BRIDGEPORT ACADEMY #1

by Ashley Valentine

  Naomi had promised that, as soon as she got to school, she’d call him up and they’d have phone sex. Corey had wanted to have sex over the summer, but she just wasn’t ready. She wasn’t entirely sure why, except that she’d never had sex with anybody before, and she really wasn’t sure if Corey was the right person to do it with first.

  Of course, indecision about losing her virginity wasn’t the kind of thing a girl like Naomi ever admitted out loud. She’d told Crystal she’d lost it ages ago to a Swiss boy named Gunther she’d met on a family skiing trip to Gstaad, even though really she’d hardly even let him feel her up. Naomi had cultivated an image at Bridgeport: tough, experienced, sophisticated, and a little bitchy. Her mom was the opposite—helpless, naive, childish—and Naomi didn’t want to be like that.

  Crystal extended her long, perfectly smooth legs. “I really need a shower.” She yawned, stood up, and slipped on a pair of rubbery flip-fliops. “You want to go to dinner when I get back?”

  Naomi shrugged. “I don’t know. I have to look over some prefect stuff for tomorrow. There’s some new adviser, so I need to be prepared and stuff.” Naomi had been elected junior prefect last year, which meant she would lead roll call and act as junior leader of DC, or Disciplinary Committee. It was a huge popularity nod—everyone in your class had to vote you into the position. “But I guess I could skip it. And we have the party tonight, too... ”

  “Whatever.” Crystal waved her towel and turned for the door.

  Naomi flopped onto her bed and stared out the window. The view of the river, which usually calmed her down like a shot of aged whiskey, now seemed suffocating. She’d imagined her first meeting with Crystal after the long summer would be different. She hadn’t expected them to talk about Jade right away, and she’d assumed Crystal would behave like she used to—throwing herself on Naomi’s bed, opening a bag of Starbursts for them to share, and gossiping about all the wild, romantic, risqué stuff they’d done all summer. They’d laugh, have some gin and tonics, and go to dinner, just like last year.

  She flipped open her cell phone and quickly hit the shortcut key to call her sister, Noelle, who lived in New York and worked as a fashion editor at Elle magazine. Noelle had been through the Bridgeport mill six years before and could usually talk Naomi out of any funk. Unfortunately,

  Noelle's phone went straight to voicemail.

  “Hey, it’s me,” Naomi rambled when she heard the beep. “I feel...I don’t know. A mess. Call me or something.”

  She hung up and flopped back on the bed. As soon as she did, her cell phone bleated in her bag. Thinking it was Noelle she opened it up, but she was wrong.

  “Hello, Corey,” she sighed, pressing the phone to her ear. “How are you?”

  “Wicked awesome, now,” he breathed on the other end.

  Naomi rolled her eyes. Then she pictured him spread-eagled on his St. Lucius bed, ten miles away, in a tattered varsity football jersey and boxers, with his long arms and sexy eyes, and she felt a warm whoosh of pleasure.

  “So are we going to do this...thing?” she asked, not even bothering to shut the dorm room door. Let the nosy sophomore girls next door get an earful. Maybe they’d learn something.

  MauriceJohnson: I got news. Talked to my older brother’s friend, and he says that this place Fish Stick is the best in the city. Girls take it off for 99 cents!

  CrystalAlexander: Um, Maurice? I think you got the wrong text addy. This is Crystal. I don’t want to hear about strippers. Especially not as I’m about to take a shower.

  MauriceJohnson: You’re in the shower? Can I see? Now that you and Zane are broken up, you’re a free agent, right?

  CrystalAlexander: What? Who told you that?

  CrystalAlexander: Maurice? Where are you? It’s not true!

  CrystalAlexander: Hello??

  BennyCunningham: So the big question going around is, you take a ride on the pony yet?

  CrystalAlexander: Pony?

  BennyCunningham: It’s the new name for Maurice Johnson. He gets more ass than a pony at a country fair.

  CrystalAlexander: Ew. No way have I hooked up with him. He’s nasty. Have YOU?

  BennyCunningham: Guilty as charged.

  CrystalAlexander: OMG. When?

  BennyCunningham: Freshman year. We made out in the Stansfield Hall coatroom. Never again. Totally gross.

  CrystalAlexander: Not to change the subject, but has anyone told you Zane and I broke up?

  BennyCunningham: Umm...maybe.

