Meet Winchester Prep’s local princess

I looked down the hall and noticed one of the few people who had never been fazed by my reputation. He was talking animatedly to a girl I didn’t recognise at all when Mr Ezhno strode out of the classroom.

“Miss Duke.” He closed the door behind him.

“I know we’ve had this conversation many times before, but you still don’t come in on time and honestly I don’t know what more I can do …”

I stopped listening. He was right; we had had this conversation so many times. He would prattle on about how it was not only disrespectful to him but also to my classmates, and so on, and then try to relate to me by telling me a story from his youth.

I shifted my focus back to the pair I’d been watching before Mr Ezhno had come out. They were still there in front of the office, Liam talking enthusiastically to the girl I didn’t recognise. She said something that was apparently just hilarious, and he laughed appreciatively.

My chest tightened, the way it always did when I saw Liam. It had been such a long time since he’d ended things, and yet it still broke my heart a little to see him talking to another girl. I strained to hear them, knowing that a hundred yards was definitely out of my earshot. And then I caught the tail end of something Mr Ezhno was saying.

“… expulsion.”

Wait. What?

here lies

Bridget

Paige Harbison

www.miraink.co.uk

For Mommy and Grandmommy,

who helped me learn the easy way.

Also to anyone who has ever had to pay for their

mistakes, or wished someone else would

PROLOGUE

I pressed down on the accelerator. It felt good to have power back in my life. Even if it was just power over my car, or power over my fate: dying or living.

The road was a winding one, with trees on either side, and very little traffic. I watched the speedometer reading rise from thirty mph to forty.

All I could think about was how sorry everyone would be when they found out. I pictured the local news coverage, the headlines, the sheet of paper they’d send around the school, offering grief counseling to my classmates.

Forty-five.

Maybe it wasn’t that I wanted to die; maybe I just wanted to scare them. I wanted them all to realize what could have happened and to feel awful for how they’d acted. I wanted them to try to apologize and beg for a chance to make up for everything they’d done.

Fifty.

Fifty-five.

I pictured the faces of my friends as they heard the news. Grasping each other’s arms, waiting to be told everything would be okay. Then hearing that it wouldn’t be, or that the doctors weren’t sure. Maybe visiting my hospital room, where I would lie motionless, the sound of my heart monitor beeping not nearly often enough.

I wondered who would visit me, who would refuse to leave until I woke up. Perhaps even get into a nasty snarl with one of the doctors who told them to leave because visiting hours were over.

I pictured Meredith having to explain to my father what had happened while he was out of town. She’d admit how she’d treated me, and my father would tell her not to speak to him. Maybe he’d even kick her out of the house. Maybe he’d feel guilty for never being around.

And what if I did die? Who would go to my funeral? Who would read the eulogies? What smiling picture of me would they place in the flower wreath next to my casket? Who would break down while deciding which outfit to wear to the service?

I pictured Liam giving a eulogy for me, vowing never to love again.

My engine roared, my tires eating up the pavement.

I had been paying more attention to my thoughts than to the road, and when I shook my focus back to my driving, I found myself coming too fast into a curve. My foot jerked from the accelerator to the brake in an instinct to survive. Suddenly I wished I could take back the thoughts I’d just had. They were stupid. I was being reckless. I didn’t want to die. I wanted to drive back to school and pretend I’d never left at all.

The side of the road veered down an embankment, where the only things that could stop me were the trees.

In seconds, the car tires bounced over the edge of the road into the grass and rocks. My foot, still pressed hard on the brake, shook like a muscle rarely used. I didn’t know if I was screaming. All I knew was that my side of the car was heading toward a huge tree.

Oh, my God, I’m going to die. Icy fingers clutched my heart.

What happened after that I’d never be able to explain. I don’t know if it was a dream, I don’t know if it was real, I don’t know if it was my Oz. But it wasn’t what I would have expected.

There were no three ghosts, no big silver screen with the movie of my life playing, no well-intentioned angel looking to earn his wings. Just a jury of people I’d wronged, deciding whether or not I got to live.

Everything was done. I couldn’t take it back, couldn’t change it. It was way too late to say the two words that could have saved me if I’d just meant them sooner.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry …

But we’ll get to that. First I have to tell you why I got in the car to begin with.

CHAPTER ONE

Nothing interesting ever happens or begins on a Thursday.

Friday and Saturday are the weekend. Sunday is the end of the weekend, the last day of rest. Monday is the beginning of another week. Tuesday’s a cool name. Wednesday is “hump day,” an expression I loathe.

But Thursday is nothing. Everything that’s going to happen during the week is over, and the weekend is coming but it’s not there yet. Even that old rhyme about the day you were born just says Thursday’s child has far to go.

What does that even mean?

When I woke up that day, I had no idea the day that lay before me was the beginning of the end. There was no strange weather event, the neighborhood dogs weren’t howling, no meteors struck Earth.

