by Kara Taylor
Tretter grunts in response. “Lazy. They all are. It’ll be a goddamn miracle if we make it to the semifinals after you all graduate.”
“They just need to be scared, that’s all.” The blond guy leans back in his chair and lowers his voice. “That’s what The Drop’s for.”
Tretter’s enormous cheeks flood with color. “You know you can’t talk to me about that shit, kid.”
The guy snorts. “Fine. If someone were trying to scare the shit out of them, there’s The Drop. Hypothetically.”
“It’s not a joke.” Tretter’s hand comes down on his desk so hard it rattles whatever is in his drawers. I jump a little, but the guy seems unfazed. “People have gotten hurt. What’s your father told you about it?”
“Nothing.” It’s just one word, but he says it so snottily, I can tell there are a million Daddy Issues hidden underneath.
Tretter pushes himself away from his desk and stands up. The guy follows suit.
“I can’t know about what you guys are doing. I don’t want to see it, smell it, or hear about it. Got it?”
The guy smirks and gives Tretter a two-finger salute. I can see his face now. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him hanging around Justin Wyckoff, Kelsey’s ex-boyfriend. Justin is a senior who carries himself with the smugness of a guy who is content with being a Hollister model and living off his trust fund for the rest of his life.
“Shep,” Tretter says. “Don’t be stupid.”
I don’t catch the expression on Shep’s face, because I’m trying to get the hell out of there before they realize I was listening. I’m halfway down the hall when the guy calls, “Hey.”
I stop and let him catch up to me, furiously applying rosebud salve to my lips.
“I don’t think we’ve officially met.” He extends his hand to me. It’s nonthreatening enough, but I don’t trust him. “You’re Anne Dowling.”
“In the flesh.” I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you…”
“Casey Shepherd,” he says. “But everyone calls me Shep.”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
I see Casey Shepherd again that evening in the dining hall at a table of seniors. The only ones I know by name are Justin, Bea Hartley, and Vera Cassidy. Bea Hartley is Casey’s stuck-up girlfriend. She and Vera live on the floor above me. They’re the type of girls who never sneak out or party—at least on campus—because they’re so involved with saving orphans and polar bears so the Ivies will be impressed.
Casey catches me watching him and waves with two fingers. I can’t help the tiny bit of flush that creeps into my cheeks. I mean, I can tell Casey Shepherd is a yuppie brat, but he’s a really good-looking yuppie brat.
I decide to track down Kelsey. She dated Justin, so she can probably tell me more about Casey.
I find her on the all-day omelet-station line, examining her split ends. In her black velvet headband with the bow on the side, she looks so innocent that I’m overcome with jealousy. I remember when the hardest decision in my daily life was whether or not to get a haircut.
“Hey.” She scoots over so I can stand next to her on the line.
“So I think I made a new friend today,” I tell her.
“Really? Who?”
“Casey Shepherd.”
We inch up the line. “Oh. Shep.”
I can’t tell if it’s a bad Oh. Shep or a good Oh. Shep. “He seems nice.”
Kelsey gives a half nod. “He’s from, like, the richest family in Massachusetts. His dad owns a huge brokerage firm.”
So Casey is Travis Shepherd’s son, like I suspected. “Wow.”
“I mean, he’s nice,” Kelsey says. “But he dates Bea Hartley, who’s totally stuck up. But in like a sneaky way, you know? Whenever I hung out with Justin, she and Vera were always around, saying stuff like ‘Oh, Kelsey, you’re from Berkshire County? That’s so cute.’”
I glance over at Bea Hartley. She’s wearing the unofficial Wheatley casual uniform: a J.Crew cardigan, jeans, and pearl earrings. Her long brown hair falls across her profile as she leans in to Vera, a tall girl with deep skin and curly black hair. They laugh together in a way that makes you feel like you’re not smart enough to be in on the joke.
“So Cole asked me to the formal,” Kelsey blurts.
I swing my head back to her. “What?”
