"God, I hope so. I can't do this again." Josh was close to whimpering. "I really can't."
"I know."
I wanted to hit someone. Anyone.
Who was I kidding? I knew who I wanted to hit. Pummel. Beat with my fists until I was spent or he was dead, whichever came first. Only problem was, he was already six feet under.
"It's gonna be okay," I said, when nothing else coherent came to mind.
"I hope so." Josh shuddered slightly and squeezed my hand. "God, I really hope so."
In that moment, I hated Thomas Pearson. Dead or alive. I hated him.
180
THE ART OF DISTRACTION
I walked back into Billings on Sunday afternoon to a gaggle of voices and laughter and an occasional screech. I smiled as I closed the door behind me. The Billings Girls were back, and it was as if they hadn't seen each other in two months.
With a quick glance I noted that Taylor was not among the revelers in the lobby. I greeted the group, which included the Twin Cities, Rose, Cheyenne, and a few others, and made my way up to my room to drop my stuff. Noelle, Ariana, Kiran, and Natasha all turned to look at me when I opened the door. There was a brief moment of stunned silence, as if they were surprised to see me walking into my own room.
No Taylor. Everyone was there but her.
"Reed! Hey!"
Natasha broke away from the pack and hugged me. She was positively glowing. "How are you? How was your Thanksgiving?"
"It was . . . fine," I said. "How was yours?"
"Good," she said, lifting her shoulders. "Leanne and I hung out."
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Ah. Hence the glow.
"Reed!" Kiran strode over in her tasteful shift dress and black heels and air-kissed each of my cheeks. She looked perfectly scrubbed, polished, buffed, and waxed and had adopted a new scent in her few days off--something flowery and soothing. Apparently, she was no longer irked over our last conversation. Unfortunately, I still was.
"How was it here without us?" Ariana asked as she hugged me lightly.
"Boring as sin, I assume?" Noelle put in.
"Like sin is ever boring," Kiran said.
Noelle smirked. "Touche."
"Okay, enough chitchat," Kiran said. "Let's do presents!"
"Presents?"
Kiran turned and picked up a big black shopping bag from the floor, dangling the rope handles from her thumb.
"For you," she announced. "For having to endure four days all alone at Easton."
I was stunned. Did these girls use any excuse they could find to buy stuff? And why did I get the idea that this was more of an apology/bribe?
"What is it?" I asked.
"Open it!" Kiran exclaimed.
"You didn't have to do this," I said, taking the bag from her. It was heavy. I slipped a big, sleek box out, and Natasha grabbed the bag before it could hit the floor. I laid the box down on my bed and
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lifted the lid. A clean, crisp scent hit me in the face as tissue paper fluttered. The scent of wealth. I carefully unfolded the paper and froze. Inside the box was a black cashmere-and-wool coat with a tufted silk lining. The tag had one word embroidered on it: DiOR.
Natasha whistled.
"Kiran--"
"Isn't it delicious?" she asked, ripping the coat out of the box. She held it up to herself and twirled. "When I saw it, I knew you had to have it. You cannot keep walking around in that ratty blue thing."
Ratty blue thing. As in, my brand-new Lands' End coat that my dad had bought for me. Part of me was offended, even as I agreed with her. My outerwear just did not measure up to the outerwear of the rest of the Billings Girls, nor to that of anyone else at Easton. Except, maybe, for Kiki, who insisted on walking around campus in a puffy black parka with fur around the hood that made her look like a sausage with hair. Although I had a feeling that was some kind of statement, whereas my blue coat said only one thing: middle class.
"Thanks, Kiran," I said as she handed the coat over. "I love it."
"My turn," Ariana announced.
They each had a present for me. A red silk scarf from Ariana, a pair of Coach sunglasses from Noelle, and from Natasha, a book: The Lovely Bones.
'You got her a book?" Noelle said, as if I was holding a pile of dogdoo.
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Natasha ignored her. "It helps. Trust me. You might think it's weird at first, but it's good."
I smiled. "Thanks. But you guys didn't have to do this. Really. I have no idea why you did."
