by Ohlin, Nancy
“That’s what the students all call it, anyway,” Gita adds.
“Becca is the sophomore who died last spring,” Gita’s mom reminds the dad. “Such a tragedy. She was a lovely girl. So full of promise.”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” the dad says. “It’s very nice they have this memorial for her.”
Gita notices me just then. She smiles nervously and waves—probably because she realizes I overheard her talking about my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend.
“Hey, Tess,” she calls out. “I’m showing my parents around.”
“That’s nice,” I reply stiffly.
Gita says something else, but I mutter an excuse and keep walking. I can’t believe this fountain is a memorial to Becca. I can’t believe no one told me.
I think about the time I followed Max out of the movie and found him throwing pebbles at the stone pillar. Does he like to sit by the fountain and think about her?
Now I’m in a really bad mood.
I reach the library and run up the steps two at a time. The lobby’s almost empty, except for a man and a woman admiring some student photographs on the wall. The woman looks over, and I stop in my tracks and clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.
Becca.
No, not Becca. It’s a woman who looks a lot like her. She has the same pale blond hair, which is pulled back into a ponytail; the same cheekbones; the same blue eyes. She’s wearing an elegant black suit and high-heeled boots.
The man with her turns too. A young man. Killian Montgomery.
His face lights up. “Well, hello there, stranger!”
“Um . . . hi.” I can’t stop staring at the woman.
“Killian? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” the woman prompts him.
“Oh, my apologies. Where are my manners? Tess, this is my mother, Jean Montgomery. Mother, this is my very dear friend, Tess Szekeres.”
Becca’s aunt. “Hello, Mrs. Montgomery,” I say, trying to recover my composure.
“Hello, Tess,” Mrs. Montgomery says. “I don’t remember Killian mentioning you.”
“Tess and I have just recently become acquainted. You could say it was love at first sight. Isn’t that right, Tess?” Killian walks over and wraps his arm around my shoulders.
“I, um.”
“You’ve been ignoring me, you bad girl! Where have you been?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been really busy,” I say, flustered.
He tousles my hair playfully. “I am absolutely taking you to lunch. Next Saturday. And this time, I won’t take no for an answer.”
I’m not sure how to decline politely. “Um, okay.”
“Then it’s settled. And don’t you dare try to cancel. I will march into Kerrith, throw you over my shoulder, and carry you to Le Canard Danse if I have to.”
“Honestly, Killian,” Mrs. Montgomery chides him.
“Just a figure of speech, Mother. You and I need to get to the airport or you’ll miss your flight to Philly,” Killian says, tapping his watch.
“Yes, of course. It was nice to meet you, Tess.”
“It was nice to meet you too, Mrs. Montgomery.”
Killian pecks me on the cheek, then escorts his mother out the door. I stand there as though I’d been sucker punched. Twice. First, I learn about Becca’s stupid fountain. Then, I find out that Becca’s aunt was here for Parents’ Weekend. Did Max see her? Did they reminisce about Becca? Was he lying to me when he said he was busy with his parents and with soccer practice all weekend?
Jealousy and anxiety overwhelm me. I rub my throbbing temples. I almost wish I had gone down to the beach with Devon and the girls.
Of course, I could still go.
Instead, I head back to my room. I’m tired of all these secrets. And with Devon occupied, I’m finally going to get some answers.
25.
KERRITH HALL IS SILENT AS A GRAVE. I GUESS EVERYONE IS still saying good-bye to their parents, or hanging out on the quad, or getting high on the beach, or whatever.
Up in the room, I quickly lock the door. I’m not sure how long I have until Devon gets back.
I want to get past my confusion, doubt, and insecurity once and for all. Becca’s laptop is a blank slate, and I can’t find anything useful online. Devon’s silver box is the only place left that may hold clues to Becca and Max’s relationship—and the tension between the people in their little orbit, like Killian and Franklin.
What is in that box? Besides that photo of Becca in her sexy bikini, that is?
