The sun was low in the late-afternoon sky and Zane was walking toward her. He was wearing one of the T-shirts he’d taken home from her house—a ratty green thing with a horseshoe, of course—under his beat-up maroon Bridgeport jacket. No tie. His curly hair stood up in disheveled peaks and there was a smudge of blue ink next to his left ear. A huge, sexy smile spread across his face when he saw her. She wanted him so badly. Maybe everything between them was okay after all.
“You could’ve at least changed your shirt,” she teased, taking the hem between her fingers.
“I suppose, because I feel way underdressed next to you,” he teased back.
“I’m not all that dressed up.”
“Are too. Look at those shoes.” He pointed. “I can imagine you standing in front of your closet, agonizing over your newest, sexiest pair. Right?” He smiled at her. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Wrong,” Crystal shot back, although he was, of course, right. It pissed her off that Zane knew her so well. And that he was smarter than she was. Actually, when it came down to it, everything about him made her simultaneously seethe and shudder with pleasure.
Zane lit a cigarette and ducked so that he was out of sight of Marymount’s house, a grand Tudor mansion right on the edge of campus. Crystal tossed her long black hair behind her shoulders. Why was he just standing there? Here they were, alone by the abandoned horse stables, while everyone else was finishing up sports tryouts. She could hardly wait to lie down in the tick-infested hay and tear his clothes off.
“Missed you at the party last night,” she whispered tenderly.
“Mmm. Yeah. I was really tired.”
Okay, this was infuriating. He was still just standing there.
“So, you want to come over here?” Crystal finally asked, pulling at his jacket.
“Just a sec.” He jerked away slightly and took another drag.
“Never mind, then. Forget it.” Crystal backed away, pulling out her own pack of cigarettes. She stuck one in her mouth and tried to flick on her fluorescent green lighter but kept fumbling with the childproof lock.
“No, no, come on,” Zane pleaded in a low voice, turning to her and throwing his cigarette on the ground. “Don’t be like that....”
“Well, I don’t know,” Crystal started. “I mean, you—”
Zane put his hand on the nape of her neck. “I’m just a little out of it.” He kissed Crystal’s jawbone lightly, then pressed her against the stable door and kissed her harder. His capable hands floated all over her body. Crystal pulled a mess of tangled hair back from her face.
“Have I told you how good it is to see you?” Zane murmured between kisses.
Crystal sighed. Things were suddenly right again. What had she been agonizing about? She and Zane were perfect together. Maybe she shouldn’t have felt so freaked about what had happened in Spain. Maybe she shouldn’t have paid any attention to that stupid text she’d gotten from Maurice saying they’d broken up.
“Maybe we could lie down?” she whispered.
Zane tugged her toward the paddock where the grass was green and soft, kissing her collarbone lightly. He pulled her to the ground and kissed her neck. This is the way it should be, she thought, looking toward the setting sun. The abandoned stables were beautiful and the sun was low and glowing pink in the sky. No, there wasn’t any Bryson Tiller playing softly in the background like there had been that night in Spain, but this would definitely do.
“Do you remember what we were talking about in Spain?” Crystal murmured, her heart shivering in her chest. The memory of that night came rushing back: they had been in her bed, under the sheets, almost naked. Crystal had mustered up all her courage and said to her beautiful, messy, sexy, brilliant, belligerent boyfriend, “I love you.” She’d planned on having sex with him then: they’d tell each other they loved one other and then make love for the first time. All of the rumors about Jade from last year would clear up, and Zane would be hers forever.
Instead, he’d kissed her silently back, and then eventually the kissing had slowed, and he’d settled into the pillow next to her and fallen asleep. She’d listened to his breathing turn to soft snoring and wondered if he’d heard her at all. Maybe she’d said it too quietly? Crystal had spent the whole summer hoping that was why he hadn’t said it back.
Crystal did love him, she really did. Didn’t he love her too? She noticed one of those fat great horned owls watching them from a tree branch. He looked like that stupid cartoon from those old Tootsie Roll commercials. She felt self-conscious, like the owl was judging her.
