BRIDGEPORT ACADEMY #1

by Ashley Valentine

  Bree tiptoed into the hall and closed her dorm room door behind her. Next to Naomi’s note about studying in Benny’s room, someone had written SAVE JADE! in big magenta letters on the marker board hanging from the door. There was also a drawing of what looked like a little pony in the bottom corner. Walking down the hallway she noticed that some of the other girls’ marker boards had little ponies drawn on them, too. Boarding school was turning out to be like a painting by Chagall—full of pranks, mind games, and mysteries.

  Bree wound her way along the ancient cobblestone paths that snaked through the Bridgeport campus toward Stansfield Hall, a massive brick structure that housed the administrative offices and a few classrooms. Few students were awake yet, but the maintenance crew was tending to the soccer field and the landscaping. The air smelled like freshly cut grass.

  Inside Stansfield Hall there were intricate plaster moldings of creeping vines and flowers on the walls, stained glass windows in the stairwells, and engravings in the wooden railings. Bree climbed the stairs to the third floor and walked to the very end of a stately, mahogany-floored hall. A brass plate on the closed office door read ERIC DALTON. Inside, Bree heard giggling and took a step back.

  “I’ve heard that one before,” she heard a girl’s voice say. “Every Sunday school teacher since the sixth grade has told me that I share my name with the woman in the Book of Ruth.”

  “Naomi,” a man’s voice said. “She was a troublemaker.”

  “Well, it must go with the name, then,” Bree heard Naomi answer in an extremely flirtatious voice.

  “So, um, listen, we have to talk to this student, so we won’t be able to get to some of the admin stuff I wanted to discuss. Are you free for lunch today? We could deal with it then.”

  “I think so,” Naomi replied. “I’ll meet you here?”

  Bree knocked on the door. She heard papers shuffling and the clink of glasses.

  “Come in,” Mr. Dalton called out. Bree strode into the office, which was cramped and messy. Naomi sat on the edge of a brown leather couch, her hands folded in her lap, looking way too prim and innocent.

  Mr. Dalton sat down at his desk chair and shuffled some papers. “Bree, right? Please, sit down.” He motioned to the couch. Bree sat as far from Naomi as she could. “This is Naomi,” he continued. “She’s on Disciplinary Committee and helping me with some administrative things.”

  “Yeah, she’s my—”

  Naomi turned to Mr. Dalton. “Bree and I already know each other. We live in Dumbarton together.”

  Yeah, in the same room. Bree wondered why Naomi didn’t say they were roommates.

  Dalton smiled. “Oh, well, okay. Well, Naomi is helping me out here with some DC issues, and as a member of DC, she’s helping preside over this case.” He cleared his throat. “So, Bree, I’m your adviser, and I’m also gathering general facts about the DC case, so we’re killing two birds with one stone here.” He flipped through some more papers as if he could somehow absorb what was written on them just by touching them.

  Bree noticed Naomi wasn’t wearing her Bridgeport jacket but a gorgeous silk top and a sleek, black knee-length skirt. On her feet were strappy Marc Jacobs sandals. Her long, thin legs were crossed sexily and angled toward Mr. Dalton.

  Mr. Dalton perched on the corner of his desk with a legal pad in his hand. “Okay, so what happened last night? We have you in your dorm room with a boy named Zane Taylor. Mr. Pardee says you were lying in your bed together?”

  “Well, that’s the thing,” Bree responded meekly. She’d stayed up all night weighing which was the better option: confirming the Bridgeport student body’s suspicion that she was a giant slut or making enemies with her roommate. “I don’t...I don’t think I’m ready to tell you what happened.”

  Mr. Dalton raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “I mean, do I have to make a statement right now? Or can it wait until, you know, the real hearing? Because I’m not really ready to talk about it.”

  “Well, technically, you don’t have to tell me anything,” Mr. Dalton admitted, pen poised above the legal pad. “Although, as your adviser, I’d like you to feel that you can tell me.”

  “I’m not ready. I—”

  “What do you mean you’re not ready?” Naomi interrupted, uncrossing her legs and glaring at Bree. Her hair looked even redder when she was angry.

  Bree shut her mouth tight and shrugged her shoulders. She was afraid to speak.

