by Lucy Auburn
Blake Lee, the third of four elite boys who are sure to run the halls of this school just as they ran the halls of their last school. Full name Blake Woo Bin Lee Garrison, though no one seems to refer to him by the Garrison name. His dark brown, nearly black hair is swept impatiently to one side, the black frames of his stylish glasses pushed up on a seemingly perfect nose. With perfect skin from his entertainment mogul Korean mother and the sharply masculine bone structure of his famous actor-turned-director father, Blake has exactly the stylish good looks and nepotistic blood to do anything he wants in the entertainment industry.
But instead of living the high life in Hollywood or moving to Seoul to become the Korean idol his mother’s entertainment business could make him overnight, he’s here in Connecticut, staring at the pages of a rare book before classes even begin and a single piece of homework is assigned.
There must be something there, some reason why his rich Korean family hasn’t turned him into an international sensation or his American father cast him in his latest blockbuster hit. Only a secret he wants no one to know could keep him out of that kind of limelight.
A secret I’ll find out even if no one has already.
“He’s taken, you know.” I nearly jump out of my skin at the Southern drawl in my ear, too close to comfort. “His mother has his future wife all picked out.”
Tanner, of course, has been watching me watch Blake. Thoroughly caught, I search for an excuse. “I just wanted to know who was reading a book in the library before classes even start.”
“Mmmhmmm. I’d set you up with him, but you're not his type.” Tanner’s eyes take me in from head to toe, and I fight not to burn with anger and shame. “Unlike me, Blake over there doesn’t like to play games with girls who like hurting people. He's not a fan of unstable basket cases. And that’s exactly what you are.” A smile curls up just one corner of his mouth, fake as it is cruel. “Not that there’s any shame in that. We all have our moments of insanity, don't we, Cooked Meat?”
I’m about to reply when Lukas calls out, “Hurry up, you two. We’ve got an appointment at the end of this.”
At the table, Blake’s head comes up at the sound of Lukas’ shout. He cocks a brow in Tanner’s direction, then fixes his eyes on me.
Dark brown eyes, thick black brows, an unsmiling mouth that’s like a straight line.
He barely even looks at me, taking in my plain brown hair, my department store outfit, and the drug store makeup on my face before he flicks his eyes back to Tanner.
And he mouths, no doubt thinking I’m too much of a hick to lip read, Really? This girl?
In response, Tanner just grins and puts his hand on the small on my back. He manages to steer me towards the tour group for two whole steps before I swiftly extricate myself from his grip, face burning, fists clenching tight despite the pain in my palm.
If I'm crazy, they made me that way when they took my twin away.
And I'll show them how far someone with nothing left to lose will go to get revenge.
Chapter 5
The appointment at the end of the tour is, it turns out, at the registrar's office. I get my class schedule—one with very little choice of electives, since I was the last student to enroll—and have my photo taken for my student ID. When I stare down at the photo of me, wan from a summer spent indoors, mousy brown hair frizzy even in the cool Connecticut weather, I see a girl who doesn't belong.
"Your ID will let you in and out of Rosalind Hall at all times of day, which is where you're assigned to sleep, along with all the other freshmen girls." The woman who hands over the ID looks like she's said this speech a hundred times and has ceased to give a shit about any questions she may or may not give me time to ask.
"The funds from your scholarship stipend are on it, and can be used at the dining area in the Great Hall, the cafe in Carthage Library, or the bookshop. It has a limit of two-hundred-and-fifty dollars," she warns me, as if I could possibly spend that much money in one place, "and covers books, perishable goods, and other necessities. It does not cover entertainment, cable packages for the television in your room, or other fun things you kids like to try to use it for. It is not a credit card. Got it?"
"Crystal clear." The thought of trying to rent a movie with my student ID sounds ridiculous, but maybe some of the kids who get this thing go a little crazy, surrounded by so many rich kids but without any funds themselves. "Do I get a room key?"