I dig through Devon’s jewelry chest. I find the key in a nest of necklaces and bracelets, then I hurry over to her desk and pull the box out of her bottom drawer.
I wait for the same warm, tingling sensation as before. Nothing. I run my hand over the entire surface. Still nothing. I wonder if I imagined the whole thing. Maybe it was static shock, like when you walk across carpet and touch metal?
It’s not important now. Excited and nervous, I insert the key and lift the lid.
The box is filled to the brim with mementos. There are more photographs of Becca. Photographs of Becca and Devon. Airline ticket stubs for trips to Paris, London, Madrid. Dried flower petals. A white silk scarf. A teddy bear key chain. A tube of shimmery pink lipstick. An empty perfume bottle.
I touch the perfume bottle to my wrist and inhale deeply. The fragrance is so familiar, but I can’t quite place it. I pick up the white silk scarf and wrap it around my neck. It is impossibly soft, like a whisper.
And then something catches my eye. Underneath the pile of keepsakes is a red leather diary. With the initial B emblazoned on the cover, in gold.
I lift the diary with trembling hands and open it to the first page. I recognize Becca’s lovely, florid handwriting:
September 18
Today was a good day. It was so warm outside. D and I skipped lunch and gave each other mani-pedis on the lawn. Then I had Streetcar auditions after class. Fingers crossed, but I think I might get the part of Blanche. Mr. R was smiling at me during my “kindness of strangers” speech like I was Vivian Leigh reincarnated. Or maybe he just enjoyed my outfit. Mother would so not approve of the tight dress I wore to audition, but I really want the part. (Ha!)
After dinner, D and I watched old Buffy episodes on her laptop and drank shots. I’m so glad she and I are roommates again this year. She is the most loyal friend I have ever had. I only wish I could talk to her about M. Maybe one of these days I will.
I frown. Why couldn’t Becca tell Devon about Max? Were they keeping their relationship under wraps in the beginning? Or did Becca have a secret crush on him?
I read on:
Speaking of M, he texted tonight and said he wants to meet up this weekend. I don’t know what to tell him. I want to be with him, but I know I shouldn’t. I’m so mixed up.
Now I’m mixed up. Why couldn’t Becca be with him? Unless by “be with” she meant something else . . . as in sex? I can relate to that, since all I’ve ever done with Max or any boy is kiss. It’s weird and annoying, thinking that Becca and I share this problem.
Shared, I correct myself.
I skip ahead several pages:
September 24
D and I went skinny-dipping at the beach yesterday. The water was cold but not freezing. I thought we were alone, but I spotted Mr. S on top of the cliff, watching us. As soon as he saw me notice him, he left. Creeper.
M sailed by at one point in the boat, and D and I gave him a peek. Bad girls!
Last night, D spent the night down the hall, and M spent the night in our room. Heaven.
My stomach twists. Okay, so I guess they did have sex after all. I imagine Max watching Becca’s beautiful, naked body jumping in the waves, and Devon’s, too. I imagine Max and Becca alone, later . . . .
I really don’t want to read any more. But I can’t help myself.
I flip to a random page in the middle.
January 14
I’m so miserable. I want to die.
Wait, what? Why
was she miserable? Becca was super-successful and popular. She and Max were in love. They were having hot sex.
This doesn’t make any sense.
In the hallway, voices and footsteps approach. I scramble to put Becca’s diary back in the box just as I found it and unravel her scarf from my neck. I lock everything up and put the key back. The voices and footsteps grow louder, then recede.
I stare at Devon’s desk drawer, breathing hard. I can still smell Becca’s perfume on my skin.
Becca was—is—the enemy. But now she’s more than that; she’s a mystery.
Who was the real Becca? The perfect girl with the perfect life? Or a girl with dark secrets? Or both?
I am walking down the path, the one that winds through the woods by Thorn Abbey and leads down to the beach. The air is cool and wet with rain, and my footsteps are light on the carpet of brown, fallen leaves as I hurry down to the place where I know he is waiting for me. My cheeks are cold, and my heavy wool sweater scratches against my skin, but I don’t care because I can already feel his strong arms around my body and his warm lips against mine.
