2
“Seriously, you look pretty depressed there.” She
pushed off the door, her thin frame nearly swamped by a plaid skirt
and oversized St. Sophia’s sweatshirt, her legs clad in tights and
sheepskin boots. She was about my height, five foot six or
so.
“Thanks for knocking,” I said, swiping at what I’m
sure was a mess beneath my eyes.
“I do what I can. And you’ve made a mess,” she
confirmed. She walked toward me and, without warning, tipped up my
chin. She tilted her head and frowned at me, then rubbed her thumbs
beneath my eyes. I just looked back at her, amusement in my
expression. When she was done, she put her hands on her hips and
surveyed her work.
“It’s not bad. I like the eyeliner. A little punk.
A little goth, but not over the top, and it definitely works with
your eyes. You might want to think about waterproof, though.” She
stuck out her hand. “I’m your suitemate, Scout Green. And you’re
Lily Parker.”
“I am,” I said, shaking her hand.
Scout sat down on the bed next to me, then crossed
her legs and began to swing a leg. “And what personal tragedy has
brought you to our fine institution on this lovely fall day?”
I arched a brow at her. She waved a hand. “It’s
nothing personal. We tend to get a lot of tragedy cases. Relatives
die. Fortunes are made and the parentals get too busy for teen
angst. That’s my basic story. On the rare but exciting occasion,
expulsion from the publics and enough money for the trustees to see
‘untapped potential. ’ ” She tilted her head as she looked at me.
“You’ve got a great look, but you don’t look quite punk enough to
be the expulsion kind.”
“My parents are on a research trip,” I said.
“Twenty-four months in Germany—not that I’m bitter about that—so I
was sentenced to lockdown at St. Sophia’s.”
Scout smiled knowingly. “Unfortunately, Lil, your
parents’ ditching you for Europe makes you average around here.
It’s like a home for latchkey kids. Where are you from? Prior to
being dropped off in the Windy City, I mean.”
“Upstate New York. Sagamore.”
“You’re a junior?”
I nodded.
“Ditto,” Scout said, then uncrossed her legs and
patted her hands against her knees. “And that means that if all
goes well, we’ll have two years together at St. Sophia’s School for
Girls. We might as well get you acquainted.” She rose, and with one
hand tucked behind her back and one hand at her waist, did a little
bow. “I’m Millicent Carlisle Green.”
I bit back a grin. “And that’s why you go by
‘Scout.’ ”
“And that’s why I go by ‘Scout,’ ” she agreed,
grinning back. “First off, on behalf of the denizens of
Chicago”—she put a hand against her heart—“welcome to the Windy
City. Allow me to introduce you to the wondrous world of snooty
American private schooldom.” She frowned. “ ‘Schooldom.’ Is that a
word?”
“Close enough,” I said. “Please continue.”
She nodded, then swept a hand through the air. “You
can see the luxury accommodations that the gazillion dollars in
tuition and room and board will buy you.” She walked to the bed
and, like a hostess on The Price Is Right, caressed the iron
frame. “Sleeping quarters of only the highest quality.”
“Of course,” I solemnly said.
Scout turned on her heel, the skirt swinging at her
knees, and pointed at the simple wooden bureau. “The finest of
European antiques to hold your baubles and treasures.” Then she
swept to the window and, with a tug of the blinds, revealed the
view. There were a few yards of grass, then the stone wall. Beyond
both sat the facing side of a glass and steel building.
“And, of course,” Scout continued, “the finest view
that new money can buy.”
“Only the best for a Parker,” I said.
“Now you’re getting it,” Scout said approvingly.
She walked back to the door, then beckoned me to follow. “The
common room,” she said, turning around to survey it. “Where we’ll
gossip, read intellectually stimulating classics of
literature—”
“Like that?” I asked with a chuckle, pointing at
the dog-eared copy of Vogue lying on the coffee table.
“Absolument,” Scout said. “Vogue is
our guide to current events and international culture.”
“And sweet shoes.”
