by Ohlin, Nancy
“B-Becky?”
“Yes, my cousin. I thought you knew?”
“I thought her name was Becca.”
“That’s what everyone called her. She and I had our own nicknames for each other. We grew up in the same neighborhood in Philly. Chestnut Hill. We were in diapers and preschool and all that nonsense together.” He smiles sadly. “She died, you know.”
“Yes. I’m so sorry.”
The waiter comes by to fill our water glasses, then moves on to a young couple at the next table. I’m glad Killian brought up Becca. I really want to learn more about her from someone who was obviously very close to her. But I don’t want to intrude on his grief. He seems so melancholy suddenly.
“You know how it happened, don’t you?” he asks.
“Sort of. Not really. She was sailing, right?”
“Yes. She loved to sail.” Killian closes his eyes. “One night last May, she took one of the school’s boats out to sea, without permission. A little Sunfish. A bad storm came up, and the boat washed ashore without her.”
“That’s so awful.” I knew she died in a sailing accident from the newspaper article. I didn’t know these details, though. “Was she alone?”
“Apparently. They didn’t find her body for weeks.” Killian opens his eyes and stares at me. “Poor old Maxi blames himself for her death, I think.”
“What? Why?” I gasp. This was the last thing I expected to hear.
“He told the police the two of them had been out on a date and they had a little spat. She took off, and he didn’t go after her. That’s when she must have gone down to Whitwater Beach, to the marina. She always used to say sailing was like therapy.” Killian pauses. “Of course, if Maxi had followed her down there . . . well, she might be alive today.”
I can barely find my voice. “Oh my God,” I whisper.
“Indeed. It’s quite the burden for the old boy to bear.”
I start to chew on my thumbnail but make myself stop and instead twist and knead my napkin in my lap. This explains so much about Max’s dark moods, the incident at the cliff, everything. He’s not just grieving her death—he feels responsible for it.
“You look like you could use a drink,” Killian says gently.
“What? No. I’m fine.”
“Let me get you something stronger than that Coke. They never card me here. They’re marvelously European that way.”
“No, honestly, I’m okay.”
Killian gestures to the waiter, but I’m barely paying attention because my mind is racing a mile a minute. Why didn’t Max tell me all this himself? Does he not trust me?
For that matter, why didn’t Devon tell me? Or maybe she doesn’t know.
“Here, drink this,” Killian says, putting a glass in front of me.
Numb, I pick it up and take a sip. It tastes fizzy and fruity.
“I feel dreadful. I wanted to show you a good time today, and here I am, all doom and gloom,” Killian says. “Listen, I’m having a few people over tonight. Eight o’clock. Why don’t you come by? I promise it will cheer you up.”
My brain feels weirdly spinny. “Thanks, but I can’t.”
“Just think about it, okay? Chapin Hall, room 333. Tell the guard that you’re with me. He and I have an understanding. Oh, and Tess?”
I take another sip. “Hmm?”
“I’m sure you and Maxi have one of those wholesome relationships where you don’t keep any secrets each other. But a word of advice? I wouldn’t mention this little lunch to him. Or my party, for that matter.”
I perk up. More information. “Why not?” I ask, intrigued.
“I always thought of Maxi as a dear friend. But I don’t think the feeling is mutual. He resented how close Becky and I were. I don’t know if you know this about your boyfriend, but he’s an extremely jealous person. Some would say pathologically so.”
I gape at Killian. He shrugs and grins at me. “Cherchez la femme,” he says cheerfully. “Another round?”
28.
“I THOUGHT YOU WERE COMING TO THE GAME TODAY,” MAX SAYS.
“What?”
“My soccer game. At two?”
How could I have forgotten? I am such an idiot.
Max and I are in Books and Beans, the library café. He texted a little while ago and asked if we could meet there. I was excited to hear from him but nervous, too, because of what Killian told me earlier.
Outside the window, the sky is oppressive, the color of an oil slick. It’s only five o’clock, but the day feels like it’s already over. The only other customer is a young guy wearing headphones, humming quietly to himself.
