by Ohlin, Nancy
“Your party?”
“Two Wednesdays ago. It was quite the scene. A room full of the aforementioned trust-fund babies and backstabbing bitches trying to out-rich and out-bitch each other. It was titillating.”
“Oh.” So that’s why his name sounded familiar. It was his party Devon wanted me to go to. Max refused to stop by, though. I wonder why, especially if he and Killian are supposedly friends?
“I host these little soirees regularly. Of course you’ll be at the next one,” Killian says.
“Well, I’m not sure if—”
“Good. It’s settled. Speaking of trust-fund babies, where is that Maximilian? It’s incredibly rude of him to keep you waiting like this. Doesn’t he know it’s dangerous for a lovely girl like you to be out and about on her own? Someone might snatch you up.”
Lovely girl? Me?
The front door opens, and this time, Franklin walks in. He frowns when he spots the two of us on the couch. “Tess! Good, I was looking for you,” he says, ignoring Killian.
“You were?”
Killian puts his arm around my shoulders. “Well, you’re too late, Chase. She’s mine until your lord and master gets here. Aren’t you, Tess?”
“Very funny, Montgomery. Tess, can I talk to you? Alone?”
“Sure.” I rise to my feet. What’s up with Killian and Franklin? “Nice to meet you, Killian.”
“The pleasure was all mine.” Killian winks at me.
Franklin takes my elbow and nudges me in the direction of the parlors. “I’d advise you to stay away from him,” he whispers.
“Oh, really? First you tell me to stay away from Max. Now it’s Killian. Don’t you want me to have any friends?” I snap.
“Yes, of course I do. But if I were you, I wouldn’t tell Max that you were hanging out with Killian.”
“What? Why not?”
He sighs. “It’s complicated. Listen, Max texted me and asked me to find you. He said he tried to call you, but you didn’t pick up. “
“I left my cell in my room. Is he okay?”
“He can’t make it tonight. He’s not feeling well.”
“Oh.” I try to shrug off my disappointment.
“I’m going to the movie, though. Do you want to sit together?”
“Um, sure.” I force myself to sound enthusiastic. I do like Franklin. I just wish he were Max instead.
As Franklin and I walk into the parlors, I wonder why Killian wants to be my new best friend. Unless he was just being charming and over the top. Maybe that’s how British boys act.
I also wonder why I’m not supposed to mention him to Max. Is it my imagination, or are there a lot of rules and secrets swirling around this place? Devon doesn’t want me to date Max. Franklin doesn’t want me to either. Max seems to have an issue with Devon. He also seems to have an issue with Killian, at least according to Franklin. And there was a weird vibe between Franklin and Killian, too.
It’s like eighth grade all over again, except that the stakes feel way higher.
After the movie, Franklin and I sit on the front steps of Chapin snacking on candy bars from the vending machine. I’m sure Devon wouldn’t approve, but I can’t help it. I’m pretty much starving on my broth and salad regime, although my jeans are fitting a little looser these days.
“So what did you think?” Franklin asks me.
“It was creepy. But awesome. Nothing like a woman who seduces a guy, convinces him to help her kill her husband for the insurance money and all while she is hooking up with her stepdaughter’s boyfriend.” I laugh and take a bite of my Almond Joy. “I actually saw it once before on TMC, with my mom.”
“Me too. There’s this theater in Astoria that shows old movies.”
“Astoria. That’s across the river from Manhattan, right? In Queens? Is that where you’re from?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“You said you grew up with Max. Is he from Astoria, too?”
Franklin chuckles. “No. The De Villierses live on the Upper East Side. My dad works for Max’s father. Dad used to bring me to the office sometimes when I was little. That’s how I met Max.”
“Oh!” I had no idea their families were connected that way.
“Max went to Beardsley, a very exclusive day school. I went to PS 439. The thing is, I got picked on a lot there. So Mr. De Villiers pulled some strings and got me admitted to Beardsley, with a full scholarship. I didn’t get picked on there because I was Max’s best friend. No one messed with him because he was this big, tall kid and—I don’t know, people just didn’t mess with him. He and I were there through eighth grade. Then Max came to Thorn Abbey, and Mr. De Villiers pulled more strings and got me a full scholarship here.”