“And sweet shoes,” she said, then gestured at the
cello in the corner. “That’s Barnaby’s baby. Lesley Barnaby,” she
added at my lifted brows. “She’s number three in our suite, but you
won’t see much of her. Lesley has four things, and four things
only, in her day planner: class, sleeping, studying, and
practicing.”
“Who’s girl number four?” I asked, as Scout led me
to the closed door directly across from mine.
Her hand on the doorknob, Scout glanced back at me.
“Amie Cherry. She’s one of the brat pack.”
“The brat pack?”
“Yep. Did you see the blonde with the headband in
the study hall?”
I nodded.
“That’s Veronica Lively, the junior class’s
resident alpha girl. Cherry is one of her minions. She was the
brunette with short hair. You didn’t hear me say this, but
Veronica’s actually got brains. She might not use them for much
beyond kissing Foley’s ass, but she’s got them. The minions are
another story. Mary Katherine, that’s minion number two—the
brunette with long hair—is former old money. She still has the
connections, but that’s pretty much all she has.
“Now, Cherry—Cherry has coin. Stacks and stacks of
cash. As minions go, Cherry’s not nearly as bad as Mary Katherine,
and she has the potential to be cool, but she takes Veronica’s
advice much too seriously.” Scout frowned, then glanced up at me.
“Do you know what folks in Chicago call St. Sophia’s?”
I shook my head.
“St. Spoiled.”
“Not much of a stretch, is it?”
“Exactly.” With a twist of her wrist,
Scout turned the knob and pushed open her bedroom door.
“My God,” I said, staring into the space. “There’s
so much . . . stuff.”
Every inch of space in Scout’s tiny room, but for
the rectangle of bed, was filled with shelves. And those shelves
were filled to overflowing. They were double-stacked with books and
knickknacks, all organized into tidy collections. There was a shelf
of owls—some ceramic, some wood, some made of bits of sticks and
twigs. A group of sculpted apples—the same mix of materials.
Inkwells. Antique tin boxes. Tiny houses made of paper. Old
cameras.
“If your parents donate a wing, you get extra
shelves,” she said, her voice flat as week-old soda.
“Where did you get all this?” I walked to a shelf
and picked up a delicate paper house crafted from a restaurant
menu. A door and tiny windows were carefully cut into the facade,
and a chimney was pasted to the roof, which was dusted in white
glitter. “And when?”
“I’ve been at St. Sophia’s since I was twelve. I’ve
had the time. And I got it anywhere and everywhere,” she said,
flopping down onto her bed. She sat back on her elbows and crossed
one leg over the other. “There’s a lot of sweet stuff floating
around Chicago. Antiques stores, flea markets, handmade goods, what
have you. Sometimes my parents bring me stuff, and I pick up things
along the way when I see them over the summer.”
I gingerly placed the building back on the shelf,
then glanced back at her. “Where are they now? Your parents, I
mean.”
“Monaco—Monte Carlo. The Yacht Show is in a couple
of weeks. There’s teak to be polished.” She chuckled, but the sound
wasn’t especially happy. “Not by them, of course—they’ve moved past
doing physical labor—but still.”
I made some vague sound of agreement—my nautical
excursions were limited to paddleboats at summer camp—and moved
past the museum and toward the books. There were lots of books on
lots of subjects, all organized by color. It was a rainbow of
paper—recipes, encyclopedias, dictionaries, thesauruses, books on
typology and design. There were even a few ancient leather books
with gold lettering along the spines.
I pulled a design book from the shelf and flipped
through it. Letters, in every shape and form, were spread across
the pages, from a sturdy capital A to a tiny, curlicued
Z.
“I’m sensing a theme here,” I said, smiling up at
Scout. “You like words. Lists. Letters.”
She nodded. “You string some letters together, and
you make a word. You string some words together, and you make a
sentence, then a paragraph, then a chapter. Words have
power.”
I snorted, replacing the book on the shelf. “Words
have power? That sounds like you’re into some Harry Potter
juju.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” she said. “So,
what does a young Lily Parker do in Sagamore, New York?”