I fidget and take a sip of my bitter-tasting cappuccino. I can’t say anything about my lunch with Killian. Or that the drink Killian ordered for me made me really sleepy and spacey.
“I’m so, so sorry! I wasn’t feeling well, and I lay down, and by the time I woke up, it was, like, hours later,” I say instead.
Max looks concerned. “Are you better now?”
“I am. I really am sorry. I should have called you or texted you.” I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. “Did you guys win?”
“Yeah. Score was close, 2–1.”
“Congratulations!”
“Thanks. I wish I’d played better, though.”
His phone beeps, and he glances at the screen. “Sorry, I’ve got to . . . It’s Franklin, and I told him I’d . . .” He sighs wearily and starts texting.
I watch him as he types. He is so handsome. And sweet. And mysterious. I think of how Killian described him—mood swings, high maintenance, pathologically jealous. Yeah, the mood swings, definitely. But that’s totally understandable, given the circumstances of Becca’s death. And given that he’s still grieving over her, as much as I hate to admit it.
But Killian said that Max was moody and high maintenance and all that before Becca died. Could that be true? And what about this jealousy business? I don’t think I’ve ever seen that side of him.
And Killian said that Max resented Killian’s relationship with Becca. Is that what Franklin was alluding to when he said I shouldn’t discuss Killian with Max? Killian said the same thing to me at lunch.
Max slips his phone into his pocket. “Sorry ’bout that.”
“How’s Franklin?”
“He’s, you know, Franklin.”
I laugh. “What does that mean?”
“He’s kind of overprotective. I didn’t sleep great last night, and I was off my game today. So he’s checking up on me. Which is nice of him, I guess, but totally unnecessary.”
“Why didn’t you sleep well?” I ask worriedly.
“Bad dreams. I guess I woke Franklin up.”
“What kind of bad dreams?” I ask him hesitantly. I think about my own weird dream earlier this week, where I was alone on the beach and couldn’t find him. I think about Becca. Was he dreaming about her?
“You know. Scary monster stuff,” he jokes. “Seriously, it’s no big deal.”
I bite my lip in frustration. I wish that he would open up to me more.
Nearby, the guy with the headphones gets up to leave. He catches my eye. “Oh, hey!”
I have no idea who he is. “Um, hey?”
He slips off his headphones. “I saw you at that French restaurant today. I was having lunch with my girlfriend at the next table.”
I feel the color draining from my cheeks. “Oh, right.”
“Restaurant? What restaurant?” Max asks me curiously.
“Nice to see you again. Take it easy.” The guy slips his headphones back on and exits the café.
“What restaurant?” Max repeats. His voice has an edge to it.
I plaster on a fake smile while I frantically improvise. “That French place you took me to. Devon kind of had this crisis . . .”
Max frowns.
“And she asked me to have lunch with her so I could give her advice and stuff,” I finish lamely. “We would have met up at the cafeteria, but she said she needed to get away.
”
“So that’s why you missed my game?”
“Yes. I’m really sorry.”
“Why did you lie and say you weren’t feeling well? You should have just told me the truth.”
The truth. At this point, I’m fabricating on so many levels that I can barely keep my stories straight. “I know. I was afraid to because I thought you’d be mad. You don’t exactly seem like a big fan of hers.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Max turns away and gazes out the window.
“Max? Why is that?” I lean forward and reach for his hand. I want so badly to feel close to him, but I don’t want to scare him away, either. “Is it because she and Becca were best friends and you don’t want to be reminded of her? Or—”
Max pulls his hand away, his dark eyes blazing. “Yeah, that’s right. I don’t want to be reminded of her. So let’s drop the subject, okay?” He stands up abruptly and grabs his backpack. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Max!”
“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Please, Max! What did I do?”
“Nothing. You didn’t do anything.” He takes off.
Watching him go, I struggle to fight back tears. Why do I keep blowing it with him?
And what’s going to happen if he finds out I didn’t have lunch with Devon?