"There's nothing to do in New York but shop," Noelle said.
Yeah, right.
"There are other things to do in Atlanta, but I've done them all," Ariana added with a small smile.
I placed all my booty down on the bed and hooked my thumbs in the back pockets of my jeans. I could no longer avoid asking the obvious.
"So, where's Taylor?" I asked.
They all looked at one another in a way that made the hair on my arms stand up. Like, Do you want to tell her, or should I? Finally, Ariana took the bullet.
"Reed, Taylor's not coming back to school."
My brain whirled. "What? "
"She's taking some time off," Ariana said. "She needs a bit of a rest."
She whispered the last word and scrunched up her nose, as if it displeased her to say it. I looked at Kiran, who was very involved in toying with my new scarf.
"What the hell does that mean?" I asked.
"God, Reed. What Ariana is trying to say is that Taylor snapped, okay?" Noelle said. "The pressure finally got to her and she lost it. It's not uncommon around here."
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"Her parents checked her into a. facility," Ariana whispered. Nose scrunch. "Nothing drastic. Just sort of a spa retreat thing. So she can regroup."
"Wait a minute, wait a minute. This doesn't make any sense," I said. "Taylor wasn't under any pressure. She doesn't even need to study and she gets straight A's. Taylor was fine."
"Sorry. Fine?" Noelle said. "Have you not noticed the random waterworks and near breakdowns?"
I blinked. Okay. Girl had a point. But I had thought Taylor was just upset about Thomas's murder and that whole Harvard summer program thing. Was that really enough to push Easton's resident genius over the edge and into a "facility"?
"She's going to be fine," Kiran announced. "She just needs some time off. I bet she'll be back next semester."
"I'm sure she will be," Ariana said comfortingly.
"Well, can I talk to her?" I asked. "I've been trying to e-mail her."
"They usually cut you off from the outside world in these places. You know, so you can concentrate on getting better," Natasha told me. "She probably won't get back to you for a while."
Now I was seeing Taylor in a straitjacket, locked up in some padded cell, staring at the wall. This couldn't be right. She had seemed perfectly fine when she had walked out of here. How could things like this happen?
"Afew weeks, at least," Noelle added.
"But. . . but I--"
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"Look, Reed, Taylor is not coming back. Get used to it," Noelle said firmly. Then she smiled. "But we're here. And I vote for a change of subject!"
"Like how fabulous your new things are!" Kiran announced. She swung the Dior coat out and draped it over my shoulders, then stepped back to admire it. "Ah, yes. Now that is a coat."
I absently touched the luxurious fabric. Why were they being so blase about this? Taylor was one of them--one of us. Or maybe I was overreacting. Maybe the whole thing really wasn't a big deal. Maybe this kind of thing really did happen all the time in their world. Judging by the way they were brushing it off, that seemed to be the general consensus.
Kiran grabbed me and pulled me in front of the full-length mirror. "Look at yourself!"
"Here!" Noelle said, handing over the glasses.
Kiran placed them on my face. Instantly, I was transformed into one of those waify fashionistas who were always stuck on the covers of US Weekly and People. I look
ed like a paparazzi-shy movie star.
"I've got it," Natasha said. She took Ariana's scarf and tied it around my head, covering most of my forehead and matting my hair down.
"Dear God, it's Sienna Miller," Kiran said.
"Please," I scoffed.
"You do look famous," Ariana said.
"If you walked through an airport right now, people would mob
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you for your autograph," Noelle said. "That's how famous you look."
These girls really seemed intent on steering us all away from thoughts of Taylor. And although I knew I wasn't going to be able to rid my mind of her completely, I also knew I would never get them to talk about her if they didn't want to. I took a deep breath and decided to let it go. For now.
"You know what she really needs? A signature scent," Kiran said.
"Really?"
I had never owned a bottle of perfume in my life. But somehow I liked the idea of everyone knowing that I, Reed Brennan, had a certain scent that was all mine. It seemed like something a sophisticated girl would have--a Billings Girl. It also seemed like something a guy might appreciate. Like Josh, for instance.