"Your ID is your room key. The door will lock behind you, so don't lose it. A replacement is fifty dollars—and yes, we'll charge you even if you lose it today, even if you lose it in this very room. It is not to be given out to another student, especially a student of the opposite sex, especially a boy you plan on sneaking into your room after hours. So keep it close."
"Of course. I'll tape it to my chest."
She doesn't even crack a smile at my lame joke—not that I blame her, given that she probably deals with spoiled rich kids day in, day out. I can only imagine how many have claimed they lost their ID only to give out a second copy to someone not allowed in their dorm.
"I'm done." I hold up my ID to show Wally and Mom; Lukas and Tanner waited for me outside the registrar's office, since apparently they got their IDs already. "What's next?"
"The last event of the day, and then you won't have to hear me drone on about crenellations any longer."
"Thank fuck," Tanner grouses, "I almost fell asleep back there at Lawrence Hall when you talked about the renovations done to the back garden. Kill me the next time you decide to discuss architecture and bullshit for longer than thirty seconds.”
Checking my schedule, I see that we're scheduled to go to an orientation speech by Dean Rupert Simmons with every incoming student and visitor on campus in attendance. Lukas leads us to it at an ambling pace, clearly not in a hurry even through our tour group is behind all the others and has been all morning. A stage has been set up in the outdoor area, along with rows of chairs for everyone to watch. There is, of course, a VIP area up front, roped off, with goodie bags and extra shade—no doubt it's where the rich families get to sit, away from commoners like me, my mom, and Wally.
"Well, this is where we part." Lukas cranes his head towards the front. "Any last questions for me?"
I can think of a few, like: why did you join your friend Cole in accusing my brother of being responsible for what happened to that girl during orientation week, or, what makes you think you're so different from the rest of the teenagers around you. Maybe a bonus, like, is it true that your parents' marriage broke up because of cheating, and if so, are you really your father's son?
But none of those questions are meant for polite company, and my mom is still here, blissfully unaware of the hatred that's festering inside me. Once she and Wally are gone, I'll start gathering intel for my plan and ruining these boys' lives—but not while she's still here, frail and faded, watching her last family member be thrown to the wolves.
"No questions, no."
"I have a question," Wally says. I elbow him in the side, but he just ignores me. "The orientation packet said something about off-campus excursions being a privilege. Does that mean Brenna won't be able to come home on the weekends?"
Blushing, I remind Wally, "I don't have a car."
"Yeah, but I could pick you up." He shrugs. "Who cares if it's a long round trip? Sleep is for the weak. And you should come home."
Lukas answers, "The designated off campus trips are usually of the team and character-building variety. As far as trips home are concerned, usually they have to be scheduled. The administration frowns on too many vacations."
"More like our parents don't want us coming home too often." Tanner makes a disdainful noise. "They keep us here as much as possible. That includes you, Singed Meat."
"My, you know a lot of adjectives to put in front of the word meat," I mock him. "You should come up with something new."
His smirk turns mocking. "Oh, I’ll think of something."
At the outdoor podium, musi
c starts up, letting us know that the main event is about to start. Pulling out his phone, Wally points out, "We should go soon. Guess we'll have to miss this."
"Oh, horror," Tanner mocks, "you won't be bored to death even further."
I bite my lower lip to keep from saying something rude in front of Mom. A redhead in the audience waves to Tanner, and he heads her way; Lukas wanders towards the shade near the chairs, hands in his pockets, looking a little lost and out of place. I supposed his European parents don't show up to these things.
Mom grasps my arms, biting her lower lip. "Come home as often as you can, okay? Even if it's just for the break."
"I will."
"I'll try to save up money for a plane ticket," she adds, wrapping her arms tight around me, her ribs and clavicles frighteningly prominent as I hold her close. "I've got a new job waitressing at that place near your Aunt Cheryl's house. She and Dan might pitch in, too. Maybe we can bring you home over the winter holiday."
