Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel (25 page)

Ms. C says my name a couple of times and picks up her chair. She plants it next to me and rubs my back. “Is this about the project?”

I nod, wiping my eyes. “Yes. No. Kind of.”

“Are you stressed out?” Ms. C asks. “This is a rough time of year, with your class workload plus the SATs and everything.”

“Yeah.” My normal voice is returning. “I guess that’s it.”

“Take until next week for the project.” Ms. C pats my knee. She’s wearing one of those Irish rings with the heart and the crown that’s supposed to tell whether you’re single or not, depending on which way you wear it. Chelsea and I have matching ones, which we bought together from the market at Union Square. My stomach ties itself into a knot.

“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

Ms. C cocks her head and watches me, as if she’s curious why I don’t sound more relieved. “Anne, is there something else going on?”

I stare at my lap, watching the plaid on my skirt blur into zigzag through my tears. It’s easier than looking at her face and sensing whether or not she sees right through me.

“Anne, you can tell me.”

I look up at Ms. C. “Have you ever thought you knew someone … like
really
knew them in a way no one else did … and then they turned out to be not who you thought they were?”

Maybe I’m imagining it, but Ms. C tenses up. Her eyes probe mine with suspicion, almost as if she knows what I’ve been up to. But there’s something else behind them: fear. As if I’ve totally scared the crap out of her. I sometimes have that effect on people.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” she says. “Is this about you and Brent Conroy?”

His name still makes me feel destroyed inside, but I’m also surprised Ms. C sounds like she knows we broke up. “You know about that?”

“We know everything around here.” Ms. C says it with a smile, like she’s trying to be funny, but it totally creeps me out. Even though I’m really counting on the fact that Goddard doesn’t know
everything.

I hesitate. “It’s just … I’m hearing all this stuff. Rumors about things Brent’s dad did when he went to school here.”

“What kind of stuff?”

I shoot a glance at the door and lower my voice. “Do you think … back then … if a girl—a student—was raped, she wouldn’t say anything about it?”

Ms. C gets up and closes her office door. She’s quiet for a minute before she says, “Anne, that happens now, everywhere, and girls still don’t say anything.”

I think of Isabella and how she did say something when Lee was stalking her. A lot of good that did. I guess my face gives away what I’m thinking, because Ms. C puts a hand on the armrest of my chair.

“Dou you need to tell me something? Because I can help you. I’ll keep it between us until—”

“No, it’s not like that,” I say. “There was a girl named Vanessa Reardon. This guy … did stuff to her when she was drunk, and the school didn’t do anything about it. It just reminds me of what happened to my roommate.”

Ms. C’s mouth forms a line. I don’t need to tell her who my roommate was. “You mean … your roommate’s relationship with Dr. Harrow?”

I swallow away the sick feeling in my throat. For the first time, I need to tell someone Isabella’s story. Not the one everyone thinks they know. The one that Goddard doesn’t want anyone to know.

Ms. C hands me a room-temperature water bottle, and I tell her about Lee Andersen. I tell her everything, from his painting and the obsessive notes to the way Isabella had to switch her schedule around to avoid him. I tell her that Harrow knew Lee was stalking Isabella, because she told him—she trusted him—and instead of protecting her, Harrow bugged Goddard’s office and got him on tape telling Professor Upton to deal with Lee discreetly.

“I had the tape, but Harrow stole it back and got rid of it before he was arrested,” I say. “Now no one will ever know that Lee is a creep and may be dangerous. I mean, what if he finds a new Isabella and hurts her this time?”

Something blazes in Ms. C’s eyes. If she’s anything like me, she’s angry thinking about how Lee will never have to take the consequences for making a girl’s life a living hell. All because of who his father is. “Did you tell this to the police?” Ms. C asks.

“Of course. They never found the tape. I just don’t know why Harrow wouldn’t go public with it. He could have taken Goddard down with him.”

Ms. C squeezes the pencil in her hand so hard her knuckles turn white.

“This other girl … Vanessa…”

“Reardon,” I say.

“Reardon. Do you know for sure she was assaulted by another student?”