29.
BACK AT KERRITH, I FIND DEVON IN OUR ROOM. FOR ONCE, I’M actually glad to see her.
“I need a huge favor,” I say immediately.
She’s lying on her bed in her underwear, flipping through Vogue and painting her nails dark purple. “Oh? What’s the matter, did you and lover boy have a fight?” she asks, sounding bored.
“How did you know?”
Devon glances up. “I’m psychic. Did he finally get a clue and dump you for someone with more fashion sense?”
“No!”
I must sound semi-hysterical, because she suddenly looks concerned. “Hey, what’s up? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Well, no, I’m not fine, but listen, I kind of lied to Max and told him we went out for lunch today.”
Devon grins. “Wow, I’m proud of you! I didn’t think you had it in you. So who did you have lunch with? Somebody super-hot, I hope.”
“It’s not important. Just . . . if Max says anything to you, will you back me up? Just tell him that you and I had lunch at that French place in town. At noon. You asked me to meet you there last minute because you were having a crisis.”
“Awesome. What kind of crisis?”
“It doesn’t matter. He and I didn’t get into that.”
Devon cocks her head. “So is that what you two had a fight about?”
I hesitate. I don’t want to tell her any more than I have to. I barely trust her as is. “Not exactly. It’s complicated. But please . . . can you just do this thing for me?”
“Yes, but only if you do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Killian Montgomery is having another party tonight. You can be my date. The girls have some lame art opening for their sculpture class. Besides, it’s time you got out more.”
Killian’s party. There’s no way I can go. Based on what Killian said, Max might lose it if he finds out.
“I can’t.”
“Why, do you and Max have plans?”
“No, but—”
“Then you’ll come with me. Otherwise, your boyfriend is going to get an earful about how you begged me to cover your ass.”
“Devon!”
She smiles her dazzling smile. “And that’s how the game is played, Young Apprentice. Come on, let’s get you out of that hideous outfit and into something more glamorous.”
I clench my fists. “God, why are you such a bitch?” I burst out.
Devon’s smile fades. “My, you are growing up!” she says coolly. “Good for you. Next thing you know, you’ll be throwing punches at me.”
“Whatever.” I really can’t deal with Devon’s nastiness right now.
“Come on, I’m serious. Can we at least switch out the farm girl flannel for a decent top?”
“Yes, fine,” I say wearily.
Someday, I’m just going to come right out and say “no” to Devon. Someday.
We knock on Killian’s door at a few minutes after eight. My heart is racing and my palms are sweaty because I’m convinced that any second now, we’ll run into Max and all hell will break loose.
But so far, so good. Devon and I made it into Chapin and up to the third floor without a single Max sighting or other mishap.
The door opens. Killian beams at us. “Ah! The two loveliest stars in the Thorn Abbey galaxy! Come in, come in.”
“Hello, Killian.” Devon kisses him on both cheeks.
“Hello, Devon. That dress is to die. Hello, Tess!” Killian leans very close to me as I pass him in the doorway. “I’m delighted to see you,” he whispers in my ear. He smells spicy. “Whatever made you change your mind?”
Blackmail, I want to say. “Oh, you know. I was in the mood for a party,” I reply with a casualness I don’t feel.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. Let me give you the royal tour.”
He hooks his arm through mine and leads me into his room. Or, I should say, palatial suite. It’s twice as big as Devon’s and my room. At least. Several dozen people are milling around, and I recognize some of them from around campus. They’re all talking and laughing and drinking wine out of plastic cups while trumpety jazz throbs in the background. Louis Armstrong, maybe?
Devon has already sidled up to tall, hunky Jamal from my American History class. Killian presses a cup into my hand. “Here, my love. The presentation is a little lackluster. But it’s a 1990, which was a fabulous year for the Alsatian whites.”
I take a sip. It’s cold and sweet. “So, um, Killian? I’m wondering, sorry if this is awkward, but can you not mention to Devon that you and I had lunch?” I take a long drink.