Maybe if I could have read the shreds of cereal at the bottom of my bowl like tea leaves, I would have gone back to bed. Or just transferred to the local public school right then. Instead, I ate the stupid cereal, drank the crappy coffee my stepmother made (fair trade=bitter and thin in my book) and idly checked to make sure my phone was charged.

Same as every day.

Then, just like every day, I left the bowl by the sink and glanced at the clock on the stove. It read 7:05 a.m. I still had ten minutes before I had to leave for school. Just enough time to double-check my makeup and outfit. I’d started toward the stairs to my room when I heard my stepmother’s high heels clopping into the kitchen.

“Hey, Bridget?”

I sighed audibly.

“What?” I had like a million things I’d rather do with my ten minutes than stand here waiting for her to stumble her way through yet another awkward conversation.

“Well …” She came into view at the bottom of the stairs.

“I was just thinking that maybe … if you’re not doing anything tonight, then maybe we could go see that new movie. The one you couldn’t see with your friends because of your father’s banquet the other night? Carriage?”

She shrugged her thin shoulders under the silk Michael Kors top I would have killed for. Sometimes I looked at her and thought she might be prettier than I was.

I hated that.

“I just figured with your father being out of town until next weekend, maybe we could have sort of a girls’ night out.” She gave me a tentative smile and waited for a response, and then after not getting one in reasonable time, kept talking.

“I looked it up and it sounds pretty good, actually …”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m busy tonight.”

I started up the stairs. I knew exactly which movie she was talking about, and I had been dying to see it. But going to the movies with your stepmother—how pathetic is that? She might as well have asked me to go to a midnight opening of Blue’s Clues 3-D in full furry costume regalia.

“Oh, but you were so disappointed when you couldn’t go the other night …”

I stopped when she said that and bent toward her, talking to her as if she were the child and I was the evil stepmother.

“That’s because I didn’t want to go to Dad’s stupid dinner thing, that’s all.”

“Oh.” She looked down at a piece of paper in her hand, which looked like it had the movie summary on it. I felt a small stab of guilt when I saw it.

She folded it in half and followed me as I walked up the stairs. I could feel her eyes on my back.

“Well, maybe there’s another movie you’d like to see, or we could do something else—”

I stopped and turned again, feeling disproportionately averse to the idea.

“Okay, Meredith? I don’t know how to make this obvious to you if you really don’t get it yet. I don’t want to do anything with you tonight. Mmkay?”

Her eyes widened and she looked like she was about to have another one of her crying fits. For God’s sake, what was wrong with her? She cried all the time lately. She was, like, forty. Was that too young to go into menopause?

Whatever. I wasn’t going to take responsibility for upsetting her. I’d walked away from arguments like this feeling guilty before. Walked away feeling like I must have really pushed the limit to make her cry. But then, later in the week, I’d see her sobbing over Sesame Street and realize it was not about me.

Though I did wonder why on earth she was alone in the living room watching Sesame Street.

I DROVE TO MY BORING, stuffy, private high school, Winchester Preparatory, in my 2007 Toyota Corolla (my father gave me his old car instead of buying me a new one in one of his few-and-far-between fits of parenting) and parked in my usual spot. I was late, also as usual, though this time it was because of the conversation with Meredith. So it wasn’t actually my fault. It never is.

Still, I guess I wasn’t exactly running down the hall. And I did stop at the vending machines to get a Vitaminwater. After a moment or two of deliberation between flavors, I headed to class. To Tech Ed, where my teacher was as useless as the subject.

His name was Mr. Ezhno, and he was just simply not cut out for teaching. He was weak and spineless, and on top of that, entirely boring. He blathered on, teaching us things everyone in our day and age already knows. How to turn on a computer. How to open a blank document.

When we weren’t doing that, we were doing things like building light switches. Which was stupid, in my opinion. Why should we have to figure it out when it’s already been figured out? I seriously doubted that I’d ever be in a situation where someone was saying, “Quick, it’s an emergency, put down those matches and build a light switch!”

It would have been almost impossible to pay attention to him even if anyone had tried.

Which, naturally, we didn’t.

On days when we were behind the computers, we were either working on essays with useless topics or ignoring him to play games or browse the internet, while the more studious students did work for other (real) classes. Either way, none of us were doing what we were supposed to.

About halfway through the semester, he noticed that no one was paying attention to him, so he started making us turn off the computer screens when we weren’t supposed to be doing something with them. All this did, however, was bore us into terrorizing him. We would raise our hands and ask deliberately stupid questions, and he would have to answer them, just in case one of them was for real.

Except, there was one day when Matt Churchill had asked, with a completely straight face, if there was really such thing as a “chick magnet.” Mr. Ezhno had refused to answer, calling it a “ridiculous question.”

But I’d seen the doubt flicker through his eyes as he wondered if Matt was serious.

