by Kara Taylor
“Anyway, every time he’s home for long stretches of time, he acts like we’re not practically strangers or anything,” Brent goes on. “He tries to tell me what to do, when my mom and grandparents are the ones who raised me. And he’s never afraid to tell me what a disappointment I am, as if I give a crap what he thinks.”
I think of how Brent baited Mr. Conroy into saying something about eating all that crap at the baseball game. I picture the shell-shocked look on Mr. Conroy’s face. A funny feeling comes over me. Brent has changed the subject, and I nod at what he’s saying even though I can’t really hear him over the ringing in my ears.
Because I know where I’ve seen Mr. Conroy before. He’s the boy standing next to Matthew Weaver in the 1981 crew team photo.
CHAPTER
TWO
The photograph is a 5 × 7, and the quality isn’t great, but the shortest boy in the picture is definitely Pierce Conroy. Behind him is a broad-shouldered blond: Steven Westbrook. Next to him is Matthew Weaver, who left Aldridge Dormitory in the middle of the night and never came back.
I swallow and turn the photo over. I know what is written on the back, but for some reason my brain hopes the words have magically disappeared.
THEY KILLED HIM.
I remind myself to breathe. I run through all of the things I convinced myself of when I first found the picture.
Matthew Weaver has been missing for over thirty years, which means there’s a tiny chance he’s still alive.
And if he is dead, it doesn’t mean he was murdered.
Whoever wrote on the back of the picture could have been playing a sick joke. Trying to mess with whatever unsuspecting Wheatley student checked the history book out of the library. During my first week of classes, Brent had told me people like to embellish the Matthew Weaver stories to scare the freshmen.
There is one thing I’m certain of, though: I can never, ever tell Brent about the photograph.
Poking into Isabella’s murder was different. I knew someone at the school was involved, and I didn’t care who I pissed off to get answers.
I think of Brent’s hand on my knee at the baseball game. Now, I have too much to lose by chasing ghosts.
* * *
I never got a new roommate. The administration decided that would probably be as traumatic as my old one dying. Also, no one starts at the Wheatley School midyear. Except for me, but that’s only because my father is sort of friends with Jacqueline Tierney, AKA Dean Snaggletooth.
I crawl into bed with a cup of chai and a book I haven’t been able to read because I’ve been so swamped with homework. My mom and I used to do this together on Sunday nights, before I was banished to Boston. Thinking about all of the times I tuned her out because I had a hangover from Saturday night makes me feel guilty and homesick.
I never thought I’d be homesick. I wasn’t the kid who cried and called her parents during her first sleepover: I was the kid who climbed into bed with her friends’ parents the next morning, complimented them on their selection of processed-sugar-free snacks, and asked if I could watch the Today show.
Now my dorm is starting to feel like home, kind of. I picked up copies of my favorite books—The Secret Garden and A Little Princess—from a vintage bookstore on Newbury Street to fill the empty standard-issue shelf by my desk.
But it’s not enough to cover up the fact that all of Isabella’s stuff is gone now. Even worse, Isabella’s not the person I think of every time I look at the wall where her Star Trek poster used to be.
I don’t want to waste any more brain space on Anthony, her brother, ever again. I’ve had guys act like dicks to me before: Tyler, the NYU junior I hooked up with who pretended not to recognize me when I ran into him at a party. Martin Payne, who cursed at me for calling the cops and ran away when St. Augustine’s auditorium caught on fire.
But Anthony Fernandez is by far the worst.
I met Anthony at Isabella’s wake and knew him for all of five minutes before I saw him punch his cousin in the face. Probably I should have figured I couldn’t trust Anthony then. But I couldn’t have found out as much as I did about Isabella without his help.
Then he was arrested for her murder.
After Dr. Harrow confessed, Anthony was cleared of all the charges—but it didn’t change the fact he was caught on camera stealing over a thousand dollars from Isabella’s bank account a few days before her death. I was pretty upset about it, because even though I’ve hooked up with some questionable specimens, I draw the line at potential felon.
