by Lucy Auburn
The bathroom that surrounds these girls has to match their beauty—anything less would be offensive. Even the plain girls here have nice skin and hair, perfect prim nails, and can contour away the bumpy nose they’ll likely get shaved down post-graduation. They don’t sleep in old gym shorts or put their hair up in a bun on a bad hair day.
In contrast I look like something their purebred cat dragged in from the acreage behind their fancy houses in upstate New York. My skincare routine only recently included moisturizer, and everything I have with me was bought from a drug store. Hell, my shampoo and conditioner still have the clearance stickers on them.
“Brenna!” Holly, who’s blowing her wet hair out at one of the vanities, waves in my general direction. "You took my advice."
"I did."
"Then you're off to a great start already," she says, like her advice on when to shower could possibly make or break my life. "I'm almost done here, so I'll see you back in the room. Then we can talk about what you'll be doing as the newest recruit."
I sense eyes on me, and wonder how the other girls will react to the discovery that the trailer trash from Virginia is about to be a Rosalind. Somehow, based on the cutting looks they're shooting me, I doubt they're about to be my number one fans.
A shower stall frees up in front of me, and I take my caddy in. There’s a little hook on the wall with a stool beneath it, leaving a space for me to hang up my towel and fold my clothes. I carefully leave them on the stool and turn the shower on to its hottest setting, thankful for how quick it heats up and how strong the pressure is. The water pressure at my aunt’s house, where my mother and I have been staying since the tornado, has left much to be desired.
I put the caddy on a little cutout in the middle of the shower wall, then pull out my only, most favorite remaining nice thing: a pair of waterproof earbuds. They were given to me by my former best friend Maggie, who came back from Rhode Island with her boyfriend long enough to give me her overwrought condolences and a few presents that pass for her version of friendship.
Of the presents, I gave the eyeshadow palette to Jade, my actual friend, and left the movie theater gift card with my mom. But the earbuds I kept, and as I turn them on and slip them into my ears, they effortlessly sync up to my three-year-old smart phone and start playing the playlist I have queued.
As I slip beneath the hot water and start lathering up my scalp with shampoo, I let the music soothe my soul. Alone with my thoughts, eyes closed and body relaxing beneath the spray, I let myself let go of the past and the future for just a moment. I let my mind wander and forget. Revenge takes a backseat to just... being. The song switches, and Billie Eilish’s voice croons raspy lyrics over a steady beat.
What do you want from me? Why do you run from me?
I scrub at my scalp until it feels clean, wash the shampoo off and run my fingers through my hair with a palmful of conditioner.
What are you wondering? What do you know?
Then I move on to exfoliating, scrubbing every bit of my arms and legs until I feel like a reptile shedding its skin.
Why aren’t you scared of me? Why do you care for me?
Finally, I shave all the stubble from my legs and armpits, very aware of the fact that the in thing to wear at Coleridge is the academy’s blue tartan skirt with knee high socks, an absurd throwback to school uniforms of yesterday. I may not have a blowout, but I can have smooth legs.
When we all fall asleep, where do we go?
There’s a sound outside the shower, and cool air briefly ruffles the shower curtain. I frown until I hear the door audibly close; someone must have thought this stall was empty, and I forgot to lock the door. It’s time to go anyway; I’ve been in here long enough, and I’ve still got to dry off, put on my Coleridge-approved clothing, and head to Calculus I to discover what horrors await me for an hour and a half.
Turning off the water, I push the shower curtain back and reach out for the towel. Once I’ve dried off reasonably and wrapped it around my middle, I grab for my clean clothes on the stool.
They aren’t there.
My bluetooth earbuds click off the music and tell me, “bluetooth disconnected.” My phone, stashed in the front pocket of the old gym shorts I wore last night, is at least twenty feet away.
Someone took my things.
Chapter 12
It isn't hard to figure out the culprits. The redhead and the dark-haired girl from the sitting area are leaning up against the wall of vanities, smirks playing on their faces, joined by the girl who was painting their nails. Something about the third girl is familiar; I feel like I've seen her somewhere while I was doing my research.
