Deadly Little Sins (4 page)

“I told them why you hit him.” Remy doesn’t want to say his name: Casey Shepherd. The guy who bragged to his friends about taking her virginity while he still had a girlfriend. “When they called my parents, I asked to talk to them. I said you were defending me against a Class A skeeze. I wrote a letter to Tierney and told her the same thing before your hearing. I don’t know if it helped or anything.”

I don’t know what to say, so I grab her hand over the covers. She squeezes it, and within minutes, she’s asleep.

I turn off the lamp and settle into my new state of being—knowing there’s nothing left for me here, and not knowing what’s waiting for me up there.

CHAPTER

FOUR

My parents suspend my punishment in honor of Remy’s visit. Over the next two weeks, I show her everything New York has to offer. The day before we leave for Wheatley, I take her to Strand, my favorite bookstore, and we pick up copies of the books on our list for World Lit.

Our train to Boston is early Saturday morning. Before we leave for Penn Station, my dad sets my phone on the table in front of me, right next to my plate of toast.

“I thought about destroying it back in June,” he says. “But I didn’t want you to lose a piece of your soul.”

“Hah! Like a Horcrux.” Remy drags her suitcase into the dining room, her hair wet from the shower.

My dad and Remy launch into a debate about the best Harry Potter movie as I eyeball my phone. My social life took a serious blow this summer without it—I basically have no idea what’s going on in the outside world. Except, for like, the political unrest in the Ukraine and a landmark gay rights case in the Supreme Court. (I’m allowed to read
The New York Times
.)

But I have no idea what kind of sociopolitical environment I’m about to walk into at Wheatley. Who’s pissed at who? What are people saying about my suspension? I can’t count on Remy for the gritty details.

All of the calls and texts I missed are still flooding in as Remy and I get on the train. I start with the most recent messages and work my way back.

Mom says I can come up to Boston for a weekend in Nov. EEE! xox
(Chelsea)

I didn’t get to see you all summer
(needy friend Madison)

The reminders that I’m leaving New York aren’t helping with the weight in my stomach, so I return to my text in-box and scan the messages for any from my Wheatley friends.

An unknown number catches my eye, because it has a Massachusetts area code. I open the message. It’s two words—or rather, a name.

Natalie Barnes.

Something pings in my brain. I’ve seen this number before. I check my calls to be sure: The number has called me before. Back in May, and then again a few weeks ago.

It’s Dr. Muller.

I check the date on the text message. Three days ago. I mumble an excuse to Remy about needing to go to the bathroom.

I shoulder my way to a half-filled car at the back of the train and call Dr. Muller.

Hello! You’ve reached Rowan. I’m afraid I’m not available now …

I hang up. Who is Natalie Barnes? Is that Ms. C’s real name?

Maybe he found her.
I allow myself the slightest twinge of relief as I make my way back to our seats. If Dr. Muller found out who Ms. C really is, maybe she’s safe.

Maybe this year will be normal.

Four hours and a twenty-minute cab ride from South Station later, Remy and I are passing through Wheatley. Not Wheatley the school, which looks like Harvard, but Wheatley the town, which looks like something from a Stephen King novel. Our driver ascends the hill leading up to the school, and almost instantly everything looks a little more green and alive.

Once we get on campus, there are signs that say WELCOME SENIORS with red and gold balloons attached. Others direct us to the student center for check-in, where there’s a line to get our photos taken for new ID cards. Remy is stressed out because her hair is frizzy from the humidity. “Why can’t we keep our old cards?”

A lanky strawberry blond guy in front of us turns around. Dan Crowley. He’s grown an inch and buzzed his faux-hawk over the summer.

“We’re getting bar codes,” he tells us, beaming, because a bar codes is exactly the type of thing that would excite Dan. “We get to tap our IDs now instead of swiping them.”

Remy frowns. “Why would they change it?”

“Magnetic stripes are so outdated. Bar codes are the way of the future,” Dan says. “I bet by next year everyone will be using their phones to get in and out of the dorms.”

Remy smiles politely, obviously wishing he would stop talking. Dan turns to me.

“So how was your summer?”

“I was grounded,” I say. “You?”

Half-listening about the fancy software design camp he attended, I glance up and down the line. Brent is nowhere in sight. Neither are any of our other friends. Kelsey and April are already in Amherst, our dorm building—Remy texted them as soon as we got to Massachusetts. I offer a limp smile for the photographer and wait with Remy while our new IDs are printed.

The back of my T-shirt is soaked with sweat by the time we trek over to Amherst will all of our bags in tow. I desperately want to shower after we drop our crap off in the room—an exact replica of mine from last year—but April and Kelsey have already met up with Cole and Murali in the refectory, and Remy doesn’t want to be left out, I guess.

Remy and I are starving. She wants a grilled cheese, but after I say I’m getting a salad, she wants a salad. I have to battle nerves as we pick our way around the tables in search of the group. A girl in Ray-Ban frames sitting by the window waves to us. I have to blink to convince myself it’s Kelsey—her signature long blond hair is cut into a chic chin-length bob.

She hops up from the table to meet Remy with a hug. She then gives me a squeeze. “I can’t believe you’re really here!”

“Me neither.” I force a smile, because over her shoulder, Cole Redmond has caught my eye. In tow are our friends Murali and April, plus two other guys I’ve met briefly at parties and through class: Diego Almeida and Graham Drummond.

There’s a flurry of greetings. Murali envelops me in a bear hug so strong that my feet leave the ground. Cole offers me a thin smile as we all try to fit at the four-person table.

Six months ago, Cole would have hugged me, too. That was before I hurt his best friend and said something shitty about Cole’s mom’s affair with Senator Westbrook.

