BRIDGEPORT ACADEMY #1

by Ashley Valentine

  “Oh!” She felt her palms get slick with sweat.

  “How are you?” he asked, pulling at the worn hem of his polo shirt. His glossy black hair curled around his neck and ears.

  “Confused” would have been a reasonable answer. The last time she’d seen Zane was when she’d dropped him off at the Barcelona airport. They hadn’t kissed goodbye, and they’d barely even spoken the whole last day of his visit.

  “Fine,” she replied cautiously. “How did you get in here? Did Angelica see you?” Her dorm mistress, Angelica Pardee, was really strict about allowing boys in the all-girls’ dorm except during “visitation,” which was only for an hour between sports practice and dinner.

  “You look too skinny,” Zane said softly, ignoring Crystal’s questions.

  Crystal frowned. “Do you want to get in trouble on the first day of school?”

  “Your boobs are going away,” he continued.

  “God,” she muttered in annoyance. The truth was, she hadn’t been hungry all summer—not even for Barcelona-style paella, her favorite. She was too nervous to eat, or to do much of anything, really. The last few weeks in Spain she’d spent on the couch, looking like an unstructured slob, wearing her slightly ragged, white Dior bikini and watching hours and hours of those Spanish soap operas. And she didn’t even speak much Spanish. “What are you doing back so soon?”

  Zane was usually fashionably late to Bridgeport check-in—another no-no—because he arrived in a tractor-trailer with his Thoroughbred horse, Credo, who he kept on campus.

  “Credo’s coming next week, so there was no reason for me to be late.”

  He looked at Crystal. They’d been together since last fall, but he’d had a hard time getting psyched to see her back at school after his parents had received an angry note from Dean Marymount over the summer saying he’d be watching Zane carefully this year. Apparently there were rules to uphold, and just because Zane was a legacy—his grandfather, father, and three older brothers had all attended Bridgeport—didn’t mean he could bend those rules. So instead of heading up to school a week late with Credo, Zane had flown alone on a chartered plane from Kentucky to New York with leather reclining seats and unlimited champagne. Sounds great, right? Except it wasn’t exactly what Zane had had in mind.

  Zane regularly fantasized about getting kicked out of Bridgeport Academy—until he remembered his father’s bargain. If Zane graduated from Bridgeport, he could take a postgraduate year in Paris. His father even had a big apartment in the Latin Quarter all ready for Zane’s year abroad. Paris—how cool would that be? He’d drink absinthe, paint street scenes from his bedroom window, and ride along the Seine on an ancient, rickety bike, a Gauloise hanging from his mouth. He could smoke his brains out and nobody would give him shit for it!

  “You going to the party at Richards’ lounge tonight?” Crystal asked.

  Zane shrugged. “Not sure.” He stood just inside the door frame.

  Crystal pulled a foot out of her pointy-toed Burberry loafer and rolled her toes against the floor. A horrible feeling of dread washed over her. Why wouldn’t Zane want to go to the first party of the year? Everybody went to the first party of the year. Was he seeing someone else? Someone he wanted to be alone with on the first night of school?

  “Well, I’m going,” she said quickly, crossing her arms.

  Neither one had made a move toward the other. But with his curly hair, broad shoulders, and golden-brown forearms, Zane looked so irresistible, Crystal was dying to lick him from head to toe.

  “Did you have a good summer after Spain?” she squeaked, trying to sound as indifferent as possible.

  “I guess. Lexington was ass-boring as usual.” He pulled a toothpick from behind his ear and placed it between his slightly chapped lips.

  Crystal leaned against her antique white-painted wood bedframe. Zane's visit to Spain had been tainted from the start. He had had to fly coach class, and when he’d arrived, he’d been terse and gruff and had headed straight to the bar—not one of those cute little outdoor cafés straight out of the movies either, but simply the closest bar possible, at the airport. Then he’d passed out on the Alexanders’ couch, which was a real problem since Crystal’s dad needed to sit on that couch to watch the international feed of CNN every single minute he wasn’t working.

  Crystal tilted her hips forward and chewed on her freshly manicured thumbnail. “Well, that’s nice,” she responded finally. She wished she could just wrap her arms around him and kiss him everywhere, but she couldn’t exactly do that when he hadn’t even tried to hug her hello.

