“You’re laughing now,” he warned. “Go ahead, I’m going to snag a cookie.”
Jade headed to the table by herself, noticing Crystal staring sadly across the dining hall.
She followed Crystal’s line of sight and saw what she was looking at: Zane. He was sitting at a table with Bree and Alison Quentin and some of the other arty kids. They were all laughing noisily.
“You okay, Crys?” Jade asked as she set her tray down. “Bree promised there was nothing going on with them.”
“I know.” A full tray of food sat in front of Crystal, untouched. “But I’m not so sure. Are you?”
“Of course there’s nothing going on,” Jade replied. How could there be? Bree was short and practically disfigured, her breasts were so gigantic. Jade glanced back at the art-geek table. Zane was listening ecstatically to Bree, grinning and blinking his thick eyelashes contentedly. Uh-oh. She knew that look. It was the look of total, complete adoration he’d given her the night they’d hooked up in Alaska, the same look she’d somewhat jealously watched him give Crystal a hundred times. There certainly was something going on there. Or would be soon. She was sure of it.
“I just…” Crystal interrupted her epiphany. She picked up her fork and then put it down again. “I just wish I didn’t have to see him every day, you know? Like every time I think I feel okay, I see him walking across the quad or sitting at dinner laughing with Bree.” She motioned to the table across the room.
Jade suddenly remembered seeing Zane and Bree coming out of the woods together on Wednesday afternoon, looking all conspiratorial. That bastard. What was he doing, breaking Crystal’s heart for that twerp? How dare he?
Jade narrowed her eyes, watching the way Zane gazed at Bree. Even from across the large room, Jade could tell that the two of them were in their own world. Not for long, though, if she had anything to say about it. “You probably wish he’d, like, disappear or something, huh?” Jade suggested.
“Yeah.” Crystal stabbed a piece of broccoli and examined it.
Well, Jade thought. Maybe I can make that happen.
NaomiPeterson: So it looks like you can stop avoiding the room now, B.
BreeHargrove: I’m psyched.
NaomiPeterson: So you and Zane aren’t…
BreeHargrove: No…nothing’s happened, but, you know.
NaomiPeterson: Yup
BreeHargrove: U were quiet last night.
NaomiPeterson: It’s over. Officially.
Bree Hargrove: I’m so sorry. U okay?
NaomiPeterson: Yeah…but would you mind asking me again later to be sure?
BreeHargrove: U can count on it.
15
Amir loved Saturday mornings at Bridgeport. Friday night parties were never as wild or liquor-fueled as Saturday night ones, and students didn’t walk around looking as totally destroyed as they did on Sunday mornings. Saturday mornings always felt more wholesome, with girls and boys wearing their maroon Bridgeport sweatshirts tied around their waists, headed to the fields to watch the soccer matches or field hockey games. Kids from the city took the train down to spend the weekend in their Upper East Side penthouses, bar-hopping at night with their beautiful friends from private school or other New England prep schools. Amir was from Connecticut—Greenwich born and raised—and while the gorgeously manicured grounds of Bridgeport were not exactly a landscape foreign to him, Bridgeport felt much more like home than Connecticut did. His father had remarried three years ago, and his stepmother was a total nightmare of a woman, barely ten years older than Amir, and now his half-sibling two-year-old twins toddled around the house, gnawing and barfing on expensive furniture while their mother fawned over how brilliant they were. His stepmother, whose name he vowed would never cross his lips, seemed to be convinced he was gay and told him once that if he ever came out of the closet, his father would “probably still love him.” At least he never got homesick.
The day was sunny but with a crispness to it. Amir cut across the quad, his slip-on loafers collecting bits of grass still damp with dew. He headed toward Maxwell Hall, an H. H. Richardson building that housed the student center, coffee bar, mail room, and study lounges and served as the social spot on campus. The library was the place to go when you were studying for a test or writing a paper that you couldn’t afford to get a C on. People who went to Maxwell were interested in a more-social type of studying, the lazy kind that welcomes the noise of cappuccino machines and interruptions from attractive members of the opposite sex. Maybe Crystal would be there, having her double shot of espresso and reading the latest copy of Vanity Fair instead of doing her calculus. Amir was planning to flop down in an oversized armchair in one of the balcony alcoves for a few hours, sip his latte, and get started on Democracy in America, a book so boring that if the Founding Fathers had been required to read it, they would have certainly established a dictatorship instead.
