I lift the hanger, inspecting the uniform closely for hidden traps, but find nothing until I flip it around. I almost drop the clothes to the floor, but the instinctual clench of my grip prevents the immaculate outfit from puddling to the ground.
“Are you serious…?” I murmur, pulling the uniform closer.
A long-stemmed rose, its petals stained with black ink, is pinned between the shoulders of the blazer, tied with a golden ribbon.
No note.
Just a goddamned rose.
What am I supposed to do with that? Other than wear this uniform—which fits me perfectly, by the way—instead of the wrinkled and stained one on my first day of school?
There’s no time to determine whether this is Piper’s next curse in petaled disguise, or if this flower has something to do with the cloaks of last night.
I don’t want to think about that last part, though. I did not attract the attention of weird ritualists in the deep reaches of the Briarcliff woods. Nuh-uh.
Before scampering out of my room, I throw the textbooks I’ll need into my backpack, along with my laptop that survived the Dumpster delegation because it was nestled comfortably in my duffel I carried yesterday. Since phones aren’t allowed in classrooms, I leave mine on my bed.
My wet hair is combed and thrown back in a ponytail, I’ve applied some cheek and lip stain and a coat of mascara, and my perfume of choice is eau de raindrops, because that’s all I have time for before shutting my door—and locking it.
A benefit to these keycards is that they’re specific to your identity. I can only lock and unlock my room, not Piper’s, and vice versa, yet we can both access the front door to our apartment.
I have to admit, the added level of security against Piper is assuring, and I focus on that barricade instead of wondering how someone else redecorated my room last night.
It’s with a full sprint under an umbrella (I need to send Lynda a thank-you text; she thought of everything when ejecting me from Meyer House) that I make it to the Briarcliff building, the clocktower tolling the start of class. I’m proud to only have gotten lost on the ground floor twice. I’m not counting the third time when I caved and asked a passing student where History with Dr. Luke was.
“That way,” he said, pointing to the East Wing, and I fly past closed classroom doors until I find Classroom 110.
I stop in front of the door, staring at the frosted glass for a full minute before I twist the doorknob.
“—so you’ll come to appreciate the importance of our roots before extending to the U.S. as a whole—Ah. I see we have a straggler.”
“S-sorry,” I say, clutching my backpack’s strap hanging off one of my shoulders. “I got lost.”
What feels like a stadium’s worth of eyeballs shift in my direction, but I keep my focus on the teacher, Dr. Luke, and not on the growing grins and whispers spreading like a virus from the desks.
“You must be Miss Ryan,” Dr. Luke says. He’s perched on the front of his desk in slacks and a white button-down, with his blazer thrown over his chair.
What draws me to him is that he’s young, but not trying to be hip. Shaggy caramel hair partially obscures his light eyes, and he sports a bit of scruff on his sun-aged face. He’s handsome, disarmingly so, in that California surfer-by-morning, teacher-by-afternoon kind of way. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s something in the water here that makes people at Briarcliff either stunningly gorgeous, or sinfully hot.
“Try not to make this a regular thing,” Dr. Luke says, then gestures to the class. “Take a seat.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, and for some reason, that causes a wave of giggles.
Dr. Luke smiles. “You’ll come to learn I’m not like the professors here. You don’t need to call me ‘sir’ or stand when I walk into the classroom. Okay, history buffs.” Dr. Luke claps his hands. “Let’s get back to it. Briarcliff Academy has its own deliciously evil past…”
Thoroughly dismissed, I pick my way through the closest line of desks, scanning for an available seat. I briefly land on Piper two rows in, then glance away. It’s when I do that I almost trip over a set of legs splayed out in the aisle.
I stop before I stumble, and I wait for the feet to move and let me by.
They don’t.
They’re crossed at the ankle, and they’re comfortable staying where they are.
I sigh. Chase is attached to these damn feet, his arms crossed, and he arches his brows over his heavy lids, daring me to say something.
Move, I mouth, as Dr. Luke drones on behind me.
A grin drifts across his face. His lips part. Nope.
