Honor Code

by Kiersi Burkhart

  “Hey,” I say.

  The ruckus around us fades, like we’re standing inside a bubble. He slides a clear plastic box out of his jacket pocket.

  Inside sits a crisp, salmon-pink corsage that matches my dress and his tie. We are the most adorable pair of salmon-colored people to grace Edwards Academy.

  He opens the box and lifts the corsage out. “May I?” he asks.

  “Of course.” My voice comes out a whisper.

  Scully slides the corsage over my hand. I am living, breathing magic. Every nerve ending in my body is firing as he settles the corsage around my wrist and tosses the plastic box in the trash.

  His friends are off to one side—the two guys from Nordstrom’s and their incredibly gorgeous dates. I hadn’t even thought about this. His friends or mine? Combine them? I’d love to make friends with these four handsome people—

  “Your friend is aggressively waving us down,” Scully says, pointing behind me. When I turn around, Gracie gesticulates wildly at me to return to where she’s standing with Britt.

  Scully makes the decision to head toward them, and I follow. Gracie is frowning at us. Britt straightens to be as tall as he can and says, “Hey, Scully.”

  Scully nods. “What’s up? You guys ready to eat?”

  No small talk, no bullshit.

  Thank. God.

  We head into the main dining room and Scully scouts four open seats at the end of one of the long, wood tables. Special goblets are out, waiting to be filled with fresh sparkling apple juice from a bottle in a bucket of ice. The staff have dimmed the lights and hung colored streamers from the wrought iron chandeliers, creating just the right mixture of antique and cheesy.

  Scully pours some juice for all four of us, ending with himself. What flawless manners.

  “What’s your favorite class?” Britt asks Gracie. Bottom of the barrel as far as icebreakers go.

  “Crime and Punishment,” she says. I didn’t know Edwards offered a class like that, or that she’s in it. I’m an abysmal friend.

  Britt’s eyebrows furrow. “That sounds cool. What are you discussing in it?”

  “Crime,” she says, smiling sweetly. “Oh, and punishment.”

  I stifle a laugh. So that’s why I didn’t know. Britt isn’t fazed—he nods and smiles and says, “Like, famous crimes? I heard about this guy who escaped with a million bucks by jumping out of a plane right as the cops were about to nab him. Nobody’s seen him since.”

  “He probably died,” says Gracie.

  “I know who you’re talking about,” Scully says. “D. B. Cooper, right? I heard he hijacked the plane. And it was only $200,000. Although I guess that was worth a lot more in the ’70s.”

  “D. B. wasn’t his real name,” I say. It’s one of my favorite pieces of trivia in my trivia lexicon. “Nobody knows his real name. D. B. was a miscommunication—his alias was actually Dan Cooper.”

  Scully sits back in his chair. “Wow, I didn’t know that.”

  Gracie pours herself more sparkling juice. She already threw back her first glass like an alcoholic who was unaccustomed to social settings and trying to dull the edge. It’s not even wine. Maybe she wants excuses to go to the bathroom.

  “Do you talk about the school-to-prison pipeline in your class, Gracie?” asks Scully.

  Oh man. He hasn’t realized she was joking, either. Edwards kids are so genuine in their academic curiosities that it borders on cartoonish.

  “Sure,” Gracie says, downing her second glass. “We talk about the pipeline. The whole length, from Alberta to Texas.”

  Scully frowns, and I see it’s dawned on him that Gracie’s dealing out a heaping pile of bullshit. He glances sideways at Britt, probably wondering when the marshmallow is going to catch on.

  “I’m really getting into my sculpture class,” Britt says, to keep the conversation going. “We use every possible material. This week we had to build something out of found objects.”

  After a few minutes of laboriously discussing Britt’s interpretive art projects, the meal is served. Who cares about meatloaf when Scully’s sitting so close that I can feel the heat coming off his body and smell the spritz of cologne clinging to his lapels? It’s strong, but I like it. From the corner of my eye, I watch him eat, and the tensing of his big, square jaw as he chews mesmerizes me.