Anthony didn’t in the least think I deserved an explanation as to why he stole the money. That’s probably what pisses me off more than anything: that I would have listened. I would have tried to understand, because I cared about Anthony. And not like in the way people say, “Oh, I care about the environment.” More like the thought of Anthony going to jail and having unspeakable things done to him, made it feel like someone had shot a hole through my chest.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter now: Anthony’s parents didn’t press charges for stealing the money, and he hasn’t contacted me since.
It’s after midnight, and I’m too wound up over everything to sleep. I fumble in the dark for my laptop. Obviously I’m not helping my insomnia by Googling Matt Weaver for the thousandth time since I found the photo, but I can’t stop thinking about Brent’s dad.
What I already know, thanks to Wikipedia: Matt Weaver had a full scholarship to Wheatley. He joined the crew team at the end of his freshman year. On March 13 of his junior year, he left his dorm in the middle of the night. He never came back.
A number of people were questioned in connection with Matt’s disappearance, including his friends on the Wheatley crew team. The police backed off after a scathing news story surfaced about how the Weavers had pressured them into going after the boys despite the fact there was no evidence of foul play. The only witness mentioned by name was Paula McGuiness, a woman who said she saw a boy who fit Matt’s description head into the woods—alone—the night he went missing.
Matt’s disappearance is still considered an open case, but there hasn’t been a real development in over twenty years. The most recent news mention of the case is from 2000, when police divers uncovered male remains in the Charles River. They were never identified, but the dental records didn’t match Matt’s.
I scroll down to the section labeled Theories About Disappearance, flagged by a huge banner that basically says everything I’m about to read probably isn’t true.
Rumored Connection to Satanism
Renewed interest in the case was sparked in the early 1990s, after Dateline aired an episode speculating that Matthew Weaver disappeared in the midst of a satanic ritual. Several childhood friends who were interviewed claimed Weaver had been obsessed with paganism. A private investigator cited the presence of blood found on a trail in the Wheatley woods—once believed to be Weaver’s, but which had turned out to be animal blood—as evidence some sort of sacrifice had taken place the night Weaver disappeared. Police and investigators have since dispelled these claims as part of a larger “satanic panic” that had gripped the nation during the time.
Okay, so I kind of wish I weren’t alone right now. I’m not a wimp by any means—I’ve taken the E train by myself, at night—but certain things spook me. When everyone was obsessed with trying to summon Bloody Mary in the fifth grade, I chickened out and had a thing about bathroom mirrors for years.
I keep circling back to the same phrase: some sort of sacrifice.
But why would the crew team members sacrifice one of their own?
* * *
I must fall asleep at some point, because when I wake up, sunlight is leaking through the gaps in my blinds and Remy Adams is pounding on my door.
I know it’s Remy because she’s the only person here besides me who doesn’t sleep until noon on Sundays. Also, the knocking gives her away: Remy only has one volume setting.
I stumble out of bed and unbolt my door. Remy beams at m
e from the other side with blue doe eyes. She’s in a ratty T-shirt and striped cotton boxer shorts, but she still looks like Snow White with her flawless skin and elbow-length dark brown hair.
“Oh good,” she says, “you’re up.”
Well, I am now. “What’s up?”
Remy flops down face-first onto my bed. “Mrahhhhhhhhh,” she says into a pillow.
I climb into bed next to her. “Oh, yeah,” I say. “Totally hear what you’re saying.”
Remy rolls onto her back. “I just got bitched out by Bea.”