“He said he was thinking we should go together.” Kelsey shrugs.
“And you said…”
“I said yes.” There’s a silent but at the end of her words.
“You don’t want to go with him?” I ask.
“No, of course I do.” Kelsey’s cheeks flush. “I just feel like … maybe he asked me to get Remy pissed. They usually go together.”
“Why do you always think like that, Kels? You’re gorgeous and funny. He probably just wants to go with you.”
A smile quivers on Kelsey’s lips, and I hope for her sake I’m right.
* * *
The next morning, I call Thom Ennis’s office.
“Ennis and Cameron Associates.”
“Hi. I’m looking for Mr. Ennis.”
“This is his assistant,” the clipped voice says. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I’m a student at the Wheatley School,” I say. “I’m writing an article for the newspaper on notable alumni, and I wanted to see if Mr. Ennis would be interested in being interviewed.”
“I’ll leave him a message. What did you say your name was?”
“Chelsea,” I say. “Chelsea Brady.”
The assistant takes my number and hangs up.
* * *
I find myself flipping through Matt Weaver’s Brit-lit textbook—my Brit-lit textbook—during art history this morning. If Matt’s drawing of himself as Adam is a clue about the events leading up to his disappearance, maybe there’s something else hidden in the pages.
It turns out there’s not much else in his handwriting. A few of the other owners of the book highlighted some passages here and there. (By the way, huge pet peeve of mine = highlighters. They stain your hands, and they’re neon. I hate neon.)
I turn back to the Adam drawing. If Matt screwed up like Adam did, according to what is, in my opinion, a quite sexist story for why humanity is so screwed up, then Eve convinced Adam to eat an apple. Who is Matt Weaver’s Eve, and what did she convince him to do?
* * *
A number with a New York area code calls me as I’m leaving my last class. I answer and turn the opposite direction of the crowds of students heading back to the dorms.
“Ms. Brady? I have Thom Ennis on the line for you.”
“Oh, okay. Cool.”
I want to smack myself for sounding so stupid as the line clicks. I inhale deeply as a man’s voice says, “Thom Ennis. What can I do for you?”
I give my bullshit interview story again.
“I wrote for The Wheatley Register back in the day,” he says. “Cargill still running that thing or did she retire?”
“Um, she retired.” I hope I’m right. “Thank you for calling me back, Mr. Ennis. I know you’re busy.”
“I always have time for Wheatley alumni.”
“So, um. I have a few questions about Wheatley rowing.”
“Sure. Shoot. I was on the team all four years.”
I swallow and tighten my grip on my phone. “What can you tell me about The Drop?”
Thom Ennis is silent for a beat. “Is this a joke? Who are you?”
“I know about The Drop.” It’s taking everything I have not to let my voice shake so he can call my bluff. “I know all about Matt Weaver, too.”
“What did they tell you?” He growls.
I don’t even have the chance to come up with something, because Thom Ennis hangs up on me.
CHAPTER
NINE
A bad idea is like a virus. Once you’ve got one, it multiplies into a million other bad ideas.
Calling Thom Ennis was definitely a bad idea. If he contacts the other guys
in the photo and tells them some girl from the Wheatley School is asking questions about Matt Weaver, I’m in deep shit. I need to be more careful planning out my next move.
Brent comes over Thursday night, since we have off for something called Founder’s Day on Friday. We lay on my bed, watching The Fellowship of the Ring, because I’ve never seen it and according to Brent this means I have some sort of severe cultural deficiency.
“Did you know Cole asked Kelsey to the formal?” I ask Brent.
Brent keeps running his fingers through my hair, turning all of the nerve endings on my scalp into live wires. “I’m guessing to piss Rem off.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”
Brent shrugs. My cheek moves with his shoulder. “It’s not like Cole. But Remy has that effect on him.”
“I’d imagine she has that effect on lots of guys.”
“Yeah, maybe. I just feel bad for Kels. She’s had a thing for Cole for ages.”