  -----------------------

  Scully manages to make the rest of our awkward conversation not as awkward by asking questions and moving it along, just like a good socialite. Then, thankfully, it’s time to depart from Hamilton Hall for the actual dance.

  The Mixer’s been set up in the Conservatory, which is built on a hill with walls of glass windows overlooking the campus. We join the parade of students traveling in their evening wear up the paved path, girls stopping along the way to take off their shoes and rub their heels or walk barefoot. Little lights along the path blink and glitter at us as we make our steady way up.

  Inside the front doors, the Conservatory funnels us down a spiraling staircase that looks like a crystal nautilus. At the bottom we spill into a vast, high-ceilinged auditorium. Colorful paper lanterns strung overhead cast a dim, magical glow in the dark room.

  Up on stage, a band dressed in sharp tuxedos plays soft rock.

  Britt talks more as the room fills up, but it’s easy to tune him out with the music going. Gracie looks bored as she picks up a drink that doesn’t belong to her and starts in on it.

  Then Scully turns to me and holds out one hand. “Would you care to dance?”

  Oh, would I.

  I drop my fingers into his and he leads me onto the dance floor. We’re one of the first couples out here as the colored strobe lights blink and flicker.

  He settles the other hand on my hip and slides it over the fabric of my dress, sending a little shiver of thrill into my neck. His cologne fills me up. The world swirls like I’m intoxicated.

  We don’t try to talk over the music. When I look up at him, Scully’s eyes are the most perfect gray-green-hazel, like all the colors of a sunny day whirled up together.

  I settle into his arms, which are warm and easy as they envelop me like a plush blanket. I spot baby-blue in my peripheral vision—it’s Gracie and Britt dancing beside us, Gracie doing her best to avoid that same close-up move with Britt that Scully and I are doing. Poor Britt. He’s here to have a good time, but Gracie is making it clear she’d rather be anywhere else.

  I regret my fierce determination that she come along. Scully and I would have been fine alone. He’s kind and accommodating, and I could’ve met his friends—maybe found a place among his posse of attractive, classy people.

  But now I feel responsible for Gracie’s enjoyment, and she seems resolved not to have a good time. What happened to Adventure Gracie? Why does she have to be like this so often?

  After a few songs, Scully and I take a break and find our way to the food. We help ourselves to a sea of itty-bitty desserts arranged on white, tiered plates that remind me of a fancy garden party. As we’re stuffing tiny brownies into our mouths, Scully’s friend with the shiny dark hair interrupts us.

  “Wanna join us out back?” he asks Scully, not acknowledging me.

  “Hey, Cal,” Scully says. “Have you met Sam?”

  “Uh, no, I haven’t.” Not making eye contact with me, Cal extends a stiff hand. “I’m Calder. Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  “So,” Cal says once again to Scully. “Out back?”

  “Sure.” Scully turns to me. “Sam, want to join?”

  I don’t know what “out back” means, but I’m obviously going.

  “What about Gracie and Britt?” I ask.

  He waves a hand. “They’ll be fine for a few minutes.”

  Cal leads the way, sneaking through a black curtain that, in the low light, looks like a wall. We circle around the back of the stage and head down a short hall. Ahead of us, Cal pushes open a heavy metal door and holds it so Scully and I can pass under his
arm. Then he takes off his shoe and plants it between the door and the frame so it doesn’t close and, I assume, lock us out.

  Outside, four guys and three girls stand under the glow of a dull orange light post. They nod at us, and the one smoking a cigarette offers it to Scully. He’s about to take a drag when he turns to me.

  “Do you mind if I . . . ?”

  He’s asking my permission? “Do whatever you like,” I say. Ugh. I’d meant to sound cool and fun, not cold and dismissive.

  Scully takes a long drag. To make up for my sass, I hold out my hand and ask, “May I?”

  All eyes turn to me as Scully hands over the cigarette. I gently place it between my lipsticked lips. I’ve faked smoking before to impress my middle school friends, and I can fake it again.

  I take the tiniest drag but pretend it’s a lot longer, closing my eyes. I don’t let the smoke into my lungs, as hot as my mouth gets, but flex my throat to make it look like I’m inhaling. I take out the cigarette and release smoke in a thin funnel.