Fine. I step over his obnoxious kneecaps and continue down my path, working hard to ignore the muffled trash bitch, possum breath, and rabies and scabies comments. I reach an empty seat and collapse into it.
“You okay there, Miss Ryan?”
I nod without looking up.
“You sure?” Dr. Luke eyeballs the students in my immediate periphery. “Because I swear I heard detention-worthy slang uttered in this vicinity.”
I resist, vehemently shaking my head. Chase, Tempest, and James surround me on one side, with Piper and her friends manning the opposite.
My first day of school already includes my first detention with Piper. I’d prefer that none of these people join us.
“All good,” I say to Dr. Luke with too much enthusiasm.
“If you insist,” he says. “But if I hear one more peep outta you peckers, instant lunch detention. I’ll even add an additional two-thousand-word essay as a bonus, due at the end of the day. Got it?”
There’s mumbled assent at Dr. Luke’s threat. Satisfied, he goes back to his lecture, but as soon as his attention’s away, acerbic glares turn in my direction.
All except for Chase. He maintains deep interest in what Dr. Luke has to say and traces his thumb along his jaw in thought.
I follow the trail over his sharp, clean curves, his thumb hitting his full lips and staying there. I swallow, thinking of how it would’ve been to wake up in the Wolf’s Den to that thumb tracing my face, then landing on my lips.
Someone snorts.
I blink, then put my head down and take out my textbook, pretending like I didn’t just ogle Chase Stone in plain sight.
I might as well just gift Piper a box of ammo to fill her pariah pellet gun.
But my attention won’t stay on blocks of paragraphs. I’m all too aware of the shifting bodies and angled profiles of my fellow classmates, and whether or not they’re for me or against me. I’ve been here less than a day, and already I feel like Piper’s condemned my two semesters into loser status. If I wanted to make more than one friend during my stay, I’m screwed.
In search of a friendly face, I look for Ivy’s with a nervous, agitated sweep. Being thrown into a full class of jerks and jerk-followers has made me rethink the whole being strong and leaving Ivy behind angle I had going on yesterday.
I don’t find her, and my stomach sinks.
“Briarcliff has skeletons I want each of you to unearth,” Dr. Luke continues. I start listening. “You were divided into groups of three and given a founder to study and write an essay on in hopes that the twenty-one of you will leave here with some local history under your belts. I know, I know, it’s not the epic battle of the Civil War or the grotesque effects of the Spanish Flu, but let’s see if I can’t hold your interest with some small-town lore, hmm? Ah. Wait a sec. There’s now twenty-two of you. Hello again, Miss Ryan.”
Dr. Luke’s focus is nothing but friendly, so I tentatively smile in response.
“Therein lies a problem.” Dr. Luke raises his finger. “Any mathletes want to take a shot on what that is?”
“Sure, Dr. Luke,” a low voice purrs. “Twenty-two doesn’t make for even threes.”
“And they say you get by on looks alone, Mr. Stone,” Dr. Luke says. “Well done.”
The skin under Chase’s eye tics dangerously at the veiled insult, and this time, my smile is true.<
br />
“What a pickle!” Dr. Luke proclaims, and he lifts his tablet from the desk. “I assigned this topic yesterday, so breaking up a triangle shouldn’t be a problem. Miss Harrington.”
My stomach dips. Scratch that—my stomach finds the cliff called Fuckboys’ Leap and throws itself off it.
“You can work with Miss Ryan,” Dr. Luke says.
Piper’s shoulders stiffen into sharp angles. “You can’t possibly want me to work with her.”
“Oh, but I possibly do.” Dr. Luke’s eyes twinkle, like he knows the exact kind of fuckery he’s creating. “You’re roommates. You’re in the best position to explain the assignment to her as well as my best practices. And hey,” Dr. Luke includes me, “you may even let Miss Ryan in on the rules all her professors want her to aspire to. First and foremost: being on time.”
I give a stiff nod. I have trouble speaking when in the spotlight. Namely, Chase’s, and how I can’t shake the sensation that he’s memorizing my face, searching for any flinch of weakness.
