by Lisa Roecker
Bradley Farrow.
He was one of the most popular guys at Pemberly Brown, captain of the lacrosse team and second-year class president.
Oh, and he was gorgeous.
He smirked at me and raised his eyebrows in a silent challenge, forcing me to slow down a little—he was that good-looking. Bradley laughed and quickly moved past me, splashing into the lake ahead with the rest of the runners. When I finally caught up, I dove into the cool water, my thoughts consumed by all things Bradley. I mean, we’d had a moment, right? The thrill of possibilities washed over me along with the murky water. I surfaced and scanned the lake for him, but he had disappeared into the crowd.
I could see Maddie cowering near the shore, her legs slightly bent, desperately trying to keep her body hidden, as usual. And there was Grace. I almost called out until I saw Porter Reynolds swim up next to her. Porter was roughly a seven out of ten on the hotness scale and had blood bluer than any color you’d ever find in a Crayola box.
He was one of those guys always trying to prove he was more hipster than WASP and forever trying to act just as cool (if not cooler) than his older brother, Alistair, reigning king of Pemberly Brown Academy.
Porter and Grace splashed at each other playfully until he stopped and reached over to wipe the drops of water from her forehead. He leaned in all serious and cheesy, and I could have sworn he was going to kiss her, but a wave of water yanked my attention away. Cameron was crouched beside me, staring at Grace in that creepy, intense way of his.
“Hey, Cameron!” I said it brightly in an effort to pull his attention from whatever was going on with Grace—even though Porter seemed to have already disappeared.
“She’s so beautiful, you know?” He didn’t take his eyes off her. “Grace, I mean.”
“Um, yeah, she really is.” I mentally crossed my fingers, hoping that he hadn’t caught the moment between her and Porter.
Without warning, he pushed through the water to Grace. The second he reached her, his arms and lips once again claimed her as his own. I saw her hands pushing him back gently, her laughter ringing out across the water. Something about the way he touched her made me want to push through the water and rescue my best friend, but instead I went in search of Maddie. I’d rather hear her bitch about the size of her thighs than watch Grace make out with that sketchball.
This was going to be some year.
Chapter 3
Present Day
Wednesday morning, bus 315 jerked and stuttered around the stately neighborhoods surrounding Pemberly Brown Academy, and my head banged against the finger-smudged windows. The air reeked of the drugstore cologne boys bought after seeing ads in Maxim.
Between the fits and starts of the bus and the overwhelming smell of teenagers in heat, my head throbbed. Waves of nausea rolled through my stomach, and I was dangerously close to blowing chunks all over my squirrelly next-door neighbor, Seth Allen, who sat next to me.
Seth had put some serious effort into what he wore today. His uniform shirt was deliberately wrinkled with portions strategically untucked, making it clear that his overbearing mother must have been busy that morning. As usual, his cheeks were a feverish red, and his orange hair was wild, although he seemed to have used half a tube of man-product in an attempt to tame it.
Despite the carefully ironed crease down the center of each pant leg and the blinding whiteness of his brand-new Pumas, you had to give the guy an A for effort.
“So I’m pretty sure that Mr. Lansdowne is in some kind of cult,” Seth said between bites of a breakfast sandwich. I knew without having to ask that this was not his first breakfast. For as long as I’d known Seth, he had always been trying to “bulk up.” Based on his 130-pound frame, I think it was safe to say it wasn’t working. As he chewed, he eyed Grace’s pearls and my hand flew to my neck, suddenly self-conscious. I had worn them that morning on a whim, thinking they’d give me the courage to confront Cameron, but I was already regretting my decision.
“Mr. Lansdowne isn’t in a cult. He just likes to walk at night.” I rolled my eyes at Seth and went back to typing one last borderline-desperate message to Cameron. My parents were going to flip when they saw how many texts I’d used in the past twenty-four hours, but I had to talk to him. Alone. Grilling him about Grace was going to be awkward enough; confronting him in front of his stoner friends was unthinkable.