I shrugged. “The usual. I hung out. Went to the
mall. Concerts. TiVo ANTM and Man vs. Wild.”
“Oh, my God, I love that show,” Scout said.
“That guy eats everything.”
“And he’s hot,” I pointed out.
“Seriously hot,” she agreed. “Hot guy eats bloody
stuff. Who knew that would be a hit?”
“The producer of every vampire movie ever?” I
offered.
Scout snorted a laugh. “Well put, Parker. I’m
digging the sarcasm.”
“I try,” I admitted with a grin. It was nice to
smile—nice to have something to smile about. Heck, it was nice to
feel like this boarding school business might be doable—like I’d be
able to make friends and study and go about my high school business
in pretty much the same way as I could have in Sagamore.
A shrill sound suddenly filled the air, like the
beating of tiny wings.
“Oops, that’s me,” Scout said, untangling her legs,
hopping off the bed, and grabbing a brick- shaped cell phone that
was threatening to vibrate its way off one of the shelves and onto
the floor. She picked up the phone just before it hit the edge,
then unpopped the screen and read its contents.
“Jeez Louise,” she said. “You’d think I’d get a
break when school starts, but no.” Maybe realizing she was
muttering in front of an audience, she looked up at me. “Sorry, but
I have to go. I have to . . . exercise. Yes,” she said
matter-of-factly, as if she’d decided on exercise as an excuse, “I
have to exercise.”
Apparently intent on proving her point, Scout
arched her arms over her head and leaned to the right and left, as
if stretching for a big run, then stood up and began swiveling her
torso, hands at her waist. “Limbering up,” she explained.
I arched a dubious brow. “To go exercise.”
“Exercise,” she repeated, grabbing a black
messenger bag from a hook next to her door and maneuvering it over
her head. A white skull and crossbones grinned back at me.
“So,” I said, “you’re exercising in your
uniform?”
“Apparently so. Look, you’re new, but I like you.
And if I guess right, you’re a heck of a lot cooler than the rest
of the brat pack.”
“Thanks, I guess?”
“So I need you to be cool. You didn’t see me leave,
okay?”
The room was silent as I looked at her, trying to
gauge exactly how much trouble she was about to get herself
into.
“Is this one of those, ‘I’m in over my head’ kind
of deals, and I’ll hear a horrible story tomorrow about your being
found strangled in an alley?”
That she took a few seconds to think about her
answer made me that much more nervous.
“Probably not tonight,” she finally said.
“But either way, that’s not on you. And since we’re probably going
to be BFFs, you’re going to have to trust me on this one.”
“BFFs?”
“Of course,” she said, and just like that, I had a
friend. “But for now, I have to run. We’ll talk,” she promised. And
then she was gone, her bedroom door open, the closing of the
hallway door signaling her exit. I looked around her room, noticing
the pair of sneakers that sat together beside her bed.
“Exercise, my big toe,” I mumbled, and left Scout’s
museum, closing the door behind me.
It was nearly six o’clock when I walked the few
feet back to my room. I glanced at the stack of books and papers on
the bureau, admitting to myself that prep-ping for class tomorrow
was probably a solid course of action.
On the other hand, there were bags to be
unpacked.
It wasn’t a tough choice. I liked to read, but I
wasn’t going to spend the last few waking hours of my summer
vacation with my nose in a book.
I unzipped and unstuffed my duffel bag, cramming
undergarments and pajamas and toiletries into the bureau, then
hanging the components of my new St. Sophia’s wardrobe in the
closet. Skirts in the blue and gold of the St. Sophia’s plaid. Navy
polo shirt. Navy cardigan. Blue button-up shirt, et cetera, et
cetera. I also stowed away the few articles of regular clothing I’d
brought along: some jeans and skirts, a few favorite T-shirts, a
hoodie.