The main space of Maxwell, with its massive stone walls, Romanesque arches, and enormous fireplace that was never actually lit, felt cavelike and welcoming. It was crowded with people, and after Amir added his three packets of Splenda to his drink, he headed up the creaky back stairs to one of the dark alcoves on the upper floor, where you could look down onto the main lounge area and see everyone who came in.
At first Amir was disappointed to see a thatch of messy curls instead of Crystal’s thick black locks, but then he recognized them as belonging to Bree. “Hey,” he said, pleased that she had somehow found her way to his favorite spot in the entire building. There were two oversized armchairs angled toward each other, a small wooden table between them. Amir had spent many hours seated here with his iPod, longing for Crystal. There was something so intimate about reading next to someone, every now and then looking up to catch their eye and maybe kiss a little.
Bree glanced up from her book, clearly deep in thought. It took her a moment to focus on Amir, but when she did, her face broke into a sweet grin. Her cheeks were rosy, and her nose was small and slightly upturned. She was wearing a flowered button-down from J.Crew that wasn’t exactly tight yet still managed to hug her curves, a short distressed jean skirt, black tights, and gray suede flats so small they looked like kids’ shoes. Her legs were crossed daintily at the ankles. “Hey, Amir! What’s up?”
Amir was momentarily distracted by the movement of Bree’s breasts when she sat up straighter, but he didn’t want to be one of those guys who could only stare at a girl’s chest, no matter how inviting it might look, so he forced his eyes to return to her face. “Do you mind if I sit here?” he asked, indicating the other armchair.
“Of course not. It was getting kind of lonely up here with just me and Emma Bovary.”
Amir laughed in response, realizing he hadn’t thought about Crystal for at least thirty seconds. See, he wasn’t obsessed. He remembered how he didn’t want to speak to anyone for weeks after Crystal had dumped him. Hopefully it wouldn’t take her that long to get over Zane.
Amir slumped into the chair next to Bree, setting his cup on the table between them. “How is Crystal doing?” He lowered his voice, then suddenly felt absurd speaking so gravely about a breakup. It wasn’t like Crystal was in a coma or anything.
Bree shrugged her petite shoulders. “I haven’t seen too much of her. Jade and Naomi have been spending time with her, mostly.” Bree paused and bit her lip. “I don’t think she’d really pick me to talk to about it anyway,” she added, her big eyes dropping guiltily.
“Does that mean there really is something going on with you and Taylor?” Amir demanded. He was glad to have Zane out of Crystal’s life, but he didn’t exactly want him in Bree’s either. And it made him feel bad for Crystal since he knew too well how much it sucked to see the person you loved in the arms of someone else immediately after you broke up.
Bree met his eyes again. “I really don’t know,” she admitted. “I mean, we’re friends, but—”
Amir sat back in his chair. “Well, I hope it works
out,” he interrupted. The words came out colder than he had intended. He wished Bree well with Zane; he really did. But he didn’t want Crystal to end up hating Bree as much as he hated Zane. Especially since they had to live together.
“I don’t know what it is about him,” Bree gushed breathlessly.
I do, Amir thought. He’s tall and looks like a Ralph Lauren model. He rides horses and he’s artsy and “deep.” He tried not to roll his eyes. What’s not to love?
“Just, you know, try to remember how much it’s going to suck for Crystal for a while. I mean, it’s a small campus. It’ll be hard for her to get away from it.”
