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UPCOMING BOOKS
BRIDGEPORT ACADEMY #1
Copyright © 2016 by Ashley Valentine
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Based on The It Girl series by Cecily von Ziegesar.
NOTE: This is a spinoff series. Please read the Upper East Side books (1-11) if you haven't already.
1
Somebody’s plaid Jack Spade duffel slammed into Bree Hargrove’s shin and jerked her out of a dream. The 10 A.M. Amtrak Empire Service to Rhinecliff, New York, had stopped in Poughkeepsie, and a tall, twentyish, stubbly chinned boy was standing over her.
“Anybody sitting here?” he asked.
“Nope,” she responded groggily, scooting over. He threw his bag under the seat and settled in next to Bree.
The train groaned along at about a mile an hour. Bree sniffed at the stale, slightly sweaty train car air and jiggled her foot, thinking about how she was going to be super-late for check-in at Bridgeport Academy. She would’ve been early if her dad, Rufus, had driven her up here in his blue beater Volvo wagon—he’d practically begged Bree to let him—but Bree hadn’t wanted her unshaven, embarassing father to drop her off at her brand new, sophisticated boarding school. Knowing him, he’d have tried to start up an impromptu poetry slam with her new classmates and shown off old pictures of Bree when she was a lame seventh grader and wore nothing but fluorescent green and orange Old Navy fleeces. Um, no thanks.
“Going to Bridgeport?” the boy asked. He raised his eyebrows at the Bridgeport Academy Guide to Ethics that sat unopened in Bree’s lap.
Bree brushed a curly tendril out of her eyes. “Yeah,” she answered. “I’m starting there this year.” She couldn’t hide the enthusiasm in her voice—she was so excited to start her brand new boarding school that she felt all jiggly inside, like she had to pee.
“Freshman?”
“Nope. Sophomore. I used to go to Emma Willard. It’s in the city.” Bree was a little pleased that she had a relatively chic past to refer to, or that it at least sounded that way.
“So you wanted a change of pace, or what?” He fiddled with the strap of his worn leather watchband.
Bree shrugged. This boy looked like he was her brother Mekhi's age. Mekhi had just taken off for Evergreen College on the West Coast two days ago, taking nothing with him except for two duffel bags, his laptop, and two cartons of cigarettes. Bree, on the other hand, had already shipped four over-size boxes and a couple of giant duffels to Bridgeport, and had lugged a giant suitcase and an overstuffed bag with her. In her hyperexcited preparation for boarding school, she had practically bought out the hair, cosmetics, and feminine products aisles at CVS—who knew what she’d need at boarding school! She’d also gone on a buying spree at H&M, Forever 21, and Barneys with the credit card her dad had lent her for back-to-school shopping. “Kinda,” she finally answered.
The truth was, she’d been asked to leave Emma Willard—apparently because she was considered a “bad influence” on the other girls. Bree hadn’t thought she was being a bad influence at all—she was just trying to have fun, like every other girl at school. But somehow, all of her moments of extreme fun had also been highly publicized and embarrassing: a picture of her boobs in a sports bra had shown up in a magazine (she’d thought it was a sportswear model shoot), a video of her practically naked butt had been spread around the school, and she’d made some bad decisions about which boys she should make out with at various parties—and of course everybody had found out.
The final straw had come after Bree had spent a night at the Plaza Hotel with her brother’s old band, the Raves. A photograph of her leaving the Plaza in nothing but a fluffy white bathrobe had appeared online the next day. Rumors had flown that Bree was sleeping with all the Raves, including her brother. Ew! Concerned parents quickly called up the Emma Willard headmistress, aflutter about Bree’s promiscuity. After all, Emma Willard had a reputation for excellence to uphold!