"Yes!" Ariana seemed thrilled at this idea. "Let's see what we have back in our room."
"Wouldn't it not be my signature scent if you guys are wearing it?" I asked, trying to get into the spirit of things.
"I have like ten bottles of crap I don't wear anymore," Noelle said, getting up. "Let's go."
My signature scent derived from ten bottles of crap? Sounded about right. I sighed with a smile as we all walked out the door. Drama and intrigue aside for the moment, it was good to have them home.
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ACTUAL NORMAL
"We need to do something normal," Josh announced.
He sat down next to me at Sunday dinner, looking almost back to his old self. Apparently the police had decided not to stalk him today. Thus the regular-size pupils and lack of bunny-rabbit skittishness.
"Define normal," Kiran said, laying her IF magazine aside.
"We could BASE jump off the chapel roof," Gage suggested.
I was about 99 percent sure he was serious.
"You cannot BASE jump off the chapel roof," Ariana told him.
From the look on Gage's face, you'd have thought she'd just insulted the size of his manhood. "Why not?"
"Because you'd impale yourself on Big Bubba before your chute even opened," I told him.
Natasha snorted as she continued to text away on her BlackBerry, which she'd been doing nonstop since her return. "Now that I would like to see."
Big Bubba was the nickname of this huge oak tree that stood
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next to the chapel. It had a memorial stone at the base of its trunk indicating that it had been dedicated to the memory of Robert Robertson, class of 1985. At some point, long before I ever arrived at Easton, the tree had been christened Big Bubba. I guessed Bubba was Rob Robertson's nickname. You'd need a good nickname if your parents named you Rob Robertson.
"I mean actual normal," Josh said, pulling his seat closer to the table. "Not 'it could crack your head open' normal or I'll be vomiting in my friend's Chinese takeout by the end of it' normal."
"Hey! That happened one time!" Gage snapped.
Noelle and a few of the others laughed. Inside joke. They had a lot of those. So many that I was getting used to them.
"So, boring normal," Dash said.
"Actual normal," Josh confirmed with a nod.
"Sounds good to me," I said, smiling. "Actual normal is in short supply these days."
Josh's eyes sparkled when he looked at me. "Thankyou."
I blushed. "You're welcome."
Josh reached out under the table and ran the knuckle of his index finger down the side hem of my jeans. Tingles everywhere. Suddenly all I could think about was kissing him again. Kissing him and not being interrupted by three stiff-as-a-boards bent on making our lives miserable. Or by, you know, my own blubbering breakdown. Somehow, from the look in Josh's eye, I knew he was thinking the same thing.
When? Where? For how long . . . ?
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Okay, breathless.
When I looked up again, Noelle was staring at me. I froze for a second, startled, and when she didn't look away I became very interested in my vegetables. What was her problem with me now?
"So, what do you want to do?" Dash asked finally.
"I don't know. . . . Gage, would your dad have any movies yet?" Josh asked.
Everyone seemed to perk up at this idea.
"I haven't seen a new movie in ages," Ariana said wistfully. Whenever she was wistful, her southern accent was more pronounced.
"Nah. Those don't start rolling in till December," Gage replied.
"Gage's dad's in 'the business,'" Kiran explained to me with a couple of lazy air quotes. "He gets to vote for the Academy Awards, so he always gets all the new movies on DVD when they're still in the theater. So he can, you know, 'watch them.'" More air quotes.
"Oh. That would've been cool," I said, wondering exactly what Gage's father did in "the business." Had Gage ever met any celebrities? Somehow I doubted it. Because knowing Gage, if he'd been acquainted with any famous people, he'd have been dropping their names every time he took a breath.
Josh grazed my leg again and I warmed from my neck all the way up through my temples. I surreptitiously dropped my right hand down under the table and touched his fingers, stopping him. If he kept this up, I was going to melt. But instead of pulling away,
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he hooked his pinky through mine and held our hands on top of my thigh. I turned toward him and smiled goofily, resting my head on my left hand and letting my hair fall forward to hide my face from the rest of the table.