Shoes went into the closet, and knickknacks went to
the top of the bureau: a photo of my parents and me together; a
ceramic ashtray made by Ashley that read BEST COWGIRL EVER. We
didn’t smoke, of course, and it was unrecognizable as an ashtray,
as it looked more like something you’d discover in the business end
of a dirty diaper. But Ashley made it for me at camp when we were
eight. Sure, I tortured her about how truly heinous it was, but
that’s what friends were for, right?
At the moment, Ash was home in Sagamore, probably
studying for a bio test, since public school had started two weeks
ago. Remembering I hadn’t texted her to let her know I’d arrived, I
flipped open my phone and snapped shots of my room—the empty walls,
the stack of books, the logoed bedspread—then sent them her
way.
“UNIMPRESSED RR,” she texted back. She’d taken to
calling me “Richie Rich” when we found out that I’d be heading to
St. Sophia’s—and after we’d done plenty of Web research. She
figured that life in a froufrou private school would taint me, turn
me into some kind of raving Blair Waldorf.
I couldn’t let that stand, of course. I sent back,
“U MUST RESPECT ME.”
She was still apparently unimpressed, since “GO
STUDY” was her answer. I figured she was probably on to something,
so I moved back to the stack of books and gave them a
look-see.
Civics.
Trig.
British lit.
Art history.
Chemistry.
European history.
“Good thing they’re starting me off easy,” I
muttered, nibbling on my bottom lip as I scanned the textbooks. Add
the fact that I was apparently taking a studio class, and it was no
wonder Foley scheduled a two-hour study hall every night. I’d be
lucky if two hours were enough.
Next to the stack of books was a pile of papers,
including a class schedule and the rules of residency at St.
Sophia’s. There wasn’t a building map, which was a little
flabbergasting since this place was a maze to get through.
I heard the hallway door open and shut, laughter
filling the common room. Thinking I might as well be social, I blew
out a breath to calm the butterflies in my stomach, then opened my
bedroom door. There were three girls in the room—the blonde I’d
seen in the library and her two brunette friends. Given Scout’s
descriptions, I assumed the blonde was Veronica, the shorter-
haired girl was Amie, the third of my new suitemates, and the girl
with longer hair was Mary Katherine, she of the limited
intelligence.
The blonde had settled herself on the couch, her
long, wavy hair spread around her shoulders, her feet in Amie’s
lap. Mary Katherine sat on the floor in front of them, her arms
stretched behind her, her feet crossed at the ankles. They were all
in uniform, all in pressed, pleated skirts, tights, and button-
down shirts with navy sweater-vests.
A regiment of officers in the army of plaid.
“We have a visitor,” said the blonde, one blond
brow arched over blue eyes.
Amie, whose pale skin was unmarred by makeup or
jewelry except for a pair of pearl earrings, slapped at Veronica’s
feet. Veronica rolled her eyes, but lifted them, and the brunette
stood and walked toward me. “I’m Amie.” She bobbed her head toward
one of the bedrooms behind us. “I’m over there.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Lily.”
“Veronica,” Amie said, pointing to the blonde, “and
Mary Katherine,” she added, pointing to the brunette. The girls
both offered finger waves.
“You missed the mixer earlier today,” Veronica
said, stretching out her legs again. “Tea and petits fours in the
ballroom. Your chance to meet the rest of your new St. Sophia’s
chums before classes start tomorrow.” Veronica’s voice carried the
tone of the wealthy, jaded girl who’d seen it all and hadn’t been
impressed.
“I’ve only been here a couple of hours,” I said,
unimpressed by the attitude.
“Yeah, we heard you weren’t from Chicago,” said
Mary Katherine, head tilted up as she scanned my clothes. Given her
own navy tights and patent leather flats, and the gleam of her
perfectly straight hair, I guessed she wouldn’t dig my Chuck
Taylors (the board of trustees let us pick our own footware) and
choppy haircut.
“Upstate New York,” I told her. “Near
Syracuse.”
“Public school?” Mary Katherine asked, disdain in
her voice.
Oh, how fun. Private school really was like
Gossip Girl. “Public school,” I confirmed, lips curved into
a smile.