  Then she spied a familiar figure behind Zane and her heart started racing.

  “Mr. Taylor!” crowed Angelica Pardee, Dumbarton’s dorm mistress. Angelica wasn’t even thirty, but she seemed to be in a hurry to enter middle age. Today she was wearing a thin, shapeless cardigan, a straight, knee-length black skirt, and sensible black shoes. Her calves were a little veiny and way too bluish-white, and she wore no makeup. “Do I have to report you already?”

  Zane jumped. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, dazedly pressing his hand to his head, as if he had amnesia. “I haven’t been here in so long, and, like, I forgot which dorm I was in.” He looked across the room, directly into Crystal’s eyes, and she felt her arms goose-bump.

  “See you later?” she finally mouthed.

  He nodded ever so slightly.

  “Stables?” she whispered.

  “Tomorrow?” he mouthed back.

  “Why not tonight?” Crystal wanted to ask. But she didn’t.

  “Mr. Taylor!” Angelica practically spat, gripping the cuff of his shirt. Her light face was an abnormal red.

  “Okay!” Zane yelped. “I said I was leaving.”

  Angelica shook her head and ushered Zane down the hall.

  Crystal turned and stared out the window. The abandoned stables were where they used to go last year to fool around. Only a few students kept horses at school, so several of the stalls were always empty. She hated that she had had to suggest they meet there, and not the other way around.

  Droves of freshmen lumbered up Dumbarton’s steps, carrying way too much luggage. Crystal noticed how overwhelmed the girls seemed. She could relate. There were so many things about boarding school that you couldn’t plan for. They’d soon discover that they didn’t need half their shit and that they had forgotten the really important stuff—like empty shampoo bottles to hide vodka in. She watched the throng of freshman girls part as Zane strolled down the Dumbarton steps, nodding to the new, innocent faces. God, it was hard dating such a flirt.

  She put her head in her hands. It was so obvious what had gone wrong in Spain. The last night they’d spent together, she’d admitted something to Zane that was so big and so scary for her to say. And what had been his answer? Nothing. Silence.

  Crystal sighed. They’d have to talk about it tomorrow, although she hoped they’d be doing a lot more than just talking.

  BennyCunningham: My brother’s friend at Exeter told me there’s a new girl at Bridgeport who’s a stripper from NYC.

  MauriceJohnson: ?!?

  BennyCunningham: Yep. Some club named...Hen Party? Chicken Hut? Horse Stable? I think in Brooklyn? I had my cousin who lives in the Village look it up—it’s the kind of place where u take it all off. Thong included.

  MauriceJohnson: When can I meet her?

  BennyCunningham: Maurice, you’re nasty.

  MauriceJohnson: Don’t you know it, baby!

  3

  “Right here is fine,” Bree told the cabdriver as soon as she spied the discreet maroon sign reading Bridgeport ACADEMY hanging from a tree next to a tiny, one-story brick building. Bridgeport wasn’t far from the train station, but Bree hadn’t been able to get here fast enough.

  “You sure?” The cabdriver turned around, revealing a thin beaky nose and a faded light blue Yankees cap. “Because the front office is—”

  “I’m a student here,” Bree interrupted, feeling a thrill ripple t
hrough her chest as she spoke. “I know where the front office is.”

  The cabdriver threw up his hands in defeat. “You’re the boss.” Bree handed him a twenty, stepped out of the cab, and looked around.

  She was here. Bridgeport. The grass seemed greener, the trees taller, and the sky cleaner and bluer than anywhere she’d ever been before. There were lush evergreens on all sides, and on her right was a wide, cobblestone path snaking up a hill. A green field spread out to her left, and in the distance a few boys in fatigue shorts were kicking around a soccer ball. The whole place smelled of boarding school. Like the deep woods, which she’d only been in a few times, before she knew better than to accompany her dad and his kooky anarchist buddies on camping trips in southern Vermont.

  A cream-colored Mercedes convertible swept past her. She heard a stately clock tower bong out one o’clock.

  “Yes,” she whispered, hugging herself. She had definitely arrived.

  The truth was, she’d wanted to get out of the cab because she couldn’t wait a second longer to plant her feet on Bridgeport ground, not because she knew exactly where she was going. Staring at the little brick building beside her, she realized that ivy had grown over the windows and the door was rusted shut. This definitely wasn’t the front office, where she needed to check in. Another car, this one a gray Bentley, passed her. Bree decided to follow the parade of luxury cars.

