Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel (11 page)

And if Bea paid attention to anything, she’d know that it’s impossible to start a sentence with the word
actually
and not sound like an obnoxious bitch. I return her frosty smile. “Guess I should quit snorting coke and running Ponzi schemes from my laptop during class.”

I think I’ve sufficiently horrified her and Vera, but Casey is laughing beside me. “Trust me, the only thing that matters is his final. Half of it’s on
Paradise Lost.
”

“Wonderful.”

“Little secret: Get
The Satanic Epic
by Neil Forsyth. I read it and I
slew
his final.”

As strong as his jerk vibes are, I have to respect a guy who uses the proper past tense for the word
slay.
“Thanks for the tip,” I say.

As I say I have to meet my friends and I get up, I think I hear Casey whisper to Erik something disgusting about giving me a tip anytime I want.

Great. At least I know what I’m dealing with now.

*   *   *

In the mailroom that afternoon, there’s a slip of paper waiting for me. I have a package. I already got a few for my birthday a couple of weeks ago: a tea infuser from Chelsea, boots from my mother, and an SAT-prep book from my dad. So I wonder who would be sending me something now.

There’s no return address on the small brown parcel. Somehow, I don’t think there’s a birthday gift inside. I wait until I get to my room to open it.

I slide my finger beneath the wrapping and feel plastic ridges. A cassette tape? I peel the rest of the paper away, revealing an unlabeled VHS tape. I turn it over in my hands, looking for some sort of note.

I find myself wandering to Remy’s room. Her door is open and she’s standing in front of her mirror, fixing her hair for the SGA meeting.

“Where can I find a VCR?” I say from the doorway.

Remy blinks at me. “Um, the nineties?”

“No, really.”

“I think the first-floor common room has one,” she says around the bobby pin between her lips.

I take two steps down the hall before convincing myself to turn back. The first-floor common room is practically Amherst Command Central: There are always meetings in there, or stupid “social events” where underclassmen can make their own ice cream sundaes while listening to people like Bea Hartley convince them to volunteer for her senior service project.

The only way I can watch this video is after everyone goes to bed. But that’s okay, because I’m no stranger to the night.

*   *   *

I’m lying on my stomach, Spark-Notes-ing
The Faerie Queene
when Darlene starts knocking on doors down the hall. “Lights out,” she says each time. Technically, we’re allowed to stay up as late as we want, as long as we turn our room lights and music off by eleven on weeknights.

Finally, there’s a soft knock on my door. “Anne. Light’s out.”

“’Night, Darlene.” I turn my lamp off and listen to her footsteps fade down the hall. I watch the minutes tick by on my phone until Darlene’s door closes. I can barely keep my eyes open, but at the same time, I can’t stop thinking about the video.

I finish up my homework and wait until twelve-thirty before slipping the video in the front of my NYU sweatshirt and heading downstairs. The only light in the hall is coming from the bathroom. It’s quiet enough that I can hear a toilet flush. I use the stairwell to go directly down to the lounge so I won’t get caught roaming the halls in the middle of the night.

The only sound in the first-floor lounge is the whir of the refrigerator. The full moon outside creates a small circle of light in the middle of the room. I use it to find my way to the television.

There are a million different devices plugged into the TV. With one hand, I hold my phone up for light, and with the other, I switch around a few wires to get the VCR to work. It swallows my cassette, the clicking sounds inside matching my heartbeat as the tape settles into place.

White lines flick across the screen. I quickly turn the volume down so Emma can’t hear anything from the RA desk down the hall in the lobby. I kneel on the carpet, tucking my feet under my legs, as the image on the screen loads mid-shot, as if the first few moments of the program got cut off.

A man walks toward the camera. The woods behind him could be the woods anywhere.

“Join us tonight, as Dateline investigates a decades-old mystery.”

On the bottom of the screen, a title flashes:
INTO THIN AIR: THE MATTHEW WEAVER STORY.

The muscles in the small of my back constrict. Who sent me this?

The shot on the screen cuts to a view of downtown Wheatley. The camera quality isn’t very good, and there’s no Dunkin’ Donuts on Main Street, so I figure this episode has to be at least five or ten years old.