“Yeah, like anyone goes speed walking in long black robes.” Seth stared at the pearls again. I opened my mouth to say something, but the bus hit a bump and Seth’s knee knocked into mine. I scooted closer to the window.
“It’s a bathrobe, you jackass.” Couldn’t old people be eccentric anymore? The only benefit of being seventy-five has got to be the fact that you can get away with acting insane and not give a damn about what everyone else thinks. I, for one, couldn’t wait to be the crazy old pink-haired lady who walked the dog in her favorite Versace gown. And pearls.
I leaned my head against the bus window and shut my eyes, praying Seth would get the hint and leave me alone so I could focus on not barfing. Although, puking on him might finally force him to ditch me like everyone else, not to mention make his shoes look a little bit more broken in.
Since Grace’s death, everyone else at school had treated me like a social pariah, but for some reason Seth refused to give up. He was constantly trying to get me sucked into his crazy conspiracy theories about our neighbors and was always asking questions about Grace and my feelings (hence the intense pearl-staring).
The part of me that tried desperately to be a loner wanted him to leave me alone, but the part of me that longed for a friend made me want to show him the email. I mean, if anyone would believe me, it was Seth. But then I remembered Grace’s warning: They’ll hurt you. And I swallowed back the urge to spill my guts.
A ball of aluminum foil bounced off the back of Seth’s head, and an even deeper flush crept over his cheeks. I rolled my eyes. Couldn’t the burnouts in the back of the bus at least think of some more creative methods of bullying? Before I could stop myself, I spun around to see two first-years snickering with their uniform ties looped around their heads.
“Hey, Lame and Lamer!” They froze and stared at me, not quite sure how to react. “Just thought I’d let you know that you’ve managed to piss off the most powerful guy at Pemberly Brown. This guy,” I said, gesturing at Seth’s curls, “is Seth Allen Brown. His family, like, founded the school,” I lied, “and he’s probably texting the headmaster about your expulsion as we speak. Good luck!”
Lame looked like he might cry, and Lamer was already muttering about how sorry he was. I sat back down next to Seth feeling pretty pleased with myself as he gaped at me, his features tangled up with a mixture of embarrassment, amazement, and (God help me) love.
“Thanks, Kate.”
“Whatever.”
“Um…the pearls…” He stared down at them intently again. “Are they…”
But I had already tuned him out, shoving earbuds into my ears. My stomach sank as it always did as we drove through the iron gate, the bus ambling its way up a long, tree-lined lane. The massive oak trees created a shadowed canopy that hugged the edges of the road as we passed the lower school, then the middle school, and finally pulled in front of the upper school.
I used to think this last part of the drive was sort of magical, like I was entering a whole new world. But now the entire campus looked like a graveyard to me. A graveyard haunted by memories of Grace.
I sucked in my breath as the bus crept past the line of thick trees that marked the ruins of the chapel. I couldn’t stop myself from pressing my face against the window, sure that if I tried hard enough I’d see her. But as usual, there was nothing left but rubble.
We had arrived.
Chapter 4
As we filed off the bus, I looked around at the Tudor-style buildings. The ivy climbing up the walls almost completely obscured the brick hidden beneath. Pemberly Brown Academy was one of those obnoxious private schools
that took itself very seriously, and this was reflected in every square inch of the campus. Being a student there was a little like going to school on a movie set depicting the perfect private school: all archways, cobblestones, and antique-looking plaques bearing obscure Latin quotes.
Grace’s long pearl necklace bumped against my chest in time with my steps, and I shot Seth a my-music’s-too-loud-I-can’t-hear-you look when he tried to ask a question about my schedule. Walking through the main doors of the upper school, I unconsciously slapped my palm against Station 1, a bronze plaque proclaiming, Aut disce aut discede. “Either learn or leave.”
The Twelve Stations of the Academy had been placed at key spots throughout the campus to express the philosophies of the founders. In Latin. Pretentious much? Most of the students didn’t take the time to translate, but as one of only ten students who had somehow gotten suckered into studying a dead language, I felt it was my academic obligation to memorize every single one. Guess I just have a way with useless information. Lucky me.
