Prep School Confidential (A Prep School Confidential Novel) (2 page)

We can’t just throw the reports out for anyone to find and see the St. Bernadette’s crest at the top. And if I hide them in my room somewhere, our cleaning lady might find them.

“What do you suggest we do, then?” I wave the reports in his face. “Burn them?”

Martin’s eyes light up as if this is the greatest idea
ever.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” I shake my head.

“It’s perfect. How else are we going to destroy them without a trace?”

“Um, a paper shredder?” My voice falters when Martin whips a lighter out of God knows where.

“Can you at least do that outside?” I hiss.

“Where someone can see us?” Martin shakes his head. “Loosen up, Annie. I disabled the smoke detectors in here months ago.”

My breath lodges in my throat as Martin holds a flame to the edge of his report. The paper darkens and curls. The engulfed part of the paper dies just as quickly as he lit it, and he drops the chalky gray remains into the backstage trash can.

“Won’t it smell like smoke in here?” I wave my hand over the trash.

“Until Monday?” Martin raises his eyebrows and hands me my report. And the lighter.

I totally know how stupid this is. But a tiny part of my brain remembers how perfectly Martin’s incident report burned up before our eyes. Without a trace.

I grab the report from him. I can’t get the lighter to light. Martin laughs at me and I give him the finger. On the fourth try, a flame springs up.

At first it’s exhilarating, watching the hard-copy evidence of today’s tomfoolery go up in smoke. Then, when I’m aware of how close the flame is to my hand, I shriek.

And drop the paper on the floor.

“What the shit, Anne?” Martin scrambles after the paper. “You were supposed to throw it into the garbage!”

“Omigodomigod OH MY GOD!” I’m flailing my arms as the horror scene unfolds before me. The flame catches on to the stage curtains. The
extremely flammable
stage curtains.

Martin grabs my hand, but my stare is fixed on the fire crawling up the curtain.

He yanks me by the elbow. “This is the part where we get the
hell
out of here.”

We push our way out of the backstage door, onto East Eighty-ninth Street. Martin drags both hands down the sides of his face. “Shit.”

I lick my lips. “We need to call someone.”

“And get arrested? Hell no.”

My thumb hovers over the
9
for 911. I dial and Martin curses again.

As the operator asks me what my emergency is, a thought crystallizes in my mind.

I am
so
not talking my way out of this one.

CHAPTER

TWO

The police officer interviewing me seems completely baffled by the fact I just admitted to setting my school on fire. He said they were lucky enough to stop the blaze from spreading past the auditorium, and also that I should stay away from the firefighters because they don’t take kindly to casual arsonists.

Which I’m not. It’s only arson if it’s on purpose: I Googled it while I was waiting for them. I’ve been trying to explain this to the cop, but he keeps interrupting me. We’re on the front steps of the school, beneath the St. Bernadette’s arch. The FDNY has set up a blockade on the sidewalk surrounding the school.

“So you’re saying you
accidentally
lit the paper on fire?”

“No, I said I accidentally lit the
curtain
on fire. With the paper.” I wrap my arms around myself as a breeze sends the smell of smoke my way. Dad would probably strangle me for talking to the police without a lawyer present. Namely, him.

“Look, it wasn’t
completely
my fault,” I huff.

The cop massages his chin. “Is that so?”

“It wasn’t even my lighter. Smoking is disgus—” Two more sirens round the corner onto Eighty-ninth Street, even though the frickin’ fire is out. Now I think the FDNY is purposely trying to embarrass me. There are eight million people in this city, and I’m pretty sure at least half are gawking from every angle of the street that isn’t blocked off.

“Someone was with me,” I say. “Martin Payne, my, uh … classmate. It was his idea.”

I know it looks like I’m totally throwing Martin under the bus, but that slimy little weasel ran when I called 911. He
ran
. I never run from trouble. Trouble is like a dog that wants to rip your throat out: If you stare it down, you have a better chance of saving your ass.

The officer scribbles down Martin’s name as two more cops escort someone past the blockade. The handful of granola I had for lunch threatens to come up when I see that it’s Dean Barrett. As in the dean of students, and, by the way,
I’m totally fucked.

