Prep School Confidential (A Prep School Confidential Novel) (4 page)

BOOK: Prep School Confidential (A Prep School Confidential Novel)
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And he’s
definitely
my type.

I give him a small Queen Elizabeth wave. One corner of his mouth curls up.

“Dr. Harrow, I apologize for not getting here on time,” Brent says. “I’d be happy to show Anne around now.”

Alexis stiffens beside me. She looked horrendously insulted by Brent’s presence before, but now her eyes are practically crossing.

“That’s not necessary,” she snips. “No reason for Brent and I both to miss the Student Government Association fund-raiser.”

So that’s what this is—some sort of pissing contest between the school’s male alpha and female alpha. Either they’re both trying to mark me as their territory, or they really don’t want to go to that fund-raiser. Even Dr. Harrow realizes how awkward this whole situation has become.

He clears his throat. “Ms. Westbrook, I feel terrible that I pulled you away from the fund-raiser … and I did give the SGA advisors advance warning that Brent wouldn’t be able to attend today.”

Alexis squeezes her bottom lip between her teeth and lets it go. Her nostrils flare. “Sure. As long as Anne doesn’t mind taking a tour with Brent instead.”

There’s no way to respond to this without sounding like a mega-bitch, but I’m pretty much set with the eight or so minutes I’ve already had to spend with Alexis. I like to give everyone a chance, but something about this girl fills me with insta-dislike.

“I don’t mind. It was great meeting you, Alexis.” I square off with her and give my best winning smile, because even
I
don’t want an enemy here yet. But something in the dagger glare Alexis gives me before leaving the office in a huff tells me I was screwed the second she laid eyes on me.

Dr. Harrow walks Brent and me into the hallway. “Nice to meet you again, Anne. Hopefully we won’t be seeing much of each other.” Then he winks.

He disappears behind his door before I can figure out what the appropriate reaction to a vice-principal
winking
at me is. Brent must sense my confusion.

“Dr. Harrow, is, ah … in charge of discipline,” he says.

“Got it.” My face is hot.

“Not that a nice girl like you would end up in the VP’s office anyway.” Brent gives me a goofy smile, and it hits me. He totally knows I got kicked out of St. Bernadette’s. Everyone here probably does.

“‘Nice girl,’ huh? And here I was worried there would be rumors of me burning down my last school before I even got here.”

Brent is suddenly overcome with a coughing fit.

“It really wasn’t even that big of a fire.” I find myself rambling.

Brent looks like he’s stifling a smile. I’m quiet for a minute as we walk down the hall in the opposite direction of the main entrance. I try not to be distracted by the spicy scent of Brent’s cologne, because I’m not pathetic enough to be entranced by what is literally the first boy I’ve met at this school.

Brent leads me into the courtyard, which is sealed off by more ivy-covered brick buildings. Two guys in shorts and T-shirts reading
WHEATLEY CREW
walk toward us. They hold up their hands for Brent to slap. The whole transaction is wordless. Brent gestures to me. “Guys, this is Anne Dowling. From New York.”

“Hi,” I say.

The one with a floppy mass of black hair and tan skin nods at me, a smile taking over his whole face. “What’s up? I’m Murali.”

The other guy’s eyes dart from Brent to me, as if he’s looking for evidence about what Brent’s take on me is. He finally extends a hand. Why are people so obsessed with handshaking here? “Hey. I’m Cole Redmond.”

Cole is taller and buffer than Brent, and ten times preppier, from his blond crew cut to his Pumas.

The boys continue heading in the opposite direction. Brent tells me they’re his rowing team buddies. Of course this school has a crew team. It’s only the most WASP-y sport ever invented.

“Murali is in our British lit class,” Brent tells me, and I’m almost too busy checking him out to notice he said
our.
Almost.

“How do you know I’m in British lit?” I narrow my eyes at him. “I haven’t even looked at my schedule yet.”

“I know lots of stuff. Including the lucky girl who gets you as a roommate.”

I almost fall over right there. “Tell me. Please. Please.”

“Isabella Fern,” Brent says. “She’s nice.”

Nice
tells me nothing. Dad’s Aunt Mary is nice, but she still wears her dead husband’s ashes in a locket, and her house smells like a pet store. “Can you tell me anything else about her?”

“She’s really smart. Quiet. Keeps to herself.” Brent shrugs. “I’m in AP physics with her.”