One of the many random traditions at PB was to touch a station plaque for good luck in hopes of acing a test or finally scoring the lead in the school play. Today I wasn’t concerned with passing a test, just figuring out who had killed my best friend. Tall order for a good-luck ritual, I guess.
You’d never know it was just after 7:00 a.m. Students shouted across the hall, slapped shoulders, and gossiped loudly, making me regret my decision to skip my morning latte. The email from Grace had resurrected all the feelings that twelve months of therapy had tried to erase. Sleepless nights were only one of the side effects.
When I lost Grace, I didn’t lose just one friend—I lost all of my friends. In fact, I lost everything. It was like a giant pair of scissors had come along and neatly snipped my life in two. There was now a distinct before and after, and I still hadn’t figured out who I was in life after Grace.
I had spent the past year trying to convince my parents that Grace’s death was more than just a freak accident. Instead of helping me, they had shipped me off to endless appointments with my shrink, Dr. Lowen, who I fondly referred to as Dr. Prozac. My parents thought I was delusional, distressed, withdrawn. They claimed that when I’d lost Grace, they had lost their daughter.
What they didn’t realize was that I’d lost me too.
I checked my phone one last time before turning it to silent. Despite sending Grace email after email the night before, it didn’t look like she’d be offering anymore help. She’d returned to silent ghost status. God, I just hoped she was okay. Wherever she was. But the email had given me a new purpose. I wasn’t just sad or even angry anymore. Don’t get me wrong: I was angry, but now my anger had a direction. It could be harnessed.
I spotted Bradley Farrow casually leaning against a locker, all smiles and dimples, his friends hanging on every word. The familiar feelings of guilt wound their way through my body just like they did every time I saw him. I should have been there to save Grace, but I had chosen Bradley instead.
I had failed her—just like everyone else.
Forcing my eyes down as I walked past Bradley, I noticed Maddie hovering next to her new bestie, Pemberly Brown’s resident queen bee, Taylor Wright. Their ever-present bodyguard, Bethany Giordano, stood a foot or two away protecting the girls from the masses hanging out at Station 4, outside the main computer lab.
They obviously had never bothered to translate the meaning behind the station: Liberae sunt nostrae cogitationes. “Our thoughts are free.” Something told me “free thought” wasn’t a consideration for Queen Taylor and her bitches-in-waiting.
Bethany’s eyes started at the top of my head and slowly made their way down to my plain, black ballet flats, assessing every inch of me. A sneer of disapproval twisted her dark features and made me want to punch her. Of course, I wouldn’t dare. She was built like a linebacker. Not fat or even unattractive, just super-tall and sort of meaty.
She was the youngest of seven in a huge Italian family, and her six older brothers were all defensive linemen on college football teams. Grace, Maddie, and I had privately given her the nickname “Beefany” last year after it became clear she could kick the asses of half the guys on the lacrosse team.
As I knelt in front of my locker, I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder at Maddie and smile, remembering our inside joke. My eyes lingered on her emaciated legs jutting out from beneath the plaid skirt of her school uniform. She looked like she was living off Diet Coke and air. It was hard to believe this was the same girl who had once devoured an entire gallon of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream with me. She caught me staring and completely ignored me before turning and whispering something in Taylor’s ear.
Taylor’s bright blue eyes were frigid as she turned to look directly at me. She was the last in the line of Wright sisters, collectively known as the Three Ts, who ran the social scene at PB. Rumor had it that her two older sisters, Tinsley and Teagan, had worked an entire summer with Taylor to perfect her version of their patented icy stare. All that training had definitely paid off.
Although Taylor was stuck in the same boring uniform as the rest of us, her Tiffany jewelry—plus Chanel ballet flats, and a buttery leather bag that probably weighed more than Maddie—made her look ready for the runway.
