Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel (20 page)

“I have to run to the bathroom,” I tell him. “Dance with Remy. She looks bummed.”

We glance over at Rem, who is halfheartedly swaying with Phil. She’s watching Cole and Kelsey, like a puppy who didn’t want her toy until another dog ran off with it in its mouth.

Brent rolls his eyes and heads over to them while I search for a bathroom. On the way, I check my missed call.

It’s from Alexis.

I hurry into the bathroom, past a freshman who is vomiting into one of the sinks. Her friend pats her back.

I pause and watch them. “Really?”

The girl’s friend shrugs at me. “We snuck vodka in.… Do you think she’ll be okay?”

“Get her water,” I say. “There’s a vending machine in the lobby.”

The girl nods and leaves. I lock myself in one of the stalls, hoping Pukey out there is too wasted to eavesdrop.

Please pick up, Alexis, please pick up.

She does, after the second ring. “Who is this?”

“Alexis?”

There’s silence on her end. Does she recognize my voice?

“Yes.… Who is
this
?”

“Don’t get mad,” I say. “Or hang up. I really have to talk to you. It’s important.”

More silence, but I can practically hear her putting the pieces together. “Anne?”

“Yes.” I squeeze my eyes shut as she hisses, “Are you freaking kidding me? How did you get this number?”

“That’s not important. Please, just listen to me!”

“About
what
? How you ran me out of my school and ruined my father’s life?”

I decide it won’t help me to point out that her father ruined his own life. “I know you hate me. And you have every reason to. But I think your dad might be in trouble. Do you know someone named Vanessa Reardon?”

Alexis is silent. “What does my dad have to do with my godmother?”

“Don’t flip out at me … but I think your dad knows what happened to Matt Weaver. Your godmother, too.”

“Matt Weaver?” Alexis lets out a sharp laugh. “You’re really something else, aren’t you?”

“Alexis. Come on. I’m trying to explain.” My hands are sweating. “Someone might try to frame your dad for Matt Weaver’s death. Possibly the same person that scared your godmother into leaving Massachusetts.”

Alexis is silent. She knows, then, that Vanessa is running from something. Or someone.

“It’s true, then, right? Vanessa is afraid of them? The crew team.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alexis snaps. “If you call or come anywhere near me again I’m calling a lawyer.”

Crap. I’m losing her. “Alexis, I never meant for you to—”

“Spare me,” she seethes. “Have fun with your new friends. I can only hope they stab you in the back just like they did to me.”

I swallow. My throat is dry. “I—”

“I’m hanging up now, Anne. And one more thing: How does it feel to be screwing Remy’s sloppy seconds?”

The call ends just as the phone is about to fall out of my hand. I tear off a sheet of toilet paper and dry my palms. There’s a horrible taste in my mouth. I’m suddenly aware of how small the stall is, how bad the bathroom smells.…

I stumble out of there, managing not to throw up everywhere. My head is spinning in circles.

Remy. Brent. What?
That’s impossible.

They would have told me.

I hang in the hallway outside the ballroom and apply more rosebud salve. I think of happy things, like my dachshund, Abby, licking my nose, in the hopes it will lower my blood pressure. I can’t fall for what is probably one of Alexis’s bitchcraft tactics. She’s lied about Brent before, and she probably lied about Brent and Remy to mess with my head and screw up my night.

I march back into the ballroom, committed to acting like nothing is wrong. But then I see them dancing.

Remy whispering something in his ear.

Brent laughing.

I’m not going to let myself cry. I worked too damn hard on my eye makeup.

*   *   *

There’s a lump at the back of my throat the whole drive to Cape Cod. I’m in the front seat of Brent’s sister’s Jeep Wrangler. Cole, Kelsey, and Murali are in the back, laughing and recapping the night’s events as if they happened a week ago. I stare out the window onto Route 6, counting the lights passing us.

I look down as Brent’s hand moves to my knee. “You okay?” He asks.

“I’m fine.” I don’t even have the energy to force a smile. Should I be mad, that Brent and Remy hooked up? Technically, it’s none of my business who he’d been with before me, but Remy is my friend. One of them should have at least been honest with me so it didn’t come out like this and become a big deal.

Unless it was a big deal.

I don’t want to think about it.

