Georgetown Academy 1 and 2

by Jessica Etting

  “Why?” she sputtered, almost convinced she had misheard him.

  “Because I don’t want to be some temporary escape for you.”

  Just like with her mother, she was incapable of articulating anything close to a sentence.

  “You’re going to go back home and nothing will have changed. This thing between our parents isn’t going away and you’ll just hate yourself for doing this,” he said quietly. “And you’ll still want to be with Hunter.”

  Hunter. She had not let herself think about him on the way over. But Gabe was right. If Hunter ever wanted her back, she was not going to let herself screw it up all over again. Not after what she had been through this week.

  “We both need to stop putting ourselves through this when it’s not going anywhere,” he finished.

  A moment of silence passed between them before Ellie met his gaze. Everything he said was dead on and they both knew it.

  “I’ll see you around, Ellie.” And with that, he walked past her and into his building, leaving the revolving door swinging in her face.

  It’s time to get ready for Follow the Stars! Which G.A. star do you want to follow?

  Brinley

  Taryn

  Evan

  Ellie

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  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Friday, 5:13pm.

  “It’s just unfortunate that so many people assume ADD is some sort of convenient medical excuse to justify bad behavior. It’s a discriminatory viewpoint and it’s a hurdle we’re going to have to confront and surmount as a nation,” Brinley stated passionately into the phone as she stared at her reflection in her vanity mirror. It was her second interview of the day and she was quickly discovering she was a natural spokeswoman. Her father had been correct, as usual. It was always better to be the author of the story than the one reading it. The detailed account of her struggles with ADD leapt off the page like poetry.

  The reporter on the other end of the line sang her praises for a full minute before Brinley responded, “Thank you so much, Mr. Peters. If you need anything else, I’m more than happy to assist.”

  She hung up and popped a much-needed Adderall. She had taken one an hour ago, but it never hit her for some reason. She glanced up at Joseph, her hair stylist, who diligently worked on her chignon for the Follow the Stars party. With his shoulder-length blond hair, thin, muscular build, and androgynous face, he looked like he could pose for a Botticelli painting.

  “I think the bun should be lower,” she told him, her voice no longer carrying the syrupy tone it had during her phone interview.

  “Sure, Brin. It’ll be even more chic that way,” he responded amiably and began extracting the bobby pins carefully from her hair. She usually relied on his expertise for events like this, but she was jittery about tonight and felt the need to exert more control. After her big debut as the poster child for Attention Deficit Disorder, even more eyes would be on her than usual. And unfortunately, Ellie was not going to be by her side as planned. She had texted Brinley earlier that she wasn’t going to make it and now she wasn’t answering her phone to even give an explanation.

  Brinley reached for the Adderall bottle to pop another, but suddenly tossed it under a stack of curlers when she heard her mother’s heels clicking down the hallway. Her mother obviously knew about Brinley’s “problem,” but she didn’t need to see it firsthand. Neither of her parents had mentioned tapering off the drug yet, but it was just a matter of time. Once the dust settled on the public relations side of things, it was inevitable.

  “There are a few items of business we need to discuss, Brinley,” her mother, Katherine, announced, breezing through the doorway in a black Donna Karan wrap dress that clung to her toned frame. She was only a few inches taller than Brinley, but there was something about Katherine Madison that made her look six feet rather than five five. Her tastefully set ruby and diamond ring sparkled as she tapped her Montblanc pen against a small notebook.

  “We’ve received calls from dozens of media outlets, but I’ve narrowed it down to four. We don’t want to overexpose you.”

  “Of course not,” Brinley agreed with conviction. Katherine was the queen of public relations and single-handedly ran D.C. society. Her mother had been born into the privileged Newcastle family of Connecticut, able to date her ancestry all the way back to the Mayflower. Brinley took mental notes of everything her mother did so when she was in her four-inch Jimmy Choo pumps one day, she would be adequately prepared for the responsibilities.

  “You’ve already done The Post and The National Review. I nixed Fox & Friends—”

  “Why?” Brinley asked, surprised. Her parents had a wonderful relationship with Fox News. Not to mention, Brinley had always wondered what Gretchen Carlson’s hair looked like up close.

  “You were going to be the guest after Michele Bachmann and I don’t want any of that woman’s crazy to rub off on your interview,” Katherine answered matter-of-factly. Her mother really was a pro. “I chose Teen Vogue over Seventeen—” Brinley nodded approvingly. “And the Today Show over GMA. Your father hasn’t seen Matt Lauer in ages so it’s a win-win for the family.”

  A voice on the household intercom interrupted them. “Mrs. Madison, Mr. Brooks’s car is washed, gassed and in the garage.”

  Katherine held down the intercom button with a freshly manicured nail in the nude color she wore year-round. “Thank you, George.”

  Brinley turned to her, confused. “You had George gas up Brooks’s car?”

  “Yes, dear,” Katherine responded, scribbling in the margin of her notebook.

  “Why don’t you have him do that for my car?”