The three girls stared me down for a few awkward seconds, and then Taylor burst out laughing. At one time that laughter would have been enough to force me into the girls bathroom for the rest of the day, but for once I didn’t have time to obsess over the ice queen and her lackeys. I slammed my locker door shut and glanced at the clock.
They’re called priorities. And Cameron was my number one.
I spotted him ducking out one of the side doors with his sketchy friends. Just before the door shut behind him, Cameron cast a quick look back and our eyes locked across the busy hallway. Even though he was the same guy I’d played capture the flag with in sixth grade and the same guy Grace had obsessed over since middle school, he looked like a stranger to me.
But I remembered the Cameron we’d grown up with. I remembered how he’d loved Grace in a desperate, almost dangerous way. And I remembered him going crazy with jealousy when she flirted with other guys.
Grace had hidden away a secret in the weeks leading up to her death. I’d always assumed she’d found another guy and that she was planning on dumping Cameron. But after the email, it was clear Cameron knew more about Grace’s secret than he’d let on.
With his hands against the door, he cocked his head in a silent challenge before pushing through and letting the door slam behind him. He knew I didn’t have the guts to confront him in front of his friends, but what he didn’t know was that I had a killer Plan B.
Chapter 5
I made my way to Station 3, the school office, and touched the cold bronze on my way in. Faber est suae quisque fortunae: “Every man is the artisan of his own fortune.” Around the corner, I saw Seth organizing files. He had study hall first period, and while every other student lucky enough to have a free first period could be found sleeping in, grabbing breakfast, or even—I don’t know—studying, Seth spent his helping out in the school office.
“Hi again,” I said, adjusting the bag on my shoulder.
Seth poked his head out the door and grinned from ear to ear. Then he glanced at the clock. “I thought you had English Lit first period.”
I twisted Grace’s pearls between my fingers and flinched when Seth’s line of vision fell to the necklace again. He opened his mouth to say something, but I beat him to it.
“Yes, they’re hers. Would you just stop looking at me?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them.
This was exactly what Dr. Prozac was talking about when he told me to “weigh my words.” Seth looked hurt so I backpedaled.
“I’m sorry, it’s just…I’m just…I don’t know…tired. I didn’t come here to pick a fight. I just…um…wanted to say hi…again.” And to find out the combination to Cameron Thompson’s locker.
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br /> Seth leaned against the gray metal filing cabinet, lost his footing, and almost fell on the floor. Once he recovered, he reached into his blazer pocket to pull out a plastic bag containing a crustless PB&J, completely unfazed by his own dorkiness. I guess in a way you had to respect him for that.
“It’s okay. I was just going to say they look good on you. The pearls, I mean.”
I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes and instead cracked a painful-looking smile. “Oh,” I said, lifting the strand, “thanks.”
“Hey, I hope you have a hall pass from your first-period teacher. Sinclair’s been coming down hard on tardies, and I know how your parents feel about demerits.”
This was exactly why Seth and I had never made the leap from next-door neighbors to real friends. He was always remembering inconvenient factoids about my life. Usually the very thing I was trying to forget.
“I’m just not feeling well. Girl problems.” That ought to shut him up.
It did. He turned so red that for a moment his freckles disappeared, and he shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth.
“Oh, well,” he said, with a mouthful of bread, “are you here to see the nurse? I can get her.” He fumbled with the now-empty sandwich bag in his hands as his jaw worked on the sandwich.
“No, no,” I said a little too quickly. “I just…well, this is really embarrassing. I sort of forgot my locker combination. You know…one of the weird side effects of this time of the month is forgetfulness.”
His eyes found the ceiling, as though if he looked at me directly he’d magically sprout ovaries. “I, well…I actually know where we can look that up. What’s your locker number?”
“Number 543,” I lied effortlessly, crossing my fingers that Seth was too flustered to recall my actual locker number.
Seth disappeared into one of the back rooms of the office and reappeared shortly. He relayed the combination to me a little breathlessly, either from running around the office or from the sheer excitement of interacting with a girl. It was hard to say which.