“Wow. That’s nice of Max’s dad to help you like that.”
Franklin shrugs. “He did it for Max. Max liked me, and he didn’t have a lot of other friends.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know. He’s kind of guarded. Private. But you probably know that already.”
Max told me that he had a hard time opening up. It sounds like he’s always been this way.
A group of students walks by, debating the merits of San Andreas versus Liberty City. Franklin watches them, then crumples his candy bar wrapper and stuffs it into his backpack. “So the two of you are dating now,” he says without looking at me.
“D-did he tell you that?” I feel at once pleased and anxious. I like thinking of Max thinking of me that way. On the other hand, I don’t want another lecture from Franklin.
“It’s kind of obvious,” he replies testily.
I can’t tell if Franklin is annoyed with me for ignoring his advice, or jealous, or worried for Max, or what. Although maybe I’m flattering myself with the “jealous” thing.
“I guess we’re kind of dating. I’m not sure,” I admit. “Can I ask you something?”
He nods.
“That day when you ran into me in the computer center? You said I should stay away from Max because he had issues.”
“Yes.”
“What kind of issues?”
Franklin hesitates. “Issues having to do with Becca,” he says finally. “You could call it unfinished business. He’s not exactly in a position to be in a relationship with anyone right now.”
“Oh.” Ouch. If anyone knows if Max still has feelings for Becca, it would be Franklin, right?
“Obviously I can’t stop you. Or him, for that matter. But I don’t want to see you get hurt,” Franklin goes on.
“Oh.” I finish off my candy bar and immediately wish I had another one. “Hey, Franklin?”
“What?”
“What was Becca like?”
His eyes get a faraway look. “She was incredibly popular. And very beautiful. It was hard for anyone to resist her.”
I’m sorry I asked.
18.
BACK IN OUR ROOM, DEVON IS LYING ON MY BED, SCROLLING through my phone.
“What are you doing?” I dump my backpack on the floor and hold out my hand. “Give me that. That’s mine!”
Devon glares at me and tosses the phone in my direction. “Yeah, I know it’s yours, dumb ass. I’m trying to figure out how to make it stop beeping. I can’t get any studying done.”
Oh, God, how embarrassing. “I’m sorry.”
“What model is this, anyway? It’s like from 1995. You need to upgrade.”
“Sorry.”
I check my phone. There are several texts and missed calls from Max. I glance at the first text:
Sorry. I can’t make it tonight. Migraine.
Devon rises to her feet and saunters over to her own bed. Her textbooks, notebooks, and laptop are scattered across her quilt along with a pile of magazines and manicure stuff.
She clears a swath and flops down on her stomach. “Soooo. You and Max have a big date tonight?”
She obviously read his texts. What the hell? It’s the first time she’s mentioned him since she saw us together at the Corn
Roast.
“He had to cancel, so I went to the Monday Night Movie Fest with Franklin,” I explain.
“Oooh, smart move! Make Max jealous so he’ll think twice before bailing on you with a phony excuse.”
“That is not what I—and that’s not what he—”
“You’d better watch out for Franklin, though. I don’t think he’s gotten any in a really long time. Maybe ever.”
“Devon!”
She grins. “You’re so touchy! Seriously, I was kidding. So things are going well with Max?”
“I thought you didn’t want me hanging out with him,” I say suspiciously.
She shrugs. “Yeah, well, I still think you’re making a mistake. But if you insist on falling in love with Mr. Rich, Gorgeous, and Emotionally Unavailable . . . well, I’m here for you. You need all the help you can get. You’re such a virgin, and I don’t just mean sexually.”
“Excuse me?” What is up with her tonight?
“God, it’s not even fun to tease you anymore. You’re too easy.”