My heart squeezes painfully tight at the thought of her saving up her bills and spare change for me, trying to squeeze together enough money to get me from Great Falls to Wayborne—complete with a layover somewhere between because the Wayborne airport is barely big enough for a tin can to fly through. After Silas announced that he was going to Coleridge, I priced out tickets at over three hundred bucks on a good day, more during the holidays; she'll never be able to afford it. If I get to go home and see her for Christmas, it'll be because of Wally and Ol' Bess.
As we step back, and I look down at her, there's a question that sears in my throat. I open my mouth to say it, thoughts racing, forming and re-forming the words on my tongue. Finally I just spit it out. "And Daddy?"
Wally looks away, trying to give us a moment of privacy as we talk about a painful family truth.
Mom says, "Isn't coming home, sweetheart. At least not as far as I know. The last I heard from your Uncle Joey, he'd gotten a job on an oil rig off the coast of Louisiana. Ten month contract."
Bitterly, I observe, "You didn't say that he'd be sending money home."
"Your father is a complicated man." She squeezes my arms, and I bite my tongue, glad for the pain of the burn on my palm. "He's had a hard time, but I'm sure we'll hear from him soon. You know he loves you."
I want to reach out and push the words back in her mouth, shove them down her throat, and make her choke on them. Daddy never loved anybody he couldn't control, and no one can be controlled long enough to satisfy the dark center in the middle of his heart. If he loves me, it's a dark, wretched thing, and I'd rather she not make excuses for him.
But I can't bear to argue with her when she's doing this poorly. Ever since Silas died, she's barely eaten, and she was already skinny to begin with. Every day a little piece of her gets chipped off, like slivers falling from the sculpture's chisel. Soon there'll be nothing left—and I can't bear the thought of being the reason why.
"Take care of yourself." Looking to Wally, tugging on his jacket, I tell him, "Take care of her."
"You know I will," he says, that Virginia backwater twang in his voice again. Tone rough from emotion, he says, "I'll bring the truck around so you can get your stuff, and your mama doesn't have to walk out to the parking lot."
That's Wally for you: when emotions get serious, instead of saying things or hugging people, he offers to help. He's the guy with the first aid kit in his jacket and the Advil stowed away, the one who always has a spare tire and will jump start the car battery of his worst enemy.
His were the hands that helped me cut my brother down and lay him to rest.
I wish I could bring him along to do the rest of it along with me, but what I'm setting out to do isn't for boys with big hearts like Wally. It's for girls with shriveled, blackened bits of muscle beating in their chest, girls who have nothing to live for but revenge.
He pulls the truck around. I grab my duffel out of the back seat. Mom and I hug again; I help her up into the truck's cab, watching her rub the sides of her arms, cold despite the nice weather.
"Bye Mom. Bye Wally." I pull away before tears can start welling in my eyes. Now is not the time for weakness. "Take care of each other."
"Take care of yourself." Mom puts a hand on my cheek. "I love you."
"Love you too."
Before he pulls away, Wally rolls down the window on the driver's side and adds one last thing.
"You can always come back if you need to." He watches me, the truck idling. Distantly, I hear the Dean on the stage, calling into the mic for everyone to get seated. "Wayborne will welcome you with open arms."
I'm sure it will. But it's not the comfort of home that I need to feel peace. And I'm not sure I'll ever feel comfortable again in that place, after everything.
"I'll keep that in mind," I tell Wally, because he wouldn't understand if I told him why I have to stay, come Hell or high water, until the deed is done. "Drive safe. I should probably go see this thing—I'm already late."
I watch the truck drive away.
I'm all alone now at Coleridge, without Wally, without Mom.
It's for the best.
The snake is meant to work alone.
Chapter 6
"You are, all of you, exceptional."
Dean Simmons is an enthusiastic man, both younger than I expected and probably older than he looks; even the administration here is probably well-off enough to get their wrinkles erased with Botox.
"I can say that confidently," he continues, "because all of you are here, at Coleridge, where we don't just take anyone. You are the cream of the crop, the cherry on the sundae, the..."