  I pass the cigarette back to Scully without coughing, and he takes it with wide eyes. Then his face transforms into a wicked grin, and I think I’ve impressed him.

  The cigarette isn’t the main affair, though. Soon one of the girls produces the real reason we’re here: a silver flask with a shield-shaped symbol engraved on the front.

  “Glad somebody brought the whiskey,” Cal says, sighing. The flask goes around, and this time I don’t fake taking a drink. It burns going down, and I make a face, which earns a laugh from the others.

  “Sam, right?” says the girl who brought the whiskey.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Mallory,” she says. “Are you a First Year? I haven’t seen you around.”

  “Sure am,” I say, my voice shaky. I’m a little woozy from the cigarette smoke, and the honest truth tumbles out of me. “And even though I’m a loser now, I’m gonna be Head Girl. And then a lawyer.”

  I cover my mouth. What the hell, Sam?

  But everyone in the circle laughs.

  “Can’t be that much of a loser,” Mallory says, nodding at Scully. “You got a date with him.”

  Scully shushes them. “Don’t give me a big head, or I won’t be able to get through the door.”

  “And Provost Portsmouth will definitely notice you creeping around to the front,” says Cal. “Remember, we vow to keep ourselves accountable—or however that line goes.”

  But as the flask goes around—something the honor code certainly forbids—I wonder how much they really care about all that. Soon the whiskey’s gone, and we all thank Mallory for bringing it.

  “What’s this symbol on the front?” I ask as I return the flask.

  “Oh, just my family’s coat of arms,” Mallory says, shrugging. What sort of family has its own coat of arms? And then has it engraved on a flask for their underage daughter?

  Cal pulls his shoe out of the doorjamb and everyone files back inside. It’s much too warm in here with the hot whiskey floating around my belly, and I’m sweating. I hope I don’t stink. Scully and I are the last to come down the hall and reach the black curtain that separates us from the dance floor.

  “Mr. Chapman?”

  We both freeze. Provost Portsmouth approaches us in the dark, eating a small cupcake.

  “Oh, hey, Frank,” Scully says, casually dropping his hands into his pockets. He gets to call the provost by his first name?

  The provost stops in front of us, licking up the last crumbs of his dessert. Then he pauses and takes a long sniff.

  “Scully Chapman.” He arches an eyebrow. “Were you smoking just now?”

  We are so dead. Deader than dead. And Provost Portsmouth will bury us out in old Morgan Edwards’s creepy-ass graveyard next to all those bodies the old doctor autopsied.

  “Only one,” Scully says, shrugging. “We were just blowing off some steam. It’s hot in here.”

  No way he just said that.

  “It is pretty hot,” the provost says, pulling his collar away from his neck. “But be more careful next time. I could smell you five feet away.”

  Scully nods. “Of course, Frank.”

  “Okay, no more smoking tonight, right?” Provost Portsmouth winks at me.

  “Right,” says Scully.

  Then the provost waddles away and adrenaline is still racing through me at breakneck speed. Scully pulls me through the curtain, back into the dim, strobe-filled auditorium, and grins down at me.

  “I wouldn’t have guessed you smoke,” he says, running a hand down my arm, like we weren’t even caught just now.

  “Only when the opportunity presents itself.” I don’t want him to think it’s habitual.

  Scully leans closer. “You looked good doing it.”

  For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. Then Gracie’s angry voice cuts through the moment.

  “Where have you been?”

  I spin to find her standing behind us, wearing the deadliest glare I’ve ever seen in my life.

  I abandoned her with Britt. Oops.

  “Shit,” I say. “I’m sorry. Scully and I stepped outside . . .”

  “Outside?” she asks, stepping toward us. “Where? Why?”

  I’m trying to formulate a response when she sniffs at me.

  “You’ve been drinking? And smoking?”

  They’re phrased like questions, but she rains them down on me like bullets. I glance at Scully and say, “Can you give us a moment?” His presence is not helping.

  “Of course,” he says, and heads off to get a drink.