"So." I eye the three of them, suddenly aware of the fact that the bathroom is empty now; the makeup and hair dryer girls are gone, including Holly. "I guess you three must have taken my clothes. How original of you to copy something straight out of a made-for-TV movie from the nineties."
"We wouldn't know," says the dark-haired girl, holding her fingers out delicately to let her nail polish dry. "None of us have ever watch that shit on a... what's it called? Tape player?"
"VHS tape," chimes in the redhead.
"Thanks Georgia. You're a peach."
"Welcome Veronica."
The gears turn in my head. I may not know these girls yet, but soon I will—and I'll know their secrets too.
"So, what did you do with my clothes?" I peer around them towards the sinks, then stalk to the toilet stalls and push the doors open. "Stuff them down a toilet and flush? Because that's bad for these old pipes, you know."
Nail polish girl rolls her eyes, stark freckles standing out on her tanned skin, her features a unique mix, from the Roman nose to the monolid eyes and straight black hair. "People like us don't worry about things like pipes. It's not like we're plumbers."
"Is that what you are?" asks Veronica, a condescendingly pitying tone in her voice. "A teenage plumber putting her hand in shit?"
I don't bother to tell her that's not how it works. No doubt she'd just make fun of me for knowing.
"You know, if you were thinking of pranks to pull, you could've been a little more original." Pacing around the bathroom, I find my clothes in the top of the trash. There are three sets of eyes on me; shame courses across my skin. "At least the girls who bullied Martha Hayes got her killed in a fire. That's never been done before. Live up to the example your foremothers set and brainstorm a little before you pull this shit."
I'm going to have to do it, I realize. The clothes I can live without—it looks like they cut holes in them anyway. But my cell phone is irreplaceable, at least on my budget, especially with the money from working on the Rosalinds not coming in for quite a while. Not to mention it has a wallet case that I slipped my ID inside, and I won't be able to eat without that ID, much less get into my dorm. The fee to replace it is also out of my reach.
So I lean forward, hold my breath, and fish my cell phone out of the back pocket of my shorts.
Ignoring the hoots of laughter behind me as the girls watch me rummage around in the trash.
Georgia says, through tears, "For something 'unoriginal' that sure was fun to watch. I didn't think she'd actually do it, but you were right Veronica! Trailer trash does know where it belongs."
Jerking up, I glare at all of them, even as my bluetooth earbuds reconnect to the phone and start playing music in my ears. This time it's a Red Velvet song, so poppy and upbeat I have to pause it, because it doesn't fit the fiery rage I feel inside.
"I guess the only thing you guys fight with is classism and ignorance." I stare them straight on, smirking as my mind places the third girl, and I remember where I saw the redhead. "You're Heather Tan, right? Of the Hong Kong Tans. I guess it makes sense you'd have to make fun of me, since you're a lonely little girl whose father doesn't love you enough to want to even be in the same country as you."
The other girls gasp, and Heather clenches her fists, staring me down. "That's not true."
"Isn't it
?" I cock my head at her. "I guess we'll find out on Parents' Weekend next semester. Say what you will about where I grew up, but at least my daddy loves me." A twist on the truth—my dad only ever showed his "love" by not hitting me the way he hit my brother—but these girls don't need to know that. "Of course an ignorant girl like you would assume every southerner grew up in a trailer park. You probably haven't ever stepped outside a boarding school."
"And?" She tilts her chin up, a smirk on her face. "So what?"
"So," I tell her, enunciating every syllable, "don't you think it's a bad sign? After all, your father owns property from here to Shanghai, but he's never taken you on a tour of any of his buildings. Unlike your younger brother Phillip, who's posed to get everything and then some."
I shake my head in her direction, putting on a faux pitying voice. "Too bad you're such a dumbass. You'll need to get a good degree from a good college if you want to survive out there in the real world. But your daddy doesn't love you enough to even pretend like he wants to groom you for the family business."
"How dare you!"