As if the curriculum wasn’t irritating enough, the class was first thing in the morning, making it positively impossible for me to ever get there on time. And once I did get there, I admittedly gave him kind of a hard time.

Every once in a while, a twinge of pity for the man stopped me in my tracks. Him, with his button-down shirts and pleated khakis, his office supplies, weekly boxes of new chalk and the stickers he put on papers with good grades (which, incidentally, I knew existed only from spotting them on other people’s papers). He was the classic nerdy teacher. Seriously, if the makers of that movie Office Space had seen this guy, they would have given Milton and his stapler the boot and asked Mr. Ezhno to step in.

Often, however, I didn’t stop. It usually started with me saying something double-sided that Mr. Ezhno couldn’t respond to appropriately. He’d then send me to the main office, I’d get in-school suspension, my behavior wouldn’t improve and then he’d have several parent-teacher meetings with Meredith.

I hated that.

She was not my parent, and my father never got involved in this stuff. Thank God.

Still, they would meet, get along and, as I imagined it, plot ways to make my life more frustrating. Luckily, the meetings had stopped somewhere along the way. At this point it was like he’d given up. Which worked for me. Honestly, I’d been about to ease up on him—I could tell I was pushing him too far, and the last thing I needed was to get in trouble. But that didn’t seem to be an issue anymore.

So it was 7:40 on that Thursday morning when I waltzed into the classroom and crossed right in front of Mr. Ezhno, my shoulder grazing his grade book. I headed toward my seat next to Jillian Orman. I heard the boys in the back row talking about me, saying something sexist but still flattering.

But this time, as opposed to every other time, Mr. Ezhno stopped talking to the class.

His eyes fastened on me.

“Go on.” I raised my eyebrows at him, like I was giving him permission, and then twisted open my Vitaminwater.

“Miss Duke, can you please go wait out in the hall for me?” He sounded tired.

“Already?” Snickers from the class, who appreciated my anticipation of getting in trouble—just not yet.

“But Mr. Ezhno, I bought the flavor that’s supposed to help me focus. I bought it just for your class, Mr. Ezhno.” I raised my drink, tapping lightly on the label where it said Focus.

Most of the people in the class sniggered quietly, waiting for him to come up with something to say.

Instead he just pointed toward the door.

When I looked at him like I didn’t know what he was talking about, he repeated, “Please go wait for me in the hall.”

I sighed theatrically and walked out, making a face at his back as soon as I was past him. A ripple of muffled laughs ran through the class.

As I waited for him in the hall, I watched people passing by. Some were on the way to the bathroom, some were late for class and a few probably had first period as an office assistant. I didn’t know all of their names, but they always seemed to know me. One girl quickened her pace as she drew closer to me, keeping her eyes directed at her feet. She glanced up, and the second our eyes locked, she looked away.

A moment later another girl walked by wearing a T-shirt from last year’s student government election, the faded letters reading Duke for SGA President! The election from which I, sensing more support for my fellow candidates, had withdrawn my name, claiming that it was because I had too many other things to worry about.

The girl (Suzanne?) waved, indicated her T-shirt, pointed at me and smiled. I smiled superficially back and watched her go. My own face smiled at me from the back of the shirt.

Kinda weird to wear that sort of thing post-election.

Others who walked by either waved enthusiastically or did the same as the first girl and tried hard not to look at me. That was how it usually was in my life: People were either overly friendly (possibly obsessive) or painfully shy.

Here’s why. My father was once a promising young superstar in the NFL until one fateful game where he blew out his knee. Being a good-looking favorite, he then rose to fame as a sportscaster. Every man knew him, every boy wanted to be him, every woman and girl stopped crossing the living room when he was on TV just to watch him finish his segment. Including me. Sometimes I saw him more often on my TV than sitting in front of it.

Anyway, his fame made me cool by association. I didn’t need to be head cheerleader (which is good because I never could be), or SGA president (which is what I told myself when I dropped out of the race).

I was a local princess.

I had just looked down the hall to notice one of the few people who had never been fazed by my reputation talking animatedly to a girl I didn’t recognize at all when Mr. Ezhno strode out of the classroom.

“Miss Duke.” He closed the door behind him.

“I know we’ve had this conversation many times before, but you still don’t come in on time and honestly I don’t know what more I can do …”

I stopped listening. He was right; we had had this conversation so many times. He would prattle on about how it was not only disrespectful to him but also to my classmates, and so on, and then try to relate to me by telling me a story from his youth.

I shifted my focus back to the pair I’d been watching before Mr. Ezhno had come out. They were still there in front of the office, Liam talking enthusiastically to the girl I didn’t recognize. She said something that was apparently just hilarious, and he laughed appreciatively.