Barrett doesn’t even look at me as the police lead him to the auditorium door.

“Are you cold?”

I realize that the cop is talking to me, and I’m shaking. I nod a little, trying not to disturb the lump at the back of my throat.
Anne Dowling, you do
not
cry in situations like these. You figure out how to get out of them.

“We’re going to need you to come down to headquarters,” my officer informs me after another one murmurs something to him that I can’t make out. “You can call your parents, and we’ll figure all this out.”

“Wait—you mean now?” My toes curl with panic in my flats. “Am I arrested?”

“Well, no.” The officer looks uncomfortable. “But you’re a minor, and this is serious, so we’ll need to ask you some more questions … properly.”

“You mean you’re going to interrogate me?” I squeak. “Don’t I get to call a lawyer first or something?”

The cop lowers his voice. “I’m going to have to ask you to come with my partner and me. We’ll drive you to the station.”

I try not to pass out with mortification as the officer escorts me to one of the many cruisers lining the streets. When he’s not looking, I dial my dad’s cell. It rings until I get his voice mail.

The police station is twenty blocks from the school. I keep my head bowed over in the backseat of the cruiser the whole time, just in case. When I see a News Channel 4 van head toward St. Bernadette’s, I dig around in my purse for my lip salve. Putting it on always makes me feel less stressed.

It seems the fire has caused quite a bit of traffic, because it takes almost a half hour to get to the station. I follow the cops inside, past a homeless guy handcuffed to a bench, who makes kissy noises and offers to share his cell with me. The cops sit me down on a bench across from him, and I catch a whiff of what I think is pee and McDonald’s.

I clear my throat. “Is there, um … anywhere else?”

The younger officer ignores me and sits down behind his computer. A few clicks of his keyboard later, he says, “There’s a water cooler at the front desk, if you’re thirsty.”

“How much trouble am I in?” I blurt.

The cop leans back in his chair and folds his hands behind his head. “I’ll be straight with you. I won’t be surprised if the school presses charges.… But you say it was an accident, and if this is your first offense—”

“Sir, you need to sign in!”

“Like hell I do! They’re talking to a minor without an attorney or parent present!”

My insides frost over at my father’s voice.

“Anne, let’s go.” Dad stops in his tracks in front of my bench. His pewter-colored tie is crooked, and his briefcase is half open. His expression is homicidal.

“Mr. Dowling.” The officer stands up and extends a hand. “I’m Detective Holmes.”

I can’t help it—I giggle a little. I mean, really, a detective named Holmes? I wonder if Watson is nearby.

Dad glares at me and accepts Holmes’s handshake. “I’ll be representing my daughter from this point. If you have no proof of her involvement with the fire, I’ll be taking her home now.”

I wince, but Detective Holmes looks confused. “With all due respect, Mr. Dowling, your daughter confessed to being on school grounds unattended after hours and gave us the name of the classmate who helped start the fire.”

Dad looks at me as if I’m dumber than the bacteria on the bottom of his shoes. He’s never,
ever
looked at me like that before. When the older cop shuffles back into the room, I’m thinking there’s no way this could possibly get worse.

“The Payne kid is at his parents’ house,” he says. “We’re sending an officer to talk to him.”

Or not.

*   *   *

It’s dark by the time we get home from the precinct. Dad won’t look at me. He speaks once on the elevator ride from the parking garage to our building.

“Put your phone away.”

“But Dad, people are saying I burned the school down. I need to set the story straight.”

“Away.”

The doors open at the main level. Henry, the building doorman, beams his usual grin at us and asks my father if he won any big cases today. Dad snaps, “Excuse us,” at him and presses the button that closes the doors in his face.

“I know you’re pissed at me, but you don’t need to take it out on him,” I mutter.

“You’re right. It’s not his fault my daughter committed arson with a drug addict.”

“It’s only arson if you did it on purpose.” The elevator doors open at our floor. I grab the sleeve of my father’s suit. “It was an accident.”