The fact that Isabella is taking an advanced physics course her junior year tells me pretty much all I need to know.

But I’m not here to make friends.

 

CHAPTER

FOUR

 

Brent leaves me at Amherst, the upperclassmen girls’ dorm, which looks like a cross between the college dorms I’ve seen on TV and the type of hotel you’d find in the mountains somewhere. I step onto a new-looking carpet and look down the hall. Most of the doors have whiteboards hanging on them, and glittery nameplates decorated with pictures probably cut out of
Cosmo
and
Seventeen.

I sigh as I pass a door with a black script
Alexis
decal. Maybe there’s more than one Alexis in the junior class.

My room—417—is at the end of the hall, across from the elevator. The only decoration on the door is a glow-in-the-dark star, the kind little kids put on their bedroom ceilings. For a second, I totally consider running back downstairs and camping out on the lounge couch until someone notices me. It feels wrong to just barge into Isabella’s room, even if it is technically my room now, too.

I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at the door before the elevator dings behind me. Two girls shuffle out. They’re both head-to-toe J.Crew ads—pastel leather ballet flats, cashmere sweaters, pearl stud earrings.

Headbands with bows on the side.

Their conversation stalls when they spot me lingering outside Isabella’s door. They exchange a look, and the strawberry-blond girl nods at the brunette, who speaks: “Hi. Are you locked out?”

I actually don’t know, since I haven’t even tried to open the door, but I smile and shake my head. “No … just thought I’d wait to meet my roommate. Out here.”

“Oh.” The brunette cocks her head, her green eyes a little disbelieving. “Well, we’re in four-oh-three if you need anything. I’m April, and this is Kelsey.” She nudges the blonde, who offers me a nervous smile and adjusts her square-frame glasses.

As they disappear behind their door, I realize they didn’t ask who I am.

Who are you kidding, Anne? Everyone here already knows who you are.

I finally decide I need to get out of the hallway and avoid any further awkward interactions. When I swipe my ID through the door, the keypad lights up. Crap. I forgot Barbara mentioned there was an entry code.

“Are you trying to get in?” a small voice sounds from beside me. I give its owner a once-over. She’s a few inches shorter than me, and she has deep brown eyes with long lashes. Her brown hair is in thick, spiral curls that could be disastrous in the wrong hands, but she has them neatly pulled back away from her face.

I think I’ve just met my roommate.

“Yeah,” I say, feeling sheepish. “I don’t know the code.”

“It’s four-three-two-one,” Isabella says, looking even more sheepish than I feel. “My memory is awful.”

“I’m Anne,” I say as she punches in the code.

“I know.” Isabella pushes the door open. “Sorry. That came out kind of snotty. I meant that I knew you were coming. Some guy from Student Services brought your suitcases up.”

I follow Isabella into the room. It’s bigger than I expected, and afternoon sun floods through the window on the far wall. Isabella’s side of the room is neat. Her twin bed has a blue-and-white-striped comforter and a gray body pillow. The desk at the foot of her bed is covered with markers, folders, and a MacBook. There’s a string of plastic owl lights across the top, where she has all of her textbooks stacked against one another.

“Cool lights,” I say.

“Thanks. We’re technically not allowed to have them, but Darlene doesn’t care.” Isabella pauses. “Darlene is our RA. She’s a grad student at Harvard, and as long as no one kills each other, she’s pretty cool.”

I tear my eyes away from Isabella’s side of the room. Homesickness pokes at me as I take in the sterile-looking white bed and empty desk. I try not to think of Abby curled between the black-and-white pillows on my bed at home.

Isabella tells me she’s going to the library for a little while, and I highly suspect it’s to let me have some privacy while I unpack. For a fleeting moment, I think this whole boarding-school thing might not be so bad. Then I open my suitcase and see the black dress I bought at BCBG with Chelsea for Derrick Bradford’s New Year’s Eve party. Three hours before we were supposed to get ready, I started throwing my guts up and had to stay home. The dress still has its tags on.

At the time, missing the party hadn’t seemed like such a big deal because I assumed there would be others. I’ll never get to wear that dress now.

It takes me so long to unpack and make my bed that I barely notice when Isabella slips back into the room.

“Hey, dinner is in fifteen.” She sits on the edge of her bed, putting on a pair of socks with mini-periodic-element tables on them. “You up for a break?”

