Prep School Confidential (A Prep School Confidential Novel) (7 page)

I shrug. “Hour or so. You?”

“’Bout a half hour. Nice of you to say hi.”

“What?” I turn my whole body toward him. “I didn’t even see you come in. You could have said hi to
me.
”

“I’m too nervous to say hi to hot girls.” His pupils are slightly larger than normal.

“You’re full of crap.” I smack him in the chest. His T-shirt is really soft, so I let my hand linger there. He steps in closer to me, as if he doesn’t want me to stop touching him.

“You don’t have a drink,” he says. “Want one?”

“I had one already. And then another one.” I tilt my head to the side, letting my hair fall across the sliver of bare shoulder created by my silky black top. It’s the most manipulative move ever, because any guy with a normal testosterone level would reach out and brush the hair away, but Brent seems relatively immune.

“And you don’t want another because you’ll turn into that?” Brent nods toward Remy, who’s crawled onto the lap of one of the crew guys and stolen his neon green sunglasses.

“My parents sent me up here so I could reform my bad-girl ways,” I say. “I’m giving it a shot.”

“Well, if you ever need help from the resident good boy, I live here. In this room.” Brent points to the floor. The miniscule gesture sways him. I put my arm on his shoulder to steady him. The buzzed leading the buzzed.

No one is looking at us. This is that crucial moment where we either sneak off together or rejoin the party. If we go back to hanging out with everyone else, our chances of getting each other alone again pretty much suck.

“Hey, Brent!” Cole yells from across the room. He holds up a Ping-Pong ball. “Partners?”

“Ooh. Crap. Forgot I promised him.” Brent pokes me in the side again, and just like that, I’m ditched.

I don’t think I’ve ever hated beer pong more in my life.

I play a few more games of Never Have I Ever before I glance at the screen of my phone. It’s 1:09
A.M.
already and I’ve just about had enough. From the looks of it, Pukey and Sloppy look like they have, too. April is slumped over the side of the couch with her hand over her mouth, and Kelsey is crying to Cole, who is massaging her back with one hand and trying to make a shot in beer pong with the other.

“I think it’s time to go,” I say to April, helping her sit up.

“Really?” She peers up at me. “Did my mom call and say so?”

“Yes. She also said you’re in big trouble if you throw up on the way back to the dorm.”

Remy makes it very clear she will end my life if I try to make her leave, but Brent stops the beer pong game for long enough to help me pry Kelsey away from Cole.

“Have Kelsey text me when you guys get back to the dorm safely, okay?” he says.

“I think he likes you,” Kelsey says when we get outside. April is trailing behind us at the pace of a baby sloth, and I’m half-considering carrying her so we don’t get caught.

“He would have given me his phone number and told
me
to text him if he liked me,” I say crankily. “But he told me to have
you
text him.”

“Brent’s, like, super private with that stuff,” Kelsey says. “I think he hates boarding school.”

“Who hates boarding school? I love boarding school,” April informs us.

I don’t have time to obsess over Brent’s mixed signals when we get to our floor and I realize I left my ID card in the room. My buzz is rapidly wearing off, I’m getting a blister from my boots, and I really, really want to go to bed. I knock on the door, even though I know it’s no use. Light off. Isabella passed out. Anne screwed.

“Knock louder!” Kelsey’s voice is a dull roar. I’m pretty sure she was going for a whisper. I shush her, panic creeping into my chest.

“What if Darlene hears and comes out?” I ask. “Her light is on!”

“Just say you got up to go to the bathroom and forgot your key,” Kelsey says.

“Dressed like this?” I hiss. “She thinks we’ve been asleep for the past three hours! I can’t get in trouble my first effing weekend here!”

Kelsey’s eyes well up again. I ignore her and call Isabella, but it goes straight to voice mail.

“I have to sleep in your room,” I tell Kelsey.

“Fine,” she sniffs. “Only if you promise not to yell at me again.”

For frick’s sake. I cross my heart for her and follow her into her room, where April is sprawled on the carpet.

“You can sleep in her bed,” Kelsey says. “She can’t fall onto the floor and get a concussion if she’s already lying on it.”