“Remember what I said in bed?” she asked tentatively.
Zane suddenly stopped kissing her collarbone and slumped against her side.
She touched his arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He breathed in deeply and looked out over the horse paddock. Shouts of the girls’ field hockey tryouts echoed from the practice fields. “This just seems...I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?” Crystal’s voice came out in a high, embarrassing squeak. She shoved her shoe back on her right foot and sat up. A huge smear of gray dirt ran down her leg and she prayed it wasn’t horse manure.
A male figure appeared on the path leading down to the stables, pushing a wheelbarrow.
“Shit.” Crystal grabbed Zane’s hands, pulling him up. “It’s Ben.”
Ben was the nasty old groundskeeper who always got kids in trouble. He even carried around a digital camera so he could have proof. Last year, he’d caught Maurice Johnson smoking a joint by the natatorium, but Maurice had bribed him to delete the photos by giving him his dad’s platinum heirloom cuff links.
They scrambled to the other side of the stable and pressed themselves against a wooden door. “I should probably go back to my room,” Zane whispered.
“Whatever.” Crystal dug her heel into the dirt, even though she knew it was going to totally ruin her shoes. Shit. Why had she brought up Spain?
“Look.” He took her hands. “I’m sorry. Let’s try this again. Your dorm room. Tonight. After the welcome dinner.”
“Yeah, right,” Crystal scoffed. “You’re already on Angelica’s watch list.”
“I’ll find a way.” Zane pulled her close and held her for a second. “I promise,” he whispered, then dashed away.
DonovanStGirard: Where’s Maurice?
AmirPhillips: Still in bed. Hasn’t showered. Smells awful.
DonovanStGirard: Bro, it’s almost dinner!
AmirPhillips: I know. I think he’s still drunk tho.
DonovanStGirard: He left with that new chick last night.
AmirPhillips: Who?
DonovanStGirard: Brown skinned?Curly hair?Big boobs? They say she was a stripper in NYC.
AmirPhillips: Nah. She never showed last night.
DonovanStGirard: Sure she did. You were too busy staring at Crystal to notice. Maurice took her to the chapel. Think she gave him a lap dance?
AlisonQuentin: This chapel stinks. Why is Marymount’s Welcome to Bridgeport speech always so loooong?
BennyCunningham: No kidding. Where’s u-know-who?
AlisonQuentin: Dunno. But did you know Sage drew a little pony on the marker boards of all the girls in her dorm who’ve hooked up with him? So far there are six, including the new girl. That’s just one floor of Dumbarton.
BennyCunningham: How come I don’t have a pony on my board?
AlisonQuentin: You hooked up w/ him?
BennyCunningham: We kissed freshman year! A little sloppy, but good technique.
AlisonQuentin: Benny! I thought you were my innocent friend!
10
“You are part of a grand tradition.” The deep, penetrating voice of Dean Marymount boomed and thudded around the chapel. Everyone said Marymount had been this big revolutionary protester back in the seventies, but Bree thought he looked more like a Little League coach who drove a Dodge minivan than the dean of a prestigious boarding school. His graying comb-over was plastered to
his sweaty head. Behind him sat the Bridgeport faculty, all wearing the school’s uniform—maroon and navy tie, maroon jacket, white shirt, trousers. Normally students just had to wear the maroon Bridgeport blazer with anything they wanted underneath, but for the first chapel meeting of the year everyone had to wear a tie, girls included. Bree’s half-Windsor knot was all lumpy. She sighed. Her father only owned one tie, which was covered in cobwebs. She’d never asked, but he’d probably had it since he was a sophomore in high school.
They had gathered for Dean Marymount’s official beginning-of-the-year speech before the first official all-campus dinner. The chapel was packed and smelled of teenaged-boy BO and feet.
