pretty much.”

  Anthony breathes into the phone. I can’t tell if he’s frustrated or nervous. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven thirty.”

  * * *

  My day turns out to be pretty damn great. Matthews hands back my paper on Ireland and Bloody Sunday with a big 98 circled in blue pen, and Dawson tells me I have good pirouette technique.

  When I get to Latin and Ms. C isn’t smiling, though, I know something is wrong. Ms. C is always smiling. She silently hooks up the class projection machine to her laptop. As a BBC documentary about the fall of Rome loads on the screen, the class is split between relieved sighs and annoyed grunts about how our parents aren’t spending upward of thirty grand a year for us to watch movies.

  “I want you guys to take notes on this,” Ms. C says. “We’ll finish up the documentary on Monday and discuss on Tuesday.”

  I watch her hand back our latest homework assignments, entertaining the paranoid notion that she’s avoiding me. When she comes around to my table, she locks eyes with me. She nods to the paper she places on my desk. I got an A–.

  “Thanks,” I say, but she’s already on to the next row. What the hell is going on?

  That’s when I notice she’s watching me. She nods to the paper again.

  Confused, I pick it up. On the table beneath it is a glossy card. The same one I have in my bag, announcing Professor Robinson’s art opening tonight at the MFA.

  A small “Oh” escapes me. Ms. C turns and heads to the front of the room and raises the volume on the documentary, as if the whole exchange never happened.

  Something goes off in my brain. Not exactly a lightbulb, but a brief flash, like from a camera. I remember standing outside Robinson’s office, listening to his memories about Matt Weaver.

  Is this hint Ms. C’s way of telling me Robinson is the way to find Matt?

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The only time I wore my black lace BCBG dress was to Isabella’s wake. I didn’t think I’d ever want to wear it again for that reason, but it’s the classiest thing I have for the art exhibit. There was a time when I didn’t have to think about being classy. Back when I collected vintage earrings instead of misdemeanors.

  I show up at the tail end of the opening at the MFA, partly because I figure Robinson will be a couple of flutes of free champagne deep, and also, art bores me. Apparently it bores everyone else in Boston as well: There are only a handful of people checking out the early American paintings, and half of them look obligated to be here. Thankfully, no one from my class showed up.

  “Anne!”

  Robinson finds me first. He looks absolutely tickled to see me, which makes me feel a little guilty. He takes me by the shoulders and steers me to his fellow curators.

  “Another one of my students!” He booms. I smile and shake a bunch of wrinkled old yuppie hands like the good little Wheatley puppet I’m pretending to be. I tune out most of the conversation, waiting to get Robinson alone for a minute.

  When the curators move on to the next Very Important Person, Robinson pops a chunk of cheese from the reception table into his mouth. Full mouth. Now!

  “Professor,” I say, “can I talk to you about something?”

  Robinson’s smile wilts a little, but he swallows his cheese and says, “Of course, my dear.”

  “Remember a few weeks ago, when I asked you about Matthew Weaver?”

  Robinson runs his tongue over his teeth in that way old people do to make sure they’re not falling out of their mouths. “I believe you mentioned him, yes.”

  “I’ve been thinking. About his fixation with Paradise Lost.” I almost lose my nerve. “Do you think whatever happened to him had anything to do with Vanessa Reardon?”

  I don’t know what I expect Robinson to do. Deny it? I definitely don’t expect him to meet my gaze, sigh, and say, “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

  * * *

  It’s in between dark and light outside, and it smells like lilacs and rain. A man leaving the museum takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over his wife’s bare shoulders. She doesn’t thank him.

  Professor Robinson stands beside me, rubbing his hands together as if to warm them. “Anne, every teacher feels defined by their best and worst moments. Our best moments keep us going from day to day. Our worst…”

  His voice trails off. He sighs. “We replay them in our head, wishing we had done something differently.”

  “I don’t think it’s just teachers who feel that way.” My body is here, with Robinson, but my mind is back in New York City. In the auditorium with Martin Payne, reaching for his lighter.

  Robinson nods. Afraid he’s not going to give me more, I say, “What do you wish you had d
one differently?”

  He turns his head toward me. “Anne, I don’t think I can share the memory I regret the most with you.”

  “I know what Matt Weaver did to Vanessa Reardon,” I say quietly. “I just … want to understand why no one helped her. Like no one helped Isabella Fernandez.”