My chest tightened, the way it always did when I saw Liam. It had been such a long time since he’d ended things, and yet it still broke my heart a little to see him talking to another girl. I strained to hear them, knowing that a hundred yards was definitely out of my earshot. And then I caught the tail end of something Mr. Ezhno was saying.

“… expulsion.”

Wait, what?

I must have misheard.

“Excuse me?” He closed his eyes for a few seconds before responding.

“I said that your repeated insubordination and frequent tardiness haven’t stopped, despite all of our discussions on the matter. I’m going to have to send you to the office, and frankly, after being late so many times—” he raised his hands for a second, in a movement I knew to mean What else can I do? “—the usual punishment is expulsion.”

My dad would kill me. Kill me. This was the kind of thing that had led to him giving me an old car instead of a new one and suspending my credit cards. Every now and then he’d say something embarrassing on the air about how he thought the Giants were a shoo-in, back to you Rob, and he had to get home to his insubordinate daughter.

“Well, frankly, Mr. Ezhno …” I said his name like it was absurd, like he’d asked us to call him “Mr. Snugglekins” or something “.I think that the time we waste having our ‘discussions on the matter—'” I put his words in sarcastic finger quotes “—is a lot more distracting to the class than when I’m late by, like, thirty seconds. I mean, what, do you think that they’re studying in there?” I pointed a finger toward the classroom.

When he kept looking at me, I pursed my lips and nodded, like I was trying to convince him to buy something that looked great on him.

As if.

“Just … take this and go to the office.” He handed me a folded piece of paper. I could see the imprint of some of the words on the reverse side.

I glanced at him and gave him a look that said something like your loss and walked toward the office.

I felt a small drop in my stomach when I saw that Liam and the girl were gone. Fine, there would be no strutting dismissively past them, then.

As I walked down the hall, I read the note.

Miss Duke has been a constant distraction to this class. She comes in late almost every day and is always disruptive during class periods. Does not ask to use restroom, just leaves class whenever she wants to. Consistently talks over me to fellow classmates who are trying to listen.

Ha! Someone had no self-awareness.

… spends most of her trusted computer time surfing the web, and relentlessly tries to entertain the class by being inappropriate and disrespectful…

I stopped reading. He was obviously making me out to be an awful, desperate class clown, and I didn’t need to read anymore of that nonsense. I ripped the letter in half, and then, considering the embarrassment if someone were to read it, ripped it a few more times before tossing it in the nearest trash can.

Why was he foolish enough to think I would actually bring it with me?

IN THE MAIN OFFICE, I decided to tell the secretary that I would “like to speak with Headmaster Ransic” rather than say “I was made to come here due to my frequent tardiness and disregard for rules.”

She smiled, indicated that I should sit in one of the seats around the corner from her and said she’d call me when the headmaster was ready to see me.

I turned the corner and took a second to consider my options. I could sit next to this kid, Vince, who seemed to be there every time I was and who always tried to make conversation with me that was riddled with clichés, like “What’re y’in for?” and who muttered things like “Pissin’ contest.” He was a textbook bully and had been taking lunch money from kids for years, which only made him more irritating.

I found him loathsome, exactly the kind of low-rent person I hated. It’s like he thought it his duty to make other people’s lives harder for no reason at all. This was like his third year as a senior, and he seemed to look more disgusting and unwashed every day. But I suppose that made sense, if he didn’t bathe.

And it smelled like he didn’t.

I could sit next to Brett, who was probably there to talk about picking up some more community service hours or something equally academically-oriented to help him get into college, where he seemed so desperate to go, to make up for his years as a rebel.

Or I could sit next to a girl I remembered from my first class on my first day in high school.

The teacher of that class had not had either of our names on the roll, and had asked for anyone who hadn’t heard their name to raise their hand. We were sitting next to each other, and when we both raised our hands she had leaned toward me to say, “God, we’re such losers, aren’t we?” and laughed nervously.

I remember observing her low ponytail, too-light-and-shiny lipgloss and under-plucked eyebrows, and thinking, Well, one of us is, and not responding to her.

From what I had seen of her in the last few years, she seemed just as frantic for camaraderie and as ill-advised fashion-wise as she was then.

I took a seat next to Brett, guessing that he was the most likely to stay silent.

I was wrong. And I should have known better. He’d been trying to talk to me recently.

“Hey, Bridget.” He waved as he said it. Why wave? Like I’d wonder where on earth that voice was coming from if he didn’t?

I pulled my lips tight, making an expression that barely passed as a smile. It was impolite, but I wasn’t in the mood to make small talk.

He didn’t say anything else as we sat there, which was a long time, since the other two were called into the headmaster’s office first. When Brett’s name was called, he leapt from his seat like a cartoon character and walked as fast as he could without running.

Once he’d left, I went back to reading the magazine I’d stashed in my Prada bag.

Finally I heard my name called in the secretary’s nasally voice, and I headed toward the headmaster’s office. I noticed that Brett, who was exiting, avoided eye contact with me.