We turn back to the movie for a few minutes before Brent says, “Do you want to go to the formal?”
I trace the outline of his ear. “I don’t know. No one’s asked me.”
He rolls his eyes. “Do you want to go with me to the formal?”
“I don’t want to go to the formal,” I say. “But if you need a date, I can tough it out.”
“You’re so generous.” He laughs with his whole body. He’s wearing a plain navy V-neck T. As good as he looks in his Wheatley blazer, I love seeing him like this. Relaxed, on my bed. I kiss his exposed collarbone. A shudder ripples through his body and he leans in to me.
The knock on the door feels like it comes moments later, but when we sit up, my alarm clock says it’s 9:53 and the movie’s credits are rolling. Through the door, Darlene informs us it’s almost weeknight curfew. Translation: Brent needs to get the hell out.
He groans and touches his forehead to mine. “It feels like I just got here.”
“We’ve got all weekend.” I brush my lips against his without fully kissing them, because I know it drives him crazy.
When he’s gone, I change into pajamas and climb into bed, accidentally kicking my phone on the floor. I bend to pick it up and realize it’s not even my phone. Brent’s must have fallen out of his pocket and onto my bed.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Ever since Isabella’s murder, there are absolutely no exceptions to curfew: 10:00 P.M. on weeknights, 11:00 on weekends. Darlene will probably tell me to hang on to the phone and give it to Brent in the morning.
I place the phone on my nightstand and shut the lamp off. I’ve resolved to forget about it and fall asleep, when the screen lights up. Thinking it’s one of the guys texting to make sure Brent’s phone is here, I lean over and check who the message is from.
Casey Shepherd.
Some people argue there’s not a fine line between right and wrong: It’s more of a fifty-foot impenetrable wall with barbed wire across the top. I’m more of a gray-area type person. That’s why I tell myself that since Brent chose to make the settings on his phone such that you don’t need to open a message to read it, it’s not totally wrong for me to glance at it:
Meet in basement of Aldridge after practice tom. Need to move TD from next fri to sat 10:30.
TD. The Drop? The two words mean virtually nothing to me, but they still inspire a sense of dread.
Tretter told Casey that people have been hurt during The Drop. It’s possible he was talking about the boy who got hypothermia. It fits, since Tretter and his friends would have been sophomores the year the crew team was suspended for hazing.
THEY KILLED HIM.
What if The Drop had turned deadly?
CHAPTER
TEN
I’m woken up earlier than I’d like to be by the sound of my phone ringing. When I see it’s Anthony calling, I’m simultaneously more annoyed and less annoyed. If that’s even possible.
“’Lo?”
“Sorry I woke you.” His voice says I don’t give a rat’s ass I woke you.
“What’s up?” I roll on my side, my heart hammering in my throat. I have no real reason to be nervous about talking to Anthony, except for the fact I’d forgotten what his voice sounds like.
“Figured we should talk for real,” he says. “At the rate we’re going, we won’t have a whole conversation ’til next Christmas.”
“Okay. Let’s talk.”
“Not over the phone. What are you doing today?”
I was going to catch up on homework and maybe go out for sushi with Remy and the girls in the afternoon. “Nothing.”
“Come to my shop around noon. I’ll be outside.”
* * *
By his shop, Anthony means Alex’s Auto Body in Somerville. I get on the T at 11:30. For the entire ride, I can’t stop putting on lip salve and curling my toes in my boots. It would have been nice to have more time to prepare myself for seeing Anthony. Mentally, of course.
In any case, I didn’t want to look like I put any degree of thought into my Seeing Anthony Outfit, so I opted for my usual weekend fare: a denim chambray shirt and a beige wool skirt. Hair in a messy French braid. One stop away from his shop, I realize I’m wearing my hair the same way I did the day I met Anthony and I have mini panic attack. What if he notices and reads too much into it?
Of course he won’t notice. He has two X chromosomes. I need to get ahold of myself, stat.