  Robinson sighs—a heavy sigh, like someone who knows too much and is too tired to do anything about it. “Vanessa came to me several days after the incident. She was somewhat of a favorite of mine. A very talented girl. In any case, she trusted me.” Robinson looks at a point in the distance. “She said she didn’t know who else to tell, but that she had had a little too much to drink at a party over the weekend and woke up in Matthew’s bed. She couldn’t remember what happened the night before, and she was afraid to tell the dean. The poor thing was scared, but she didn’t want to get in trouble for drinking. And Matthew was a friend.

  “I told her I would speak with him. When I asked him what happened, he broke down. He hadn’t realized Vanessa wasn’t in her right mind. He said that his friend pressured him into … doing what he did. He’d even brought Vanessa to his room.”

  “And that friend was Pierce Conroy.”

  Robinson doesn’t confirm or deny this. “I sat Matthew and his friend down and told them that if they didn’t confess to the dean, I would do it for them. They seemed very ashamed. Contrite, even. But the next morning, Vanessa came to me crying, begging not to tell on the boys. She said she had remembered the events of the night wrong.”

  Robinson looks at me, the skin beneath his eyes drooping as if weighed down with sadness. “I told the police all of this when Matthew went missing, of course, but Vanessa was sticking to her changed story. That Matthew hadn’t pressured her into anything.”

  “Is that what you regret?” I ask. “Not doing more when Matt disappeared?”

  “Matthew was lost long before he went missing,” Robinson says. “I only regret listening to Vanessa when she asked me not to tell.”

  My phone vibrates in my coat pocket. If Robinson hears it, he doesn’t react. “I’ve been teaching at Wheatley for over forty years, Anne. It should be something I’m proud of, but recent events have reminded me exactly how little has changed since I first started there.”

  “Do you think Vanessa Reardon knows what happened to Matt?” I ask.

  Robinson looks at me. “I can’t say, Anne. I would assume she would have said something by now if that were the case.”

  I’m not so sure I agree. Dr. Rosenblum’s voice fills my head. Sometimes it’s best … to let sleeping dogs lie.

  My phone buzzes impatiently. I sneak a glance at the message. It’s from Anthony.

  Ready soon?

  “Professor, I promise I won’t tell anyone about this. I just really needed to know.”

  Robinson’s eyes twinkle. “I’m an old man. They’re all biding their time until they can force me to retire, anyway.”

  We smile at each other. Robinson reminds me it’s getting dark, and I promise to be careful getting back to school. My phone says it’s 8:15.

  “Anne,” Robinson says, when I reach the bottom of the museum steps, “they’re not all bad, you know.”

  I nod to him and retrace my steps to the T station, thinking of Matt Weaver’s weird obsession with Paradise Lost. Maybe we are all bad, and getting by on the moments where we try not to be.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-SIX

  The platform for my train is packed. Frat boys, couples dressed up in date clothes, high school kids listening to iPods.

  But he stands out. The tall man in grease-stained jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. Hollow cheeks, thick blond beard. On his cell phone.

  His eyes flick away when I return his stare. Something clicks in my brain. He was behind me on the stairs leading down to the platform. Could he have been behind me for longer and I wasn’t paying attention?

  My thoughts twist together until they form a single word: Move.

  When the train pulls in, I push my way through the crowd. A couple of people snipe some choice insults at me, but I’m the first person on the train. I look through the window and see the man’s head towering over the crowd. He tries to push his way past a woman with a stroller, who promptly begins to scream at him.

  Now I run. As the crowd fills up the train car, I make my way through the doors on the opposite side so I’m on the other side of the platform. The train pulls away, leaving behind a few pissed-looking guys in BU sweatshirts who couldn’t fit.

  Hooded-sweatshirt guy is on the train. My hands tremble as I call Anthony.

  * * *

  It took fifteen minutes for another train to come. Nearly forty-five minutes after I called Anthony, I’m emerging from the tunnel entrance in the administration parking garage. I hop over the cables and run until I spot the outline of a white car in the distance. Anthony flashes the headlights twice.

  If the guy at the T station was following me, he would have headed back to campus to wait and see when I show up. Assuming he found a way to get past the guard at the gates (and believe me, there are ways), he’s probably staking out my dorm right now.