Although Bree hadn’t even been with one Rave, let alone all of them, she hadn’t exactly wanted to deny the rumor—she kind of loved that everyone was talking about her. So as she’d sat with the Emma Willard headmistress, Ms. McLean, in her patriotic red, white, and blue office back in the city, Bree had realized something huge: it wasn’t the end of the world to get kicked out of Willard. This was her chance to start over, to reinvent herself as the blunder-free sophisticate she’d always wanted to be. And where was the classiest place to start over? Boarding school, of course.
Much to her dad’s chagrin—she was pretty sure Rufus wanted her to live with him in their Upper West Side apartment forever—Bree had rabidly researched a whole bunch of schools and toured a few. The first school had turned out to have a strict disciplinary code and had been too boring for words. Within minutes of getting to the second school, on the other hand, she’d been offered Ecstasy and had taken her top off. But just like the third bed for Goldilocks, the third school that Bree had tested, Bridgeport, was just right.
Well, to tell the truth, she hadn’t actually visited Bridgeport—she’d run out of time, applied way past the deadline, and taken some creative liberties with her application—but she’d looked at thousands of pictures online and memorized all the building names and campus maps. She was certain it would be perfect.
“I used to go to Bridgeport’s rival,” the boy said, pulling a book out of his bag. “St. Lucius. Our school hated your school.”
“Oh,” Bree replied quietly, sinking into her seat.
“I’m kidding.” He smiled and turned back to his book. Bree noticed it was Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, one of her dad’s favorites. According to Rufus, it had been banned because it was too righton in its vicious social commentary about love and sex in New York City. Hello, sex scenes. Bree felt her cheeks growing hot.
Then she realized: she was acting like her old, unsophisticated self. And one thing was for sure: Old Bree obviously wasn’t working for her.
Bree studied the boy carefully. She didn’t know him and would probably never see him again, so why did she care what he thought of her? At Bridgeport, Bree was going to be stunning, amazing New Bree, the girl who belonged at the center of everything.
So why not become New Bree starting right now?
Mustering up her courage, she uncrossed her arms to reveal her rather large double-D chest, which seemed even bigger, since she was barely five feet tall, and sat up straight. “So, um, any good parts in that book?”
The boy looked puzzled, his eyes darting back and forth from Bree’s innocent face to her chest to the worn paperback’s cover. Finally, he wrinkled his nose and answered, “Maybe.”
“Will you read some to me?”
The boy licked his lips. “Okay. But only if you read me a line from that book you’ve got there
first.” He tapped the maroon cover of her beloved Bridgeport Academy Guide to Ethics.
“Sure.” Bree opened the rule book. She’d received it a few weeks ago and had devoured it cover to cover. She loved its plush leather binding, its creamy paper stock, and the nursery-rhymey, slightly condescending, slightly British style in which it was written. It sounded so wonderfully proper and upscale, and Bree was sure that by the time she’d even spent a few weeks at Bridgeport, she’d be polished, graceful, and perfect.
She cleared her throat. “Here’s a good one. ‘Bridgeport Owls may not dance in a sexually suggestive manner in public.’” She laughed. Did that mean they could dance in a sexually suggestive manner in private?
“Do they really refer to you as Bridgeport Owls?” The boy leaned over to look at the page. He smelled like Ivory soap.
“Yes!” As she said it, Bree grinned. She, Bree Hargrove, was going to be a Bridgeport Owl! She turned the page. “‘Bridgeport Owls are not permitted sexual intimacy. A Bridgeport Owl must not engage in activities that might be dangerous, such as jumping off the Richards Bridge. A Bridgeport Owl does not wear spaghetti straps or miniskirts above midthigh.’”
The boy snickered. “When they’re talking about a girl, shouldn’t it be an Owlette?”
Bree slammed the book shut. “Okay. Now it’s your turn.”
“Well, I just started, so I’ll read from the beginning.” The boy smirked and opened to the first page. “‘From the very beginning, I have trained myself not to want anything too badly.’”
Funny, Bree thought. She had the opposite problem—she wanted everything way too badly.
“‘I was corrupt,’” he continued. “‘Corrupt from the start.’”