  Naomi examined Bree critically. Her pink and white striped button-down was too tight across her chest, and her face was all flushed, as if she’d been running across a field.

  Naomi had come in late last night after the run-in with Mr. Pardee, but Eric had filled her in when she arrived at his office this morning—not that Naomi actually believed Pardee’s version. It was totally stupid of Bree not to say something to get her and Zane out of trouble. Poor Bree. She was the perfect victim for Crystal. God, Crystal was a bitch.

  Bree noticed Naomi inspecting her as if she were a biological specimen on a glass slide. She felt her cheeks grow hot. I’m New Bree, I’m New Bree, I’m New Bree, she repeated silently, steeling herself.

  “Well.” Mr. Dalton rubbed his hands together. “I guess if you don’t want to say anything now, you certainly don’t have to. But maybe there’s someone else on the faculty you might feel more comfortable talking to?”

  Bree shrugged her shoulders again helplessly. Today was the first day of classes. She hadn’t even met her teachers yet.

  “Well then,” Mr. Dalton continued, “thanks for coming in, Bree. I guess we’ll have a full trial next week. How’s Monday?”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” she replied hollowly. “Um, thanks.” She glanced at Naomi as she left Mr. Dalton’s office, hoping for an encouraging smile, but Naomi was examining her fire-engine-red split ends, looking totally bored.

  Bree closed the heavy oak door behind her, wondering if it had been really stupid to tell them that she wasn’t ready to make a statement. What was this, Law & Order: Boarding School?

  All of a sudden, she was face-to-face with Zane Taylor, standing outside the door to Mr. Dalton’s office, waiting to come in. As soon as they locked eyes, her heart began to race.

  She’d been so consumed with possibly getting in trouble and possibly being considered Bridgeport biggest slut ever that she’d let their intimate little backrub session slide to the back of her mind. Now she remembered the nice warm feeling of Zane’s body next to hers.

  “Hey.” She swallowed quickly.

  “Huh?” Zane stared at her blankly, his eyes droopy and tired-looking. He wore a tattered yellow T-shirt that read LEXINGTON ALL-STARS. “Oh!” He widened his eyes.

  “Um, how do you feel?” Bree persisted shyly.

  “I...” He lurched off to the left, his eyes still wide. A strong smell of stale vodka was oozing out his pores. “I...you were just in there?”

  “Yes.” Bree felt tipsy just breathing the same air as Zane.

  He started to say something else, but then the door opened, and Mr. Dalton stuck his head out. “Mr. Taylor, it’s your turn.”

  Without saying goodbye, Zane staggered into the office. Bree turned and padded down the stairs into the bright sunshine. On a low tree branch directly above the pathway sat one of those fat great horned owls. She froze. Was this the same one that had tried to kill her just two days ago? She narrowed her eyes.

  The owl finally blinked slowly at her, as if it were stoned, then looked away.

  Bree hurried past it on her way to her first class. It was the first and possibly only triumphant moment of the day. She’d won a staring contest with an owl.

  13

  “Glad to see you could make it,” Dalton greeted Zane. Last night’s Ketel One binge had left Zane feeling like the gunk he picked out of Credo’s feet before a ride. He slumped into a black leather office chair and stared blankly at Crystal’s roommate, Naomi, who was seated across from him in a totally see-through purple blouse. His n
ew adviser looked about eighteen, a welcome change from his old adviser, Mr. Kelley, who was so ancient he could barely remember his own name and had finally retired last year at the age of about a hundred.

  “Hello, Zane,” Naomi greeted him in an exaggerated authoritative tone, making a few notes in a yellow pad. “Have a good summer?”

  “Uh-huh,” Zane grunted, staring up at the ceiling. Naomi might have thought she was Miss I-have-power-over-you-because-I’m-a-prefect, but Zane wasn’t buying it. He and Naomi used to be close. They’d had French class together freshman year, and for the final discussion presentation, instead of getting up in front of the class and having an absurd conversation, Naomi had had the idea to make a short film. Zane was her partner for the class and therefore the existential star of the film. He got to say weird stuff in French like, “Mon omelette du jambon est mort,” and, “Les yeux—the eyes—are in pain.” Monsieur Grimm had loved it and had given them both A’s.