Amir was suddenly reminded of how he had walked into the mail room the very day after Crystal broke up with him to see her and Zane leaning against a wall of mailboxes, making out, Crystal wearing the aqua cashmere sweater that Amir had given her for their one-year anniversary. She hadn’t done it to be cruel, he knew—Crystal never intentionally caused people pain. Well, not him, anyway. But just the thought that she was so swept away by Zane she didn’t even think twice about where that sweater had come from, and what it meant, made Amir want to go over there and punch Zane in his perfectly crooked smile.
“It’s a small dorm room,” Bree pointed out. “And I feel really weird already. Not that there’s anything going on between us yet. It just might be headed that way.”
Amir nodded. “What do you think my chances are of getting Crystal back?” he asked, a little sheepish. He was so gorgeous, Bree thought. He could have his pick of most Bridgeport girls, but still, it was only Crystal he wanted. It occurred to her that if Crystal understood how easy it was to get swept away by Zane Taylor and completely forget about a guy as great as Amir, she might forgive Bree for getting swept away by Zane too. She sighed. Or maybe not.
“I think right now she probably just wants some space.” Bree took a sip of her now-cold green tea. “She doesn’t want to go out with anyone yet. Besides, we’re kind of in this new society, and no boyfriends allowed.”
Amir groaned. “You’re in Jade’s secret society too?” He unzipped his leather messenger bag, so exquisitely aged it looked like it was from World War II, and pulled out a small book. He needed to at least pretend to be getting some work done.
“Yeah,” Bree admitted, still excited that she had gotten the email from Jade yesterday. Maybe Jade was willing to forgive her for being the awkward new girl who stole her bed after all. Jade was the crown queen of Bridgeport. Hands down the coolest, most beautiful girl on campus, the kind of person who didn’t wait around for cool stuff to happen—she went out and made it happen. If Bree couldn’t be Jade, being friends with her was the next-best thing. Maybe some of the glamour would rub off on her. “It sounds like fun.”
“Of course it does,” Amir said with a smile. “Jade doesn’t involve herself in things that aren’t fun.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad way to be, necessarily.”
Amir hesitated. “It’s more than a way of life for Jade. She’s turned amusing herself into an art form. No matter the cost.”
Bree leaned back in her chair and tried to digest Amir’s words. She could see that he had a point—after all, Jade had been suspended from Bridgeport for having “fun”—yet it didn’t seem to take away from any of Jade’s allure. If anything, it added to it. Jade did what she wanted. “Hey, if it means she’s going to be nice to me, I’ll take it. Between her and Crystal, I spent all week afraid to go to my room.”
“Just be careful,” Amir advised, his golden brown eyes suddenly serious. Usually Bree thought it was unfair when such gorgeous lashes were wasted on a boy, but they made Amir look so elegant. He reminded her of a silent movie star with his smooth jaw, expressive eyes, beige skin, and perfectly wavy hair. And he was nice. Crystal didn’t know how lucky she was to have a guy like him crazy about her.
“I came from a school that was filled with girls like Jade.” Bree would never forget the Porsha Sinclaires she had grown up half fearing, half longing to be, girls who made you feel like you didn’t exist until they happened to need something from you. They’d assume you’d be willing to drop everything for them, which, of course, you would. But the truly dangerous girls were the Chanel Crenshaws of the world because they were so perfectly beautiful and nice, they were almost inhuman. Jade was somewhere in between—she had all the apparent perfections of a Chanel, yet her mind was always scheming like a Porsha, always wanting more. “I can handle her.” But Bree was suddenly completely unsure of herself. She’d never be a Porsha or a Chanel or a Jade, only a Bree. Would she always be a wannabe?
“Well, there’s something freaky about Jade—she makes you want to be her friend, but you can’t trust her. Ever.”
He was so serious, Bree wondered if something had happened between them. “All right. I’ll sleep with one eye open.”
Amir chuckled. “That’s not a bad idea.”