She lunges towards me and puts her hands on my shoulders, pushing so hard I go flying into the stall at my back. I barely manage to brace myself enough to keep from falling into the toilet, one hand grabbing the stall door, the other jerking the towel up while keeping a precarious hold on my phone.
My ankle smarts almost instantly, but it's all worth it for the look in her eyes.
Nothing kills a mean girl's spirit like the truth. And if there's one thing rich, spoiled girls don't have, it's love from their distant parents. My mom would welcome me home with open arms, even if it meant sleeping on the couch of her tiny new apartment and giving me her bed. I doubt their parents would say the same, and they have guest rooms to spare.
"Now now, Heather." The redhead steps forward and tugs her friend back, a sharp expression on her face. "We know better than to act like that. And of course, as a Rosalind, I can't let you start a fist fight. Though I'll look over you accidentally stumbling into the new girl, since that's clearly what it is."
She's one of the Rosalinds. That shouldn't surprise me, but it sets my nerves on edge. I need that job to get easy pocket change and do some investigation—losing it would suck.
"You know," I say, glancing over at the trash can, "my roommate would be upset to learn that someone threw my clothing in the trash. It's not very Coleridge-like behavior, after all."
Georgia rolls her eyes dramatically. "And what, I'm supposed to be afraid of your roommate for some reason? Is she a corn-fed fatty who's gonna suffocate me to death in her rolls?"
"You haven't heard?" I put a faux-surprised tone in my voice, cocking my head to one side and looking at the girls. "I'm rooming with Holly Schneider. She even recruited me into the Rosalinds. Apparently a girl dropped out right before the school year started." Stepping close, I confide in a low murmur, "I guess another spot is about to open up, since you'll be kicked out for this little stunt the instant I tell her what happened."
Eyes wide, Georgia's lined mouth forms a shocked O shape. "You wouldn't."
Veronica scoffs. "Holly would stand by you, Georgie. You're Tanner's best girl."
"Oh, right." I smile at Georgia beatifically. "Your not-boyfriend. The one who hit on me during the tour this morning. Apparently he likes girls with a little edge."
"He wouldn't." She sounds doubtful, though. "I mean sure, we're not offish, but with you?"
"Your little fling gave me a nickname." I feel a thrill at the hurt that flinches across her face. "He calls me fire because of how hot it was. Naughty little senator's boy, taking my wrist in the darkness of the chapel... can you really say he wouldn't?" I watch her face as she imagines it in her head. "Not ever, not even if he had the chance?"
"Shut up."
Tears well in Georgia's eyes. And then, with a dramatic toss of her head, she flees the bathroom so fast that her makeup bag drops on the ground, stuff flying out of it. Bursting into little sobs, she gets down on her knees to gather it up, stuffing broken palettes back into the bag. With a dramatic roll of her eyes, Heather goes to help her.
I should feel bad that I lied. Some part of me should object to making another girl cry, especially since what I claim happened didn't really go down that way—at least, not like I implied.
But when I look at Georgia's reddened, tear-streaked face, I find I don't care one bit about her emotional turmoil.
The snake bite scar on my hand seems to twinge in approval, the burn on my palm flaring with a satisfying kind of pain.
"There's something wrong with you." Veronica is looking at me now, her eyes narrowed, dark hair shiny and perfect. "I don't know what mental game you're playing, but no one is taking Tanner away from Georgia. Especially not you."
"You sure about that?"
"I am." Reaching out, she tugs on my damp hair, her lips curling into a sneer. "You can't even afford a good dye job, much less a nice blowout or a stylish cut for these ragged ends. I bet you still wear grannie panties and a sports bra. Boys like Tanner, well," she leans in close to me, voice lowered, "they expect a girl who can suck a dick like a pro, wearing lace and high heels while doing it. Sure you can compete?"
Doubt flicks through me, but I force my face into a neutral expression. "I guess we'll find out together."
"Good luck, ugly duckling." Veronica smirks and steps away from me. "Somehow I doubt there's a swan under all those blemishes."