  In case that’s true, I make sure to be spotted going back into the dorm at exactly 9:30 P.M. As far as anyone knows, I never left after that. I even left the sound of my thunderstorm sleep machine on loop so everyone will believe I’m sleeping.

  If hooded-sweatshirt guy has his eye on my comings and goings, he’s going to be very bored tonight. At least I hope so.

  Anthony scratches the space behind his ear as I tell him all of this. “We have to circle campus. See if we can spot him.”

  Anthony turns the key in the ignition, and I shudder along with the engine. “Absolutely not.”

  “Anne, if he’s following you, then tall with a beard isn’t going to help us figure out who he is.”

  “I don’t even know if he was following me!” I say. “I’m probably being paranoid. Besides, if he did follow me back to Wheatley, he won’t be able to get into the dorms.”

  Anthony makes a That’s what you think snort. “I’m calling Dennis.”

  “Please.” I grab his bicep. It’s so warm I almost draw my hand back. He relaxes a bit at my touch. “Anthony, I probably imagined the guy. Let’s not get freaked out. We only have two hours to find the box before the neighbor gets home.”

  Anthony turns the radio on and signals to turn right. Away from the school. I sigh with relief.

  “Nice dress,” he says, after a beat.

  “Is it going to be a problem?” I ask.

  Anthony takes his eyes off the road for a second, taking me in. One side of his upper lip quivers. The side with the thin scar.

  “Yeah. For me maybe.”

  I look down at the hem of my dress. When I’m sitting, it rides almost all the way up my thighs. I desperately want Anthony to put his hand there, to feel his skin on a part of me he hasn’t touched before.

  Anthony keeps his hands to himself, but I notice he’s running them through his hair more than he usually does. Rubbing his chin. Adjusting the radio station and volume.

  I smile to myself and lean back in the seat. I’ve still got it.

  * * *

  Anthony parks in an unfamiliar neighborhood, all the way down a dead-end street. There are no streetlamps. I look out the window. The dead end leads into a small wooded area littered with beer cans, cigarette butts, and Styrofoam coffee cups.

  “This isn’t the house,” I say.

  “I know. But the Weavers’ street is well lit. These woods lead to the neighbor’s backyard.”

  My eyes are on the woods. A dirt path cuts through the trees and bramble. “So we’re going the back way.”

  “Yes,” Anthony says, humoring me. “It’s the best chance we have at not getting caught.”

  “Getting caught,” I repeat. I don’t know why this possibility hadn’t occurred to me earlier.

  One of Anthony’s knees bounces up and down. “Anne, if you want to wait here,
it’s okay. You have a lot more to lose than I do—”

  “No.” I swallow. “I dragged you into this. If we go down, I’ll take the fall.”

  He reaches and touches my jaw, as if to pull me in for a kiss. But he only runs his thumb over my bottom lip and turns to get out of the car.

  I follow him to the trunk, hopping from foot to foot. Anthony pulls out a shovel—not like a little one you plant daisies with; it’s a big ass shovel, with a square head. The kind Mel Gibson defended his house with in that awful movie about aliens.

  My breathing becomes shallow as I follow Anthony through the woods. I stare up at the back of his head, wondering if he’s also trying to tune out the noises: the crunching of leaves under our feet, the snapping of branches overhead—all of the sounds I’ll forever associate with the moments before Dr. Harrow almost shot me.

  There’s a light on over the Weavers’ back porch. An eight-foot fence surrounds their backyard.

  The neighbor’s house is dark, save for a small lamp in the second-floor window. Their chain-link fence is considerably shorter. It’s too dark for me to make out much in the backyard except for a rotting picnic table and brick patio.

  Anthony sticks the toe of his boot into one of the chain links and hoists himself over the fence. He lands on the other side without a sound. Panicked, I point to the window with the light in it.

  “What if he gets up?” I whisper.

  “We won’t give him a reason to.” Anthony reaches for me over the top of the fence. “C’mon.”

  I look down at my sequined black ballet flats.

  “Dear God. Just take them off if you don’t want to ruin them,” Anthony hisses.

  “That’s not what I was thinking. I was just happy I didn’t wear heels.” I grab Anthony’s hand. He’s so strong that I feel my feet coming off the ground. I feel around with the ball of my foot for one of the links.