  CrystalAlexander: Who?

  BennyCunningham: Can’t remember. Gotta go to predinner prep!

  CrystalAlexander: Because it’s not true.

  CrystalAlexander: Seriously.

  CrystalAlexander: U still there?

  6

  “I’m looking for Brianna Hargrove.” A thin, birdlike girl with a southern accent and stringy black hair stood twitching in front of Amir and Bree, just inside the door to Richards’ lounge. She wore a plain white sleeveless turtleneck and very suburban-mom-looking khakis, the kind that cinch around your waist and make your ass look huge. “I guess that would be you.”

  “Yes,” Bree half-squeaked, trying to keep the eagerness out of her voice.

  “I’m Yvonne Stidder.” The girl stuck her hand out. She had a flimsy handshake and acne on her chin. “I’m a mentor to new students. We found you a room.”

  Amir raised his eyebrows at Bree and started to get up. “It was nice meeting you, Bree.”

  “You too.” Bree hefted her pink duffels onto her shoulder. “I’ll see you tonight,” she whispered when Yvonne had turned her back.

  “I’m so sorry we kept you waiting for so long,” Yvonne continued, leading Bree down the Richards stairwell, past an entryway full of already-moved-in mountain bikes, skateboards, empty PlayStation boxes, and about a dozen well-used basketballs.

  “No big deal.” Bree was thrilled to have hung out with those two cool boys, but she was kind of relieved to be away from them, so she could breathe a little.

  “Normally we aren’t allowed in the boys’ dorms except during visitation hours.” Yvonne gave Bree a sidelong glance, holding the door open for her. She sneezed as soon as they stepped outside. “Actually, um, that was the first time I’ve ever been in a boys’ dorm. Although of course I know everything about the boys’ dorms. I know all sorts of facts about Bridgeport if you want to ask me any questions. Anything at all.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” If Yvonne hadn’t seemed like such a dork, Bree might’ve suspected she was coked up, she talked so fast. “So what dorm am I in?” she asked as they crossed the green. She felt a nervous flutter in her chest. They were going to her new dorm, where she’d live for the whole school year! Where all sorts of amazing things would happen to her! Hopefully.

  “Dumbarton. Over there, see?” Yvonne pointed to a two-story brick building with cutout windows sticking out of the roof at the back of the campus. Beyond it shimmered the Hudson, which looked a lot prettier up here than it did in the city. Bree could just picture the boys’ crew team gliding effortlessly across its surface in their sleek sculls, their strong arms bulging as they rowed. “This girl Jade Carmichael—she was going to live with Crystal Alexander and Naomi Peterson, but then she got kicked out, so there’s a free spot. My friend from jazz ensemble, Storm Bathurst, lives next door—”

  “Wait. Did you say Jade?” Bree asked. She recognized that name, but she’d absorbed so much in so little time that she couldn’t remember when or where. “Why’d she get kicked out?”

  Yvonne shoved her round, wire-rimmed glasses further up her nose. She smelled like Vicks VapoRub. “I’m not sure,” she replied flatly. “I don’t like to gossip.”

  “Well, can you tell me anything about my new roommates?”

  Yvonne paused. “I don’t know them well. But they’re the girls everyone flocks around.”

  “Flocks around?” Bree’s heart sped up.

  “You know, the ones always giving parties, always with the cutes
t boys...” Yvonne giggled and turned to Bree. “Not to say there aren’t cute boys in the jazz ensemble. Do you play any instruments? The jazz ensemble is looking for some people.”

  “Um, no, sorry. But about Crystal and Naomi—they’re, like, really popular?”

  “Yeah.” Yvonne nodded, sidestepping a maroon pinnie that someone had left on the field. “There’s this little crowd of kids that everyone on campus watches.”

  Oh, really? Bree thought excitedly, pleased that she’d dressed so nicely to meet her supercool new roomies. Then she noticed a tall, golden brown boy with matted curly hair, as if he’d just taken off a hat, walking across the green. He carried a big wooden easel over his shoulder, and his jeans were spattered with paint. Bree’s breath caught in her throat.

  “Who is that?” She pointed.

  “Him?” Yvonne muttered. “That’s Zane Taylor.”

  “Zane. What a great name,” Bree mused. “Is he an artist or something?”