  “You never drive, Brinley.”

  “Neither does Brooks!” Brinley tried not to keep a record of all the ways her mother favored Brooks, mainly because she would have lost count by now.

  Katherine gave her a stern look indicating the conversation was over, then glanced up at Joseph, acknowledging him for the first time since she walked into the room. “The chignon needs to be higher.”

  With that, she turned and sauntered out, leaving a trail of Amouage perfume in her wake. Joseph made eye contact with Brinley in the mirror as if to ask her permission to put the chignon back in its original placement. Brinley pursed her lips, then nodded. Her mother always knew best.

  An hour later, Brinley paced around the island in the kitchen, wondering why her Adderall still hadn’t kicked in yet, her navy Temperley London floor-length sequined dress swishing at her sides. She had known she wanted to wear Temperley for the party ever since she saw Princess Kate wearing one of the gowns to a London premiere earlier in the year. Brinley still considered herself on a “short list” of potential future wife options for Prince Harry.

  She cracked her knuckles, not sure what else to do with her body. Without the kicky effect of Adderall, it was like the life had been sucked out of her with that high-powered vacuum cleaner her housekeeper seemed so fond of.

  “You look great,” Brooks pronounced, as he entered the kitchen in his Ralph Lauren Purple Label tux.

  “Thank you. You, too,” Brinley answered.

  “Is D.D. pulling the car around?” Brooks asked, adjusting the cufflinks on his monogrammed tuxedo shirt. D.D. was Brinley’s pet name for their driver, George, since he usually ended up being her designated driver.

  “Any second now.” She looked up at him. “Wait, I thought you said you were asking someone to the party.”

  “I changed my mind. What about you, Maddy? No date?”

  Brinley glared at him. He had been calling her Maddy (a play on Madison and Adderall) all day. “Stop calling me that. It’s not funny.”
<
br />   “Mother thinks it is.”

  “She thinks everything you say is funny.”

  He grabbed a bottle of his father’s favorite Scotch from the cabinet and poured himself a glass. “How are you feeling?” His voice was no longer teasing, but filled with the brotherly concern Brinley appreciated. “I’m worried about you coming off that stuff.”

  “Don’t be. It’ll be fine.” She was not going to tell him that the idea of going off Adderall just made her take even more. Not to mention, Brooks and her parents still believed she was just taking one pill a day. “I’m feeling great. In fact, you should really pour me a glass of that Scotch so we can toast our victory over Taryn.”

  Her brother shrugged with a look that did not seem nearly as triumphant as the occasion called for. “She would’ve never gone through with leaking the story, anyway,” he said decisively.

  “Why on earth would you assume that?” Brinley scoffed.

  “Because she’s not like you, Brin.”

  His words went through her like a knife in her back. Brinley swallowed.

  Brooks glanced out the window, then downed the remains of his Scotch. “D.D. is out front.” He grabbed his coat off the chair and walked out of the kitchen.

  What was that supposed to mean? Not like her. Brinley reached for her silver snakeskin clutch and pulled out the baggie of Adderall she had shoved into the small zippered compartment. She was about to swallow a pill dry when she changed her mind and poured a little Scotch in the crystal glass Brooks had left on the counter. She gulped down the pill, the Scotch burning her throat for a split second before settling warmly in her stomach.

  Brooks’s words echoed in her ears.

  She refilled the glass of Scotch. One more pill wouldn’t kill her.

  Continue the story or go back to the last choice point?

  Continue the story

  Go back to the last choice

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  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Friday, 3:47pm.

  Taryn stood in line behind a few other G.A. students at the dry cleaner on MacArthur Boulevard. She looked up when the bell on the front door jingled and Brooks Madison strolled in.

  “You again,” he said, smiling ever so slightly from the corner of his mouth.

  “I would say you’re following me, but you look much more believable here than at YoYoFro.” With shirts that immaculately pressed, Brooks probably came here every single day. Taryn’s theory was immediately confirmed when the woman behind the counter waved excitedly at him.

  “I’ll grab your shirts, Mr. Madison. No crease, hard press, medium starch!” she called out before disappearing to the back.

  “Thanks, Nancy,” he responded, then turned to Taryn, a glint in his eye. “Can we talk about that frozen yogurt hellhole for just a second? How do you eat that crap so often? It tastes like the medicine you spray in the back of your mouth when you have a sore throat. And what kind of antiquated society still eats with wooden spoons?”

  Taryn rolled her eyes, begrudgingly admitting to herself that his unabashed snobbery was kind of amusing. Now at the front of the line, she handed the other clerk behind the counter her dry cleaning ticket.

  “Are you going to Follow the Stars tonight?” he asked.

  “I’m actually picking up my dress for it right now. How about you?”

  “Of course.”

