Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel (6 page)

“Tempting, but I want to get a head start on Fowler’s paper,” I say. “I’m going to head to the library after dinner.”

“Okay.” He leans in but passes over my mouth and kisses my upper cheek, almost next to my eye. It would make sense for him to ask to come with me to the library since we both have to do that paper, but I know he’s too proud to risk the rejection.

And I feel as relieved as I do guilty. Because even though I
am
going to the library, I don’t plan on starting Fowler’s paper.

*   *   *

Someone’s checked out the edition of
A History of the Wheatley School
that has the first news story I read about Matt Weaver tucked inside. I should have taken the article when I had the chance.

I hate to do it, but I have to go to the microfilm section. At least one of the old newspapers there has to have a mention of what the 1980 crew team did to get slapped with hazing charges.

The librarian gives me the mandatory speech about how to use the projector.

“What are you looking for in particular?” she asks.

“Oh, just some history on sports at Wheatley,” I say.

She suggests I look at old editions of
The Wheatley Register
, the school newspaper. I thank her and she returns to her desk. I doubt any mention of disciplinary action would be in
The Wheatley Register
. It’s more of a “Look at how smart our students are; they can write about foreign policy and hydrofracking” type of paper.

I opt instead for the local paper. Once I find the bin labeled 1981, a sense of dread corners me. I don’t have time to go through hundreds of newspapers. For all I know, the hazing charges weren’t even newsworthy.

I close the drawer of microfilm. Anne, defeated. I really am searching for a needle in a haystack. What am I thinking, wasting my time like this? Even if I do find evidence that the crew team killed Matt Weaver, there’s no way the police will touch a thirty-year-old murder without a body.

I check out a book of criticism on Edmund Spenser before I trek back to the dorm, partly because I feel bad about lying to Brent. A clap of thunder sounds in the distance. I quicken my pace so I don’t get caught in the downpour that’s sure to come. The tunnels underground would be pretty useful right now.

The tunnels. Of course. How had I not remembered sooner the rooms in the tunnels? At one point, part of the tunnels was the basement of the administration building. When Anthony and I were searching for info on Isabella, we came across a room of old files. And there were lots others.

I bet the answers I’m looking for are down there.

*   *   *

By midnight, all of the lights in my hall are off. My pepper spray, phone, and backup flashlight are in my bag. I crawl out of bed and take the stairs down to the first floor.

Darlene is at the desk, her head down. A textbook is open in front of her. I slip past her and head down the laundry-room stairs.

The rain
plink
s against the gutters by the basement windows. I apply some rosebud salve to my lips and start to push the bookcase against the far wall. It’s heavier than I remember, and I’ve broken a little sweat by the time I’m done.

There’s a damp chill in the tunnels. I keep a path of light in front of me and one hand on the stone wall to steady myself. A drop of water lands on the back of my neck.

I follow the signs pointing to Lexington Hall, an old classroom building. I figure anything of importance to me will be in one of the basement rooms there, where all of the hard-copy records are from before the system was computerized. The room that used to be Lexington Hall 180N is basic student records; I’ll have to do some poking around to find out where they keep discipline records. And since discipline isn’t really a “thing” at the Wheatley School, there can’t be many.

I shine my light through the glass pane on the door marked 182. I have to get on my toes to see inside. It looks like a storage room, packed with those old-fashioned desks that have places to hold your inkwell. I’ll come back to this room if I have to, but I’m pretty sure it’s not what I’m looking for. I move on to 184.

Pointing my light inside reveals some sort of office. I can’t see much except for a large framed black-and-white portrait on the far wall. I stretch up as far as I can on the balls of my feet to get a better look. There are about twenty people in the photo wearing striped shirts with
WHEATLEY
printed on the front.

The door lock is as old as the building and easy to pick. When I step inside, I have to cover my nose and mouth to block out the smell of mildew and lime. I load the flashlight app on my phone and place it face-first on the desk as a crappy makeshift lamp and shine my flashlight on the photo.