Last night, she’d awakened Maurice enough to deposit him on the stoop in front of Richards, and then she’d crawled back to Dumbarton, exhausted. In the middle of the night, either Naomi or Crystal had unplugged Bree’s clock radio to use the outlet to charge a cell phone. Luckily the chapel bells had woken her so she could get to field hockey tryouts on time. Every Bridgeport student had to play a sport, and Bree had decided on field hockey, since it seemed like the most traditional boarding school sport to play. She planned on playing lacrosse in the spring for the same reason. Bree didn’t even have a hockey stick, but the bulldoggish coach, Alice Smail, had found her an extra one in the field house, and Bree had soon discovered that she was a natural on the field.
“You’re sure you didn’t play for your school?” Coach Smail asked her. As if Bree could have forgotten. Her scrimmage team’s center, Kenleigh, whom Bree had seen at the party last night, murmured, “Good move,” as Bree trotted back to the sidelines. Maybe she’d even make the varsity cut!
“This year, we have some new faculty members that I would like to introduce,” Dean Marymount announced. Bree checked her watch. They’d already been here for forty minutes, singing Bridgeport’s school hymn and Bridgeport’s sports hymn, reciting the Bridgeport prayer, and clapping as Marymount introduced the school’s prefects, which were like the presidents of each class. Bree was starving. “First off, a Bridgeport alum and a recent graduate of Brown University, we have Mr. Eric Dalton. Mr. Dalton will be the new junior and senior ancient history professor and an adviser to the Disciplinary Committee. He’s also the new assistant coach for the boys’ crew team. Welcome.” Everyone clapped obediently.
Bree spied Naomi, who had just been forced to stand and wave at the class because she was the junior class’s prefect, two rows ahead. Bree watched as Naomi elbowed the girl next to her and mouthed the words Oh my God.
“I’d like to extend a warm welcome all the incoming freshmen and new students—Bridgeport is your new home, and we are your new family,” Marymount continued. “And finally...enjoy dinner!”
The crowd erupted in applause and hoots as it poured out of the chapel and across the great lawn toward the dining hall. Bree gasped when she walked in. The dining hall looked like the inside of an old English cathedral. The walls were plastered with class pictures dating back to 1903 and with a lot of photographs of Maximilian Bridgeport, the school’s founder.
Students milled around, kissing each other and slapping each other’s hands. Bree wasn’t sure what to do. Where was she supposed to sit?
“It’s a little crazy in here, huh?”
Bree turned, hoping it might be Maurice finally making an appearance. Instead, standing next to her was the boy with the easel she’d seen across the green yesterday with Yvonne. Zane. At least, that was what she thought Yvonne had said his name was.
His skin was golden brown, and his eyes were deep and dark. He wore a beat-up green T-shirt with a yellow silhouette of a horseshoe underneath his Bridgeport blazer. It was the sort of chic T-shirt that they’d sell at Barneys for $65, but his looked decidedly real-deal vintage. His voice was gravelly, with an accent she couldn’t quite place.
“A little crazy, yeah,” Bree agreed. She stepped aside to let him pass. A sketchbook hung out of his green canvas messenger bag. A single sheet of paper of sketched eyes, noses, and mouths was clipped to the cover. “Hey, are you taking portraiture?”
“Yeah, I am. You?”
“Oh. Um, I am too.” Silently, Bree attempted to pull herself together. You’re New Bree now, she reminded herself.
“Cool.” Zane slapped hands with a boy who’d just walked in. “So, see you later.” He smiled at Bree.
“Hey,” a familiar voice beckoned from behind her. She turned and smiled at Amir, who looked even cuter and cleaner than yesterday—if that was possible—in his maroon Bridgeport blazer and striped tie. “It’s formal dinner. They have assigned seating. You’re at my table.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Bree smiled gratefully and followed him through the crowded dining room. “So, um, how long did the party go on last night?”
“Oh, the usual.” Amir’s eyes shifted to the floor. “I didn’t even see you there. Go home early?”
Bree bit her lower lip. “Um, yeah.”
They arrived at a table already occupied by two students: a very tall boy with a nose ring and a very tall girl whose angular face, large, wide-set brown eyes and thick black hair all screamed good breeding.
“This is Ryan Reynolds, and this is Benny Cunningham.”