I am strong. I am my mother’s child.
I sit straighter in my seat.
“Can’t you divide the entire class into pairs?” Piper asks. She won’t give up. “There’s an even number now, and—”
“Sadly, that will not do,” Dr. Luke says, his expression grave.
“Why not?”
“Uh, because that gives me more papers to grade.” Dr. Luke tosses his tablet back on the desk. “The pairing’s done, Miss Harrington. As you cool kids say, deal with it. Moving on.”
Dr. Luke begins his lecture, and heads turn to him. I relax in my seat, content to get through the rest of class with as little a peep as possible.
Piper’s eyes slide over to mine, turning into slits the instant she hooks my attention.
She mouths the word, trash, and I commit further into pretending she doesn’t exist, well aware that throwing food in my face was a mere introduction to our newfound enemy status.
14
Thank God the rest of my morning classes don’t contain Piper or Chase. English literature even manages to catch my attention for the entire period. So much so, that I stop thinking about either of them for the whole hour.
When the clocktower tolls, I collect my things off my desk and dump them in my backpack. I’m not looking forward to lunch, but I suppose I chose my destiny when I shoved Piper into a dining hall table yesterday.
I wish I’d pushed harder. Then, maybe, detention would’ve been worth it despite how unfair it feels.
Trudging out of English, I study the Briarcliff brochure, its corners already becoming worn. It’s the only map I’ve found of the school grounds, discovered at the bottom reaches of my backpack where I’d carelessly shoved it before leaving Dad and Lynda. Since my roommate and student guide—I use both terms loosely—is nowhere in sight, I’m trying my damnedest not to be late by using it as a directory.
“Callie. Hey.”
I glance up from the brochure, my shoulder brushing against the stone wall as I find my balance. I’d been sticking to the edges of the hallway, so I don’t bash into anyone while I figure out where the hell I’m going.
Ivy stops in front of me, clutching textbooks to her chest.
“Hi,” I say, carefulness lacing my tone.
“So … how’s your day?”
I fold the brochure. “Shitty.”
Ivy winces, and guilt creeps its way into my throat. I add in a softer tone, “I’m surviving.”
“I didn’t see you at the night regatta yesterday,” Ivy says, perking up.
“I … don’t understand the words coming out of your mouth.”
“Oh.” Ivy laughs. “Sometimes I forget that people have lives outside of this school. Outside of crew.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m still not getting it.
“Briarcliff lives for its athletes, the rowing team especially,” Ivy explains. “Even though it’s off-season, the boys’ and girls’ teams still train stupid-hard. The Night Ride is the anticipated opening head race. It kicks off the school year in the manmade lake, down through the south woods. The guys’ and girls’ eights are what everybody wants to see.”
I purse my lips and nod. “I think I understood most of that.”
“You didn’t go,” Ivy surmises. “I mean, I understand why, but it’s too bad.” A shy smile crosses Ivy's face. “You could’ve seen me whoop Chase’s ass.”
I give her an answering grin. “What’s more badass? That you’re on the rowing team, or that you kicked Chase where it hurts?”
“Well, okay. Maybe I didn’t hurt him too much.” Ivy grimaces. “He’s good. And super strong.”
I don’t doubt it. But I say to her sincerely, “I’m sorry I missed it. You row in this eight that you speak of?”
Ivy nods. “Eight girls in a boat. One coxswain to direct us. You should come to practice. You’re tall. Somewhat graceful.” Ivy’s stare rakes me from head to toe. “I bet you could make the team.”
A peal of laughter escapes me. “No, thanks. I’m not a sports person.”
“But that’s the best part! It’s a team vibe. If you fail or suck or whatever, the rest of us lift you up. It’s amazing. I think you might like it, too.”
“I, uh, I can’t.”
“Look, I know yesterday sucked.” God, Ivy's relentless. “But I’d love the chance to show you the sweeter sides of Briarcliff. You know, the parts without mean rich kids and terrible roommates.”
“Ivy, I can’t.”