“Whatever.” I slip off my shoes and lean back against the pillows. I read Max’s other texts:
Did you get my message?
I told Franklin to find you. I’ll call you tomorrow.
I exhale with relief. Max wasn’t trying to weasel out of our date. Not that I was actually worried. It’ll be so nice to spend some time with him tomorrow, even if it is just on the phone. Or if he’s feeling better, maybe I can convince him to meet up for coffee.
“Hey. Speaking of upgrades?” Devon says.
“What?”
“I notice you don’t have a laptop.”
“Yeah, my old one broke, and I haven’t had a chance to get a new one.”
Which is a lie. The only computer I’ve ever owned is an ancient Dell desktop that’s sitting in my room back home. It was a hand-me-down from Mom’s brother Bud and has faded Yankees and NASCAR stickers all over it. There was a porno on the hard drive when I first got it, and Mom yelled at him for about six months for that.
“I have an extra, if you want to borrow it,” Devon offers.
“You have an extra laptop?”
“Yeah. It’s buried in my closet somewhere. I can dig it out and charge it for you tonight.”
“Wow, thanks!” Maybe Devon likes me again.
“It was Becca’s, actually.”
I tense. “Oh.”
“Her parents didn’t want it. You might as well use it.”
I’m not sure I want Becca’s computer. That seems kind of creepy. “I don’t know. Maybe it has sentimental value for you,” I hedge.
“Don’t be an idiot. It’s just a piece of machinery. I only kept it as a backup in case mine was ever on the fritz.” Devon sighs and opens her Spanish textbook. “You are so clueless sometimes.”
“Sorry.” I flush. I seem to be saying that a lot tonight. How is it that she’s the bitchy one and I end up apologizing?
Still, Devon’s right. I shouldn’t make a big deal about Becca’s computer. There’s probably nothing personal stored on it, anyway. I’m sure her parents erased or transferred Becca’s files after she died.
My phone beeps.
“Popular girl,” Devon says sarcastically.
“Ha-ha.”
It’s a new text from an unfamiliar sender:
Lunch Thursday? K.
Killian? How did he get my number?
“Hey, Devon?”
“Hmmm?”
“You know that guy Killian? The one who threw the party? What’s his story, anyway?”
“Why?”
“I met him tonight.”
Devon looks up from her textbook. “And what did you think?”
“He’s, um . . . nice. And cute, I guess.”
“If by ‘cute’ you mean Abercrombie model, then, yeah. It runs in the family.”
“Why? Who’s he related to?”
“Killian didn’t tell you?” she says, surprised. “He’s Becca’s cousin.”
19.
ON TUESDAY MORNING BEFORE BREAKFAST, I HEAD TO THE third-floor Kerrith lounge to try out my new computer. Okay, so it’s not mine, exactly, but having a sleek pink laptop, even a borrowed one, makes me feel more like a legitimate Thorn Abbey student. Plus now I can cyber-stalk people in private. For one thing, I want to Google Killian, now that I know he’s Becca’s cousin. Maybe I can figure out what’s up between him and Max. And between him and Franklin, too, for that matter. It’s the only way I’ll get any information since I’m not allowed to talk to these people about each other.
The lounge is empty at this early hour. Devon and the girls have really spruced up the place. Before, it was a couple of old couches, a scratched-up coffee table, a small, boxy television set, and a metal bookshelf full of board games. The couches have been replaced with cushy new ones, and there’s a small flat-screen TV.
A bunch of framed posters are propped up against the wall waiting to be hung. The top one is that famous painting of Shakespeare’s Ophelia, clutching a red poppy in her hand as she drowns. Which is a pretty weird choice, considering.
I lean back on one of the couches and boot up the laptop.
I flinch when the screen flashes to life.
The wallpaper is a photo of Max and Becca kissing on a dock. Behind them is a white sailboat. Its name is painted on the hull in shiny black letters: Je reviens.
I gnaw on my thumbnail furiously. I so don’t want to see this.
I start to change the wallpaper. But before I can go into the System Preferences section, I notice a single folder icon at the edge of the screen. RRW FILES.