They leave together, Georgia already drying her tears as her friends reassure her someone like me will never take her guy. I watch them go, anger and fear alike burning in my heart, wondering what I've gotten myself into.
Before I came here, I made a plan: to stick to the shadows, observe but never participate, and never, ever get unwanted attention.
Funny how fast that plan has gone sideways, even though I can't really see any other way for it to go.
Now I find myself wanting something more than just revenge. I want Tanner Connally on his knees in front of me, rapturous and in lust if not love—all while Georgia and her pretty rich friends watch as I take him away from her.
It's a pipe dream. Veronica was right; I'll never have that smooth skin, perfect hair, well-done makeup or lacy underthings. Tanner wants to toy with me, not touch me. And he'll stay far away from me now that Cole has declared all his friends and allies should do their worst.
That doesn't stop me from wanting to get him, just so I can steal his secrets, take his heart, and leave him in the dust like he deserves.
Enough time has passed; the trio of mean girls is gone, and they're not coming back. Hopefully the hallway is just as empty as this room. Towel tied firmly over my chest, I head out, taking my steps carefully and hugging the wall so no one will see me in my humiliating state.
I'm almost to the door when something slippery beneath my feet nearly sends me to the ground. Swearing hard enough that I can feel long-dead Papa Edwin's judgment, I look down at the traitorous thing that tried to kill me.
It's a credit card.
A matte, jet black one with the Saint-Pierre bank logo in the upper left-hand corner. The kind of card that doesn't have a limit.
Picking it up, I see the name embossed on the front and feel my heart do a little flip: Georgia Johnson. This card belongs to the very girl who is my rival in getting Tanner and squeezing him for all he's worth.
I could return it to her, but that would do me little good. In fact, she'd probably just accuse me of stealing it.
Alternatively, I could give it to Holly and have her pass it on to Georgia. I guess that would make me look good to her—and she is the leader of the Rosalinds, after all. But somehow I doubt she'd take my side against Georgia if she found out what happened here today. Those rich girls were telling the truth when they said that a girl like Holly will pick them over me; that's just the way the world works.
There's something else I could do with it, something that makes my heart beat faster, fills me with adrenaline.
>
Tucking the card between my palm and my phone, I sneak out into the hallway and rush down to the room, slipping my ID out and barely managing to unlock the door before a crowd of girls comes around the corner, all of them most decidedly wearing clothes.
Holly is in the bathroom when I get in, her hair dryer turned on high, so I have the chance to get my clothes on. Staring at the card, I debate my options.
The doorknob to the bathroom turns.
And in a split second, I make a choice.
I slide Georgia Johnson's dropped credit card into my back pocket. What Holly Schneider doesn't know can't hurt her—or get me expelled.
There's only one thing I want to do with that card: buy my way into looking as good as Georgia so that I can compete with her.
Not just her, but the other girls here. Even Chrissy, who doesn't seem to be popular with the upper echelon, has nice hair, nails, and skin.
Those things cost money.
Money Georgia Johnson's family won't even notice missing when they cancel her stolen card.
While I'll finally get what I've wanted for months: to infiltrate the rich kids at this school, find out the truth about what happened to my brother, and have the opportunity to expose whoever really raped that anonymous girl.
No one will tell Brenna Cooke, trailer trash, anything important.
But horny boys will spill their secrets to a made-over Brenna Cooke, with a matte black card to help her.
By the time I fall asleep I have plans of revenge dancing in my head, brutal and quick, clever and untraceable.
In my dream I see Silas's face. I see him smile, whole and healthy. He reaches out to take my hand—then takes a step back, suddenly frightened, his eyes staring at my feet.
I look down, wondering what made my brother, my twin, look at me so.
Almost a thousand snakes twine around my ankles, pressing their cold-blooded bodies against my warm one, their gleaming scales flashing.
Looking back up, I stare into Silas’s face, like staring into a mirror of my soul. He shakes his head slowly, deliberately, twice. Clouds gather overhead, heavy with rain, and the wind lashes his dark hair, but his eyes never leave mine. The disapproving expression on his face never clears.