“Of course! My lips are sealed.” He glances over at Devon. “So are you two . . . ? I mean, I had presumed that you were quasi-exclusive with Maxi, but . . .”
“What? No! Devon is my roommate,” I sputter. Is he seriously suggesting that Devon and I are a couple?
“What an odd coincidence. She and Becky used to be roommates too. Devon didn’t mention you to me.”
“Oh.”
“Forgive my nosiness, but why is it that we can’t reveal our little rendezvous to her?”
“Oh, just because.” I sigh and finish off the rest of my cup. Killian is right: This Alsatian whatever is pretty tasty. And it makes me feel tingly. “I wasn’t going to tell Max about our lunch at all. But then we ran into the guy who was at the next table over, who said something about it to me, and then I had to lie to Max and tell him I was there with Devon. And then I had to ask Devon not to tell Max. And I didn’t want to tell Devon I was with you because . . . well . . . I don’t know. I don’t trust her. Plus she scares me.”
Killian laughs. “You are so refreshingly candid! It’s a rare quality in this shark-infested sea of fakes and wannabes.”
Candid. That’s kind of hilarious, considering that I’m lying to pretty much everyone in my life right now. Including him. He thinks I came to his party of my own free will. “Thanks. But I’m beginning to think that I don’t belong here. At Thorn Abbey, I mean.”
“Of course you do! You just haven’t met the right people. Even sharks can be amusing. Useful, too. Come, let me introduce you around. And let me freshen that for you.”
Killian takes my cup and hands me another one. Whatever’s in it tastes different, less Alsatian, more fiery. He walks me around the crowded room, air kissing everyone, telling me about this person and that person: His family practically owns Hollywood . . . . She’s related to the Bahraini royal family . . . . Oh, and did I mention my famous New Year’s Eve party at the Plaza last year? I’m not taking in a lot of it because my head is kind of fuzzy and reeling.
At one point, Killian introduces me to two girls nam
ed Mandy and Rae. Or Randy and Mae. One of them blows a smoke ring in my face, and the other giggles hysterically. Louis Armstrong isn’t playing his trumpet anymore. A woman, Billie Holiday maybe, is singing about how her man doesn’t love her.
Max, Max . . . where are you? I wonder forlornly.
And then suddenly—or it seems like suddenly, anyway—Killian and Mandy/Randy are no longer there; it’s Devon, and her hands are on my hips, and we’re swaying to the music and dancing. “Having a good time?” she asks me.
“W-what?”
“I take that as a yes. You’re definitely growing up. I’m impressed.”
“Um, thanks?”
“But a word of caution?” Devon moves closer to me. “You will never replace her,” she whispers fiercely. “Do you understand?”
“Replace who?”
She smiles at me coldly.
Then kisses me on the mouth.
Her lips—her bloodred lips—taste like cherries.
I have no idea what time it is as I stagger across the quad toward Kerrith. I’m probably in violation of curfew, or close to it, anyway. Everything is blurry: the buildings, the grass, the trees. I’m drunk, I tell myself. I’m really, really drunk.
Surely I will get busted—by Mrs. What’s-Her-Name the house counselor and by the Kerrith security guard—and sent home to Avery Park. Which is just as well. Thorn Abbey is too, too confusing. It’s like living in a fun house. Or a foreign country. Or a fun house in a foreign country. Or a fun house in a foreign country in an alternate universe.
I’m totally not making any sense.
My feet are freezing. I look down. I’m not wearing any shoes. Where on earth did I leave them? At that boy’s party?
“Tess?”
Someone is calling my name. Maybe it’s that boy, with my shoes. I spin around on my toes like a ballerina. But no one’s there.
Although . . . there appears to be a person sitting on the steps of one of the buildings. Of Kerrith, actually. He gets up.
It’s him. It’s Max.
“Ohmigosh, hi,” I say, waving. “What are you doing here?”
Max rushes up to me and hugs me, practically crushing me in his arms. “I’ve been texting you and calling you and looking for you everywhere,” he murmurs. “I wanted to apologize.”