“I think so.” I shut my eyes. “It’s just that … if someone you lo—,
cared
about, if their dad was maybe involved in something horrible, you’d want to know it wasn’t true, right?”

I don’t know if Ms. C knows I’m talking about Brent, but her face softens. “I’d hope it wasn’t true,” she says gently.

The area behind my eyes tightens. “I need it not to be true.”

“I’m glad you came to me, Anne,” Ms. C finally says. “I don’t know how I can help you, but I promise I’ll try.”

“Thanks,” I say for what feels like the millionth time. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop owing her for everything she’s done for me. Guilt claws at me as I get up to leave. It’s not fair of me, leaving out that this whole thing is about Matt Weaver. If she knew, would she be so quick to help?

“Ms. C … be careful. People here don’t like to talk.”

A small smile spreads across her lips. “That depends on who they think is listening.”

*   *   *

I have a pink note waiting in my mailbox Thursday afternoon that says there is a package waiting for me at Student Support Services.

My phone is here!

I feel whole again.

I peruse the obscene amount of voice mails I managed to collect over the past few days. One from my father, saying he hopes my phone arrived safely and that I’ll be less irresponsible in the future. A few from Chelsea, from before I e-mailed her to tell her my phone was broken. One from a very angry man with a Brooklyn area code who says if I don’t get rid of all the birds in my apartment, he’s calling the county board of health. I’m pretty sure that was a wrong number.

There’s only one message left, and I hate the part of me that wishes it was from Brent. But when I hear Anthony’s voice, I have to sit down on one of the student center lounge couches.

“Hey. I know you won’t get this for a few days, but call me. If I don’t hear from you by Friday, I’ll swing by.”

I replay the message twice, loving how the throaty bass of his voice warms me from the inside. Part of me wants to ignore the message, just so he’ll show up tomorrow and I can hold on to that time when Anthony was this mysterious bad boy who came in and out of my life without warning.

But things are different now. Anthony is different now—at least to me. He’s just a boy who works too hard. A boy with a messed-up family and a sister he’ll never get to reconcile with. A boy who’s good at poker and likes Pearl Jam and eats too fast and makes me feel like he wants more than any guy ever has when he kisses me.

I can’t play games anymore. Not with Anthony.

I call him back.

“You have a phone again,” he answers. “I’m sure it was a very difficult week for you.”

“For your information, it was.”

Anthony laughs over the sound of a vacuum. “Are you at work?” I ask.

“Yeah. Are you alone?”

I stick my feet up on the couch I have all to myself. He doesn’t know the half of it. “Yep.”

There’s a beat of silence on his end. “The neighbor … she’s gone every week night from seven to eleven.”

“It sounds like there’s a
but
involved.”

Anthony sighs. “Her father lives with her. Doesn’t go anywhere, from what I can tell.”

“Damn.” I pull at a thread hanging off the hem of my skirt. “So what are we going to do?”

“I have some ideas.” Anthony’s tone tells me he’s not going to tell me these ideas over the phone. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Want to grab dinner and dig up a dead hamster with me?”

“Are you asking me out on a date, Anthony?”

He’s quiet, but not in an awkward way. “Give me a little credit. I can do a lot better than that. Take you somewhere real classy, like you’re used to.”

I blush all the way to my toes. “So you do want to take me on a date.”

“You’re not gonna stop ’til you get me to answer that, are you?”

I can’t stop smiling. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Anthony breathes into the phone. I can’t tell if he’s frustrated or nervous. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven thirty.”

*   *   *

My day turns out to be pretty damn great. Matthews hands back my paper on Ireland and Bloody Sunday with a big 98 circled in blue pen, and Dawson tells me I have good pirouette technique.

When I get to Latin and Ms. C isn’t smiling, though, I know something is wrong. Ms. C is
always
smiling. She silently hooks up the class projection machine to her laptop. As a BBC documentary about the fall of Rome loads on the screen, the class is split between relieved sighs and annoyed grunts about how our parents aren’t spending upward of thirty grand a year for us to watch movies.

“I want you guys to take notes on this,” Ms. C says. “We’ll finish up the documentary on Monday and discuss on Tuesday.”

