Deadly Little Sins (21 page)

She’s quiet for a beat. “No. But you’ll report to Amherst when you leave my office and undergo a
voluntary
room check.”

I let a small sigh of relief escape. Having a bunch of RAs go through my room in the middle of the day isn’t exactly good PR for me, but they won’t find any drugs in there. It could be that I dodged a bullet. For now.

As I get up from my chair, Tierney holds up a finger.

“You’ll understand that I need to check your bag, too.”

My stomach feels like it’s sinking to my toes. I hand my bag over to Tierney, willing my kneecaps not to tremble.
Please don’t go through my phone.

She sets my bag on her desk and uses a pen to open it up, as if she’s a damn airport security agent or something. She pokes around, her brow furrowing when she sees the stack of papers held together with a butterfly clip.

The ones from the library. Pages and pages of information on Plymouth Reform School.

Tierney frowns at the stack and replaces it in my bag. She hands it back to me, a troubled look in her eyes. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

I nod, slinging my bag back over my shoulder. It’s not until I’m in the elevator that I realize what’s bugging me: After Tierney saw the papers on Plymouth, she didn’t even bother checking the pockets of my purse.

There’s no debating what just happened: Tierney was completely freaked by my interest in Plymouth.

She had Natalie Barnes’s file on her desk.

I’m nearly certain that Tierney knows the truth about Ms. C’s identity.

Is Tierney also the person who got rid of her?

I lay low the rest of the week, nearly certain that Tierney has every pair of available eyes on me. I even spot Mr. Buckley at breakfast on Wednesday morning. He gives me a wave as he grabs a to-go cup of coffee and passes by our table.

Watching me.

I’m so busy watching my back that I have no energy to care about the rumors swirling about me and my room search. Luckily it becomes old news by the time Friday rolls around.

I desperately want to stay on campus while everyone goes to the costume party so I can come back here and see what else I can dredge up on Plymouth. But it seems that Remy has me on some sort of probationary friendship, and I can’t screw that up.

When I get back to the dorm after class, she’s lecturing April, who’s sitting on her bed. Kelsey is sitting on mine.

“Zombie prom queen is going to make you look like you’re in high school,” Remy says. April rolls her eyes.

“We
are
in high school.”

“Oh, whatever.” Remy glares at her. “If you’re wearing that nasty makeup all over your face, no one will want to hook up with you.”

April looks disturbed by this. She looks down at the costume laid out on Remy’s bed—a red sequined dress, a string of pearls, and a feathery headpiece. She’s going as a flapper.

It dawns on me that I have nothing to wear.

“What are you being?” I ask Kelsey, panicked.

She pulls her knees up to her chest. “Lady Gaga. She has short hair now, too.”

“Be a prom queen with me,” April says. “Oh! We can be
vampire
prom queens.”

Remy’s quiet. She approves.

“I … don’t even know if I brought a dress,” I say.

April is already going through my closet. “You did.”

She holds up a long-sleeved silver dress with a super low back. I feel as if the air’s gone out of the room. It figures that dress got caught up with my other clothes: It’s the one I wore to the spring formal last year. It’s the dress I was wearing when Brent and I broke up.

“That dress has some seriously bad juju,” I say. April holds it up to herself. The silver looks amazing against her chestnut hair and warm skin, which still has a hint of a summer tan. “But someone should wear it.”

“Really?” April grins.

“We’re the same size,” Remy says to me. “Take one of my dresses.”

I give her an appreciative smile. She returns it, and I think maybe this night won’t be that bad. I haven’t seen Brent with Kaylee all week, and as far as I know, he’s coming tonight.

April and I come up with a battle plan for authentic makeup. Because I don’t half-ass anything.

Except maybe homework.

I have baby powder and fake blood on my face and I’m wearing a sequined black dress that I practically had to stuff myself into because Remy’s a size two and I’m a four. My cardigan and pantyhose are doing nothing but reminding me that it’s too goddamn cold for this.

We’re waiting at the T station for Brent and Phil. They’re fifteen minutes late, and Remy is freaking out that we’re going to miss most of the party. I remind her that it’s only a quarter to ten—the party probably hasn’t even started yet. In any case, we have to take a cab back around midnight, because senior weekend curfew is twelve thirty.

