Deception (7 page)

Jet-lagged and stuffed with pot roast, I felt my eyes begin to droop. Where was Bennett? I’d vowed to pounce on him before going to bed
—
with
questions
, that’s all
—
but I couldn’t wait any longer. I climbed the majestic staircase, brushed my teeth, and slept like the dead.

10

Early the next morning, the pale light of dawn glowed through my bedroom curtains. It was far too early to be awake
—
and far too chilly to leave the toasty cocoon of my comforter. As I snuggled back to sleep, I glimpsed a slim woman hanging my uniform in the wardrobe, her red hair backlit by the dawn. The mysterious Martha. Not at all how I pictured her.

She saw me watching and put a finger to her generous, smiling mouth, shushing me back to sleep. I returned her smile drowsily and somehow comforted by her presence, drifted immediately back asleep.

When I woke again, the dawn had passed into morning and a fire blazed in the little hearth. Charming and romantic, but I wish someone would find the central heating. I shivered in front of the flames before dashing into the bathroom for another freezing shower.

Did Bennett ever stay here? Had he simply not noticed there was no hot water? I vowed to look for the furnace when I came back from school.

Downstairs, I found the kitchen sink empty, the dishes put away and a meal waiting in the breakfast nook. After wasting ten minutes looking for Martha … or Bennett … or anyone, I sat down to eat. Freshly roasted coffee, with white toast and a soft-boiled egg in a hand-painted eggcup. Actually, I didn’t know it was soft-boiled until I tried to roll the peel off like a hard-boiled and the innards oozed all over my plate.

“Yuck.” I dumped my plate into the sink. “I only like scrambled.” I wrinkled my nose at the coffee. “And tea.”

Not that there was anyone there to hear me. All alone, as usual.

I buttered the toast and tried to jump-start a romantic daydream about Bennett cooking for me and starting the fire and setting the table with candles and roses. But it was undoubtedly the elusive Martha who was doing all the work.

I finished my toast, opened the fridge to make lunch, and found a small wicker basket on the top shelf. Packed tidily inside were a little tomato tart, slices of cheese, grapes, and a wedge of pound cake.

“Well, hello!” I said. “Much better.”

I left the house in my ridiculously snug uniform, black leggings, and my requisite boots. I’d fiddled in front of my wardrobe mirror for twenty minutes with accessories, trying to emulate the chic looks of the other girls, but it was useless. My mother had been right about my hair being too short. And I’d never been good with makeup, so I’d just run product through my hair and glossed my lips.

My only jewelry was my mother’s jade pendant tucked into my blouse, a sort of touchstone for home and family and everything I’d lost. My mood soured as I thought about that and I trudged the three blocks to school, resenting the sunny, crisp day for not reflecting my dark temper.

I found Coby and Sara sitting on the steps of the dean’s office with a dark mop-haired guy who somehow looked both completely well-groomed and utterly sloppy at the same time. They stood as if they’d been waiting for me.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hi, Emma,” Coby said, as we all headed to the school gates. “You look
—
”

“Pissed,” Sara finished. “Or is that how you always look in the morning?”

If possible, her voice was even rougher today, like it hadn’t quite woken up yet. Her hair and makeup, though? Flawless. Along with her red wool coat, black suede boots, and bag suited for an LA starlet.

“I was going to say spunky,” Coby said.

“Even better,” I said.

Sara giggled. “That came out worse than I meant it to.”

“It’s okay.” Actually, I was sort of pleased that someone noticed my mood. “I’m still settling in.”

“You’re living at the Sterns’?” the new guy asked.

“This is Harry,” Coby said.

“Harrison,” he corrected, and unlike everyone else at Thatcher, he didn’t offer to shake. Instead, he thrust his hands into his pants pockets, looking like a brooding upper-class poet with a hangover.

“Harry Harrison?” I asked.

“Harrison Devereaux Armitage the seventeenth,” Sara told me.

“The
fourth
,” Harry said.

“Just call him Harry,” Coby said. “Everyone does.”

“He’s such a Harry.” Sara pressed a finger to Harry’s chest, like she was sticking something to him. “Face it, you’re stuck with it.”

Harry arched an eyebrow and brooded silently. Were the three of them just friends? Sara was too hot for Coby and Harry
not
to be interested.

“I hope you’re not bruised,” she told me. “From fencing yesterday.”

“Oh, how’d that go?” Coby asked.

“I was a pincushion,” I said.

“Sorry about that,” Sara said with a crooked smile. “We’ve all been taking since freshman year.”

“Can’t have been worse than Trig,” Coby said. “Did you do the homework?”

“Yeah.” I frowned. “How long did it take you?”

“An hour.” He groaned. “Sakolsky always assigns too much. It’s not like we don’t have other classes.”

I’d only spent forty-five minutes. We’d see if I got any of the answers right.

We passed through the apple orchard and I noticed Coby eyeing me, probably wondering if I’d start unbuttoning my shirt again. But nothing happened: no whooshing, no memories, no nothing. And walking with the three of them into the grand foyer, my mood began to lighten. Bring on the sunshine.