*   *   *

The Shepherds’ Cape Cod home looks like a dollhouse I used to have. It’s a two-story white colonial with a blue door and shutters. I can hear the ocean from the backyard.

Brent offers to carry my overnight bag, but I hug it to myself and follow Cole and the others up the driveway, past a Range Rover with a Wheatley sticker on the back window. There’s a three-car garage at the head. April and the others are still behind us.

Casey is waiting for us in the doorway. He’s taken his suit jacket and tie off. “Everyone’s in the kitchen. My mom’s cool with whatever as long as we stay on the first floor.”

Cole and Murali brush past Casey wordlessly. I pause in the foyer.

“Great house,” I tell him.

“It’s all right,” he says. “We only spend half the year here, anyway.”

I consider the chandelier hanging over the two-story foyer. The marble floor and spiral staircase. I follow Casey down the hall to the kitchen. Everything is sparkling and granite like it’s recently been renovated. Bea Hartley, Vera Cassidy, and a handful of senior girls I don’t know by name are gathered at the island counter. Bea is opening a bottle of wine as Vera arranges cheese and crackers on a platter.

“Hi, girls,” Bea says. I realize Kelsey is behind me, clawing at the top of her strapless dress. She’s been paranoid about it falling down all night. The girls offer polite smiles. Thankfully, the guys break the awkward silence by parading into the kitchen carrying beer kegs.

“Bea, get the cups out,” Casey barks.

Bea’s expression hardens but she goes to the pantry anyway. I motion to help her.

“I love your dress,” I tell her. She blushes and looks down at her simple cream-colored cocktail dress. I want to like Bea Hartley, I really do. She’s not a psychotic bitch like Alexis Westbrook. Bea just needs to lighten up and realize she’s not a First Lady yet. And ditch the controlling assface of a boyfriend.

Nausea swirls in my gut as I make eye contact with Brent. His eyebrows knit together, trying to figure out what my problem is. I look away and accept a glass of wine from Vera. I’m going to need plenty of them to get through the night, especially once Remy gets here.

We move to the living room off the kitchen. I make small talk with the senior girls as the guys set up music and beer pong. I only absorb half of what they’re saying. When Remy arrives, I feel like I’ve been punched in the throat. I drain two more glasses of wine as I pretend to be immersed in conversation with the girl next to me. Her name is Brianne, and she just got into Cornell. Everything else falls short of my ears, which are starting to buzz.

The wine is making me feel as if I’ve been sitting in the sun all day. Brent is watching me from the beer-pong table across the room. Someone touches my shoulder, and I sway a little as I turn to face Remy.

“You’re being weird,” she says. Her eyes are glassy and her breath smells like mint schnapps. There’s no way I see this conversation ending well.

“I’m just tired.” I shrug her off and head for the kitchen, wobbling on my heels. I find Cole leaning against the counter, staring into a glass of beer. His tie is off and the top of his shirt is unbuttoned. His hair is askew.

He smiles as I join him at the counter. “Not feeling it tonight, either?”

I shake my head, biting back tears. I want to ask him if knows about Remy and Brent, but these aren’t the answers I came here for tonight. Everything is so fucked up.

“Why did you and Remy break up?” I blurt.

Cole drains the rest of his beer as if he can’t get it down fast enough. “Really?”

“Sorry.”

He sighs. “She didn’t feel the same way about me. I’m always going to be the fat little kid Alexis bossed around.”

Cole turns to the counter and cracks open another beer. He hands it to me then opens one for himself. I shouldn’t mix it with the wine, but I’m past caring. We do a pathetic clink of our rims and drink in silence.

“Brent and Remy,” I finally choke out. “Is it true?”

His face falls, and I immediately wish I hadn’t asked. Cole puts his arm around me, and I rest my head on his shoulder, vowing not to cry. A cacophony of cheers and frustrated yells sounds over the bass emanating from the living room.

I look up at Cole, breathing in his Abercrombie & Fitch cologne. He looks back at me, his eyes sad. Or maybe it’s just my double vision that’s making it seem that way. I touch the beauty mark beneath his right eye. He laughs and flicks my bun.

He pulls me in closer to him, and we stand like that for a little while. It’s completely innocent—just two friends who’ve realized that maybe they’ve fallen for the wrong person. Or people. I think of Brent, then Anthony, and all of the things they’ve kept from me. The things I’ve kept from them. It could be so much simpler if I let myself fall for a safe guy like Cole, but that’s not how it works.