I know who Beatrice Hartley, AKA Bea, is, because her face is plastered all over the Campus Life Council bulletin boards around the dorm. She’s a senior and she looks like a Banana Republic model. Her name is pronounced “Bee,” and lest anyone forget it, she has a bunch of bumblebee stickers on her door.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“Nothing. But it’s too late to make a deposit at the Radisson for the spring formal, and apparently that’s my fault because the SGA treasurer is responsible for that.” The Wheatley Student Government Association is not some nerdy group of mouth-breathers who sell candy bars. The officers are actually in charge of things. If you’re in the SGA, you’re a B.F.D.
Remy’s cheeks flood with color. “Meanwhile, Mr. President gets away with doing nothing because it’s crew season.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But you lost me at ‘spring formal’ and ‘Radisson.’”
So even the historic Wheatley School is not exempt from the obligatory dance in a hotel that probably smells like vomit from whatever sorority trashed it the night before. I want to laugh, but Remy is all worked up.
“I know it sounds lame, but it’s always a good time,” she says. “And everyone is going to blame me if we have to have the dance in the student-center ballroom.”
“Do you want me to yell at Brent for you?” I ask. Brent is the president of SGA. It’s no secret he only ran to piss off Alexis Westbrook, his archenemy and Senator Westbrook’s daughter. Now that the senator has resigned and is being investigated for paying off Dr. Harrow, Alexis’s family has relocated her to a new boarding school of bitchcraft and wizardry. Without Alexis to torment, Brent is kind of like a puppy that’s finally caught its tail.
“Well, he would listen to you.…” Remy’s voice trails off as she looks at me with hopeful eyes.
“Done,” I say. “But just so we’re clear, I’m doing it for you. I don’t do dances.”
“Anne!” Remy springs into sitting position. “It’s the only thing to look forward to besides the end of the year.”
I adjust my necklace so the silver heart pendant is facing forward. “I’ll think about it.” I mean it, too. I really don’t want to disappoint Remy; she was my first friend here after Isabella. And if I’m being honest, I’ve been a pretty terrible friend. In the short time I’ve known Remy, I’ve ditched her dozens of times to do snooping instead, and I even stole her ID card to get into her room and steal back an incriminating video of Alexis that Isabella made.
I’m desperate to change the subject. “Have you started the French essay yet?”
Remy’s forehead creases. “It’s not due ’til Thursday.”
I shake my head. “Tuesday.”
“April said it’s not due ’til Thursday.” Panic creeps into Remy’s voice.
I don’t say it, but April Durand is not the brightest glow stick at the rave. It’s not the first time she’s unknowingly passed along false information.
“Omigod, I have to check Blackboard.” Remy scrambles for my laptop, which is resting at the foot of my bed.
“Rem, chill. You still have two days to do the essay.”
Remy is staring at the screen of my laptop, her lips pinched together. “Anne, what is all this?”
“What?”
“You have, like, four tabs open on Matthew Weaver.”
I feel so blindsided I say the stupidest thing I’m capable of: “It’s nothing.”
“Seriously, Anne? This is straight up weird.”
“I was just curious.” My voice is so small and unconvincing. It used to be I could lie myself out of any situation. The thought that I might be losing my edge makes me straighten up and proclaim, “I was thinking it might be a good senior thesis topic.”
This makes Remy pause. Any other person would look at me like I’m nuts, since senior year and starting thesis is five months away. But Remy has already taken the SAT and ACT four times and has her summer college-visits itinerary all mapped out.
“You think you could get an entire thesis on him, though?” Remy asks. “I mean, there’s practically no information on that whole thing.” I don’t miss the way her voice has stiffened. “Plus, no one even knows what happened to him,” she says.
I think of the photo and the slanted handwriting on the back.
Someone does know.
CHAPTER
THREE
I’ve been expelled from my beloved Manhattan school, questioned as a person of interest in a murder investigation, and nearly shot to death in the woods, but I’m convinced Monday morning is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.
I forgot to set my alarm last night, so I had to choose between going to breakfast and looking put-together for my first class. Under no circumstances would I ever forgo the second option, so I didn’t eat. I tried sneaking a granola bar into British literature, but Fowler, the crusty old bastard, caught me and yelled at me in front of the whole class.