  The clerk interrupted them, handing Taryn the white dress she was so excited to wear tonight. When she had received the invitation for Follow the Stars and had seen the big block letters at the bottom “PLEASE DRESS IN THEME,” she’d been thrilled. With something as broad as stars and celebrities, the options were limitless. After hours of deliberating (Taryn had quite a few costumes in her closet from Lady Gaga to Lady Macbeth), she had finally decided to veer more old-fashioned—Marilyn Monroe in her famous white dress—because you could never go wrong with a classic.

  “That’s what you’re wearing to Follow the Stars?” Brooks asked.

  “Yup,” she said, admiring the Marilyn dress through the plastic.

  “You might want to rethink—”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Brooks. I’m not going to conform to what everyone else at G.A. does. The whole time I’ve been here, I’ve felt so sorry for myself and I’m the only one to blame. This is what I’m wearing and I’m not switching it up just because it doesn’t fit some G.A. image I’m supposed to be projecting.” Taryn’s expression told him that she wasn’t messing around. She had no idea what kind of costumes the other students at the party would be wearing, but she wasn’t going to let it influence her decision.

  Brooks held up his hands in surrender. “Okay. I respect that,” he responded and actually sounded like he did.

  “Thank you.” Taryn paid the clerk and turned to leave, but Brooks stopped her.

  “Listen, I was just thinking, since we’re both going—”

  Taryn’s phone beeped. She gave him the “one sec” hand signal and looked down at her phone. It was a text from Gabe: Hope you’re learning how to foxtrot. She laughed, excited all over again to see him later. She looked back up at Brooks. “Sorry, what were you going to say?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t remember.”

  “See you tonight!” she called over her shoulder.

  Taryn searched for another bobby pin on her white dresser so she could put the finishing touches on her hair. No one would ever call her room clean per se, but since she was still getting settled into it and boxes were shoved in every corner, it was more of a chaotic mess than usual. She bent down and picked up a pile of clothing that practically covered up her bright kaleidoscope rug and there it was—the lone bobby pin she needed. She stood at her floor-length mirror and pinned the last wave of her blond wig into a Marilyn curl. Now if she could only remember where she put her red lipstick.

  “Knock, knock,” her dad said, his dark eyes crinkling into a smile. He was tall and handsome in a way that was appealing, yet not intimidating. Taryn’s mother stood next to him, the ever-present blush on her cheeks making her cheekbones even more prominent. Her mother never left the house without two coats of mascara, light pink blush, wine-colored lip stick, and a hint of bronzer to accentuate her already tanned skin.

  “Hi, guys. Come in,” Taryn said. Her parents had always been very big about their kids’ rooms being their own personal spaces, so neither her mom nor dad would ever come in uninvited. It was all part of their parenting beliefs that children should have their own personal freedoms from a young age. Taryn had to admit that, though it wasn’t her parents’ intention, the rule worked as a brilliant piece of reverse psychology: because Taryn knew that her parents were never going to snoop around behind her back, she over-compensated and ended up telling them everything anyway.

  “Wow, Tare-bear, you look great,” her dad said.

  “Thanks,” Taryn beamed. She always went overboard on Halloween and this party was no different. Her fake beauty mark even looked authentic.

  “I’m glad you decided to go to the party,” her dad said. “You seem a lot happier than you did a few days ago.”

  “You should sing ‘Happy Birthday, Mr. President’ at the party,” her mom cooed, slightly missing the point as usual.

  “I don’t think so, Mom.” Not conforming was one thing, making a fool of herself was quite another.

  “You sure you don’t want us to drive you?” her father asked.

  “I can drive. I should really go, though.” She had taken forever trying to find that stupid bobby pin and she now was way behind schedule. She grabbed a bottle of perfume off her dresser and spritzed it in the air, quickly walking through it. Chanel No. 5. Just
like the real Marilyn wore.

  After a few wrong turns, Taryn finally spotted the grand exterior of the St. Regis Hotel on K Street and pulled into the valet. She glanced in the mirror, double-checking that her “Marilyn mole” hadn’t smudged then quickly swiped another coat of crimson lipstick over her lips.

  She stepped out of the car, expertly maneuvering the cobblestone driveway in her white platforms. She was so focused, it took her a second to notice the looks she was getting from the hotel guests. She was so late that none of the other students were out at the entrance.

  She flashed the onlookers a confident Marilyn smile and sauntered to the ballroom. As she reached the doorway, there were a few girls mingling in the foyer just outside it. All wore silver sparkly dresses with normal make-up. Who were they supposed to be? Taryn wondered, Maybe Anne Hathaway at the Oscars?

  Taryn grabbed the heavy door to the ballroom, swung it open and entered the room to find...five hundred more girls in modern-day sparkly dresses and guys in tuxes. And not one person in costume.

  Every single party guest stopped what they were doing and turned toward her as a mob of photographers rushed her with their flashbulbs.

  Continue the story or go back to the last choice point?

  Continue the story

  Go back to the last choice

  WARNING! You're about to spoil a great story by not making a choice! Page back, then click one of the links to advance the story. Otherwise, the next section may not make any sense to you.

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  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Friday, 5:33pm.