We break apart at the sound of giggling in the kitchen archway. Remy stumbles across the threshold, her arm on April for support. April dances over to the kitchen, singing along with the song playing in the living room, but Remy pauses, watching us with hurt in her eyes.

“I have to pee,” I announce. I stumble out of the kitchen, past the pockets of people clogging up the hallway. I was too busy drowning my sorrows in alcohol to notice how many people showed up. I spot Jill Wexler, which only makes me want to throw up even more than I already do.

The line in the hall suggests there’s a bathroom downstairs, but I don’t want to run into Brent. I sneak up the spiral staircase despite Casey’s warning that his mom said it was off-limits.

The upstairs smells like cinnamon and pine needles. It’s dark. I lean against the wainscoted wall.
Pull yourself together, Anne. It’s not like you didn’t hook up with other guys before Brent. You even hooked up with
Anthony.

But Remy … Remy is the closest thing I have to a best friend here. How could she not tell me? How could
Brent
not tell me? He had the perfect opening when I told him what happened between Anthony and me.

I stumble down the hall in search of a bathroom. There’s a light on and jazz playing in one of the bedrooms, so I head in the opposite direction.

I stop outside one of the doors. Even in my drunken state, I can tell there’s something different about it. It’s closed. Locked.

I pull a bobby pin out of my bun and force the lock open. I slip into the room and close the door behind me, feeling the wall for a switch. When the light flickers overhead, a weird sensation settles over me.

I just broke into Travis Shepherd’s office.

I have to take off my heels so they don’t make noise on the cherrywood floors. An executive desk takes up most of the room, and that’s about the only detail I can absorb in my current state.

Damn it. I really should have planned this better. I’ve found Travis Shepherd’s office, but I’m too drunk to accomplish anything. What am I looking for? What’s the freaking point, anyway?

I lean on the wall for support. There are framed degrees and photos on the walls. Travis and Casey fishing. Travis and a rail-thin blonde on their wedding day.

I stumble over to a framed collage behind the desk. There are a bunch of older photos inside, including a duplicate of the crew team photo that has slowly been ruining my life.

My pulse races. I haven’t seen the photo that’s below it, though.

The picture is of Travis and Pierce Conroy. Probably, when it was being taken, they didn’t even realize the person behind the camera was accidentally in the frame.

I squint at the background of the photo. There is a long mirror on the wall behind Travis and Pierce. Someone sits at a desk, snapping the photo. Most of the face is visible around the Polaroid camera.

I blink a few times to make sure I’m really looking at Matt Weaver.

A woman’s voice sounds down the hallway.

I don’t hesitate: I take the frame off the wall, slip the photo out, and replace the frame. I shove the photo in the side of my dress and stumble out of the office, nearly colliding with a woman in a silk sheath dress.

Her blond hair is swept away from her face, which bears an uncanny resemblance to Casey Shepherd’s. “What’re you doing up here?” she demands. Her words are slurred, as if I’ve interrupted her own private party.

“I thought this was the bathroom,” I blurt.

Mrs. Shepherd gets in my face, her eyes gleaming with an emotion that scares me. “I know who you are,” she says. “You’re that little bitch.”

“Excuse me?” I don’t know who this drunken yuppie is calling a bitch, but I am in
no
mood to let that comment slide.

“Did you know Elaine Redmond has been getting death threats?” Mrs. Shepherd’s face is inches from mine. “Apparently some people think she and the senator are responsible for that little whore getting herself killed—”

“Shut up!” I yell. “You didn’t even know her—”

“Anne?” The voice makes my blood run cold. I turn to see Brent at the top of the stairs. Mrs. Shepherd smirks at me and stumbles off to her bedroom, and I swear I don’t even know which one of us is drunker.

Brent’s hand is on my arm before I can go after her. “What the fuck was that about?”

“Leave me alone,” I snipe at him. I’m totally being unfair, but the floor is spinning out from under me and I’m just so
mad.

“Anne.” His voice and his eyes are hard, and when I look at him I don’t see the Brent I fell for. I see who I’m afraid the Wheatley School will turn him into. I see his father.