So reassuring. I crawl into April’s bed anyway, though. She has microfiber fleece sheets, which quickly get rid of the chill in my body. Kelsey is snoring lightly within minutes. I say a quick prayer for my parents, hungry people, and that April doesn’t throw up everywhere, because the only one I’ll clean up puke for is my dog.

Of all the nights for Isabella’s phone to die.

*   *   *

When I wake up, I check to make sure April and Kelsey are still breathing. It’s light-ish outside, so Isabella should be awake and getting ready for the Wetland Conservation Club outing that she’s been talking about all week.

That’s right. The Wheatley School has a
Wetland Conservation Club.

I grab the furry blue bathrobe hanging from the back of Kelsey and April’s door and slip it on as a precaution. I look like an overgrown Sesame Street character, but the last thing I need is to run into Alexis when I’m wearing the same clothes I had on last night.

“Isabella.” I knock loudly this time. “Isabella!”

The light is still off. I call her phone, but again, straight to voice mail. Isabella must have overslept: There’s no way she’d be able to get up without her phone alarm.

I can stand here pounding on the door and wake up the whole dorm, or I can bite the bullet and tell Darlene I’m locked out. At least I can use the
I went to the bathroom and forgot my key
excuse now.

Isabella isn’t in the bathroom, even though my gut knew before I checked that it would be useless. I knock on Darlene’s door and gnaw the inside of my lip while I wait for her to open it.

“What’s up, Anne?” There’s a phone cradled between her neck and her shoulder, and her expression and voice say she really wants to get rid of me. What’s she so anxious about this early in the morning?

“I’m locked out,” I say. “And Isabella won’t wake up.”

“You’re gonna have to wait a couple of minutes,” she says. “I’m kind of dealing with something right now.”

She retreats into her room. It’s a suite, like the guys have, and I notice there’s someone sitting on Darlene’s living room couch. It’s Emma, the RA from downstairs. She’s on the phone, too, gnawing at her nails.

And that’s when I realize something must be wrong. I’m practically trembling with curiosity by the time Darlene comes back out, key in hand. I follow her in silence as she opens the door to my room.

But Isabella isn’t there. Her bed is untouched.

“Where is she?” I ask aloud.

“Didn’t you see her this morning?” Darlene asks.

Shit. “Um. Not exactly. I stayed in April and Kelsey’s room last night.”

Darlene pushes her superblunt bangs up her forehead. “It’s okay. She probably went for coffee or something.”

“Her wallet is on her nightstand, though,” I point out.

Darlene’s face drains of color as she processes this. “Anne, when was the last time you saw Isabella?”

“Last night, at ten,” I admit. “I was … hanging out with some other girls until late.”

“Fuck.”
Darlene pulls out her cell phone, and I’m so taken aback I plop down on my bed.

“What’s wrong?” A panicked sensation is flooding my body.

“A body was found in the woods this morning,” Darlene says, her voice tightening. “I’ve been trying to find out more for the past hour.”

“No, no, no.” My hands fly to my mouth. “It can’t be her.”

“I don’t know. Just be quiet. I have to call Dr. Harrow and let him know.”

It can’t be her. It can’t be her. Please don’t let it be her!

Maybe I forget to breathe. Maybe deep down, I know it’s her, and I can’t handle it, because I black out.

The last thing I see before I do is the police officer in my doorway.

*   *   *

“It’s
not
your fault.” Remy squeezes my knee. We’re on a couch. The lounge couch. We’re in the lounge.

I can’t remember the last five minutes. Or maybe it’s been longer. Did I say it was my fault? I must have. And it’s true, right? Because I left Isabella alone to go to that stupid party last night, and now she’s dead.

“Anne, it’s not your fault. Look at me.”

I do. Remy’s eyes are glassy. There are a couple of other girls hanging around the lounge, sniffing, wet streaks on their faces. They’re crying for a girl they wouldn’t have given the time of day to last night.

I’m not crying, which makes me think there’s something wrong with me. I should be crying. My roommate died this morning.

Someone hands me a paper cup of water. It’s a male hand. Brent sits on my other side and begins to rub my back. Sparks shoot to my stomach as I remember my hand on his chest last night. Him leaning into me. His touch now is totally different, though. I’m reminded of the way my mom rubs my back when I’m sick.