Drama queen.

By the time I reached the door of the office, I had plastered a wide smile across my face, all thoughts of Brett out the window. I shut the door behind me.

“Good morning, Headmaster.” I acted like we were old friends meeting for lunch.

“You’re pretty busy for so early in the morning.” I pointed a polished finger toward the now-empty waiting area.

“Yes, well, I’ve only got these seven and a half hours to fit in all the angst of private high school. So what is it you’re here for, Miss Duke?”

I let my smile fade and traded it for a much more serious expression, as I prepared to get out of trouble. My charm was a useful tool in these situations.

“Well—” I began, and the phone on his desk rang. He excused himself and answered it. I studied him as he listened to the person on the other line.

Headmaster Ransic was probably in his late forties and had obviously been attractive in his younger years. His hair was a little thin and graying at the temples, and there were faint lines in his face when he spoke or smiled, but he had blue eyes in a shade that looked hot on younger guys. There was something about him that made it seem strange that he worked at a school.

Perhaps it was his unkempt way of dressing and doing (or not doing) his hair. He seemed perfectly competent, but the fact that he wasn’t a carbon copy of some musty old politician seemed to turn off most of the parents at the school.

His desk, too, was different than the usual kind. It had none of those silly metal toys or anything. He had a frame that pictured him and a pretty woman who, judging by his naked ring finger, was his girlfriend. He had a couple of things that I supposed could only be called artifacts: one rock with two faces carved into it, a bowl that looked handmade and ancient and a few wooden sculptures. The only thing on the desk that looked at all academic or work-related was the yellow legal pad that lay in front of him.

I was just tilting my head to see what was written on the pad when he said, “All right then, I’ll talk to you later, John,” and hung up. I jerked guiltily back into a normal non-nosy position.

“All right, surprise me.” He leaned back in his chair.

From his knowing tone, I could tell that the jig was up. I was going to have to come up with a plan to get out of trouble. One that could explain my constant lateness and perhaps score me the chance to continue with my habit of sleeping in a bit.

“Well … it’s kind of hard to talk about.”

Probably because I didn’t know what I was going to say.

“It’s an easy question. Why is it that you can’t make it to class on time, like every other student?”

I took a deep breath.

“It’s my parents. Well, it’s my stepmother. I’ve hardly been able to get any sleep at home lately, so getting up so early has been a …” I searched for the right word “.challenge.”

“And why is that?”

Because I was watching reality TV late into the night and ignoring the texts of needy girls asking me to come hang out and guys asking Hey, what are you up to tonight?

“Well …” I tried to come up with something so personal that he wouldn’t dare pursue the subject. Maybe refer me to the guidance office, so I could get the hell out of here.

“Yes …?”

“Well, when my dad’s there, there’s a lot of yelling.” At the Redskins, the Orioles and every other sports team he followed like a maniac. I contemplated my next implication.

“And when he’s not, there are other noises.”

“Other noises? “

I bit my lip and looked down for a moment before meeting his eyes and delivering what I hoped would be The Silencer.

“My stepmother has … guests. Well, one guy in particular. It’s … uncomfortable to be around at those times especially, but—” I shrugged “—you know.”

My implication hung in the air for a moment, before he finally had the decency to look embarrassed and avert his eyes.

The truth was, the only objectionable sounds I’d ever heard coming from my stepmother’s room when my father was away were strains of Rod Stewart albums and, on one memorable occasion, the Partridge Family. And, more embarrassingly, her thin voice singing along.

But the headmaster didn’t know that.

The closest thing Meredith had to a male guest was Todd, the flaming interior decorator she’d employed for years who kept trying to leave chintz throw pillows on my bed. Apparently the mess in my room was “insulting” to him.

But the headmaster didn’t know that either.

“Really.” He didn’t say it like he wanted an answer. So I kept talking.

“Um, yeah. I mean I have to see him like five days a week, you know? That’s what makes it even worse.” I tried to look tortured for a moment. It was true; Todd was there all the time. Since Meredith didn’t have a job, she had nothing better to do than to redecorate every room in my house from bottom to top, baseboard to crown molding. I also suspected Todd might be one of her best friends.

I wasn’t sure if that was sad or not.

“That must be difficult,” he agreed, looking hesitant.

I nodded. Now it was time to get back on track.

“Listen, I’m not really comfortable talking about this,” I said, and it was true.

“The point is that I think it’s been hard at home, and it’s been hard in class.”

He paused.

“I certainly am sorry to hear about your trouble at home, but I still don’t see what one has to do with the other.”

Why wasn’t he letting this go?

I floundered, trying to wrap it up in a way that made sense.

“Well, how would you like to have the two people who hate you most plotting together about your future for their own convenience?” I was embarrassed at how clear the hurt was in my voice.

But Mr. Ransic had already lost patience.