  “Z. Francis Taylor,” Dalton addressed him, eyeing his file carefully. “What do you want to tell me about last night?”

  “With her here?” He pointed a thumb at Naomi. “I thought these things were confidential.”

  “I’m his assistant,” Naomi jumped in quickly, sitting up straighter.

  “She’s helping me with Disciplinary Committee procedures,” Dalton explained. “I think this qualifies.”

  Zane looked back and forth between them. Whoa. Dalton was whipped—by Naomi Peterson!

  “It says here that you’ve had quite a few problems with the rules over the last few years, Zane.” Dalton cleared his throat. “Disciplinary probation three times. Suspension twice. You were nearly kicked out once last year for not showing up to class after spring break. Countless arguments with teachers. Bad attitude.” He paused and flipped to a new page of the file. “Disruptive in class. Subpar grades. Almost no extracurricular activities. Caught with alcohol four times. Skipping sports practice. No team spirit...” He turned to another page.

  Naomi smirked.

  “But...” Mr. Dalton held his index finger to the file and raised his eyebrows. He showed the paper to Naomi and she cocked her head skeptically. Zane rolled his eyes. No doubt it was those fucking PSAT scores again. So he’d scored nearly perfect in all three sections—big deal. It was the kind of thing his parents salivated over, even though Zane couldn’t have cared less. Sneaking out of the dorm to watch shooting stars in the middle of the practice fields at two in the morning or walking barefoot in the creek behind the arts building at dawn—those were the kinds of things he cared about, things that he could remember when he was old and shaky. Not some stupid test score. Unfortunately, all the bullshit rules got in the way, when all Zane wanted was more perfect Bridgeport moments like those.

  “You’re a legacy,” Dalton went on, glancing at his knotted cuff links. “But that shouldn’t mean anything. I mean, I’m a Bridgeport legacy too.”

  “Really?” Naomi squealed. “So am I!”

  “My dad went here and my grandfather went here. And his brother too.” Dalton turned to Naomi. “Basically, the Dalton men were Bridgeport Academy’s first graduating class.”

  “As if I needed to know,” Zane muttered sarcastically. What was up with this teacher trying to impress Naomi?

  Dalton narrowed his eyes. “Look, I never expected to be treated any differently than anybody else. In fact, I think the teachers were harder on me because I was a legacy—they expected me to be an example for the other students.”

  “Right.” Wasn’t that a load of bullshit. Zane gritted his teeth. He was a legacy, which was supposed to be this special thing, but he knew how it really worked: if your family had enough money to send successive kids (or generations) to Bridgeport, the administration would kiss your ass for the rest of your days. There weren’t any moral standards involved, just money. Maurice Johnson was a goddamn legacy, after all, and look at all the shit he’d pulled!

  Dalton leaned forward. “Scoff all you want, but you shouldn’t have been in Dumbarton last night, and you certainly shouldn’t have been...er...with that new girl Brianna Hargrove.”

  “Were you with Bree?” Naomi leaned forward, looking extremely interested.

  “What did Bree say about that?” Zane asked.

  “She didn’t say anything.” Naomi frowned. “She said she wasn’t ready to make a statement.”

  “Oh.” Zane scratched his nose. He wasn’t sure what to make of Bree and what had happened last night. After talking to her in the cafeteria, he’d convinced himself she was just a mirage. She didn’t look like she wore much makeup, if any, and she was tiny, where Crystal was tall. She had miniature hands and feet, long eyelashes, and she carried around a bag that didn’t have big Gucci G’s plastered all over it. And she’d asked him about art. Crystal wouldn’t dream of asking him about art. And last night—well that had been a mirage too—a drunken one. He’d been about to score with Crystal and had wound up scurrying half-naked out of Bree’s bed, with Pardee on his tail.

  Now Bree—pretty little Bree—was in trouble because of him. But he’d needed to be near her. She looked so fresh and new, sort of like that Botticelli painting he’d seen in Rome last year: The Birth of Venus, with the sexy chick coming out of the clamshell. He didn’t want her to be in trouble. But he didn’t want Crystal to find out he’d touched Bree, either. Zane gripped his head in his hands to keep his hungover brains from spilling out of his ears.