16
Dear Mr. Dalton, I’m afraid I will no longer be able to assist you with your office tasks. I will, of course, continue my work on the Disciplinary Committee as class prefect, as I am serious about my commitment to that position. Thank you for understanding. Naomi looked at the note, written in her slanting cursive on one of her lime green monogrammed correspondence cards. Was it too personal to use one of them? Maybe she should just email him. But no, it felt like a more suitable ending to their ill-fated affair to write the note on her expensive stationery, with the NLP engraved in the corner. Maybe, she thought wistfully, it would make him wonder what her middle name was. Also, it made her feel like a heroine from a Jane Austen novel, a wounded female so elegant that she managed to write such a polite letter to the man who had scorned her.
Not that she was angry. She just felt deflated and confused. If Eric hadn’t wanted anything to happen between them, he’d had plenty of opportunities to stop things. But he’d encouraged her, hadn’t he? Naomi hated that she felt so defensive about it, wondering if she had only imagined there was ever anything between them.
No, that wasn’t right, Naomi answered herself as she crossed campus to Stansfield Hall, unlocked but generally silent on weekends. She thought back to the first time she’d met Eric Dalton, thinking at first that he was a student. She was unable to shake the feeling that from the very beginning, while he’d been kind of sheepish about his attraction to her, he still never tried to hide it. And it wasn’t just a casual flirtation—he invited her out to dinner, took her in his plane to his home in Newport, and had drinks waiting for her on his sailboat. He’d given her wine, lit candles for her, sent cars to pick her up and take her back to campus, invited her to spend the night with him, taken her clothes off…These were not actions of a man afraid of being inappropriate.
She climbed the three flights of marble stairs to his office, her heels echoing loudly, and then paused when she heard a shuffling noise inside and music playing softly. Silently she placed her note directly in front of the door and tiptoed back down the long hallway.
An hour later the sun was getting lower in the afternoon sky and Naomi was still aimlessly wandering around campus. It was a glorious summer afternoon, and she was too depressed to go indoors and spend her Saturday in the library alone, without even a cute boy to text.
Naomi wiped her nose pathetically on the back of her hand. She hadn’t spoken to Corey for a week now, not since Black Saturday, when he caught her coming off Dalton’s sailboat at the docks. Suddenly she felt a tug of longing in her stomach, remembering how nice it had been to just hang out with Corey and smoke cigarettes and rag on their families together. She found herself missing his Boston accent that just last week she’d found so annoying.
Without thinking about what she was doing, Naomi’s Jimmy Choo slides led her along the path past the northern end of Bridgeport’s campus toward the old cemetery. Crystal thought she was morbid to like hanging out there, but it was a secluded space, the most modern gravestone dating from the late 1800s, and she and Corey had a
lways found it peaceful and romantic beneath the canopy of forest, set back from the main road. It was a long walk, past the Bridgeport gatehouse. She remembered how excited she’d been the night Dalton’s car had come to pick her up. She shook her head, trying to forget how stupid and childish she’d been, and concentrated instead on the gorgeous, sunny afternoon.
But when she stepped through the massive rusted iron gate, she noticed a familiar athletic body leaning against the moss-covered stone wall. Her breath caught in her throat. Corey. Whoa. Had she conjured him up somehow?
Corey glanced up at the sound of someone approaching and did a double take when he saw Naomi. She froze for a second, not sure if she should approach him, but then a welcoming smile broke across his lips. “Hey,” he said, happily looking her up and down, his parted box fade sticking straight up.
Naomi flipped her gold-mirrored sunglasses on top of her head and tried not to blush. She stopped awkwardly several feet from Corey, not sure if she should give him a hug or what. “Hey,” she replied. “I thought you’d have a game today.”
“Nah, it was last night. We killed 'em. Coach took me out in the fourth.” Corey blushed modestly and hoisted himself onto the stone wall behind him. “It’s good to see you again.”
“You too,” she admitted shyly.
“How’ve you been?” His wide-set eyes were bright and happy-looking.
Naomi found herself slightly distracted by Corey’s familiar fresh-from-the-showers smell. She kicked at a tuft of grass and then heaved herself up on the stone wall next to him, her shoes dangling several feet above the ground. “Been better.” She shrugged and peeked at him through a curtain of her red hair, noticing his concerned frown. “You don’t want to hear about it.”
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