“Miss Duke, I still don’t see what you’re talking about, and the point—”

“What I’m talking about is my stepmother and Mr. Ezhno’s little private …'rendezvous.'” I was raising my voice a little bit more, not having realized how mad I was about this until now. All the parent-teacher conferences that Meredith left saying what a “nice man” Mr. Ezhno was, and how “we both” just want the best for me, and that this kind of behavior wouldn’t “cut it in college.”

“I mean, why should I have to suffer because my teacher is, like, in love with my stepmom and he’s trying to impress her or whatever by scheming with her?”

I was practically panting.

“Are you saying—”

“I’m saying it’s personal,” I spat.

“Not professional. Not academic. Per-son-al.”

Mr. Ransic finally looked like he didn’t know what to say. Thank God. It was about time he pulled his nose out of my business. Whether it was imaginary business or not.

At last, looking as if he had a speculative grasp on the situation and the fact that Mr. Ezhno and Meredith had something personal against me and that I needed help, not punishment, he said something about his busy day and stood up to open the door for me. I walked out, finally free from being judged.

Two HOURS LATER, I WAS in the locker room with Michelle, one of my best friends. Our gym lockers were next to one another, which was convenient for my venting.

“I was seriously only thirty seconds late. And it wasn’t even my fault! It was his beloved Meredith’s fault.”

“Yeah, that sucks.” Michelle pulled on her shorts. She’d had them since freshman year, and they didn’t really fit her anymore.

“You know, you should really buy new shorts this year. Those are getting a little tight on your hips. I think they’ll order some for you if they don’t have your size.”

I pulled on mine, which I’d been forced to buy two sizes too big because I got stuck with one of the last pairs before I knew they could just order them, and my father had told me to deal with them (his go-to response whenever I complained—it really sucks that he’s not a pushover). Meredith had said, in that irritatingly sweet way of hers, that maybe I’d grow into them. Yeah, right, like I’d ever let myself go up two sizes.

They were constantly slipping down, putting me an inch away from embarrassment every time.

“Mine, on the other hand, are huge.” I pulled on the waistband, and looked down at my sneakers through the pant legs.

“Okay, so what happened when you came in late?” Michelle asked sharply.

“Basically, he sent me to the office with this totally stupid note talking about how I’m some kind of menace. Ugh, and he said something about me distracting other students who were trying to pay attention.”

I watched Michelle for an aghast reaction, and was disappointed to see her fiddling with the cord on her shorts.

I kept talking.

“It was so stupid. So then I had to wait for like, ever, with three of Winchester Prep’s Least Wanted.” I looked expectantly at Michelle again.

She was tugging violently on her waistband now.

“Are you even listening, Michelle? Or are you just going to rip your pants trying to make them fit?”

She looked up, like she’d forgotten I was there.

“Oh, sorry, go on, I was listening.”

I sighed.

“So, finally I go in, right, and then I’m about to be super-nice and just say something about how I promised not to be late anymore, and how homework’s been hard lately, possibly start crying, and then …” I paused for emphasis “… Mr. Ezhno actually called the office to tell him that not only was I late but that I was disruptive or whatever.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. So then I knew I was going to have to think fast, and really all I wanted to do was to get out of there, right? So I start talking about how Meredith’s always got this ‘male guest’ over.”

Michelle didn’t see my finger quotes, or my self-impressed smile, because she was back to messing with her shorts.

My smile faded and I decided to finish my story, because obviously she was incapable of paying attention.

“I just complained about how she and Mr. Ezhno were always meeting and stuff, and how he was like in love with her, and how everything he does is because of that.” I looked at her. Was nothing I said going to get her attention? “And how they’re totally doing it,” I added, just to get a reaction.

“Wait, what?” She looked up.

I glared at her, and a whistle blew to indicate the beginning of gym. Oblivious to the ball I’d just set rolling, I flounced off to class.

CHAPTER TWO

The next day, I showed up to Mr. Ezhno’s class on time. Frankly, it wasn’t in reaction to his threat of suspension, but more just needing to escape my house and Meredith’s sobbing. If I didn’t hate her so much, I might have asked her what was wrong. I couldn’t stand it when other people cried around me. I always felt guilty, even when I hadn’t done anything wrong.

But seriously, who wakes up at seven o’clock in the morning to cry?

As soon as I sat down, Jillian, my other, more gossip-appreciating best friend, passed me a neatly folded note (she’d been the first one in fourth grade to be able to make origami and paper footballs).

I looked up at her.

“You can’t just say it? We have to pass notes?”

It sounded kind of mean, but come on, everyone was talking and class hadn’t even started yet.

Jillian made a face and mouthed, “Just read it.”

I opened the note and started to read the rounded, funky handwriting I’d never been able to copy. Instead, I had total boy handwriting.

Michelle told me about everything that you told her about Mr. Ezhno. Is it true?