“I’m corrupt!” Bree blurted out. “But not from the start.” Old Bree couldn’t believe what New Bree was saying.
“Yeah?” He closed the book. “I’m Chris, by the way.”
“Bree.” She looked down to see if Chris wanted her to shake his hand, but it was still wedged under his leg. They both smiled awkwardly.
“So, does your corruptness have anything to do with why you’re leaving New York for boarding school?” Chris asked.
“Maybe.” Bree shrugged, trying to be coy and mysterious at the same time.
“Spill.”
She let out a sigh. She could admit the truth, but Everybody thought I was sleeping with all the guys in this band, and I didn’t deny it sounded kind of slutty. Definitely not mysterious or chic. So instead she decided to take some creative liberties. “Well, I was in a sort of risqué fashion show.”
Chris's eyes glittered with interest. “What do you mean?”
She thought for a moment. “Well, for one look, I just had this bra-and-underwear set on. And heels. I guess it was a little too much for some people.”
This wasn’t entirely a lie. Bree had modeled last year—for a Les Best spread in W magazine. Clothed. But clothes didn’t seem too interesting at the moment.
“Really?” Chris cleared his throat and readjusted his square-rimmed glasses. “Have you heard of Jade Carmichael? You should know her.”
“Who?”
“Jade Carmichael. She goes to Bridgeport. I go to Bard now, but I met her a couple times at parties last year...She came to school in her own seaplane. But someone told me she decided to leave Bridgeport because Spike Lee offered her the lead in his next movie.”
Bree shrugged, feeling strangely competitive with—and a wee bit excited about—this Jade girl. She sounded like the ideal New Bree.
The exhausted-looking train conductor stomped down the aisle and grabbed the ticket off the top of her seat. “Rhinecliff, next.”
“Oh. This is me.” Bree took a deep breath. It was really happening! She looked out the window, expecting to see something truly magical, but saw only lush green trees, a wide field, and telephone poles. Still, trees! A field! The only field in Manhattan was Sheep Meadow in Central Park, and it was always filled with drug dealers and really skinny half-naked girls sunbathing.
She stood and reached for her bag and the old-school brown suitcase she’d borrowed from her dad. It had a big HUGS NOT BOMBS sticker next to the handles. Not very New Bree. As she struggled to bring the case to the ground, Chris stood to help her, pulling it effortlessly off the rack.
“Thanks,” she said, blushing.
“No problem. So, do I get to see pictures of you at...at the fashion show?”
“If you search online,” Bree lied. She stared out the window and saw, across a field, an old rooster weathervane on the top of a large, faded farmhouse. “The designer’s name is, um, Rooster.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s kind of obscure,” Bree answered quickly, noting that the polished, Polo wearing boy sitting behind them was definitely listening to their conversation. Bree tried to see what he was typing on his iPhone, but he covered the screen when he noticed her watching him.
“You...you should come to Bard sometime,” Chris continued. “We have some killer parties. Great DJs and stuff.”
“Okay,” Bree replied over her shoulder, raising her eyebrows just a touch. “Although, you know, a Bridgeport Owl isn’t allowed to dance in a sexually suggestive manner.”
“I won’t tell on you,” he answered, not taking his eyes off her chest.
“Bye, Chris,” Bree waved, using her most flirty, musical voice. She stepped off the train onto the platform and sucked in a deep breath of fresh country air. Whoa.
New Bree would take a little getting used to!
RyanReynolds: Hey, Benster. Welcome back, girl!
BennyCunningham: Hey, sweetie! How’s life?
RyanReynolds: I had the worst ride up here in our plane. My dad has this maniac pilot and they were yakking at each other the whole time and going faster and faster...
BennyCunningham: Next time you should fly with me. I’ll let you snuggle with me under my blankie.
RyanReynolds: God, you’re a tease. Hey, did u c Crystal’s pic in Atlanta Magazine?