RRW. Rebecca Rose Winters. Her parents didn’t clean her computer after all. I start to click on the folder, then stop. Becca’s files are none of my business. Instead, I click on the Safari icon and Google “Je reviens.” It means “I return” in French.
Was that the boat Becca was sailing when she had her accident? I wonder. I Google her name along with the name of the boat, but nothing comes up.
I take a deep breath. Time to move on. Dwelling on Becca and Max’s tragic love story will only put me in a foul mood.
Killian. Back to Killian.
I quickly pull up an article about Killian’s mother, Jean Montgomery, and her sister Jane Winters, Becca’s mother, co-chairing a fund-raiser for international adoption. There is another article about the two sisters that mentions how the Montgomery family splits their time between Philadelphia and London. That explains Killian’s British accent.
I continue clicking. I come across an article about a party at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. There’s a photo of Killian and Becca. God, her again. They are standing arm in arm in front of a massive bouquet of white roses. She is in a pale blue evening gown; he is in a black tux; they look like something out of a Vogue photo shoot. They are hanging out with half a dozen other teens—also dressed up, also magazine beautiful.
I linger on the image of Becca. Why does she have to be so insanely attractive?
The familiar fog of jealousy has started to seep into my brain. I go back to the desktop, to the folder labeled RRW FILES. Taking a deep breath, I click on it. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it.
It’s empty.
I gnaw at my thumbnail until it bleeds. The clock on the screen says that it’s 8:50 a.m. I need to stop what I’m doing if I’m going to make it to Philosophy on time.
But I can’t. Stop, that is.
I start jabbing random keys, as though I could actually make Becca’s files materialize out of thin air. Still nothing. This is nuts. What is wrong with me?
A drop of blood trickles from my thumb and smears on the touch pad. Enough. I slam the laptop shut and rise to my feet.
As I’m leaving the lounge, I hear the TV power on behind me. There is clapping and cheering, then static.
My heart pounding, I turn and scan the room slowly.
It’s empty. Of course it’s empty. I’m the only one here.
The
static grows fainter as my ears start ringing with panic. I stride to the coffee table and reach for the remote as the room goes silent. The TV’s dark. It’s off.
A girl stares back at me from the screen, smirking.
It’s not me. It’s not my reflection.
I run.
20.
“WHAT’S WRONG?” MAX ASKS. HE REACHES ACROSS THE TABLE and laces his fingers with mine.
“Nothing.” I force myself to smile and busy myself with my Coke. It’s Friday night, and Max and I are having dinner together in a cozy restaurant in town called Le Canard Danse. I think it has something to do with a dancing duck, based on the sign outside, not my nonexistent knowledge of French.
“Is it the food? I can get you something else.”
“No, this is great. I love beef à la bour . . . bourgi . . . this dish.” I fork a chunk of meat and pop it into my mouth. It’s actually pretty delicious, even though it’s unpronounceable. Fortunately, Max ordered for both of us.
I’ve been looking forward to having some quiet time with Max, especially with all the strange stuff that’s been happening lately. But I can’t shake this stupid, insecure mood I’m in. Ever since we walked into the restaurant, it was obvious that Max has been here before. With Becca? The maitre d’ welcomed him with a “nice to see you again, sir,” and he gave me this funny look, as though he expected to see someone else on Max’s arm: someone prettier, more glamorous, better dressed. Max knew what he wanted to order without even looking at the menu—steak and skinny little french fries, which he called “frits” or something—like he always orders the same thing.
But I can’t ask Max if he used to come here with Becca because he’d think I was one of those needy, clingy girls.
And I can’t tell him that I had a brief psychotic breakdown, searching for Becca’s invisible files on her old laptop.
And I can’t tell him that I met Becca’s cousin Killian on Monday. Or that he invited me to lunch and that I had to make up an excuse to get out of it. Even though part of me was kind of tempted to go, if for no other reason than to get gossip about Max and Becca. And Franklin, too.
