Prep School Confidential (A Prep School Confidential Novel) (9 page)

A little part of me wishes that had been the case, so I could feel less sad right now.

“I just can’t believe this happened to her,” I say.

“Mm,” Molly replies. When I look over at her, she’s studying her hands.

Almost as if that
Mm
was her way of not agreeing with me.

*   *   *

There are newscasters outside the funeral home, along with police officers telling them to back the hell off. The police commissioner released the full details of Isabella’s murder in a statement on Wednesday, and so far, the school and police have been able to keep the reporters off campus.

Isabella’s wake is nothing like Grandpa Harold’s funeral. Everyone looks like they can’t quite believe they’re here, as if they’re walking through a dream. Or nightmare. I take a prayer card with shaking hands and gather the nerve to look at Isabella’s casket.

It’s closed, with pink and yellow roses covering the top. To the side is an enlarged school portrait of Isabella, surrounded by smaller family photos. I study them as I wait in line to pay my respects. In most of the baby pictures, Isabella is with a boy.

I feel as if I’m going to pass out as I reach the front of the line. I kneel on the cushioned riser like I saw everyone else do and close my eyes. I don’t think I can do this. I don’t even belong here, really. I only knew Isabella for a week.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter.
Thanks,
I say in my head.
Thanks for sharing your gummy worms and helping me find my classes and being nice to me when I really needed it.
And then, almost as an afterthought:
They’re going to find whoever did this to you. I promise.

When I stand up, I notice a guy staring at me. He definitely doesn’t go to the Wheatley School. His dark brown, almost black hair covers his ears and the back of his neck. His eyes are dark with bags underneath, and he has a five-o’clock shadow.

But he still sets off a string of thoughts in my head that are totally inappropriate to be having in a funeral home.

He looks away when he sees me watching. He’s standing with a redheaded woman who has her back to me, and a frail-looking man in a wheelchair.

These are Isabella’s parents. I don’t need the photos by the casket to tell me this. The face of the man in the wheelchair is enough; he looks like his whole world just fell apart.

My gaze moves to someone—an older man—standing just beyond Isabella’s family. He catches my attention because he’s by himself, his hands in his pockets, looking over at Isabella’s casket in this voyeuristic way that completely creeps me out.

He has a thick gray beard and mustache, and his dress shirt is too tight over his round midsection. His eyes lock with mine for a moment, then he turns and pushes his way through the crowd.

I lose him in an eyeblink, because the funeral home is packed. Most of the junior class is here, along with a bunch of teachers, Dr. Harrow, and a woman whom I assume is Dean Tierney, because she’s too old to be Dr. Harrow’s wife and too importantlooking to be a teacher. She’s one of the only people here not wearing black; instead, she’s got on an ugly tweed jacket.

I put the dean and the creepy guy out of my mind for now and circle around to the younger guy who was watching me.

I wait for him to finish accepting an awkward hug from a balding man before I step forward. His dark eyebrows knit together when he sees me.

“Um, hi,” I say. “Are you Isabella’s brother?”

He nods but keeps a distance between us that says he’s not sure who the hell I am or why I’m talking to him. “Anthony. Were you friends with her?”

“I was her roommate.”

Anthony’s hands go into the pockets of his suit jacket, which looks sort of lopsided and wrong on him. “I didn’t know she got a roommate.”

“I only knew her a week,” I say guiltily, like that doesn’t give me the right to be here or something. “I’m sorry for your loss. She was really sweet to me.”

I expect Anthony to thank me, but instead he lets out a short laugh and lets his eyes flick to the ceiling before holding my gaze. “Yeah. She was really sweet.”

I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not, but the way he’s staring at me now freaks me out a little. His eyes are the color of steel, like Isabella’s. I’m about to pronounce our conversation dead when he says, “So you’re new at the school or something?”

I nod. “I’m from New York.”

“So that explains the funny accent.” Anthony’s mouth curls into the smallest smile.

I ignore this. “Did you go to the Wheatley School, too?”

Anthony shakes his head. “I’m not
gifted
like my sister. I go to public school.”

“Oh. I thought you might be in college. You look a lot older than her.”