And suddenly I’m in kindergarten again and my mom just dropped me off, and I really, really want her back. I start to cry.

“Hey, girls, can we have a minute?” Remy says to the onlookers. I can’t look at them as they disperse.

“Rem,” Brent says, his voice warning. We both look up.

There’s a police officer in the doorway. I know he’s looking for me before he opens his mouth and asks if there’s an Anne in the room. I raise my hand stupidly, like I’m sitting in class and no one’s died today or anything.

Brent and Remy get up to leave, and my hand instinctively curls around Remy’s. She squeezes it back. “We’ll be right outside.”

The officer clears his throat. “Anne, I’m Detective Phelan. I know you’ve had a difficult morning, but if you’re okay to answer them, I have some questions about Isabella.”

“What happened to her?” I ask. Just like that. Like he didn’t just say he was the one with questions.

“The investigation is ongoing.” Detective Phelan scratches his neck.

And that’s when I know. Isabella’s heart didn’t stop. She didn’t fall and hit her head on a rock.

“Someone killed her,” I say. “That’s what you won’t tell me, right?”

The detective’s radio goes off. He reaches for his belt and silences it. “Yes. We’re treating this as a homicide.”

Homicide.
The word is like a punch to my stomach. Homicides happen in New York City, where there are drug dealers and gangs. They don’t happen at fancy prep schools in Massachusetts, where everything is brick and covered in ivy and safe.

“Anne, do you have any idea why Isabella might have been in the woods last night?”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I only moved in a week ago. I really didn’t know her at all.”

Officer Phelan nods. “When did you last see her?”

I tell him how my friends and I went to the boys’ dorm and didn’t get back until after one.

“So, you don’t know if Isabella ever went to sleep last night?” Officer Phelan repeats.

I nod. The look on his face says this little detail seriously complicates things.

“Okay.” He sighs. “Someone will contact you for an official statement soon, but in the meantime, I’m going to have to ask you not to talk to anyone about what we discussed. Especially not reporters.”

There are girls I’ve never seen before lurking outside the lounge when Officer Phelan leads me outside. I suddenly can’t stand the thought of them looking at me, of anyone looking at me, even though that’s who I am: the girl everyone looks at.

Everyone looks away and scatters back to their rooms when they see the detective. They all look terrified, and I can’t shake this feeling that it’s me they’re scared of. Like they’re inside my head and can hear me replaying the last conversation I had with Bailey before the fire.

Trouble has a way of showing up wherever you are, Anne.

CHAPTER

SEVEN

The story is all over the news. The administration is mega-pissed because they didn’t get to notify everyone’s parents first. They have all the RAs round us up like cattle and tell us any student who talks to the media or the police without obtaining permission from Dr. Harrow or Dean Tierney will be subject to disciplinary action.

Everyone seems more freaked out by
that
than the fact a student was murdered.

I know the police don’t have a clue who did it, because since the story hit the news, I’ve been sitting at my laptop, reading every article I can find. They’re all ridiculously short, and none even mention Isabella by name.

A 16-year-old female Wheatley School student was found dead in the woods adjacent to the Charles River. Police are ruling the death a homicide, but there are no suspects yet.

There’s nothing else. Even by the next morning. This is a country that can track down a terrorist by a fingernail, yet no one in a town this small knows anything about who could have killed Isabella right in the school’s backyard.

Or they do, and they’re just not saying anything. All because of some stupid old headmaster who thinks the sizable checks to the school will stop coming in once all the mommies and daddies find out their future presidents and congressmen have been talking to the police.

It makes me want to throw something.

I almost do on the breakfast line, when I hear some nasally sophomore complain to her friend that the administration should have given everyone the day off. I want to throw her against the wall, even though I’ve never physically hurt anyone in my life.

“If you’re going to be an insensitive bitch, you might want to check to see who’s behind you,” I snap at her.

I’ve lost the minuscule appetite I came here with, so I storm off the line before the girl has the chance to respond. Like she even would. In my haste, I knock shoulders with someone who has a much bigger and harder shoulder than mine.