Veronica made a sound of irritation. “Jesus, Mary
Katherine, be a bitch, why don’t you?”
Mary Katherine rolled her eyes, then turned her
attention to her cuticles, inspecting her short, perfectly painted
red nails. “I just asked a question. You’re the one who assumed I
was being negative.”
“Please excuse the peanut gallery,” Amie said with
a smile. “Have you met everybody else?”
“I haven’t met Lesley,” I said. “I met Scout,
though.”
Mary Katherine made a sarcastic sound. “Good luck
there. That girl has issues.” She stretched out the word
dramatically. I got the sense Mary Katherine enjoyed drama.
“M.K.’s just jealous,” Veronica said, twirling a
lock of hair around one of her fingers, and sliding a glance at the
brunette on the floor. “Not every St. Sophia’s girl has parents who
have the cash to donate an entire building to the school.”
I guess Scout hadn’t been kidding about the extra
shelves.
“Whatever,” Mary Katherine said, then crossed her
legs and pushed herself up from the floor. “You two can play
Welcome Wagon with the new girl. I need to make a phone
call.”
Veronica rolled her eyes, but swiveled her legs
onto the floor and stood up, as well. “M.K.’s dating a U of C boy,”
she said. “She thinks he hung the moon.”
“He’s pre-law,” Mary Katherine said, heading for
the door.
“He’s twenty,” Amie muttered after Mary Katherine
had stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her. “And
she’s sixteen.”
“Quit being a mother, Amie,” Veronica said,
straightening her headband. “I’m going back to my room. I suppose
I’ll see you in the morning.” She glanced at me. “I don’t want to
be bitchy, but a little advice?”
She said it like she was asking for permission, so
I nodded, solely out of politeness.
“Mind the company you keep,” she said. With that
gem, which I assumed was a shot at Scout, she walked to Amie. They
exchanged air kisses.
“Nighty night, all,” Veronica said, and then she
was gone.
When I turned around again, Amie was gone, her
bedroom door closing behind her.
“Charming,” I muttered, and headed back to my
room.
It was earlier than I would have normally gone to
sleep, but given the travel, the time change, and the change in
circumstances, I was exhausted. Finding the stone-walled and
stone-floored room chilly even in the early fall, I exchanged the
uniform for flannel pajamas, turned off the light, and climbed into
bed.
The room was dark, but far from quiet. The city
bustled around me, the thrum of traffic from downtown Chicago
creating a backdrop of sound, even on a Sunday night. Although the
stone muffled it, I wasn’t used to even the low drone of noise. I
had been born and bred amongst acres of lawns and overhanging
trees—and when the sun went down, the town went silent.
I stared at the ceiling. Tiny yellow-green dots
emerged from the darkness. The plaster above me was dotted with
glow-in-the-dark stars, I assumed pasted there by a former St.
Sophia’s girl. As my mind raced, wondering about tomorrow and
repeating my to-do list—find my locker, find my classes, manage not
to get humiliated in said classes, figure out where Scout had
gone—I counted the stars, tried to pick out constellations, and
glanced at the clock a dozen times.
I tossed and turned in the bed, trying to find a
comfortable position, my brain refusing to still even as I lay
exhausted, trying to sleep.
I must have drifted off, as I woke suddenly to a
pitch-black room. I must have been awakened by the closing of the
hallway door. That sound was immediately followed by the scuffle of
tripping in the common room—stuff being knocked around and mumbled
curses. I threw off the covers and tiptoed to the door, then
pressed my ear to the wood.
“Damn coffee table,” Scout muttered, footsteps
receding until her bedroom door opened and closed. I glanced at the
clock. It was one fifteen in the morning. When the common room was
quiet, I put a hand to the doorknob, twisted it, and carefully
pulled open the door. The room was dark, but a line of light glowed
beneath Scout’s door.
I frowned. Where had she been until one fifteen in
the morning? Exercise seemed seriously unlikely at this
point.
That mystery in hand, I closed the door again and
went back to bed, staring at the star-spangled ceiling until sleep
finally claimed me.