Anthony doesn’t see me as I turn the corner. He leans against the brick wall of the body shop, cracking his knuckles. I hope it means he’s as nervous about seeing me as I am about seeing him.
“Hey.” I keep a good five feet of space between us. Anthony takes me in, his face expressionless. His hair is shorter, cleaner. “How have you been?” I ask.
“Holdin’ up.” He shrugs. “You?”
“I don’t know. Trying to stay out of trouble, I guess.”
There’s a hint of a smile on his mouth. “I’d ask how that’s working out for you, but you texted me, so…”
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” I ask him. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me earlier, when he said to meet at noon.
“Could ask you the same thing,” he says.
“It’s Founder’s Day. I have off. Why aren’t you in school, Anthony?”
“I don’t go anymore.”
The nonchalant way he says it makes my blood pressure rise unexpectedly. “You dropped out?”
“You sound surprised. I missed enough classes between my sister dying and me being under house arrest.”
“But you’re going back next year, right?”
Anthony’s eyes are on the ground. “Can’t. My dad got a lot worse after Iz died. I picked up some extra shifts at the shop for when my mom’s home, to help out.”
I don’t know why, but I’m angry with everyone. At Dr. Harrow, for killing Isabella. At Anthony’s mother, for not trying harder to keep Anthony in school. At Anthony, who doesn’t even sound like he cares about his future. “But you have to go to school. Can’t your mom get someone else to take care of your dad?”
“Okay.” Anthony lets out a sharp laugh. “I’ll tell her to hire a butler, too, while she’s at it.”
I hate myself for letting a tear slip down my cheek, because it’s not the first time he’s said something awful like that to me as if it’s my fault that I have it easy and he doesn’t. “You’re throwing your future away.”
“Why do you give a shit, Anne?” There’s anger in his voice, but the look in his eyes says he actually wants to hear my answer. “You got your fifteen minutes. What else could you want from me?”
I want to scream at him. I want to call him names classy girls from the Upper East Side would never call a boy. Because Anthony’s the one who wanted to help me find who killed Isabella. He’s the one who ditched me when the whole ordeal was over and didn’t even have the balls to face me when he dropped off her books.
He takes a step toward me. “That’s what you wanted, right? To prove yourself to all thos
e yuppies and be one of them?”
That’s it. No one calls me a social climber and gets away with it.
“Fuck you,” I yell. A man walking his dog at the curb pauses and stares at us.
Anthony puts his arm around me and leads me across the street. I’m crying so hard I’m choking on my own snot and tears. I hate him, and I can’t even pull myself together for long enough to tell him that this is never what I wanted. I never wanted to come to Massachusetts at all.
Anthony guides me under a green awning and down a set of stairs. We’re in a dimly lit pub that smells like French fries and motor oil. He walks me past a hostess and sits down at the bar.
I sniffle and lift myself onto the stool next to Anthony’s. The bearded man behind the counter nods to him and places silverware in front of us, as if Anthony bringing hysterical girls in here is commonplace.
“I was a jerk before,” Anthony says when the guy disappears into the kitchen. I know this is the closest thing to an apology I’m going to get from him.
Anthony’s eyes are on the mirror behind the bar. I can’t tell if he’s looking at his reflection or mine. My cheeks are splotchy and my mascara is smeared. “I thought I was never gonna see you again,” he says. “This is just … I dunno. I can’t process.”
Sums up my feelings exactly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called when I knew you didn’t want to see me anymore.”
“It’s not that.” Anthony unwraps the napkin holding his silverware together. He turns the fork over in his hand. “I was pissed you found out I took that money from Iz. I wanted to explain, but then I saw that Wheatley guy with you there.”
So that’s what this is about.
“Seeing that one of them was in on what we were doing … I felt like a dumbass.” Anthony cracks his knuckles. “It messed me up. You and I were supposed to be the good guys.”
“Brent is a good guy,” I say. “I knew I could trust him.”
I ignore the voice in the back of my head that’s wondering if things are different now. If I can’t trust Brent.