  “So listen, I don’t know what’s going on here, but as your adviser, I have to warn you: this sort of offense, on top of your myriad other offenses, could lead to expulsion.”

  Naomi sucked in her breath and shook her head, pretending to actually care.

  Zane barely blinked. “Okay.”

  “Did you hear what I just said?” Dalton asked. “You might be expelled.”

  “Yeah. I heard you.”

  “If I were you, I’d spend more time thinking about why I was here,” Dalton suggested sternly, “and less time getting in trouble.”

  That was the kind of dick thing one of his brothers might say. Zane was the youngest of four, and his three brothers had all gone to Bridgeport as well. Whenever Zane complained to them about it, they’d say that he wouldn’t understand the importance of Bridgeport until he got out. Which was one of those bullshit things people said when they got older and brainwashed. His brothers had already graduated from college and law school; two were married and the other one was engaged. They were pussy-whipped, boring adults and didn’t know a thing about really living.

  “Fine,” Zane replied through his teeth. “You done advising me, then?” Without waiting for an answer, he stood up forcefully, yanked the door open, and strode out.

  Outside Stansfield Hall, he felt suddenly lightheaded. You might be expelled. Was he serious? If Zane got kicked out of Bridgeport, he could forget about his year in Paris. He’d be forced to live at home, alone with his crusty parents, where he’d be schooled by a private tutor and his only contact with the outside world would be the scary mail lady who liked Zane a little too much. Zane needed to sit down. Maybe it was the vodka from last night, but he felt a whoosh of nausea.

  Hoot, hoot.

  Zane looked up into the trees. One of the great horned owls was watching him, its eyes round and yellow. Zane made a cooing sound at it, like the one he made when he needed Credo to calm down, and pulled a dented Sprite bottle out of his school bag. He took a swig of the remaining Ketel One from last night. Everyone was making their way to the first classes of the year, but Zane needed to think.

  He wandered along the worn stone path toward the stables, wishing Crystal would be there to lie down with him in a humid corral and make him forget all about Dalton’s threat. They’d stretch out on an old horse blanket and stay there all day, not caring about missing the first day of classes. But picturing Crystal naked in the abandoned stable wasn’t getting him excited—he couldn’t stop Fantasy Crystal from complaining about hay in her hair and imaginary bugs
on the blanket.

  Zane closed himself into the warm, slightly moist corral, and squeezed his eyes shut. But when he revisited his fantasy, it wasn’t Crystal sprawled across the horse blanket, staring up at him.

  It was Bree.

  To: Bridgeport Students

  From: DeanMarymount@bridgeport.edu

  Date: Thursday, September 5, 9:01 A.M.

  Subject: Property defacement

  Dear Students,

  It has come to my attention that pony drawings have shown up around campus—on the sidewalks, on marker boards, and on the shower walls of the girls’ locker room.

  Please know that defacement of Bridgeport property is a serious offense and will not be tolerated. A few students have anonymously reported emotional distress over them, as well. Please be advised that the mental health center is open twenty-four hours a day and that anyone seen defacing school property will face disciplinary consequences.

  Enjoy your first day of classes,

  Dean Marymount

  14

  Crystal was spacing out through first-period Latin when Mrs. Tullington, the school’s administrator, interrupted class. “Ms. Alexander,” Mr. Gaston, the teacher, addressed her. “Your adviser wants to see you.”

  Her adviser’s office was only one floor down from the Latin room. Crystal nervously rubbed her palms together. She and Ms. Emory weren’t exactly buddy-buddy. Ms. Emory was a short-haired, middle-aged, dykey bitch from Connecticut who had gone to Vassar with Crystal’s mother. The two women had been rivals, always vying for the highest GPA and admission into Phi Beta Kappa. They’d also fought for the same spot at Harvard Law—and Crystal’s mom had won. Bitter, Ms. Emory had decided to forgo law school and instead had gotten her master’s in education at NYU. She’d made it very clear to Crystal that missing out on Harvard had affected the entire course of her life, and Crystal suspected she blamed this all on her mother. It was another a brilliant student-adviser match by the Bridgeport administration.