I nodded and made a gagging face. Her eyes widened, along with her mouth. Finally someone appreciated how irritating the situation was. I felt a wave of fondness for Jillian, as I saw how commiserative she was.

As class started, I wrote back, asking her what else had been going on in school. She had some decent gossip, as usual. It was really the main reason I kept her around. Jillian had an amazing ability to remember just about everything. She didn’t use her memory to score high on tests and do well in Spanish class—obviously, if she was talking to me all through class, she couldn’t hear that information to memorize it. She used her memory exclusively to collect and archive everything about everyone we went to school with.

Jillian was going on about the colleges everyone was interested in applying to, and the boy who’d just gotten kicked off the soccer team for having a 1.9 GPA. I had just been about to say something about “getting to the good stuff” when she mentioned that there was a new girl.

“… 1.9 GPA, which is so sad, because it’s only like point-one away from being acceptable. Oh! And that new girl is in my gym class, speaking of soccer. She was actually really good.”

I thought of Liam and the girl I hadn’t recognized the day before.

“So, wait, did you talk to her?”

“Oh, yeah, she’s so nice. Her name is Anna Judge, and she moved here from Maine. It’s actually kind of funny, I kept running into her and Liam yesterday. Seriously, like, all day.”

My opportunity.

“Liam?”

I spoke too quickly. Super casual. But thankfully, Jillian never noticed that kind of thing and simply answered my question.

“Oh, right, he was showing her around yesterday. You know how the office, like, assigns you a buddy or whatever on your first day when you’re new?”

“Yeah, go on.”

SPIT. IT. OUT.

“Well, Liam was her buddy. I mean, he was assigned to do it, but I heard he volunteered. He was apparently in the office picking up some form for football when she came in. He dropped her off at each class, picked her up, ate lunch with her, all that normal stuff that the buddy guides do—”

Or all that stuff that he used to do with me every single day.

“—except he drove her home, too, which they don’t always do.”

No, they didn’t.

They never did that.

I spent the rest of the period prodding her for information about Liam and Anna. She spoke delicately, in accordance to my sensitivity on the subject of him. My best friends knew it was a hot button for me. But once she told me she didn’t know anything else, I knew she was telling the truth. Jillian was honest, always. Which was the reason she was the wrong person to tell a secret to, but an excellent person to leak them from.

She did keep talking about how super-nice Anna had been.

Not so delicate.

When the bell finally rang, I was more than ready to leave. I was the first one out the door, tossing an “Oh, bye!” back to Jillian. I had thought that getting out of the classroom and away from Jillian would be enough to relieve me of having to think about the new girl and her friendship (or whatever it might become) with Liam. But as I walked down the hallway, it seemed like her name was on everyone’s lips. Maybe it was all in my head, but even if it was, it was pissing me off.

I ducked into the bathroom, hoping to renew my self-confidence with the reapplication of lipgloss. And there she was.

Miss Anna Judge, the Super-Nice, Surprisingly-Good-Soccer-Player from Maine. Washing what looked like ink from her fingers.

What could be more awkward for me than to stand elbow to elbow with the girl who I had only seen from a hundred yards away but had already devoted so much thought to? Not awkward for her, of course; she didn’t even know who I was.

Oh, my God, she didn’t even know who I was.

I felt the petty, obsessive, desperate-to-be-liked feeling that had been living in my stomach since I was in elementary school. That was always ready to jump out and whine, But what about me? Whenever I felt it, I’d usually try to say or do something to draw the attention to myself.

And keep it there.

I walked to the other sink, next to her, and started to dig through my bag for my NARS lipgloss.

There was no one at the school who didn’t know who I was. I’d worked hard to make it that way. At this point, half the guys were trying to get with me, and half the girls were jealous of that fact or trying just as hard to be part of my inner circle.

I had parties all the time, and everyone knew I only invited the people I wanted to. It didn’t hurt that I had the best pool in Potomac Falls.

Though my dad and Meredith were strictly against alcohol at the parties, we usually managed to spike the punch. Then we’d just claim it was a slumber party, and that’s why no one drove home ‘til morning. Meredith would spend days planning the decorations, themed music, (temporarily) virgin drinks and anything else she or I could think of. It was pretty cool of her—not that I could ever get over my issues with her enough to tell her so.

It was even cooler that she would then spend the whole time in her room or out with my father, out of our way.

I redirected my thoughts back to figuring why Anna simply must know whom she was standing next to. Surely she’d heard someone talk about me, or something. Maybe someone had pointed me out to her while I was too busy to notice. I pulled out the lipgloss and started applying it, still considering other probable reasons why she simply must know who I was. She was just pretending not to.

I risked a glance at her reflection.

She had short, silvery-blond hair, which seemed to me like an obvious effort to look spunky and fun. She had long eyelashes, and the smooth skin I had always assured myself was just airbrushing in magazines and pictures of celebrities. Her arms were thin, just like the rest of her. She was wearing a dress that was bound to be “in” soon. She was still scrubbing her hands.