Staring off into the distance, I tune him out. It's clear that the point of the speech is to blow smoke up the ass of every rich set of parents here with their kids in the hope of getting more donations out of them. Simmons would make a good cheerleader, I'll give him that, but his speech is about as interesting as a bottom barrel cult leader's.
Looking through the audience around me, I search for familiar faces. As far back as I am, most of what I can see is the back of heads: expensive designer clothing on the mothers, even more expensive hair plugs on the fathers, and of course shiny heads of well-styled hair. Almost all the girls have balayage highlights turning their boring brunette manes into a gradient of color; all the guys have artfully tousled hair that only looks like an accident.
I search for him, but he must be sitting out of sight, because I don't spot his face.
Cole Masterson.
The leader of the Elites.
Instigator of the rumors that started about my brother, took off without context, and ultimately ended with his suicide.
He should be here, but of course he's nowhere near me. The rich don't rub elbows with poor girls from Wayborne. I'm here for scholarship statistics, not to become one of them. They're future investors, CEOs, politicians, and scandals splashed across the front pages of the New York Times. I'm a footnote that won't get written down anywhere that matters.
"This year, we welcome a historic one hundred and fifty-two students to the incoming class of Coleridge, a diverse student body from both coasts, thirty states in between, and four countries overseas." The rich are foreign these days, it turns out. Chinese billionaires and Australian media moguls send their kids to America for a taste of another life—one that includes private schools like Coleridge. "We also have more scholarship students than ever: thirty-three, all of whom are receiving a full ride, free housing, and a food stipend. We expect that they will thrive at Coleridge and have bright futures ahead of them."
A head turns at these words, and the honey brown eyes of one Tanner George Connally look back at me, one thick brow raised, smirk dancing on his lips. The burn in the center of my palm flares to life as I instinctively clench my hand into a fist. He mouths something at me, and it takes me a moment to realize what words his lips are sounding out.
Girl on fire. Or maybe girl of fire or girl afire, though the last seems unlikely from a dirt bike riding, down and di
rty country boy from Kentucky. Probably he's saying fucking freak and I'm wrong, but I swear he's just given me a new nickname, one to follow up on the heels of Cooked Meat.
He turns back to the front, and I try to refocus on what Dean Simmons is saying. Something about generous endowments, renovations, a new proposed building—all things ultimately aimed at the rich parents in the crowd so they open up their checkbooks every year. This speech was never for the students, especially those of us who aren't paying to be here.
Restless, I cross and uncross my legs, searching the crowd for that elusive face. It itches at me that I've had encounters with three of the Elites, but not Cole. He's the big guy on campus, the son of Joseph Masterson, whose grandfather founded Masters & Sons. They own half of manufacturing in America, including a chain of luxury hotels that stretches from coast to coast.
If you only pay attention to celebrity gossip and reality TV, you probably have no idea about the Masterson family. They're not loud about their money like the nouveau riche. But their fingers are in everything, including shampoo, real estate, dog food, cooking utensils, local TV news stations, auto manufacturing, and of course, dark money in politics.
Tanner Connally's father may be a senator, but Cole Masterson's father owns senators. There are bills that will never have his name on them but are covered in his thumbprint, the influence of his political donations felt in everything from environmental regulations to land rights and housing vouchers. If Joseph Masterson wants something, he gets it, no matter how many thousands of people's lives are in the way.
His son is posed to take all that power in just a few decades.
And he's just exactly the kind of boy to turn into a man who will abuse it, maybe even more than his father has, until he owns everything he wants and does anything he wants.
I've tuned out the orientation speech so thoroughly that I jerk when Dean Simmons says, "...and now, your student orientation guide, Holly Schneider!"
A dark-haired girl with an athletic figure and long, lean legs walks up to the stage to cheers from the students in the crowd. Her ponytail sways behind her, shiny and healthy, her makeup understated and classy. The Coleridge insignia is prominent on her button-up shirt and matching polyester blend blazer, tanned skin flashing at the edge of a short pleated skirt.