I know I should eat something more than the spoonful of yogurt I had for lunch, but I can’t stomach the thought of going to face my classmates—all of them—for the first time. Even though I might see Brent again. Even though Isabella will probably let me eat without making awkward small talk.

I mean, the nerdy socks and
Star Trek
poster over her bed have
got
to go, but I kind of like Isabella.

“Um, I should probably finish unpacking and make my bed,” I say. “Long day.”

Isabella nods, like she gets that I’m not ready to be thrown to the wolves yet. “I’ll bring you something.”

She’s gone before I can argue otherwise. I suck in a breath and hold it for a minute. I guess I’ll set up my desk first if I’m going to adopt the whole studious thing this semester.

When my computer whirs to life, I have to sign into WheatleyResNet. The first thing I do is Google Steven Westbrook.

He’s a Massachusetts senator.
Of course he is,
I think as I shut my laptop. I flop down on the bed—my bed—and stare at the
Where’s Waldo?
poster on Isabella’s wall for a while. I never find him.

My heartbeat stalls for a second as the lock on the door clicks. Isabella ducks inside the room, balancing two brown take-out boxes.

“I hope you like baked mac and cheese.” She sets one box down on my desk. “It’s Mexican night.” Her face grows somber. “Never eat the food on Mexican night.”

“Didn’t you want to eat downstairs?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound like I’d rather she be down there. Because I don’t. At least I think. “I mean, you didn’t have to rush back. I feel bad.”

“Don’t.” Isabella is leaning back in her chair, already digging into her mac and cheese with a plastic fork. “I have a huge art-history exam tomorrow, so I wanted to get back early.”

Isabella included a piping hot dinner roll and a brownie with my mac and cheese. It’s difficult not to stuff the entire box down my throat, even though I make a mental note never to let my new roommate make nutritional choices for me again. As I eat, I thumb through my folder until I find my schedule.

“Are you in Robinson’s art-history class?” I ask Isabella. “First period?”

Isabella nods and presses a napkin to her mouth. She rolls her chair toward me. “Can I see your schedule?”

I hand it to her and turn back to my dinner as she looks it over.

“We only have art history together,” she says. “I was in your Latin three class, but I had to drop it.” A dark look eclipses her cheery expression as she says it. “Anyway, it’s a good class.” Isabella gives me my schedule back. “Upton gives a ton of work, but she’s a lenient grader.”

I don’t know how anyone can use the terms
good class
and
ton of work
in the same sentence, so I stay quiet. Isabella follows my lead, and we eat the rest of our dinners in silence. When she’s done, she crawls onto her bed with her laptop. I lie on my side, facing my empty, whitewashed wall. I should probably hang up the photos I brought from home, but something about decorating my side of the room feels permanent.

I close my eyes and fight off the prickling in my nose. I’m not going to be a cliché and cry myself to sleep my first night at boarding school, but, God, I hate it here. Sure, the boys are cute, my roommate is nice, and the mac and cheese is really good … but it’s not St. Bernadette’s.

It’s not New York.

Isabella settles into her bed next to me, plugging earphones into her laptop. I can hear heavy bass leaking out of them. I watch her for a few moments, her lips muttering along with the lyrics and her hand suspended over a bag of gummy worms.

She’s singing along to a rap song—a really intense rap song about busting caps in snitches and shanking prison guards.

“Oh, sorry.” She catches me staring and pulls out an earbud. “I need something to get my adrenaline going when I study.”

I blink at her. Isabella turns back to her laptop, and I dig out the copy of
Marie Claire
I never finished reading on the train yesterday. I’m halfway through Tim Gunn’s column when I hear violins and Isabella singing in a light falsetto.

I put my magazine down. “Is that … the
Les Misérables
soundtrack?”

Isabella gives me a blank stare and takes out her earbuds again. I repeat myself and she nods enthusiastically.

So my roommate is batshit crazy. I want to laugh, but hearing
Les Mis
makes me wish I were back in New York so badly I feel like I’m going to explode. “I love
Les Mis.

Isabella nods, her eyes wide, like she gets why. She turns up the volume on her laptop so “One Day More” is blasting, and she starts to sing all the male parts in full-on baritone and tenor. I’m holding in a laugh so big my body starts to shake, when she stands up on her bed and starts singing the female parts in a falsetto.

BOOK: Prep School Confidential (A Prep School Confidential Novel)
13.46Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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