When I get to Latin and see that everyone has a sheet of paper on the desk in front of them, I almost turn and walk out the door.
We had a one-page translation due today that I totally forgot about. Shit. Just shit.
If Professor Upton still taught this class, I’d add forgetting my homework to the lengthy list of reasons she hated me. But Upton retired in the midst of the Isabella–Dr. Harrow scandal.
Our new teacher, Ms. Cross, is way more awesome than any teacher at this school has the right to be. She’s young and always frazzled-looking in an adorable way, and she must be from the south because every now and then she lets a “y’all” slip out. The guys call her a TILF behind her back, and Lee Andersen, the hulking nerdy kid who sits across the aisle from me, now spends the class hunched over like he’s constantly trying to hide a Woody Woodpecker.
And he probably is. Lee’s a class-A creep, and I can say this without sounding like a judgmental bitch because I have proof he was stalking Isabella before she died. Professor Upton knew Lee was stalking Isabella, too, and when she went to Headmaster Goddard about it, he basically told her to keep her mouth shut.
Lee didn’t kill Isabella, but he could have. Upton must realize that now, because why else would she “retire” in the middle of the year?
Anyway, Ms. C is actually pretty cool, and she likes me. That’s why I’m so frustrated with myself for forgetting about the translation. I do the walk of shame to my table at the back of the room and don’t look up when Ms. C stops in front of me.
She doesn’t point out the obvious. Just smiles, tucks away a strand of hair that escaped from her bun, and says, “Anne, I was meaning to ask you to stop by my office sometime this week. After your last class.”
“Okay,” I say, but she’s already moving to the next table.
I decide not to delay the inevitable, which is probably Ms. C giving me the “You can do better” smackdown. After calculus, I head back to the humanities building and meander through the halls until I see her messy red bun in front of a computer.
I stand in the doorway and clear my throat. Ms. C jerks her head up and beams. “Anne. Hey. Come in. I’m just finishing up an e-mail.”
I sit across from her, noticing that the nameplate on the desk still reads PROFESSOR DIANA UPTON. Her office is mostly empty, save for a Boston Bruins pennant over her desk and a few unopened boxes.
Ms. C is in the middle of her lunch—cucumber salad—but she covers her Tupperware and pushes it aside. “So I’ve been here f
or three weeks, and this parent of a freshman has e-mailed me four times.” She shakes her head. “Your kid is at boarding school. Time to cut the cord.”
I crack a smile. I can’t believe she’s talking to me like this. It’s nice to know at least one teacher at the Wheatley School doesn’t have a stick up her ass.
“So,” Ms. C says. “I noticed on iCampus that you haven’t had an academic advising session yet.”
I vaguely remember my first day, and some woman at Student Support Services telling me I have two advisors: one academic and one for “resident life.” She also said I should make appointments with both as soon as possible. “Oh. My bad.”
“No worries,” Ms. C says. “You do know I’m your advisor now, right?”
That means Upton was my old advisor. Dodged a bullet there. “Sure, sure.”
“Basically I asked you here to remind you to start thinking about what classes you’d like to take next year. Registration starts at the end of the month.”
A bizarre feeling settles over me. Next year. From day one, it had always been my mission to make it back to New York for my senior year. I nod.
“Also, it’s time to put together a list of colleges for us to look into together.” Ms. C pulls up my schedule and grades on iCampus. “With your SAT scores, I think you could shoot for a couple tier-ones. As long as you pull some of these grades up.”
No doubt she’s referring to the B in her class. “I haven’t thought about college much. Except for maybe how to get around the expulsion on my transcript.”
A smile plays at the corners of Ms. C’s mouth. “Sometimes, it’s best to own up and explain your mistakes instead of trying to hide them.”
Somehow I doubt “that time I burned my school down” is going to win me any points with an admissions board.