“She was my twin.” He’s staring at me again. “You’re the only one of her friends who’s even said anything to me or my family, you know.”

“They’re all freaked out, I think.” I pause, not sure why I’m telling him this. But I’ve been dying to talk to someone about it. “The administration is being weird. We have to go to them first with anything we know and get permission to talk to the police.”

Anthony’s tanned face deepens a shade. “You gotta be shitting me. It’s like they’re practically throwing it in everyone’s face that they’re covering for someone.”

“You think they know something they’re not telling the police?”

“I
know
they are.” Anthony’s voice is hard. “Iz used to say how she couldn’t sneeze at that school without someone noticing. And they expect my family to believe that no one saw or heard a thing the night she was killed?”

I’m suddenly too warm in my sweater. Everything he’s said makes sense. There’s so much more I want to ask him, but I know we can’t keep talking here. Not when Anthony’s supposed to be here to grieve.

Not when I don’t know who’s listening to us.

I’m about to let Anthony go back to his family when he says, “Hey. You never told me your name.”

“It’s Anne.” I flush, all the way to my toes. God, I’m being ridiculous. He’s not my type at all. I think I even saw dirt underneath his fingernails when he brushed the hair out of his eyes before.

I find Remy and everyone else in a corner, huddled together and looking super uncomfortable.

“Hey, did you see that creepy old guy hanging out in the corner?” I ask. I give them the man’s description.

“Oh, that’s Professor Andreev,” Cole says. “Our physics teacher.”

“He looked kind of sketchy,” I say.

“Brent thinks he’s a Soviet spy.” Remy rolls her eyes. “Don’t get him started, or he’ll tell you his whole conspiracy theory.”

Brent and I fall behind everyone else as we make our way to the funeral home’s exit.

“You know, Isabella was doing independent research with Andreev last year,” he says. “I know he’s creepy, but he’s won all these awards and grants and used to work in a lab. He could get anyone in to MIT.”

Was that where Isabella wanted to go to college? MIT? It makes me sad that I never found out.

Wet, slushy snow is coming down outside. There’s a line to get inside the funeral home now. The sound of yelling startles us; I look over at the line, expecting to see someone duking it out with a reporter.

Instead, I see that everyone has cleared a space around Anthony and a slightly older guy who looks really pissed off. My pulse quickens as Anthony gets in his face and snarls, “You got some goddamn nerve showing up here.”

The guy’s voice is angry, taunting. It also sounds a lot like Anthony’s. “You really wanna lay a hand on me here, Anthony? You trying to kill your father, too?”

Anthony’s fist flies out and connects with the guy’s jaw. A few people cry out in surprise and rush to him as he doubles over. Within seconds, I’m being herded away and listening to Kelsey whine, “Oh my God, oh my God,” as if the whole scene is going to leave her needing therapy.

“That was bizarre,” Brent says, but I’m looking backward to see what happened to Anthony. I can’t see him in the crowd that’s gathered outside the funeral home now. The reporters are going to have a field day with that one.

“Who was that guy?” Remy asks, her voice shushed.

“Isabella’s brother,” I say.

I’m still so shocked at what happened that I barely hear Cole when he says, “Sounds like the guy he punched out thinks he might have killed her.”

CHAPTER

NINE

What I should be doing after Isabella’s funeral: moving on with my life as if everything were normal, and trying to focus on getting the hell out of Massachusetts.

What I should not be doing: having trouble getting my mind off her extremely attractive brother and staying up until 4:00
A.M.
reading news stories about her murder.

Every story ends the same way. Who would want to kill a brilliant, quiet girl attending the prestigious Wheatley School on a full scholarship?

I know I’m looking for something that’s not there: answers.

I feel an overwhelming sense of despair when I get to Issues in Contemporary History the next morning and see the desks arranged in a circle, because I was really looking forward to catching up on sleep. I’ve always liked history, but the title is seriously the most interesting thing about this class. Even the professor looks like he wants to fall asleep as my classmates spout out rehearsed little speeches about
cultural hegemony.

They all take themselves so seriously, as if they’re not raising their hands every thirty seconds, someone will tell the Ivy League admissions board on them.