I watch her hand back our latest homework assignments, entertaining the paranoid notion that she’s avoiding me. When she comes around to my table, she locks eyes with me. She nods to the paper she places on my desk. I got an A–.

“Thanks,” I say, but she’s already on to the next row. What the hell is going on?

That’s when I notice she’s watching me. She nods to the paper again.

Confused, I pick it up. On the table beneath it is a glossy card. The same one I have in my bag, announcing Professor Robinson’s art opening tonight at the MFA.

A small “Oh” escapes me. Ms. C turns and heads to the front of the room and raises the volume on the documentary, as if the whole exchange never happened.

Something goes off in my brain. Not exactly a lightbulb, but a brief flash, like from a camera. I remember standing outside Robinson’s office, listening to his memories about Matt Weaver.

Is this hint Ms. C’s way of telling me Robinson is the way to find Matt?

CHAPTER

THIRTY-FIVE

The only time I wore my black lace BCBG dress was to Isabella’s wake. I didn’t think I’d ever want to wear it again for that reason, but it’s the classiest thing I have for the art exhibit. There was a time when I didn’t have to think about being classy. Back when I collected vintage earrings instead of misdemeanors.

I show up at the tail end of the opening at the MFA, partly because I figure Robinson will be a couple of flutes of free champagne deep, and also, art bores me. Apparently it bores everyone else in Boston as well: There are only a handful of people checking out the early American paintings, and half of them look obligated to be here. Thankfully, no one from my class showed up.

“Anne!”

Robinson finds me first. He looks absolutely tickled to see me, which makes me feel a little guilty. He takes me by the shoulders and steers me to his fellow curators.

“Another one of my students!” He booms. I smile and shake a bunch of wrinkled old yuppie hands like the good little Wheatley puppet I’m pretending to be. I tune out most of the conversation, waiting to get Robinson alone for a minute.

When the curators move on to the next Very Important Person, Robinson pops a chunk of cheese from the reception table into his mouth.
Full mouth. Now!

“Professor,” I say, “can I talk to you about something?”

Robinson’s smile wilts a little, but he swallows his cheese and says, “Of course, my dear.”

“Remember a few weeks ago, when I asked you about Matthew Weaver?”

Robinson runs his tongue over his teeth in that way old people do to make sure they’re not falling out of their mouths. “I believe you mentioned him, yes.”

“I’ve been thinking. About his fixation with
Paradise Lost.
” I almost lose my nerve. “Do you think whatever happened to him had anything to do with Vanessa Reardon?”

I don’t know what I expect Robinson to do. Deny it? I definitely don’t expect him to meet my gaze, sigh, and say, “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

*   *   *

It’s in between dark and light outside, and it smells like lilacs and rain. A man leaving the museum takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over his wife’s bare shoulders. She doesn’t thank him.

Professor Robinson stands beside me, rubbing his hands together as if to warm them. “Anne, every teacher feels defined by their best and worst moments. Our best moments keep us going from day to day. Our worst…”

His voice trails off. He sighs. “We replay them in our head, wishing we had done something differently.”

“I don’t think it’s just teachers who feel that way.” My body is here, with Robinson, but my mind is back in New York City. In the auditorium with Martin Payne, reaching for his lighter.

Robinson nods. Afraid he’s not going to give me more, I say, “What do you wish you had done differently?”

He turns his head toward me. “Anne, I don’t think I can share the memory I regret the most with you.”

“I know what Matt Weaver did to Vanessa Reardon,” I say quietly. “I just … want to understand why no one helped her. Like no one helped Isabella Fernandez.”

Robinson sighs—a heavy sigh, like someone who knows too much and is too tired to do anything about it. “Vanessa came to me several days after the incident. She was somewhat of a favorite of mine. A very talented girl. In any case, she trusted me.” Robinson looks at a point in the distance. “She said she didn’t know who else to tell, but that she had had a little too much to drink at a party over the weekend and woke up in Matthew’s bed. She couldn’t remember what happened the night before, and she was afraid to tell the dean. The poor thing was scared, but she didn’t want to get in trouble for drinking. And Matthew was a friend.