  She dragged her bags up the freshly mowed hill, her kitten heels sinking into the slightly wet, springy lawn. A running track circled off to her right, flanked by tall white bleachers. A few girls were running briskly around the track, their ponytails bouncing. At the top of the hill, above the dark green trees, she could see a white church spire and the slate roofs of some more red brick buildings. The boys with the soccer ball had stopped playing and were now standing together, staring in her direction. Were they staring at her?

  “D’you need a ride?” a male voice interrupted her thoughts. Bree looked over, and saw a dark, middle-aged man with dazzling white teeth hanging out the driver-side window of a silver Cadillac Escalade. She could see her reflection in his Ray Ban aviator sunglasses. She looked awkward and silly wearing a too-tight polo shirt and dragging her luggage up the hill in a pair of pointy pink kitten-heel sandals. She’d bought the shirt at Bloomingdale’s because she’d been sure it would make her feel like she absolutely belonged at boarding school, and she had gone back to visit the sandals several times before they finally went on sale so she could buy them.

  “Um, sure. I’m going to the front office.” She slid into the backseat of the SUV, which smelled like new car. A dark-skinned boy with chiseled features was sitting in the passenger seat looking sulky, but he didn’t twist around to speak to her.

  “I don’t know, Maurice,” the man told the boy quietly. “You may not be able to have the party—your mother and I might need the Woodstock house that weekend.”

  “Motherfucker,” the boy hissed under is breath. His father sighed.

  Bree barely acknowledged the boy’s rudeness. She only had ears for one word: party.

  She felt funny, though, asking the boy about it, since he seemed pretty pissed off. The car stopped at an enormous red-brick building with a small maroon sign next to the stone pathway that said FRONT OFFICE. Bree squeaked her thanks, grabbed her bags, and made a beeline for the door.

  Inside, the waiting room was ballroom size, with shiny floors made of dark cherry wood. A large crystal chandelier hung from the double-height ceiling. Four leather couches were arranged in a square around a heavy teak coffee table, and a beautiful, curly-haired boy was stretched out on one of them, reading and eating a bag of Fritos.

  “Can I help you?” someone asked behind her. Bree jumped. She turned and saw an older woman with a very hairsprayed gray bob and watery brown eyes wearing a name tag that read HELLO, MY NAME IS MRS. TULLINGTON sitting behind a desk with a little white sign that read NEW STUDENTS’ CHECK-IN.

  “Hi!” Bree peeped. “I’m Brianna Hargrove. I’m a new student!”

  She studied the Welcome to Bridgeport schedule that was taped to the desk. School didn’t officially begin until tomorrow night at the orientation welcome dinner, but sports team tryouts would take place tomorrow during the day. Mrs. Tullington typed some information into a pristine Sony laptop, and then she frowned. “There’s a problem.”

  Bree stared at her blankly. Problem? There were no problems in magical Bridgeport land! Look at how gorgeous that Frito-eating boy was!

  “We have you down as a boy,” Mrs. Tullington continued.

  “Wait, what?” Bree snapped back to consciousness. “Did you say a boy?”

  “Yes...we have you here as Mr. Brianna Hargrove.” The older woman seemed flustered, flipping papers back and forth. “Some students have very old family names, you see, and maybe the admissions committee thought Brianna was—”

  “Oh,” Bree replied self-consciously, twisting around to see if the boy on the couch had heard, but he was gone. All the Bridgeport mail she’d gotten had been addressed to a Mr. Brianna Hargrove. She’d assumed it was just a typo. What a dumb thing to assume. So Old Bree. “What does that mean? I had all my bags shipped to the...the Richards dorm, I think it was?”

  “Yes, but that’s the boys’ dorm,” Mrs. Tullington explained this slowly, as if Bree didn’t get it. “We’ll have to find another space for you.” She flipped through some papers. “The girls’ dorms are all filled up...” She picked up the phone. “We’ll sort this out. But go see if your things are in Richards dorm. They would have been sent to the lounge on the first floor—that’s where all mailed luggage is held. It’s down the path to your right, fourth building. There’s a sign. We’ll send someone for you once we figure this out.”