His grin was just as goofy as mine.
"I don't think we're capable of normal around here," Noelle announced rather loudly.
I flipped my hair back to look at her, my heart pounding as if I'd just been caught sleeping in class.
"I think you're shit out of luck, Hollis," she said, talking to him but staring right at me. "Around here, there's nothing but strange."
191
THE ART CEMETERY
The text message read meet by GRT rm. post fnl bell, j
That was it. That was all. And yet it was enough to keep me giddy all day long. My skin tingled with curiosity and trepidation as I approached Mitchell Hall, the large brick building at the center of campus, which housed the Great Room, where we'd held Thomas's funeral/drunken disaster, along with several other parlors and gathering spaces. I glanced over my shoulder before opening the huge glass door. Inside, the air was warm and still.
"Josh?" I whispered.
I took one step onto the paisley-patterned runner rug and heard a woman's voice.
"The holiday fund-raiser is one of the most important events of the year!"
Clipped footsteps approached from my right. My heart flew from my throat, pulling me with it down the hall and into the indentation around one of the many doors. The headmasters of
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yore glared down their noses at me from their gilded frames. The footsteps continued to approach.
"I will have nothing less than fresh holly and Douglas fir. Do not bring me one of those horrid Frasers like you did last year."
Ms. Lewis-Hanneman, Dean Marcus's assistant, strode right past me, talking into her cell phone. I saw my entire Easton career flash before my eyes. If she turned her head so much as an eyelash width, she'd spot me here, where I definitely was not supposed to be. Why was I always doing these things? Did some sadistic part of me want to go back to Croton?
"No ... no! That is unacceptable! I believe I have been perfectly clear!"
Damn, that woman was wound tightly. She shoved open a door down the hallway and I glanced after her. I could see what Kiran had been talking about at Thomas's funeral. Ms. LewisHanneman did have a nice body, probably the product of daily yogalates or something. And her dark-b
lond hair, back in a bun, gleamed under the recessed lighting. But had she really been carrying on an affair with Blake Pearson a couple years ago? Youngish or not, what kind of adult had sex with students?
There was a slam and she was gone. I was just about to breathe again when the door behind me opened and gravity took over. I fell backward, my stomach swooping skyward. Someone caught me in his arms.
"Reed Brennan. What, pray tell, are you doing falling into rooms where you do not belong?" Josh smiled down at me.
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'You scared me to death!" I whisper-shouted, whacking his arm as I stood up. Every inch of my skin was throbbing now, unwilling to respond to the fact that I was out of danger. I straightened my Dior coat and glanced around the room. It was circular in shape, and I realized we must be inside one of the four rounded turrets that stood at each corner of the building. It was dimly lit, thanks to a few green-glass torch lamps, and heavy curtains all but covered the two tall windows. But the most striking features of the room were the paintings. Every last inch of wall space was crowded with paintings of all sizes: portraits, landscapes, abstracts, still lifes. There was barely an inch of wall visible between each work.
"What is this place?" I asked, stepping toward a beautiful canvas, all yellow and orange swirls.
"The art cemetery," Josh explained. "People are constantly donating artwork to the school, and they don't have nearly enough space to display it all, so most of it ends up here."
"Seriously? What a waste," I said.
"Well, some of it sees the light of day occasionally," Josh said. He hit a few keys on a laptop set up on a low table, which sat between two round-backed couches--the only furniture in the room. He turned the screen toward me. "They keep a list of who donated what. This way if, say, Sir Cornelius Mosley calls and says he's showing up for tea with the dean, they can whip out his prized Manet and hang it in the drawing room."
"Wow." I stepped past him and squinted at the long, long list. "So . . . why are we here?"
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"Mr. Lindstrom's an old friend of my mother's, so he lets me help him with the collection. I keep the list up-to-date and make sure all the paintings go back where they're supposed to be, so I have keys to the room," Josh said, lifting a key ring out of his front pants pocket by his thumb.