Turned out Harry had Latin with me, so I followed him to class. He showed his first bit of politeness by gesturing me into the classroom before him, but I couldn’t help feeling he was mocking me. Then he partnered with me for dialogues and immediately started a conversation that had nothing to do with the verb tenses we were meant to be practicing.

“Vestri velitatio est brevis.”
*

“Ego non animadverto.”
**

And it went on from there. My blouse was too tight, I might pop a button
—
I had nice legs, but I should learn how to knot a tie. I’m not even going to repeat what he said about my lips. I should’ve been offended, but I was a tiny bit pleased instead. Back home, I wasn’t the girl a guy flirted with like that, and I definitely wouldn’t have flirted back. But now I toyed with my hair and just barely stopped myself from nibbling seductively on the cap of my pen. With my luck, the ink would’ve spilled all over my face.

Through all of this, Harry maintained his attitude of ennui, absently taking notes on a sheet of lined paper. The teacher, known as Mr. Z, wove between desks, checking in on conversations, offering suggestions and corrections. Then he stopped and peered over Harry’s shoulder. “And what have you two been discussing?”

I panicked, but Harry simply shrugged and showed Mr. Z his paper. “Just getting to know each other.”

Oh my God. He hadn’t written all that down, had he?

Mr. Z frowned at the page, and I leaned forward to read Harry’s notes. In perfect grammatical Latin he’d detailed a conversation about my life in San Francisco and his in Massachusetts. Apparently, I liked long walks on the beach while he was into sailing. It was all perfectly banal and innocent.

I smiled at him, stifling a laugh. Forward, rude, and sort of brilliant. As good as I was at Latin, I couldn’t have had one conversation and written down another. I found him impossible not to like.

After class, he escorted me to the second floor, murmuring a steady stream of arch comments about the passing students. A freshman boy helplessly in love with his best friend’s older sister, despite that she only dated college guys. A student who ran away from home when her parents divorced. Some faceless kid who’d gone to rehab last year.

“A blackout drunk,” Harry said with uncharacteristic venom. “A real waste of space.”

“Did he stay clean?” I asked. “That’s all that matters.”

“You didn’t know him.”

“True. And as someone without a
single
fault, I’m happy to judge him.”

Harry inclined his head, like he was granting the point, and left me outside my Trigonometry classroom. I watched him for a moment, then went inside
—
and stopped short. The man in the brown suit stood at the window, gazing toward the apple orchard. The morning sun cast stripes across him, through the blinds.

I looked to the floor for his shadow. No shadow; the stripes of light were uninterrupted. Then back to him. Then back to the floor again.

“You look like a bobblehead,” Britta the brittle blonde said from her desk.

“What? No, I’m just
—
thinking.”

“Me, too. I’m thinking you need a neck brace.”

The man in the brown suit noticed me looking, and gave me a little formal bow. I settled into my desk, pulled out my homework, and ignored him. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was a ghost. But I did know better. At least, I thought I did. I wasn’t sure about anything anymore.

Coby sat down next to me. “How’s Latin?”

“Ego sum rabidus.”
*

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“Good.” I glanced toward the man in the brown suit. “Um, there’s only one teacher in this class, right?”

“Right,” Coby said. “Unless you’ve got another stashed in a gazebo somewhere.”

“That’s funny,” I said, not laughing.

I kept my eyes averted from the window. If the man in the brown suit didn’t stop showing up, I’d fail this class. I couldn’t concentrate with him hovering there. So I ignored him as Mr. Sakolsky started going over the homework. Halfway through, I glanced toward the window, and the man in the brown suit was gone. I exhaled in relief, and when we finished giving our answers, only one student had scored 100%.

“Emma Vaile,” Mr. Sakolsky said. “A fine addition to our class.”

I didn’t know what to say. That never happened to me before.

“Oh, so you’re that girl,” Coby said with a quick grin.

“Yeah,” I said. “I get that a lot.”

In fencing class, the teacher
—
a middle-aged woman with incredibly muscular calves
—
partnered me with Kylee, a nearsighted girl with twig arms who weighed maybe ninety pounds and only came to my chin.

She thrashed me soundly. She really seemed to enjoy herself. In fact, her triumphant laughter was so infectious, soon the whole class was giggling along.

When it was over, Sara peeled me from my vest and dragged me to the dining room for lunch, promising to show me some moves.

“At least a little defense,” she said. “So you can keep a toddler from stabbing you with a lollipop.”

The cafeteria was a large room with lofty ceilings and a wall of windows overlooking the playing fields. Round tables with white cloths dotted the floor, and instead of the scrape of plastic trays I heard the tinkle of silverware against china. There wasn’t even a vending machine. Everyone brought their own gourmet lunches in techno lunch pails and charming little bento boxes
—
at least I had my picnic basket.

Sara and I sat with Coby and Harry, and the three of them were witty and smart and warm. I liked them far too much, but didn’t feel I could trust them. Not after what happened with Natalie. I wanted to be part of the ease they shared with each other, but the friendship was too new and I was afraid of getting burned again.