BennyCunningham: No, but I heard it nearly ruined her mom. She had to do damage control on Good Morning Atlanta!
RyanReynolds: Yeah, Crystal looks bombed in the pic.
BennyCunningham: Is she still with Zane? I’m going to jump him if she’s not.
RyanReynolds: Dunno. Someone told me they saw him dancing with some gorgeous girl with really blue eyes and black dreads in Lexington.
BennyCunningham: Sorta sounds like Jade. Except for the dreads.
RyanReynolds: I know. Too bad she won’t be at the party tonight.
BennyCunningham: Seriously.
2
Crystal Alexander set her luggage down in the entranceway to Dumbarton dorm room 303 and looked around. The room was exactly as she, Naomi, and Jade had left it—except for the lack of empty Diet Coke bottles, cigarette butt-filled ashtrays, and CD cases strewn all over the room. Last fall, because they’d only been sophomores, Crystal and her two best friends, Naomi Peterson and Jade Carmichael, had been assigned a horrible, cramped room with only one window. But then Jade had bribed three dorky senior girls to switch with them the first week of school by promising them invites to the best secret parties. They’d wanted this room because it was bigger than most, with casement windows overlooking the Hudson River, and because it was close to the fire escape—ideal for sneaking out after curfew.
Naomi hadn’t arrived back at school yet, and Jade had been expelled at the end of school last year. They’d been caught on Ecstasy in the middle of the rugby fields at five in the morning by Mr. Purcell, the uptight physics teacher, who liked going running with his three impeccably groomed giant schnauzers before sunrise. It was the first time they’d ever tried E, and it had taken them a moment to stop laughing at the ridiculous-looking dogs before realizing what enormous trouble they were in. The girls had all been called into the headmaster’s office separately—first Jade, then Crystal, then Naomi—but the only one to get in any real trouble was Jade, who was p
romptly booted out of Bridgeport.
Crystal caught a glimpse of herself in the just-Windexed mirror over the antique oak bureau and straightened her white shell top and pleated yellow skirt. She’d lost a few pounds over the summer and the side zipper kept sliding around to her belly button. Crystal was thin now, maybe a little too thin, and tan from the summer. Her hair was long and shaggy, and her round, hazel eyes were fanned by thick, black eyelashes. She puckered her lips, blew a kiss at the mirror, and felt an anxious flutter in her chest.
All this summer, Crystal’s mind had spun, thinking about why Jade had been expelled and she and Naomi hadn’t been. Had Naomi set it up that way? Naomi was supersecretive about her life at home—her mom and dad never came to Parents’ Day, and Naomi never invited anybody to her house in East Hampton for long weekends. Jade had once dropped a hint that Naomi had some family issues she didn’t want anybody to know about. Could Naomi really have orchestrated Jade’s expulsion so she wouldn’t expose her secrets? It sounded totally soap-operaish, but Naomi was so melodramatic sometimes that Crystal wouldn’t put it past her.
Crystal nestled into her desk chair, actually glad to be back at school. Beyond not talking to her two best friends—she hadn’t heard a peep from either of them—her summer had been a disaster. First, there’d been the Atlanta Magazine photo of Crystal at Club Onyx, dancing on a table with a vanilla martini in her hand. The caption read, Overserved and underage: Is this appropriate behavior for a governor’s daughter? Needless to say, that hadn’t gone over well with her mother’s conservative Georgian voters. Oops.
After that nightmare, Crystal had flown to her family’s chalet in Barcelona—Mr. Alexander was part Spanish and spent his summers working on real estate deals in Europe. She had hoped that Barcelona would be the perfect backdrop for a romantic rendezvous with her boyfriend, Zane Taylor. But that visit had been anything but romantic. Try freaky.
“Hey,” came a gravelly voice behind her.
Crystal wheeled around. Zane. There he was, all rumpled, sexy six feet of him, standing in her doorway, looking more gorgeous than ever.
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