Remy checks her texts and grunts. “What the hell are they doing? There’s no way it’s taking them this long to get ready.”

It took Remy roughly two-and-a-half hours to get ready. Her pin curls and red lips do look amazing, though. I almost wish I’d put as much thought into my costume.

April and I made sashes out of an old top sheet she didn’t want. We wrote PROM QUEEN on them with Remy’s fabric markers—because fabric markers are the types of things Remy has just lying around in her dorm room. My hair is in a knot at the top of my head, and April’s is flat-ironed. We both have red dripping from the corners of our mouths.

We look hot. When we signed out, the security guard at the gate told us we were dressed to “get in trouble.” I wanted to tell the old bastard that I’ve had a gun pointed at me twice, so a sexy Halloween costume is the last thing I’m worried about.

“They’re meeting us at the party,” Remy announces as another train rolls in. “We’re not freezing our asses off for them.”

A couple people whistle at our costumes as we get on the train. A few of them are in costumes themselves—college-aged kids, mostly, plus the occasional Wheatley student. I spot Jill Wexler and the rest of the blondetourage, dressed as packages of Taco Bell hot sauce. Jill is fire, Brooke is hot, and Lizzie is mild. I wonder if they picked who got to be what based on their levels of attractiveness, because it’s eerily accurate.

“Ugh, I hope they’re not going to the same party as us,” Kelsey whispers in my ear as the train lurches forward. Remy hears her.

“Of course they’re not. There’s no way they’re getting in,” she hisses.

“And how exactly are we getting in?” I ask.

“I met this guy Leo during a tour this summer,” Remy says. “He’s a sophomore. It’s his frat.”

When we get there, I figure out that
his frat
is Alpha Beta Phi, and suppress a groan. I’ve encountered Alpha Beta Phi before, at NYU parties during the first half of my junior year.

Alpha Beta Phi is like the chess club of fraternities. But I guess that’s sort of the point, because Remy’s older brother Mike wouldn’t be caught dead at the party.

Remy texts Leo, and he meets us outside the town house with peeling paint. I know automatically that Leo went to Wheatley—he’s got the side-swept hair and grass-fed cow look that all the Wheatley guys have. He’s dressed as a banana.

“Glad you could make it.” He beams at Remy and extends his hand to each of the rest of us, saying “Hi, I’m Leo” with each shake. All manners, this guy.

I need a drink.

The house is so crowded we almost take out a couple costumes on our way to the kitchen. A bass-heavy remix of a popular song is pounding. Three guys—Mario, Luigi, and someone in a blue skin suit—are working the keg. The sour smell meets my nose, and just like that, I officially don’t want to be here.

Leo gets us beers and Remy drags us out to where there’s beer pong and flip cup games going. Kelsey and I opt for flip cup.

A few games later, I check my phone. No missed calls or texts from Brent. I don’t see him in the crowd. Kelsey is flirting with blue suit guy, whose costume is still pulled over his face. He could have, like, serious buck teeth going on, but maybe she likes the mystery.

That’s when I see Remy, using a guy in a Harvard T-shirt as a standing device. He’s leading her somewhere. She smiles when I approach them.

“Hey! I’ve got to pee,” she says. “This fella here was going to help me to the bathroom.”

“Fella? You’re taking your costume pretty seriously.” I level with the guy. “What are you supposed to be?”

He gives me a lazy smile. “College student?”

“Nice try.” I drag Remy away from him. I don’t trust any dude who shows up to a costume party not wearing a costume. Remy giggles in my ear as I try to steer her to a bathroom.

“The guys here … are so not cute,” she says.

“And you are so not sober,” I say. “Remember, we have to convince the RA we’re not drunk in like, two hours.”

“That’s not good. ’Cause I’m boozy. Is that a word? It should be. Hey, the guys are here.”

I look up as much as I can with Remy hanging around my neck like an infant. Phil is pushing his way through the crowd, wearing a top hat, a green suit jacket, and a fake red beard that’s several shades away from matching his hair.

“What the hell are you?” Remy blurts.