  “I don’t know him very well, except that he’s always getting into trouble.” Yvonne crinkled her nose. “Smoking,” she whispered. For a girl who didn’t like to gossip, she certainly knew a lot.

  The boy entered the double doors of the library. Bree suddenly wished she could ditch her bags—and Yvonne—and follow him.

  Instead, she followed Yvonne into the Dumbarton dorm. It was a quaint, two-story brick building that had its name inscribed in brownstone above a large, white, wooden farmhouse door. They ducked through a narrow passage and up a set of granite stairs. One of the steps was inscribed 1832, RHINECLIFF, NY. The dorm was even older than Bree’s family’s crumbling apartment building on the Upper West Side.

  All around her, girls were moving their things in. Beyonce blared out of one room, Rihanna out of another. She saw a short Hispanic girl with pigtails unrolling a giant poster of Nicki Minaj.

  They approached door 303, which was slightly ajar.

  “...and I’m licking you all over, and—wait. No. Jesus, Corey, you don’t have your pants off yet. Stay with me here!”

  “Uh, hello?” Yvonne said, pushing the door open a little.

  A striking-looking older girl with blazing red hair sprang up from one of the room’s twin beds. “I have to go,” she blurted into her phone and flipped it shut. She glanced for a second at Yvonne and then fixed her piercing eyes on Bree.

  “Ermm, this is Bree Hargrove,” Yvonne explained. “She’s your new roommate. She’s from... where was it?”

  “Emma Willard,” Bree answered, sticking out her hand. “In New York City.”

  “Oh. Cool. Naomi Peterson.” The girl wore a starched, short-sleeved tailored white blouse that Bree had seen in the windows of the Soho Scoop store all summer and those knee-length pegged shorts only the hippest kids in Williamsburg were wearing.

  Bree walked into the room, which was bigger and somehow plainer than she’d imagined. The windows were huge and beautiful, overlooking the river, while the beds and furniture were just... old. She studied her new roommate out of the corner of her eye. Her blazing red hair was cut in a severe bob that ended right at her chin. One ear had about seven tiny gold hoop earrings, and she wore a gold diamond Cartier watch on her left wrist. She was sexy and sophisticated, and very...familiar. Then Bree remembered: there was a picture of Naomi on Bridgeport’s Web site. She was the Girl Hovering Over Her Books Looking Studious. Or at least that’s what Bree had called her.

  “What about Crystal?” Yvonne looked around the room. “Is she here yet?”

  “Shower,” Naomi muttered.

  Yvonne blinked furiously, then mumbled something about a flute lesson and fled the room.

  Bree walked over to what looked like the spare bed and sat down, bouncing a couple of times. “This is a great room. I love the view.”

  “Yeah, it’s okay.” Naomi folded her arms across her chest.

  “Who are you?” came a loud voice behind them. Bree turned and saw a tall, strikingly beautiful girl with enormous hazel eyes, thick black hair that looked like it had just been blow-dried, and skin the color of burnt honey. Bree thought she looked like a real life Barbie.

  “Hey. I’m Bree. I’m—they assigned me to this room.”

  “They? Who’s ‘they’?” Barbie demanded.

  “Well...Bridgeport,” Bree stammered. “Are you Crystal?”

  “Yes. Are you a junior or a sophomore?”

  “Sophomore. What are you guys?”

  “Juniors.” Crystal pursed her pink lips and deposited an enormous Gucci makeup bag on top of her desk. “You’re taking that bed?” She pointed to the bed Bree was sitting on.

  “I guess so. I mean, unless it’s not okay with you two.”

  “I suppose it’s fine.” Crystal glanced at Naomi. “I guess Jade’s really gone then.”

  Naomi made a snorting noise through her nose. Bree just stood there, not sure what to say.

  “What happened to...er... Jade?” she finally asked.

  “It’s complicated,” Naomi responded quickly, unzipping a suitcase entirely full of shoes. Bree checked the labels on a few. Jimmy Choo. Christian Louboutin. Manolo Blahnik.

  “It was nothing,” Crystal added. She stared out the window, away from both of them.

  Bree wasn’t much of a smoker, but she wished she could have a cigarette right then, just to have something to do with her hands.

  Crystal finally broke the silence. “Where’d you go to school before this?”

  “Emma Willard? It’s in—”

  “New York City. All girls,” Crystal interrupted in a breathy voice, sliding a little closer to Bree in the same way a cat might rub up against your calf. She turned to Naomi. “Didn’t Jade go to Willard?”

