The Dolls (7 page)

“You’re a natural,” Drew marvels after I’ve decapitated my fourth crawfish.

“Maybe I belong here after all.”

“I guess we’ll see,” he says, suddenly serious. “You’ve got some potato on your face.” He reaches over to gently brush a speck off my chin, and from the way he pauses and looks at me, I have the uneasy feeling he’s about to kiss me. But then he pulls back and looks down. “Glad you liked everything,” he says. “I’d better get you home once we’re done eating before your aunt skins me alive.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I
’m nervous the next morning as I get ready for my first day at Pointe Laveau. Even with Aunt Bea’s tailoring, my uniform looks terrible. My white oxford shirt is boxy, my maroon plaid skirt comes down just past my knees, and my white socks and black oxfords make me look suspiciously like a seventy-five-year-old orthopedic patient.

“You sure these are the shoes we have to wear?” I ask Aunt Bea as I round the corner into the kitchen.

“That’s what the school guidebook said,” she tells me apologetically. “For what it’s worth, I think you look cute in a retro kind of way.”

I text a photo of my uniform to Meredith, hoping she’ll make me feel better, but she doesn’t reply. It takes me a few minutes to remember that Louisiana is an hour behind New York, so she’s probably already at school with her phone off.

At breakfast, Aunt Bea seems even more nervous than I do. She spills her coffee, knocks over her juice, and drops her toast on the floor twice.

“You’re going to have a great first day!” she tells me with a smile that looks as fake as it probably is.

“You’re acting a little weird,” I say. “Everything okay with the bakery?” Her grand opening party is scheduled for Wednesday night, and the closer it gets, the more scatterbrained she’s becoming.

“It’s you I’m concerned about; I remember how tough first days are. But you’re going to do great.”

“Sure I am,” I reply drily. “What could possibly go wrong in a school full of beautiful rich people?”

“Stop worrying,” she says, but she’s chewing her lip the way she always does when she’s uneasy. I’m relieved when she drops me off in front of the school twenty minutes later because her nerves are rubbing off on me.

Pointe Laveau Academy must have been built right around the same time as my house, because it has the same kind of dramatic, neo-Gothic construction. The main building has narrow, arched windows, steep gables, and a bell tower, and the outlying buildings, which are clustered around a green space I can barely see from the street, are flatter versions of the same design. The complex looks like a cross between a church and an old prison. I shudder as I walk up the front steps and lose the sunlight.

Just before I enter the building, my phone dings with a text message. It’s from Drew.

Sorry
, he says,
but I won’t be at school. Woke up sick this morning. Hope you didn’t get my germs. Have a good first day!

My heart sinks. He’s my only friend here, and now I’ll have to brave my debut alone. I text him back
Aw, feel better!
, then I switch my phone to silent and head inside to start my new life.

“Eveny Cheval,” the pudgy school secretary says flatly as I enter the front office, which is decked out in regal-looking furniture with eggplant-colored cushions.

I nod, wondering how she knew it was me.

“We never get new students here,” she remarks, answering the question I haven’t asked. She fluffs her bleached-blond curls and purses her bright pink lips at me. “Except scholarship kids from out in the Périphérie once in a while. But I know all of them in advance.”

“Oh, do you live out there, in the Périphérie?” I ask, trying to be polite.

“Are you being smart with me?” She glares back.

“What? No, of course not.”

“Well, last time I checked, I wasn’t sitting on a mountain of gold coins in a mansion like you people,” she says. “But I’m certainly not from out
there
.” I just stare at her, wondering how I’ve managed to piss off the first person I’ve encountered. “Now go on,” she says, handing over my class schedule. “Your books are in your locker.”

I take a deep breath and head into the main hallway, which is teeming with students. The first thing I notice is that although all the girls are wearing the same uniform I am, every single one of them is pulling it off way better. None of them are in clunky loafers; they seem to be wearing everything from ballet flats to cowboy boots to strappy heels. My heart sinks as I realize the first impression I make here will be one of dorkiness.

The guys are all wearing pressed khakis and pale purple oxford shirts with the initials of the school emblazoned on their left breast pockets. They, too, seem to have skipped anything resembling an official dress code. I spot a few purple and gold letter jackets, but most of the guys are dressed in pieces that smack a bit more of individuality—leather bombers, a few suit jackets, a handful of hoodies.