Charles River Regatta, 1953

There are a bunch of vintage-looking photos of action shots hanging on the walls. Also, there are three saggy, mismatched couches arranged in a semicircle. I sit at the desk, noticing something strange in the trash can beside it.

Protein-bar wrappers.

I shine my light on them to get a better look. A chill passes over me. I know the wrappers well: They’re the protein bars Brent eats before Brit lit every day.

I may have found the crew team’s secret lair, and there’s no telling when they’ll be back. I sit up with urgency and shine my light over the floor, searching for some indication that the guys have been down here recently. There’s a discarded chip bag, a copy of the school paper, and … an enormous coil of rope.

I swallow away the bitter taste on my tongue as I follow my light up the wall by the rope. There’s a six-foot-wide filing cabinet pressed against it.

Bingo.

After a bit of a struggle, I pry the first drawer open. A quick browse through faded folders tells me the drawers ascend by date. I thumb to the section labeled
1981
.

Most of the papers inside are records of physical examinations for individual athletes. There’re also a bunch of letters from colleges congratulating the athletic department on having their student recruited.

The master folder breaks off into sections labeled by sport. I flip through them until I find
ROWING.
It’s a thin file; two seniors received full scholarships to row at Harvard and Yale. I pause when I find a typewritten letter titled NOTICE.

March 14, 1981

As consistent with clause 23 of the Wheatley School Code of Personal and Academic Conduct, all members of the crew team shall be suspended for one (1) race pending charges of inappropriate conduct, including (a) leaving campus after proscribed curfew hours and (b) endangering the welfare of a fellow student.

Let it be known that the student in question was treated for moderate hypothermia at St. Andrew’s Memorial Hospital in Wheatley at approximately two thirty in the morning on March 11, 1980. When questioned, the disoriented student alleged he succumbed to hypothermia while performing a task ordered on him by his older teammates. Wheatley Athletics prohibits any manner of hazing by or upon its athletes. As punishment, all team members will not compete in their race against Ellison Prep on Saturday, March 21, 1980.

This is the “hazing incident” the newspaper article on Matt Weaver’s disappearance mentioned. I read through the notice again, trying to pick up on any clues about the younger student’s identity. Matt would have been a sophomore in 1980. If it were his first year on the crew team, he would have known the student who got hypothermia. And if the school did a really good job keeping the student’s identity away from the police and the news, it may have even been Matt.

I freeze at a sound on the opposite end of the tunnels. No … it’s coming from above, in the garage.

A car alarm.

I curse the idiot teacher who decided to hang around until one in the morning. Security will be here in a manner of minutes if the alarm doesn’t shut up. After two failed attempts to get a clear photo of the hazing notice on my phone, I pocket the paper and shut the filing cabinet drawer. It sticks a bit, so I have to shove it.

I wind up slamming the whole cabinet into the wall. The photo of the 1953 crew team hanging adjacent to the cabinet shivers.

“No, no—!”

I lunge for it, but it’s already falling to the ground. The glass shatters everywhere. Above me, the car alarm continues to wail.

“
Damn
it.” I bend down to see if there’s anywhere I can hide the broken frame so no one knows I was here. But it’s dark, and there’s a lot of glass. I pick up the frame and photo, which are still intact, and prop it against the wall.

The car alarm wails on. There’s the sound of a door slamming—the same garage door that leads down into the tunnel entrance.

I turn and don’t stop running until I’m back in the basement of Amherst.

CHAPTER

SEVEN

My own alarm goes off at what feels like the exact moment I finally fall asleep. I manage to make it to breakfast, but when I get there, everyone is quiet and facing the far side of the dining room.

I grab an orange juice and creep to our table. That’s when I see him at the front of the room. The headmaster.

His watery eyes almost seem to twinkle with amusement as he watches me. As if he’s purposely waiting for me to sit down before he starts talking. He nods to me as I settle into my seat.

“Ladies and gentleman. I’d like to introduce you to our new physics instructor, Dr. Rowan Muller.”