I choose a seat at the edge of the semicircle, aware of the probing eyes watching me. From across the room, Alexis nudges Lizzie and mutters something to her. Annoyance flares in me, then curiosity.

Alexis wasn’t at Isabella’s wake yesterday. She obviously wasn’t friends with Isabella, but neither were most of the people in the junior class. I mean, all I’m saying is that even if I didn’t like her that much, I’d still go to my classmate’s wake. Especially if she lived on my floor and I interacted with her every day.

I keep an eye on Alexis as Professor Matthews writes the topic for discussion on the board. Isabella’s feelings toward Alexis were no secret, but I’m starting to think maybe there was more to Isabella’s hatred than a few bitchy sticky notes. If Alexis really just saw Isabella as some loser townie who wasn’t worth her time, she would have put on a fake smile and gone to the wake like everyone else. Because that’s what Alexis is: an over-exfoliated, pearl-earring-wearing fake who only cares about looking like the perfect senator’s daughter. And the perfect senator’s daughter does not risk looking like an insensitive bitch by being the only person not to show up to a classmate’s memorial service.

Unless she was purposely avoiding it.

“Mr. Crowley, why don’t you start us off?”

I turn my attention back to the discussion, both relieved that Matthews didn’t call on me and terrified because I have no idea what we’re talking about.

Mr. Crowley, whose first name I think is Dan, straightens his tie and glances at his notes. “Uh, well, I agree with Davis’s position on a postcolonial perspective, but I think his limited view of history compounds the very problem of marginalization he seems to be critiquing.…”

I can’t help but look at Alexis again; this time it’s not my fault, because she’s being super obnoxious and rolling her eyes at everything Dan says. She even leans over to Lizzie and writes something in her notebook. They smirk at each other after Lizzie reads what it says. It’s so rude I could explode.

So when Dan is done speaking, I raise my hand. Matthews nods to me, and everyone looks up from taking notes. I haven’t spoken in this class yet. “I have to agree with Dan. I found the tone of Davis’s article especially”—I lock eyes with Alexis and wait until everyone is sure I’m staring at her—“condescending.”

She glares back at me, her cheeks flooding with color. She puts her pen down and folds her arms across her chest as Matthews prattles on about how Dan and I raise excellent points he hadn’t considered before. Now that I’ve gone and publicly thrown the gauntlet down, everyone is watching Alexis with curiosity.

At least it’ll stop her from making fun of everyone for the next forty minutes. It’s totally worth the death stare Alexis is giving me now.

She literally looks mad enough to kill me.

*   *   *

The teachers don’t talk about Isabella’s murder much. At least, they don’t say anything that wasn’t already said in the “official” statement addressing the situation we all got in our e-mail.

The administration is shocked and saddened by Isabella’s death.

Still, the Wheatley School is ranked number 2 on the
U.S. News and World Report
list of safest prep-school campuses.

But maybe we shouldn’t go anywhere alone until her killer is found.

Remy, April, and Kelsey embrace that last part as an excuse to follow me everywhere. When we get to the dining hall for dinner, they come with me to the bathroom, even though the only reason I went in there in the first place was to get away from them.

I lock myself in a stall and respond to the text message I got from Chelsea earlier:

I’m okay. Things are super freaky here, and I’m dying to come home. Call u in a few hours. xoxo

I see Kelsey and April’s feet lingering in front of the bathroom mirror as Remy slips into the stall next to mine.

“I heard a lot of people are going home this weekend,” April says. “They’re scared to stay in the dorms after what happened.”

Kelsey is quiet. I watch her feet shift uncomfortably.

“You were screaming in your sleep last night again.” April’s voice is hushed.

“Sorry,” Kelsey says. “It’s just … you’re not scared or anything?”

“I don’t know. They told us not to be.”

“April, do you think that…” Kelsey whispers as Remy’s toilet flushes. My heart races as April speaks again.

“Kels, that’s crazy,” April hisses. “She could never—”

“What’s crazy?” I ask. Remy and I open our stall doors at the same time.

April and Kelsey share a look. They glance at Remy, and April lets out a nervous laugh.