And then I am at the bottom of the hill. The beach rises above the horizon, endless and gray. Suddenly, I feel exposed. Frightened. The air is different here: bigger, less forgiving. It smells like the sea and salt and dead things.
I move closer to the water. A wave rushes up to my boots and then snakes away, leaving two identical dark stains. I shudder against the chill and look around. Where is he, and why is he late?
I wake with a start. The room is frigid. The window is open, and the curtains are flapping and twisting in the breeze. Across the room, Devon’s bed is empty. The clock reads 6:20 a.m. Where is she?
Still dazed from my dream, I get up to close the window. That’s when I see the words scrawled in big, drippy red letters on the wall above my bed:
BE CAREFUL
26.
“IT WASN’T THERE WHEN I WENT TO BED LAST NIGHT,” I INSIST.
The security guard, whose name tag reads ALFRED, peers skeptically at the message on the wall. He leans over and sniffs. “Cherries,” he pronounces.
“Excuse me?”
“Cherries. That lip stuff you gals wear,” he says.
I lean over and sniff too. He’s right: It smells like fruity lip gloss.
“I’m guessing your roommate decided to play a prank on you,” Alfred says. “Did you ask her?”
Devon’s bed is still made up. She never came home last night. But I can’t tell Alfred that or he might report her to Mrs. Frith for missing curfew.
“Um, she’s taking a shower,” I fib. “She didn’t write that, though. I asked her.”
“This isn’t the sort of thing most people’ll admit to, if you know what I mean,” Alfred points out. “You two fighting over a fellow?”
“No!” But sometimes, it feels as though her ex-roommate and I are.
“Look, I’ll make a note of it. Let me know if it happens again.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Alfred leaves. I glance at my clock. It’s just after seven a.m. I wonder if Alfred is right—or half-right, anyway? Did I forget to lock the door before I went to bed? Maybe some freaky Kerrith girl snuck into the room in the middle of the night and scribbled that message on my wall?
But why? And be careful of what?
It’s scary to think it happened while I was sleeping, even if it was a dumb, innocent prank.
I consider calling Max to tell him about the incident. Girls call their boyfriends about stuff like this, right? I’m not sure what he would say or do, though. Maybe he’d think it was a prank too, and that I was overreacting.
Last night, he and I went for a walk after dinner, and I felt the old distance creeping between us. He was moody, like something was weighing on him. I wanted to tell him I know about “Becca’s fountain.” I also wanted to tell him that I’d met Becca’s aunt and to ask him if he’d seen her this weekend too.
But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t want to seem paranoid or jealous, even though that’s how I was feeling inside.
I also wanted to tell him about the silver box. But that was out of the question too. Oh, yeah, by the way, I broke into Devon’s stuff and started reading your ex-girlfriend’s diary. She wrote these things about you that didn’t make any sense . . . .
Max and I were so close on Friday, when he kissed me and told me how he felt about me. I wish we could go back to that.
I wish there were no secrets between us.
I grab a sweatshirt and start scrubbing at the message on the wall.
I wish I knew what in the hell was going on.
At lunch, Devon and Yoonie show up fifteen minutes later than usual and plunk their trays down on the table. They’re both pale, and their eyes are bloodshot.
Devon frowns at her salad. “Ugh. There’s no way I can eat this.”
“Me neither. Maybe we should fast today. You know, restore our purity and equilibrium,” Yoonie suggests.
“Yes! Smart! Tess, what is that? It smells disgusting.”
“It’s a tuna sandwich,” I say defensively. “Are you guys all right?”
“We overindulged yesterday,” Yoonie explains delicately.
What am I supposed to say to that? “I’m sorry. Where are Priscilla and Elinor?”
“They’re still asleep. I crashed with them.” Devon eyes my food. “You don’t need this.” She picks up my tray and hands it to a nearby cafeteria lady. “Take this away, please.”
“Devon! I was eating that!”