Everyone is streaming by in a hurry, and nearly all of them are shooting me curious glances, but no one stops to help. I look down at the schedule again. It says on the top that I’ve been assigned to locker 445.

Yet I have no idea where locker 445 might be, or how I’ll find my first class. I look around, hoping I’ll spot Peregrine or Chloe or another one of the Dolls, because at least they’re not complete strangers.

That’s when I notice that the hallway is draped in black crepe ribbons. Signs that say
We love you, Glory
and
We’ll miss you, Glory
are taped on walls, and I spot a few photographs on a pin board nearby, framed in black. I step closer and see Glory Jones’s face smiling out at me.

“You look lost.” A voice comes from the right, startling me, and I turn to see a slender girl with a heart-shaped face, big brown eyes, and thick dark hair. She’s wearing a purple tissue-weight cardigan and faded purple Converse high-tops with her uniform, almost as if she’s trying to look anti-glamorous. I like her instantly.

“Yeah. It’s my first day, and I have no idea how to get to my locker,” I admit. “Or my first class. And I’m beginning to feel like an idiot.”

“It was super rude of Mrs. Perkins to send you off without telling you where to go. I’d blame it on all that tacky hair bleach going to her head, but around here, if you’re not one of the chosen ones, you can forget about anyone giving a crap about you.”

“The chosen ones?”

She laughs, although it sounds a bit like a snort. “You’ll see.” She squints at my schedule and says, “All right, let’s get you to your locker.” We begin walking, and she adds, “By the way, I’m Liv.”

“Eveny,” I reply.

She reads my schedule as we dodge other students in the hall. “Cool, we have physics together sixth period,” she says. “Other than that, our classes don’t match up. But I’ll show you where your first period is.”

We reach a row of lockers, and she points to one near the middle. “Here we are. Locker 445.”

I look at the slip of paper, which tells me the combination is 16-7-13. I turn the dials, and the door pops open, revealing a neat stack of books—and a name scratched into the inside panel
: Glory Jones
. I freeze.

“This was Glory Jones’s locker?” I ask.

Liv peers inside and sees the curvy letters too. “Can’t believe they’d reassign it so soon. Then again, Glory was one of the nice ones. She’d probably want you to have it.”

I grab my textbooks for English and trig, my first two classes. But what I’m thinking is that, nice or not, Glory would probably prefer to still be here, using her own locker.

The bell rings. “Here we go again,” Liv mutters. She points down the hall and says, “Your English class is that way. Fifth door on the right. Mrs. Shriver. You’ll be fine.”

I take a deep breath, clutch my books to my chest, and begin walking, relieved that I’ve now met at least one potential friend who’s not dead.

The second bell rings a millisecond before I walk into English, which makes me officially late.

I feel two dozen pairs of eyes on me as I hand Mrs. Shriver my schedule and mumble that I’m new here.

“Oh yes, Eveny Cheval,” she says. “We were expecting you. You can take that empty seat in the last row.”

“No.” I hear a languid voice from the back, and I turn to see Peregrine, decked out in thick eyeliner, dark lipstick, and a lacy black silk camisole under her standard-issue oxford shirt. The same stone necklace I noticed at the funeral dangles in her cleavage, and she’s wearing a close-fitting black quilted leather vest. “Eveny will sit right here.” She gestures daintily to an empty chair beside her.

I hesitate, wondering if she’s just being nice to me because her mother’s making her, but she snaps her fingers, gestures to the seat, and says, “We don’t have all day, Eveny. Chop chop.”

“Go on, take the seat, dear,” Mrs. Shriver says, seeming to recover a bit as I move down the aisle toward Peregrine.

“Nice shoes,” Peregrine says, raising an eyebrow at me after I sit. “Did you borrow them from a nursing home?”

“The dress code said we had to wear black loafers and knee socks,” I say, glancing down. She’s wearing strappy black platform stiletto sandals on her bare, perfectly pedicured feet. I feel ridiculous.

“Eveny, you’ll soon learn that
we
don’t have to do anything,” she says. She turns away without elaborating.

As Mrs. Shriver begins to talk about
The Great Gatsby
, which I read last year in my American Lit class, I spot Chloe sitting beside Peregrine, wearing a dark fur stole. She’s paired her oxford with a set of Chanel pearls featuring a diamond-encrusted, interlocking double
C
. Her high-heeled Mary Janes are studded with what look like diamonds, and her hair is artfully mussed.