The camera zooms in on a dumpy-looking diner on the corner of Main Street. In the window, there’s a newspaper article with Matt Weaver’s picture next to it. The headline says
VIGIL HELD FOR MISSING WHEATLEY STUDENT.
The still image fades into a shot of a river, as the host explains Matt’s background: the only son of local business owners, the first in his family to attend high school, crew-team champion. I curl onto the lounge couch.

“On March eighteenth, 1981, Weaver attended his classes at the Wheatley School. He skipped dinner, telling his friends he had a headache. Weaver went back to his dormitory and slept until eleven, when he woke up his roommate, Blaine Goldsmith.”

The recording of a man’s voice plays.
“He told me he’d be right back, so I went to sleep. Sure, it was a little weird that he was dressed and everything, but Matty was always coming and going like that.”

The screen fills up with a still of the forest behind the school as the host speaks again.

“That’s the last anyone saw Matthew Weaver alive.”

I fast-forward through a commercial break. The next scene opens with the host sitting across from an older man. The caption on the screen reads
OFFICER PATRICK CARROLL, FORMER DETECTIVE.

“Mr. Carroll, what do you think happened to Matt Weaver?”

“I think he was murdered.”

The sound of voices pulls me away from the TV. I jump up and shut the VCR off and wait for footsteps in the hall.
Just say you were sleepwalking.

The hall and lounge are quiet, though. That’s when I see them—the shadowy figures outside the window.

I drop to my knees and clutch my arms over my chest. Remind myself no one can see
in
the lounge windows. Only out. It’s impossible someone was watching me.

I wait for the voices to fade away, but they get louder. Someone is yelling. I grasp the windowsill and look out onto the steps between Aldridge and Amherst.

There are three guys standing out there by the basement door to Aldridge. In the light of the moon, I get a glimpse of Casey Shepherd’s face. He looks like he could kill someone.

I crank the window open the inch it will allow, praying the guys outside won’t notice. I peer out in time to see Casey shove a short guy with a bowl haircut. Zach Walton.

“You show this to anyone, Walton, and we’re all done. You hear that? Done.” Casey shoves Zach again, who doubles over, arms wrapped around his stomach.

“Dude, this is serious.” I can’t see his face, but I recognize Cole’s voice. He motions for Zach to bend over and pull up his shirt. Cole uses the light from his phone to show Casey what’s on Zach’s back: an oozing burn that’s turning a color no burn should be. I cover my mouth to hold in a gag.

“He has to go to the infirmary,” Cole says. Casey curses and grabs Zach by the collar of his flannel shirt.

“I’m coming with you,” Casey says in his face. “That way there’s no confusion over who did this to you. Who did this to you, Walton?” Casey gives him a shake.

“I did this to myself.” Zach’s voice is weak. Casey drops him. Before they disappear around the corner, Cole yells something at Casey. I only catch a piece of it: “Told you this would happen again”.

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

Zach Walton looks like he’s going to cry all throughout calculus, so I feel lousy for cornering him after class. When I smile at him, his face scrunches up like a kid who knows he’s going to be spanked. Our last conversation—and
only
conversation—was not very pleasant for Zach, since Alexis Westbrook had manipulated him into sending me a threatening rose-gram on Valentine’s Day.

“What do you want?” He pushes his Buddy Holly glasses up his face. Zach is a classic postpubescent disaster: greasy mushroom cut, forehead speckled with acne. I feel a motherly urge to clean him up a bit.

“Looks like you’re in a bit of pain there, Zach.”

He tenses up. “I’m fine.”

I come at him with a finger, like I’m going to poke him in the back. He jumps. “What the
hell
?”

“Why would you let them do that to you?” I hiss.

Zach ignores me as he picks up his messenger bag, letting it droop pathetically across the crook of his arm. I help him pull it up over his shoulder, careful not to touch his back.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, trying to wiggle past me.

“Hey. How did they do that to you?”

Zach doesn’t stop. I catch up with him in the hallway, even though my next class is in the opposite direction. “I saw! Last night, from the Amherst lounge.”