“I saw you at the party last night. I’m Bree.” She smiled at Benny.
“That’s right.” Benny nodded, shooting a knowing look at Ryan.
Bree took off her hot wool Bridgeport jacket and draped it over her chair.
“You can’t do that,” Benny hissed. “The faculty will freak.”
“Oh.” Bree quickly slid the jacket back on. She looked around the room; most of the students were sitting at their tables already, blazers on.
“Looking for Maurice?” Benny blurted out. Ryan nudged her.
“Oh.” Bree shook out her pristine maroon cloth napkin, her face turning hot. “Yeah. He was... he was a little...tired last night. I had to help him home.”
“Wasted is more like it,” Ryan laughed. “Anyway, Amir, you getting psyched for Black Saturday?” he asked, stabbing the old wooden table with his knife.
“What’s Black Saturday?” Bree asked curiously.
“Don’t get too excited,” Amir laughed. “It’s when all the St. Lucius sports teams come to Bridgeport and we have this blowout bloodfest. The teams take it really seriously, because we’re supposed to hate St. Lucius so much. It’s another tradition. You’re playing field hockey, right?”
“Yes.” Bree smiled. She’d never been on a team before. “Tryouts were today.”
“Well, the girls’ field hockey team plays, along with the soccer and football teams. But then when it’s over, the kids from both schools party like rock stars at a secret location that isn’t revealed until that day.”
“Maurice usually throws the party,” Benny offered, refastening her silver Tiffany charm bracelet on her wrist. “But maybe he told you that already?”
Student servers in starched white oxfords and pressed gray trousers set down large, creamy white plates laden with grilled salmon marinated in honey wasabi. This was way better than her dad’s experimental lamb-and-pineapple lasagna vodka flambé.
“Oh my God. This smells delicious.” Bree grabbed her fork and took a huge bite. “Mmm!”
“Dude, you’re eating the salmon?”
A boy put his elbows on the table next to her. Maurice. Finally. “Hey.” She covered her full mouth with her hand.
“Nobody eats the salmon,” Maurice scoffed. There wasn’t a hint of the lustful, you’re-a-sex-goddess vibe he’d laid on last night.
Bree’s eyes widened. She looked around at the other plates, and sure enough, no one else at the table had touched their fish. “Why? Is there something wrong with it?”
Amir turned to her. “No—it’s fine. People just...don’t eat it. I don’t know why. It’s like, a thing.”
“Bree?” Someone tapped her on the back. She turned to see Yvonne, the girl who had escorted her to Dumbarton yesterday. Tortoiseshell clips held
clumps of Yvonne’s stringy hair back, and her pale brown eyes were as googly and crazed as they’d been yesterday. “Can I talk to you?” Yvonne glanced nervously at the others at the table. “In the hall?”
Ryan and Benny exchanged another knowing look. Bree shrugged and placed her napkin over her fish. New Bree is not easily flustered, she told herself. So what if no one ate the fish? New Bree did what she pleased!
Yvonne led Bree out into the front entryway of the dining hall.
“I hope this isn’t about jazz ensemble,” Bree declared up front. “Because I’m kind of really not interested. I’m basically tone-deaf.”
“No, it’s not that. I’ve, um, heard some things about you, and I thought you should know.”
“Huh?” Bree sucked in her breath. She’d gotten I-thought-you-should-know speeches before, and it almost always turned out that she never wanted to know.
“Everyone’s texting about you.”
“What?” Bree demanded slowly.
Yvonne took a deep breath. “They’re saying that you used to be a stripper and took your clothes off for, like, a dollar. And you’re like this New York City sex legend. And, er, you’ve already slept with someone here at Bridgeport.”
“What!?” Bree squeaked. Suddenly the hallway seemed dim and hazy. “With whom!? I mean, who’s saying that?”
Yvonne looked down. “That boy who was at your table. Maurice Johnson. I don’t know if you even know him yet, but he—”
Bree saw a red mist before her eyes. Maurice. “I can’t believe this.”
“I don’t believe it,” Yvonne protested, waving her hand around.
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