“The good exists, I promise. If you open up to it, it starts with crew.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s just not for me.”
“You won’t even try? Callie—”
“Ivy, no.”
“But—”
“I can’t swim!” I yell, then lower my voice as soon as I attract the attention of passing students. “So, thank you, but no.”
Ivy’s staring at me like I’ve just been gang-banged by a passing alien ship. “You … can’t swim?”
I sigh. “I grew up in Manhattan. There aren’t a lot of pools around, not where I lived. Never mind manmade lakes in our backyard. Hell, I can’t even ride a bike.”
“You can’t ride a bike?”
“Would you stop?” I smack her in the arm. “You’re the one friendly face I have here. Don’t ruin it by judging my lack of a suburban childhood.”
“Shoot. I’m sorry.” Ivy shakes herself out of it. “I’m the last person who should be judging. My parents are Danish and like to watch me hitting the cat out of the barrel at Fastelavn.”
I can’t help but laugh with her. “All right, a compromise. I’ll be at the next practice and take a look at you slicing waves through the water so long as you don’t ask me to join crew again.”
Ivy bats her eyes at me like I’m the cutest thing, then loops an arm through mine.
“Slicing waves … that’s not a crew term, is it,” I say.
“Not even kinda.” We settle into a comfortable walk. “Thank you for forgiving me.”
She says it so faintly, I have trouble catching it. Once I do, she changes the subject.
“Where are you headed?” she asks. “I promise I’m way better than an outdated flyer.”
“Shit!” I screech to a halt in the foyer. “Detention!”
“I see you’ve yet to embrace the term prompt,” Dr. Luke says as I knock on today’s assigned detention classroom.
I grimace. “I’m—”
“Sorry. I’m well aware.”
Dr. Luke is propped in a chair with his feet crossed on top of the teacher’s desk, a paperback spread open on his lap.
Piper’s seated in front of him, reading a textbook by standing it vertically on the desk and hunching behind it.
We’re the only two students here.
“Listen, being the new kid sucks,” Dr. Luke says. “Winning over your classmates is hard. Try not to piss off your professors, too, all right?”
Nodding, I step inside. I’m all for friendly teac
hers, but it’s ultra-weird when that teacher is ridiculously hot and close enough to my age that I want him to like me.
“I drew the short straw and got stuck with detention duty all week,” he adds as I plop myself into a front-facing desk—the farthest one from Piper. “Take it from me. Don’t be the short straw.”
I nod again, avoiding his assessment by pulling out my English homework. From my vantage point, I notice that Piper’s using the textbook as a wall to hide the smuggled phone she’s texting on.
“Normally, this is a silent hour where you contemplate all the wrongs you’ve done to Briarcliff Academy,” Dr. Luke says as I straighten. “But, since it’s just the two of you, and I’m your detention proctor, why don’t you guys start the history assignment? You have the added bonus of having me all to yourselves to answer any questions that might pop up.”
“Can’t,” Piper says without looking up. Her thumbs are nothing but a blur over her phone.
Amazing. It’s hard to believe Piper’s so unaffected by Dr. Luke’s looks and his unintended proposition of having him all to ourselves. Is that what it’s like when you’re that pretty? To have the problem of so many prospects that even teachers with movie-star jawlines don’t keep your attention?
You dummy. She doesn’t need to fantasize about Dr. Luke. She already has a god under her hands. She’s had Chase.
The thought of Chase sprawled against her bed sheets, bare-chested and groaning under Piper’s hands as they scrape down his pecs and abs, has me feeling uncomfortably bothered.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to think about Jane Austen.
“I have science homework,” Piper says.
“Uh-huh. And what type of science would that be, Miss Harrington?” Dr. Luke asks.
“Chemistry.”
“Then why do you have your math book open? Are the strange symbols helping you with new emojis to text your friends?”
My eyes widen at his flippant candor. Piper glares at Dr. Luke over the edge of her text. The phone drops to her desk with an obvious and pissed off clatter. She doesn’t break eye contact with him when she does it.
Rival (Briarcliff Secret Society Series Book 1) Page 7