He doesn’t yank his arm away from mine, but the look in his eyes makes me want to crawl into a fetal position. “That’s the best you can come up with?”

I trail behind him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been playing me and your mother like goddamn violins,” Dad hisses. His lowered voice is for the neighbors’ benefit, not mine. “We believed that every teacher who sent a note home about your behavior
had it in for you.
We believed that the vodka bottle under your bed came from your friends. So you’ll forgive me if I’m having a little trouble believing that the fire was all Martin’s fault.”

I don’t think it’ll help my case to point out that I only said it was
partly
Martin’s fault, so I keep my mouth shut and follow Dad inside.

I’m not surprised to see Mom draped across the chaise in the foyer, crying. She’s always crying about something, like over people who don’t send thank-you notes. Or, you know, her daughter setting fire to her very expensive prep school.

I’m not sure I blame her this time.

“Mom, please don’t cry.” I sit at the corner of the chaise and give her foot a quick pat.

“You are damn lucky the police aren’t charging you with anything,” Dad says.

By that, he means I’m damn lucky my father is one of the most highly sought-after attorneys in New York.

“The fire is all over the news,” Mom sniffs. “On Channel Seven they even said two Saint Bernadette’s students were involved.”

“Christ.” Dad tugs his tie off and throws it on top of the chaise’s matching armchair. “They better not release her name, if they don’t want a lawsuit.”

“Hell-
o,
I’m still here.” I sit up and level with my dad.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you need something from me?” He raises his eyebrows. “I would have thought keeping you out of prison would suffice for today.”

“Daddy, come
on
!” I throw my head back, dragging out the
on.
“I’ll write an apology letter to Bailey, we’ll pay for a new auditorium, I’ll do my community service, and everyone will forget this even happened!”

Dad slams his hand down on the end table, rattling a glass vase of carnations. “That is
not
how the real world works, Anne Margaret. You really think the headmaster will let you within three feet of St. Bernadette’s now?”

Dad’s words zip around in my head like pinballs. My brain can’t make my lips form a simple question.

Is Bailey kicking me out of St. Bernadette’s?

That would be impossible.

St. Bernadette’s is
my
school. It’s been my school since the sixth grade. I practically run that place! “I—I have to go back.”

“Anne, go to your room, please. Do not call, text, or e-mail anyone.” Dad pinches the area between his eyes with his thumb and index finger. “Your mother and I need to talk.”

Dazed, I leave the foyer and head down the hall. The part of me that hasn’t quite realized I’m in deep shit wants to get in touch with Martin. I need to know if the school called him and told him no, he won’t be finishing his second senior year after all.

I want to barf as I sink into the down comforter on my bed—partly because thinking about Martin inspires that reaction and partly because I seriously can’t stomach the thought of not going back to St. Bernadette’s. Where will I go if they kick me out? Another prep school definitely won’t let me in once they hear that I’m the pyromaniac from the Upper East Side.

If that happens, I’ll have to go to
public school.
I’ll be some lame prep-school expellee, just like in one of those awful movies that always end with some girl having a baby at the prom.

Or worse, I’ll have to go to an all-girls school.

My phone chimes from my purse on the floor. I figure I should at least turn it off so my father doesn’t hear it ringing and come bite my head off.

It’s Chelsea calling. Dad said not to talk to anyone, but Chelsea isn’t just anyone. She’s been my best friend since our first day at St. Bernadette’s. I flop back on my bed and answer.

“Oh my god, Annie, I’ve been calling you for the past three hours! Turn on the news!”

“Why, is my face on it?” I sigh dramatically.

“Very funny. There was a fire at school.” There’s a touch of hysteria in Chelsea’s voice. “You said you were staying after, so I was so worried.”

Guilt needles me. “Yeah … about that. Have you heard anything about, you know … whose fault it was?”

“No—fault? Someone started it on purpose?”

I pause, letting Chelsea’s breathing fill the silence. She has really bad asthma, so when she gets riled up about something, she does this squeaky breathing thing. People used to make fun of her for it. I made sure that was short-lived.

“Anne … why aren’t you saying anything?”