“Yoo-hoo, Eveny!” she says, waving at me pleasantly. “Welcome!”

I wave back to Chloe vaguely as I realize that no one seems to be paying any attention to Mrs. Shriver. A cluster of skater-looking guys in the back of the room have pushed their desks together and are playing games on their iPhones. I recognize Arelia and Margaux sitting just behind Peregrine and Chloe, dressed in matching leopard-print cardigans and sky-high heels. There are a few guys wearing purple and gold letter jackets near the center of the room and three cheerleaders who, even in their short-skirted uniforms, look frumpy compared to the Dolls.

I glance down and realize suddenly that Peregrine’s big, studded, designer tote, which is lying half open on the floor beside her desk, appears to be moving. I let out a strangled gasp as her snake pokes its head out and blinks its beady eyes at me. Mrs. Shriver’s monotone monologue about Daisy Buchanan and Nick Carraway screeches to a halt.

“Is there a problem, Ms. Cheval?” Mrs. Shriver asks.

“Uh, no.” I’m pretty sure I’ve now turned as red as my skirt. “Sorry.”

“Oh, relax, Eveny,” Peregrine says in a bored voice, examining her nails. “It’s just Audowido.” She looks up at Mrs. Shriver and says, “Don’t worry. Everything’s under control. You can resume your lecture.”

Mrs. Shriver shrugs and begins droning again. I turn to Peregrine. “You bring the
snake
to
school
?”

She looks at me blankly. “Of course.” She pauses and adds, “His name is Audowido, by the way. Addressing him simply as ‘the snake’ is so impersonal. He really dislikes it.”

“Oh,” I say helplessly.

“I accept your apology,” Peregrine says.

I spend the remainder of the class sneaking occasional glances at Audowido, who just keeps staring at me with his unblinking little eyes.

The rest of the morning goes by uneventfully—and thankfully without any other reptilian appearances. There’s no one I know in my fourth-period economics class, so when the bell rings and everyone begins flowing toward the cafeteria, I let myself get swept up by the current. The whole way there, I’m hoping I won’t have to eat alone.

It’s Liv I want to run into, but I see Peregrine and Chloe first, mostly because they’re impossible to miss. Not only are they undoubtedly the most gorgeous girls in school, but they’re being trailed by a crowd of adoring-looking guys as they sweep into the cafeteria in a cloud of expensive perfume.

“Eveny!” Peregrine exclaims, whisking over to where I’m standing in the caf line, trying to decide between the fried chicken and the gumbo. “What on earth are you doing?”

The cafeteria seems to grind to a halt. Everyone is staring at us, and I can hear a few whispered voices asking who I am and what I’m doing talking with the Dolls.

“Getting ready to order lunch?” I venture.

Both girls laugh like I’ve said something hilarious. “Oh, nonsense, Eveny,” Chloe says. “You’ll eat with us in the Hickories, of course.”

I open my mouth to reply, but Peregrine beats me to it. “Seating in the Hickories is by invitation only,” she says. “And we have a very exclusive list. Obviously you’ll want to join us.”

It’s admittedly nice to have someone asking me to hang out with them, but not for the wrong reasons. The last thing I need is their pity. “Look, just because your moms knew my mom doesn’t mean you have to invite me to eat with you,” I say stiffly. “I’m fine on my own.”

“Oh yes, you look like you’re already an
enormous
social success.” She gazes around pointedly to underscore the fact that I’m all by myself. “Well?” she prompts. “Are you coming, or are you expecting an engraved invitation?”

“Fine. I’ll come find you after I order,” I mutter.

“Eveny,” Chloe says slowly, looking at me like I’m a mental patient, “we don’t
order
our food here. Our lunch is
catered
. Come on.”

Confused, I follow them up the grassy knoll behind the school, where I spot Arelia and Margaux spreading out a huge blanket in the shade of an enormous, swooping hickory tree. The grassy patch is surrounded by a dozen smaller hickories, all dripping with sun-dappled Spanish moss. I notice Pascal lounging against one and Justin standing beneath another. He gazes adoringly at Chloe as we approach. “Hey, baby doll,” he drawls, stepping out to wrap his arms around her.