“What? Were you spying or something?” he mutters.

“Look. I know we got off on the wrong foot,” I say. “I think what you did was stupid, and you probably think I’m a bit of a psycho.”

Zach doesn’t disagree. His eyebrows knit together. “What did you see?”

“Enough to know you’re insane if you think being on the crew team is worth
that.
” I point to Zach’s back. He flinches, as if he’s still not sure I’m going to hurt him.

“It was an accident,” he deadpans.

I grab Zach’s shoulder and readjust him so he’s facing me. “Really? You think I, of all people, am going to believe that?”

Zach’s eyes flick to the right, then to mine. “Why do you care? It was just a dumb … thing. It’s my fault I got hurt.”

“What did they do?” I demand.

“There’s no
they.
” He breaks from me and hobbles away. I clench my fists and follow, even though I know he’s not going to give me anything else.

“Okay, no
they.
So was it Shep?”

Zach freezes, as if the name were an arrow in his spine.

“He’s the ringleader, right?” I say.

“Just leave me alone,” Zach says over his shoulder before he starts to walk away from me again.

“You might not be as lucky next time.”

Zach slows and turns his head to me.

“The Drop.” I say it just quietly enough that we could be talking about tomorrow’s calc test. “That’s the last part of initiation, right?”

Zach meets my gaze for the first time. There’s a new emotion on his face. Surprise. It hits me: He doesn’t know about The Drop. Isn’t that the point?

“Whatever they have planned for you guys,” I whisper, “I think it’s going to be really bad.”

He looks over his shoulder at the group gathering outside his classroom. Despite the fact no one seems to be paying attention to us, he lowers his voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He ducks into his next classroom before I can tell him I know he’s lying.

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

During breakfast the next morning, Kelsey is trying to convert us all to vegetarianism, when Shep comes over to our table.

He has the type of presence that automatically shuts people up. Everyone is silent as he stands behind Cole. Shep smiles at me—at least I’m pretty sure it’s me—and sticks out his hand for Cole to slap. Cole does so without smiling. In fact, none of the guys look happy to see Casey Shepherd.

“Got something for you,” Casey says to me. I sense Brent stiffen as Casey pulls a book from his messenger bag.

“
The Satanic Epic,
” I read off the cover. “Hey, thanks.”

“No problem.” He slaps Brent on the shoulder before winking at me and heading back to his table.

Everyone immediately snaps their heads toward me. I shrug.

“I talked to him about Fowler’s class the other day. He said this would help with the final.”
Play dumb.
“Do you guys not like him or something?”

When no one answers, April pipes up, “He’s nice.”

Brent snorts. “Yeah. He’s perfectly nice. Until there aren’t girls around, and he acts like the dickweasel he really is.”

“He seems pretty interested in you,” Brent says after a beat. He’s not looking at me.

“Lots of guys are interested in Anne,” Murali laughs. “We hear things.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s just because I’m new. It’ll wear off. Plus, it’s not like that. Casey’s got a girlfriend.”

“That’s never stopped him before,” Cole says.

The table goes quiet, and I look up from my breakfast. Cole is staring at Remy, and the look on her face says he was staring at her when he made the comment about Casey.

Remy’s face falls as she waits for someone to defend her. I have no idea what’s going on, and before I can jump in, she throws her napkin down on her tray and gets up. Within seconds of her storming off, Kelsey and April follow.

“So,” Brent says. “How about that bacon shortage?”

Cole mumbles something about needing to turn something into Robinson and gets up. Murali sighs and heads for the juice machine with his empty glass.

It’s just me, Brent, and Phil left at the table. “What the hell was that about?” I ask.

“They’re always like this.” Brent looks to Phil for affirmation. “They’re just usually better at hiding it.”

“I don’t know, man,” Phil says in his drowsy, California-esque drawl. “I’m just gonna sit here with my peanuts and hope it’s all a phase.”

When I was six, I wouldn’t leave the house or do anything without wearing my Cinderella costume.
That
was a phase. This is … I don’t know what it is.

But I know I don’t like it.