“A leprechaun.” Phil frowns, touching his beard. I look around him, searching for Brent. It’s almost impossible to miss him, since he’s wearing his Wheatley uniform and big black glasses. There’s a lightning bolt drawn on his forehead with eyeliner.

He’s carrying a broken branch piece.

“Nice wand, Harry Potter.” I can’t help but grin at him. “Did you find that outside five minutes ago?”

“Yup. Just like the rest of my costume.” He laughs a horribly awkward laugh, and I’m about to ask what the hell is wrong with him. But I don’t get that far. The reason is standing behind him.

She pokes her head around, then moves so she’s standing next to Brent, like a kid awaiting her parents’ permission for something. Kaylee, the junior girl. Now Kaylee the adorable flapper.

Remy scowls, looking down at her own flapper costume.

“Uh, this is Kaylee,” Brent says.

“Hi.” It comes out tightly, almost bitchy. Not because I wanted it to. Because if I open my mouth all the way, I’ll either cry, or throw up, or do something equally mortifying. “I need to get Remy to the bathroom.”

“Oh, shit,” Remy says, as I drag her to the stairs, where people are waiting for a door the size of a Harry Potter closet. I squeeze my eyes as we lean against the wall, not saying anything.
Oh, shit
pretty much sums it up.

“Hey, I had no idea he was—”

“I know you didn’t.” I fan my eyes. I won’t cry and create a fake eyelash glue disaster. “I know you’d never not tell me something like that, even though you’re pissed at me, so you don’t have to explain yourself.”

I don’t know what I expect her to say or do. It’s definitely not taking my hand and squeezing it. I squeeze back. And that’s when the tears come.

“Rem, I’m the shittiest person ever.”

“Nonono.” She pulls me to her, hiding my face in her shoulder. “I know there’s a lot of messed-up stuff you won’t talk about. I hear you in your sleep. I know you’re scared of something.”

“Everything is just so messed up.” I sniff. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you either.” Now she’s crying, and we’re making a scene. “God, Anne,
I’m
the shittiest person ever. Kels hates me, and she should. I knew what I was doing with Cole … flirting and like, talking about the stuff we used to do.”

She lets out an unattractive, snot-filled snort. “I told Cole I was sorry, and that I really don’t feel that way about him, and it’s never going to happen. I’m not going to be that girl who’s with the guy just because she doesn’t want someone else to have him.”

I think of Brent, and Kaylee, off doing whatever right now, and I expect guilt to ripple through me—did I only want Brent back because I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing him with someone else? But all I feel is the lump at the back of my throat.

This is how I made Brent feel. All because I couldn’t let Anthony go.

Anthony’s not the only one who wishes he knew back then that it wasn’t fucking worth it.

I squeeze Remy, wishing I didn’t have to let go of her, even though it’s borderline creepy. Because right now, it feels like she’s all I have. And I’m starting to think the more we care about people, the more stupid and selfish we act around them.

My phone begins to buzz in my pocket, and a super pathetic part of me hopes it’s Brent, even though he would just come find me if he had something to say.

Instead, it’s the only person who could possibly make me feel worse right now.

Anthony.

CHAPTER

THIRTY

I swallow and answer, taking a deep breath first so it doesn’t sound like I’ve been drinking and hysterically crying—although I’m starting to think I’d qualify if drinking and hysterically crying were an Olympic sport.

Turns out I should have saved my breath, because Anthony is clearly obliterated.

“Where are you?” he slurs.

“I’m … out,” I say. “What do you want?”

There’s silence on his end. “I just … really need someone right now. I need you.”

I stick a finger in my other ear, trying to drown out the sounds of the party. I think I hear a car horn in the background. “Anthony, where are you?”

“I … I was on my way to you, but I turned around.” Another horn blaring.

On his way to me. On his way to the school.
Shit
. I think I know where he is. “You’re not on the overpass, are you?”

He says nothing. My heartbeat comes to a full stop. “What are you
doing
there?”

“Nothing. I shouldn’t have called.” His voice is scratchier than usual. As if he’s been crying. “I’m sorry.”

He hangs up. Remy’s watching me. She’s sliding down the wall like a limp piece of spaghetti. I prop her back up, my throat beginning to tighten.

“Are you okay?” she asks, glassy-eyed.

“I’m … I think I need to go,” I say.