There’s tepid applause. No one except Brent and I knows the real reason Professor Andreev took “a leave of absence”: He was using Isabella and Sebastian to decode information he stole from a military lab. For the past few weeks, an old guy named Mr. McShane was his temporary replacement. Brent and Cole loved him: Instead of teaching physics, he told stories about serving in World War II and regularly fell asleep in class.

“Hallo.” A clean-shaven man in a V-neck sweater with a dress shirt and tie underneath stands where Goddard was standing moments before. “Um, well then. Morning, everyone.”

Everything else he says dissolves just short of my ears, because Dr. Muller is cute. He’s young—not as young as Ms. C, but probably thirty at the most—and he’s from South Africa. I’m not the only one practically drooling into my juice over his accent. He’s what Chelsea would call “a perfect specimen.” He almost makes me want to take physics next year. Almost.

Apparently I’m not the only one charmed by Dr. Muller. Ms. C never grabs breakfast in the dining hall on her way to class like some of the other teachers, but today, she’s hanging around the group of people waiting to introduce themselves. And there’s a dare I say
girlish
flush to her cheeks.

Not everyone shares our enthusiasm for the newest addition to the staff.

“Why do you look bent out of shape?” I ask Brent as we leave the hall.

“Now we’ll have to do stuff in class again.”

“Imagine that.” I poke him in the side. “Having your parents pay thirty grand a year for you to actually do stuff.”

“Hey, my dad’s the one who told me to bring up that time Robinson met Andy Warhol right before he’s about to assign homework,” Brent says.

I’m about to ask Brent why he never told me this valuable nugget of info about my art-history teacher, when wind chimes sound from my bag. My text message alert.

My fingers feel like they don’t work when I see the message is from Anthony’s number:

so what do u want from me anyway?

“Who’s that?” Brent says it casually, but guilt ignites in me nonetheless.

“Just a friend from back home.”

Brent nods, thoughtful and unsuspicious, which totally makes me feel worse. “Does it seem weird to you that Goddard showed up this morning?”

“Well, he did have a reason.”

“Yeah, but Goddard never used to talk to us. He would always send Harrow or one of the deans.”

“Maybe it’s because Harrow is gone, so Goddard has to help Dean Snaggletooth out?”

“I guess.” Brent looks unsettled. “I don’t know. I just feel like he’s trying to send a message or something. That he’s watching.”

We’re quiet on the rest of the walk to class, but I can tell we’re thinking the same thing. If Goddard is trying to let someone know he’s watching, it’s me.

*   *   *

I hang back at the end of art-history class next morning, waiting for a sophomore boy to stop kissing Robinson’s ass so I can talk to him. While I’m waiting, I get another response from Anthony:

Drunk dialing me now?

I ignore it, swallowing away annoyance.

Robinson squints at his projector remote when the sophomore is gone, trying to find the power-down button.

“Here, let me help.”

Robinson looks surprised to see that I’m still here. I smile and slide the remote out of his long thin fingers. “It’s the red button.”

He watches me with amused eyes. Robinson is about a hundred and a half years old, six feet tall, and ninety-five pounds. “Did you know that I’m color-blind, Miss Dowling?”

“You’re … a color-blind art teacher?” I stare into his milky blue eyes. “Huh. Doesn’t that make your job harder?”

“Who says?” Robinson is British, so he pronounces it funny. Like “say-z,” not “sez.” I shrug.

“One doesn’t need to view a piece of art in color to appreciate its beauty.” He smiles at me. “How are you faring with this week’s assignment?”

“Fine.” And by fine, I mean that at least now I know an assignment, in fact, exists. “I actually wanted to show you something.”

“Oh?”

I open my Brit-lit anthology to the page with Matt Weaver’s drawing.

“Adam and Eve,” Robinson says automatically. He putters over to his bookshelf, mumbling to himself. I’m about to explode with impatience by the time he selects a book that probably weighs more than he does and drags it over to the desk.

“
Henrick Goltzius
. The Fall of Man.”
He licks his fingers and flips to a busy colored painting. “Many artists have been inspired by the story of Genesis. If the subject holds interest for you, I’d be happy to lend you this book for your final paper.”