  “How dare you,” Gracie hisses at me when he’s gone, getting close so no one else can hear. “I thought this wasn’t a date, and now you’re sneaking off together to do drugs?” Cigarettes and whiskey aren’t drugs, I think—but I won’t try to correct her. It’ll only make her madder. “You know how I feel about Scully,” she says.

  Sure I do. She likes to lust after him in Drawing Club. Oh, and they apparently once went to a garden party together when they were kids.

  But so what? She knows how I feel, too. And unlike her, I actually like him for him, not just for his pecs.

  “I said I’m sorry,” I repeat. “He invited me, and it was either go or get left behind. We didn’t even do anything—”

  “Then stay behind,” she interrupts. “With your friend who you dragged along to this thing against her will because you were afraid of being alone.”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” I say a third time, though my voice is getting angry now. “I thought you’d be okay on your own for, like, a couple minutes.”

  “Seriously?” Gracie asks. “You even thought of me? And you’re going to make me sound like the big baby, when you’re the one who took off with the guy you know I like?”

  I knew she had a crush on him, but she’s acting like this is a way bigger thing now.

  “I don’t see why it’s such a big deal—” I start.

  “It’s a big deal because you’re a shitty friend!” Gracie crosses her arms. “You ditched me with Donald Trump—”

  “Britt’s not that bad.”

  “—to go make out with Scully out back!”

  The whiskey roils in my stomach. I look around for Scully and find him standing with Cal on the other side of the dance floor, sipping punch. Giving us distance. Watching me fight with my best friend at the dance like we’re sixth graders.

  “Oh my god,” I say, throwing up my hands. “Can we please go outside if you’re going to do this?”

  “Do what?” Gracie’s eyes get watery and her maroon lipstick clings just to the outsides of her lips, the middle all worn off. “Stand up for myself?”

  “I regret getting you that date now. What a mistake.”

  “Don’t act like that was some favor to me!” she snaps. “You hate being alone. You’ve been trying to suck up to every person who will give you the time of day since we got here.”

  It’s a knuckle punch to my gut.

  “But don’t worry,” s
he says. “None of these people care about you anyway, Sam. Trying to get with a guy like Scully will ruin you.”

  “You’re such an asshole,” I say, gritting my teeth so I won’t cry. I always cry when I get mad. “At least I try. You just hole up in the room and act like you’re better than everyone. You only do stuff when I do it first.”

  “Whatever. This whole place is a joke. And everyone just buys into it—especially you.”

  “If you don’t like it, why don’t you run back home, you big baby?”

  The look on her face is like I’ve hit her. I can’t believe I said that.

  “You’re a piece of shit, Samantha,” Gracie says, tears rolling in fat droplets down her cheeks.

  “Fine,” I say. “If that’s what you think, then I’m done.”

  I walk away, back toward Scully, my own eyes swimming. He looks more concerned than angry. I grab his hand in mine and hope Gracie sees. Then I say, “Let’s dance again.”

  “Sure.” He lets me lead him back out to the dance floor. I hear heavy footsteps and I imagine it’s Gracie stomping out, but I won’t gratify her by even looking.

  -----------------------

  Britt’s been hanging around all night hoping Gracie will come back. When the dance ends, I go say goodbye and apologize for her.

  He shrugs. “Gracie’s responsible for herself. Don’t worry about it.”

  Scully and I depart the Conservatory under the exposing glow of the lampposts that line the main path, and he walks me back to Isabel House. The buildings look like sleeping golems.

  We are completely silent. The humiliation of the night envelops me. We stand together outside the front door of Isabel House under some brown, skeletal trees that have lost their leaves early. Other girls arrive, eyeball us, and go in.

  I ought to say something, but the whiskey gallops around in my veins, making it hard to find words.

  “I . . . I enjoyed my night with you, Scully.”

  “Aw, thanks,” he says. He looks so beautiful in the lamplight—I’m about to vomit out all my feelings and I can’t stop it.

  “I like you,” I say. “A lot.”

  Scully is silent for a long moment. Too long. Then he says, “And I enjoyed your company, Sam.”

  That’s not the reaction I’d hoped to get.