“Seriously, don’t make me lecture you about calories again. That stuff’s loaded with mayo. And did you forget about carbs?” Devon pushes her own tray aside. “So what did you do yesterday after you bailed on us? Hot date with the boyfriend?”
“I went to the library. Then Max and I went for a walk after dinner.”
“Wow, you’re like an old married couple.” Devon smirks.
“Here.” Yoonie slides her salad over to me. “I think you and Max are super-cute together.”
“Thanks, Yoonie. And thanks for the salad,” I say.
“No probs.”
Of the four girls, Yoonie has always been the nicest to me. Followed by Priscilla, followed by Elinor. Devon is a total wild card. One minute she is kind and protective of me, like a big sister. The next minute, she reduces me to emotional rubble. And seems to enjoy it.
Devon digs through her purse and slips on a pair of bronze-colored sunglasses. “It’s obvious why you and Max are together, isn’t it?” she remarks. “You’re a rebound. A safe choice. Max doesn’t want to risk getting emotionally involved after what happened.”
She’s obviously in emotional-rubble mode. “Excuse me?”
“Sorry, that came out wrong. What I meant was, you’re a really, really nice person. And I’m sure Max feels really, really comfortable with you,” Devon says sweetly.
I grit my teeth, wishing I could think of a good comeback.
The problem is . . . what if Devon is right?
27.
“IT’S NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN, MISS,” THE MAITRE D’ AT LE Canard Danse says. “You too, sir,” he adds to Killian.
Killian turns to me. “So you’ve been here before. No doubt with old Maxi. I’m terribly jealous.”
I blush and stammer and explain about having dinner here with Max a couple of weekends ago. The maitre d’ leads us to our table. I remember to let him pull out my chair and sit down semi-gracefully. I learned my lesson at the Hawk and Dove.
The waiter comes by to take our drink orders. He’s the same one who served Max and me. “We have the boeuf bourguignon on the lunch menu today,” he tells me helpfully. “But if you’d prefer something lighter, we have some lovely fish specials.”
“No, the beef is great,” I say immediately.
“My, what a sophisticated palate you have,” Killian compliments me. “I’ll have the same. And we’ll share the cheese plate after.”
“Very good
, sir.”
The waiter disappears. Killian steeples his hands under his chin and smiles affably at me. “So, here we are. I’m so glad I lured you away from your very busy schedule.”
I hesitate. I can’t exactly tell Killian that I’ve been avoiding him after Franklin’s warning.
“There’s so much homework at this school,” I say lightly. “I feel like I practically live at the library!”
“You’re one of those responsible, studious types. How charming,” Killian says. “I myself have a very efficient system: I do the minimum work necessary to maintain a B average. That gives me the freedom I require to pursue other interests.”
“Like?” I ask curiously.
“Oh, this and that. Lacrosse. Sailing. Throwing soirees. Helping my uncle manage a hedge fund.”
The word “uncle” jolts me—Becca’s father? I probably shouldn’t plunge right into the million questions I have about her. “What’s a hedge fund?” I ask instead.
“That’s the problem with these uppish private schools like Thorn Abbey. They don’t teach us anything practical. A hedge fund is an investment vehicle for people who have a lot of money and aren’t afraid to play with it.”
“That sounds interesting. Is that what you want to do someday? For a career, I mean?” I find myself oddly comfortable talking to Killian and asking him questions about himself. There is an easy air about him, like we’re two old friends sitting around and catching up.
“I have no idea. If I had my druthers, I’d rather not have to pin myself down to something as tedious as a career.” He grins. “But enough about me. What about you? What do you do for kicks, darling? Besides while away the hours with your high-maintenance boyfriend, that is?”
“High maintenance?” I repeat. What is he talking about? And how would he know what kind of boyfriend Max is?
“You are loyal to the bone, aren’t you? You don’t need to pretend with me. Becky used to tell me all about his mood swings. One minute, a ray of sunshine. The next minute, a veritable typhoon. Of course, it was nothing that a good psychiatrist and twenty milligrams of Prozac a day couldn’t cure.”