I’m thankful for all the overlapping conversations, because the heat is off me and my suspension. Also, someone else brings up the question I’ve been itching to ask.

“Where’s Conroy?” Graham asks.

Cole peels the label off his water bottle. “His flight doesn’t get in until late.”

I feel a small prick of disappointment, followed by relief. I have until tomorrow to figure out what I’m going to say to Brent.

You had all summer to figure out what you’re going to say.

I tap Diego on the shoulder. “You were in my Latin class last year, right?”

“I think so.” He knows so. And that’s not being arrogant or anything. I shot the vice principal in the leg. That’s bound to get a girl noticed.

The unofficial story that spread after Dr. Harrow was arrested was that he tried to kill me because he thought Isabella told me she was sleeping with him. The real story is that Isabella didn’t tell me anything, and I found out on my own. With help from Brent and Anthony.

They’re among the few people who know the truth. But I don’t want to think about that right now.

“So what’s the deal with Ms. C?” I ask Diego.

“She quit.” He shrugs with one shoulder. “The other language teachers divided up her classes. We got Fisch.”

“I know. He gave me a B minus on my final.”

“That sucks.” Diego’s face freezes. “Not the B minus. I mean, that Fisch gave it to you. He’s not even a Latin teacher.”

“It’s okay. I know it sucks.” By Wheatley’s standards, at least. “Do you know why Ms. C quit?”

There’s that one-shoulder shrug again. “No one said. But she probably found out she wasn’t being hired back this year and got pissed.”

“How do you know? That she wasn’t being hired back.”

“Ninety percent of first-year teachers or something don’t get hired back. Not even that Muller guy, and everyone loved him, too.”

Two well-liked teachers let go at the end of a scandal-ridden year for Wheatley. Is it a coincidence, or am I missing something?

There’s a loud bang behind me, and the sound of glass shattering. A small shout escapes my throat.

So much blood.

I whip around to the source of the noise: Dan Crowley standing over a shattered glass. Someone starts a slow clap. Dan flushes to his ears.

But everyone at my table is staring at me. I look down; I’m gripping the edge of the table so tightly my knuckles turn white.

I mumble an excuse about forgetting dressing for my salad and get up. But I’ve really lost my appetite.

Remy doesn’t bring up the scene during lunch on the way back to the dorm. But once we settle into our room and start unpacking, I catch her sneaking glances at me. Definitely wondering what the hell happened back there.

“Oh, look what I got for us.” She holds up a clear plastic storage container, showing off the removable divider trays a little too enthusiastically. “For all of our nail polish!”

“Cool,” I say. “I actually didn’t think to pack mine.…”

“That’s okay!” Remy sounds like Minnie Mouse—if Minnie had been hitting the pipe. I hang up the last of my Wheatley blazers and sit on the edge of my bed.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to freak you guys out at lunch,” I say. “I’m just exhausted and kind of jittery about being back, I guess.”

The worry leaves Remy’s eyes. “Totally understand. We can unpack later, and take a nap before dinner if you want.”

“That’s a fabulous idea.”

Remy shuts the light off and climbs into her bed. “I’m sure you’ll feel better once you rest up.”

“Mm-hmm.” I roll on my side and let the sound of her chattering lull me to sleep. I guess I am exhausted, after all.

Or maybe I’m getting so used to my lies that I’m starting to believe them.

I wind up sleeping until eight. Remy is up and unpacking. I yawn and drag myself to my computer, which is just about the only thing I’ve unpacked. And I google Natalie Barnes.

There are so many results that I narrow my search terms to “Natalie Barnes + Massachusetts.” There are two Natalie Barneses living in the area: A fifty-something- year-old doctor and a stay-at-home mom who is really into knitting and
Downton Abbey
, according to her blog.

All I can discern from my other searches is that there are 104 Natalie Barneses living in the United States. One website offers me the mug shot of a Natalie Barnes who was arrested seven years ago for the bargain price of $14.99.

I eye the credit card that’s linked to my parents’ account. It’s for emergencies only, and while this qualifies as an emergency in my mind, I doubt my parents will be happy to see me buying mug shots on their tab.

In my dresser is a velvet pouch filled with all of my cash savings—birthday money from over the years, a fifty spot here and there from guilty grandparents I never see. I have a couple hundred, easily, but there’s no way around using the credit card unless I pay someone to do it for me. Which may wind up being more trouble than it’s worth.

Besides, Ms. C isn’t the mug-shot type. She was slightly dorky and really into her job. I can’t picture her doing anything that could get her
arrested.

I click out of the screen. It’s probably another Natalie Barnes.

I
hope
it’s another Natalie Barnes.

The next morning before the assembly, Remy and I meet up with Kelsey and April, who are in even fouler moods because they were accidentally placed in a triple on the first floor with a junior.

Cole and the guys saved seats for us in the last row of the lower level of Blackman Hall. The orientation itinerary describes the assembly as “Senior Welcome Ceremony: Led by Dean Jacqueline Tierney.”

Wonderful. Just the person I want to see on my first day back.

But I guess it’s better than the alternative: ex-headmaster Benjamin Goddard.

A lot of people at Wheatley had to answer for their crimes last year, but Goddard was not one of them. In fact, the opposite happened. Goddard stepped down and the media portrayed him as a martyr: the
great man
who took the fall for the corruption that had managed to poison his beloved school.

Goddard knew another student was stalking Isabella before she died and fired an administrator for trying to protect her. Goddard had a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy when it came to the famed crew team’s dangerous hazing rituals.

And now he gets to spend the rest of his days cloistered in some million-dollar waterfront property that his severance pay from Wheatley is no doubt paying for.