  “Okay,” Bree replied happily, picturing all the fine, shirtless preppy boys she was about to see lounging around Richards. “No problem.”

  “The main door should be open. But don’t go into any of the rooms. They’re off limits!” Mrs. Tullington called after her.

  “Of course,” Bree agreed. “Thank you!”

  Bree stood on the stone porch of the front office. From studying the campus maps, she’d learned that Bridgeport’s dorms, chapel, auditorium, and classrooms were all laid out in a big circle, with the soccer fields in the center. At the back of the circle were the crew houses, the Hudson River, the art gallery, the botany labs, and the library. All of the buildings seemed to be made of brick, with old, heavy windows and white trim.

  Strolling excitedly toward the dorms, Bree had to will herself not to skip. Girls in beat-up Levis and ragged flip-flops were spilling out of Mercedes SUVs and Audi wagons, hugging other girls and talking excitedly about what had happened over the summer at their country houses on Martha’s Vineyard and in the Hamptons. Boys in zip-up hoodies and camo shorts were ramming into each other with their shoulders. One guy carrying a Louis Vuitton duffel shouted, “I did so much Molly this summer, my brain is fried!”

  Bree felt her body stiffen, suddenly intimidated. Everyone looked so beautiful—scrubbed and clean and fashionable without even trying to be, which was so much cooler than spending hours primping, like she usually did—and like they’d known one another forever. Bree took a deep breath and continued along the path.

  Then, out of nowhere, a giant birdlike thing swooped down, making a horrific cawing noise, and flew about an inch from Bree’s face.

  “Aghh!” she screamed, swatting in front of her.

  She watched as the thing soared into a tree. Scary! It looked like a rat on steroids.

  Behind her, Bree heard a snicker and wheeled around. All the girls were still talking to one another, but two boys in bucket hats were sitting on a stone wall, watching. Then she noticed that in her fright, she’d dropped her overpacked suitcase on the path, and it had sprung open. Oh, God. Her giant nude extra-support bras, the kind with the extra hook-and-eye clasp and padded straps that she had to use when she had her period, were all over the ground. They wer
e bras a huge, dumpy grandmother might wear.

  She quickly shoved the bras back in her suitcase, peeking to see if the two boys sitting on the wall had noticed. They were already greeting some other guy in a white baseball cap, doing that hand-grab half-hug thing that guys do, not paying any attention to Bree. With the fresh air and lush, rambling scenery, maybe oversized boobs and bras weren’t the kind of thing Bridgeport kids noticed...

  Then the new arrival turned to Bree and touched the brim of his ratty white baseball cap with his index finger. He gave her a wink, as if to say, The air might be fresh, but we’re not totally blind.

  4

  Amir Phillips sat on one of his duffel bags and stared at Maurice Johnson. No matter when he arrived on campus, he always saw Maurice first. Even though they were roommates, Amir found Maurice really annoying most of the time.

  “I brought a carton of smokes,” Maurice bragged as he unzipped his black medium-size duffel and showed Amir the edge of the Newport “unfiltered” box. They were in Richards’ lounge, waiting to get room assignments. It was just a normal common room—the meeting spot where the guys watched SportsCenter, shared sausage pizzas from Ritoli’s, and flirted with cute girls during visiting hour—but still, the lounge felt English and regal. The cream-colored plaster ceilings were fifteen feet high, with dark wooden beams, and there were comfortable, worn leather armchairs scattered all over the place. An old cabinet TV that got three network stations and, randomly, ESPN, loomed in the corner. On the floor lay a huge, ornate Oriental carpet. Careless cigarette burn holes made the rug look even more historic.

  “That’ll last you about a week,” Amir scoffed, pushing his wavy hair back into its deliberately tousled place. Maurice smoked like a fiend right outside Richards even though smoking was forbidden on campus, but the faculty constantly looked the other way. It might’ve been because of Maurice’s stunning good looks—he was tall, lean, and athletic, with sharp cheekbones, shaggy dreadlocks, and smooth skin the color of cocoa. But more likely, it was Maurice’s family that kept him out of trouble. Maurice’s father had donated four and a half million dollars for the Olympic-size natatorium and another million for a three-floor addition to the renovated botany library, so Maurice could pretty much do as he damn well pleased and never get so much as a warning.