  “No. She went to Trinity. Until fifth grade. Then she went somewhere in Switzerland, then here.”

  “Yeah, Jade definitely didn’t go to an all-girls’ school, now that I think about it.” Crystal examined her cuticles. “I remember her saying that she had tons of boyfriends.”

  “Well, Jade’s beautiful,” Naomi added offhandedly, taking T-shirts out of another suitcase.

  Bree bristled. Was Naomi saying that she wasn’t beautiful? Who was this Jade girl, anyway?

  “She could get any guy she wanted,” Naomi continued. “Even guys with girlfriends.”

  “That’s not true,” Crystal snapped, before turning back to Bree.

  Bree’s eyes darted back and forth between her roommates. What was up with them?

  “Jade had her eleventh birthday party at Chelsea Piers. Like, she rented out the whole thing and installed a trapeze school in the gym area. Did you go to that?”

  Bree shrugged. “Sorry, no.” But she remembered that party, all right. Back when she was ten, Bree’s father had ranted for days about an article in the New York Times Style section covering a party at the Chelsea Piers Sports Complex for a girl a year older than Bree. Her dad had mocked it for being indulgent and materialistic, but Bree had thought the girl was the luckiest kid on the planet. And now she’d be sleeping in her bed! This had to be a good sign.

  Crystal looked at Bree like an art appraiser might examine a painting and then smiled. “Well, welcome to Bridgeport. I think you’re going to like it here.”

  Bree hugged herself. I like it already.

  TeagueWilliams: What did you say the 99-cent girl looks like?

  MauriceJohnson: Curly hair, practically a midget, major knockers.

  TeagueWilliams: So lemme guess...You taking her to the chapel?

  MauriceJohnson: Hells yeah!

  CelineColista: So Crystal and Naomi are pissed at each other. They’re both going to Marymount’s office to get a room transfer.

  BennyCunningham: All ;cause of Jade, huh? Where is she, anyway? Does anyone even

  know?

  CelineColista: I heard she’s dating some guy from the Raves and they’re on tour in Europe.

  BennyCunningham: I thought that new girl from the city was dating the Raves....

  CelineColist
a: Which one!?

  BennyCunningham: All of them. The whole band.

  CelineColista: Gross. Where’d you hear that?

  BennyCunningham: I have my sources.

  7

  “Well, look who’s here!” Bree stood outside Richards’ lounge, reapplying her pink lipstick in the large, smoky hall mirror. She was wearing a scoop-neck, emerald green top that was getting a teensy bit stretched out by her cumbersome breasts, and the highest tan leather heels she owned. She whipped her head around to find Maurice Johnson, the boy from earlier with the white iPhone and the great abs, standing in the doorway, an unlit cigarette in his hand. Tiny beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, and his eyes had a glassy, tipsy look.

  “Hey,” she answered brightly, wiping her hands off on the only pair of True Religion jeans she owned, which happened to make her legs look slightly longer than tree-stump length. “Is the party in there?”

  “Indeed it is,” Maurice replied gallantly. He looped his arm around Bree’s waist.

  Bree smiled. Maurice seemed really happy to see her. And she was happy to see him, too. He wore a light blue untucked oxford shirt, army fatigue shorts, and no shoes. She liked his broad shoulders and floppy, I’m-a-bad-boy-through-and-through dreadlocks. Plus he had that flicker of wildness in his eye.

  And Bree liked wildness.

  Maurice pushed the heavy wooden lounge door open for her. Everyone froze. “It’s cool,” Maurice announced, his hand brushing accidentally against Bree’s boob. “It’s just us.”

  Bree glanced around the room. Her first Bridgeport party! She could have been stuck back in the dorm playing checkers with Yvonne, but instead she was breaking the rules on her very first night at boarding school! She could immediately tell that it had a different feel than the parties she’d gone to back in New York—no one was fooling around in the guest bedroom and they didn’t have to worry about parents arriving back early from Paris. Someone had dimmed the lights and lit a bunch of candles. Everyone looked like they’d just stepped out of a catalog—they were all so pretty, with perfect, glowing skin and healthy, athletic bodies that came from mandatory year-round sports. Each person was more beautiful than the last. Everyone was holding large insulated coffee mugs, which was a little puzzling, until Bree realized that the mugs contained alcohol.