Then she spoke, taking me off guard. It was like I’d forgotten she could see me, too.

“Pen exploded. I didn’t kill a squid or anything.” She smiled, exposing straight, white teeth.

“I’m Anna, by the way.”

I nodded curtly and smiled back.

“Hi, Anna.”

I didn’t tell her who I was. I had to see if she already knew. Had to.

“And you are … Bridget Duke?”

My mind eased. What had I been worried about?

“Yes, I am.” I waited a moment before deciding that, yes, I needed validation.

“How did you know that?”

“Oh, sorry, that must seem creepy. I saw the name on the corner of the paper sticking out of your bag. I’m new here.”

I paused as the disappointment set in.

“Okay, then.” I turned back to my mirror and started fussing over my eye makeup.

I tried desperately to think of something cool to say while she nonchalantly applied ChapStick to her lips (which didn’t seem to need it).

“Actually,” Anna started, still not looking at me, “I think Liam mentioned your name. Do you know Liam?”

I mused over the simplicity of the question, and the understatement that would be my answer.

“Yes, I know him.”

“Hmm. He told me to look out for you.” She glanced at me, smiled again and waved goodbye.

My face was frozen in shock as I stared at the doorway until she was gone and her footsteps faded. It felt like she’d just pulled the pin out of a grenade, and I had no idea how to stop it from exploding.

I LEFT THE BATHROOM—the scene of the crime—in a daze.

I was analyzing, picking at and utterly disassembling what Anna had told me Liam had said. I’d done this many times with things he’d said to me, each time shredding his words so thoroughly that I worked myself into a fit. Sure, this was she-said he-said, but it didn’t matter. Liam said a lot of cryptic things, seemingly not on purpose.

I’d particularly agonized over what he’d said when he broke up with me. He’d said that of course it wasn’t what he wanted, and that maybe sometime in the future.

Oh, he’d given me plenty to mull over that night.

So, there I was, putting on the familiar thinking cap specifically designed for figuring out what the hell Liam meant by what he said.

He told me to look out for you.

Because she should get to know me, or because I am someone to avoid?

I decided I would definitely have to use one of my other favorite techniques: bringing Liam up into every single conversation and asking what everyone else thought he might have meant.

I had just decided to go to the nurse’s office because of imaginary cramps and say that I was really not able to stay the rest of the day when Brett popped up out of nowhere.

“Hey, Bridget—ready for this test in NSL?” I always hated small talk about classes, particularly National, State and Local Government. Blech.

“Ugh, Brett, what are you—” Wait.

“What test?”

“What test?” He repeated my words with an entirely different inflection, one that implied that I was very, very stupid.

“The midterm, Bridget. You studied for it, right?”

“No? When is it?”

“Today, in like—” he looked at his watch—which, incidentally, looked like it was taken from the personal wardrobe of Inspector Gadget “—forty-six minutes.”

He was still looking horrified at my unpreparedness.

“How much is it worth?” I asked, feeling a little breathless. Today sucks, I thought.

“Thirty percent, just like the final, and then the other forty percent is homework and the other quizzes and stuff.”

Oh, no. I had gotten a D on the last quiz and forgotten about three homework assignments. On last week’s progress report I’d had a seventy-two percent in the class. I had to pass.

“Brett, there’s no way I can study enough during this lunch period. You have to help me.” I said this last part like it was obvious.

“I can’t help you study, Bridget, I have no time—” “No, not study, Brett, you have to help me during the test.”

Technically, I was asking for a favor and, really, one shouldn’t treat the person she wants a favor from like he’s stupid. But Brett didn’t seem to notice. His expression just turned from worry for me to worry for himself.

He understood exactly what I was saying.

“I can’t, Bridget. If we got caught, I’d fail this test, then my grade would drop down to a sixty-six percent. I have to work really hard to keep my grades high enough to get into college.” He shook his head.

“There’s no way.”

“Oh, my God, we’re not going to get caught.” I had no idea if we’d get caught, but I tried to sound confident.

“This’ll be so simple, she’ll never notice. Okay, are you right-handed?”

“Yes?”

“Okay, then you sit to my left, and I’ll sit behind Walco, he’s huge, Mrs. Remeley won’t be able to see me look at your paper. All you have to do is write really clearly and keep your paper diagonal toward me. It’ll be no problem, it’s how most people write, anyway.”

He looked firm on his refusal. And then the obvious struck me.

“Michelle. I’ll trade you Michelle!” I said it like I’d figured out the Da Vinci Code or something.

Brett had had a totally annoying crush on Michelle since, like, first grade. She and I hadn’t really been friends yet at that age, but my mom knew her mom, so we played with each other. She used to get secret-admirer cards and letters. A fact I teased her about because I was positively green with envy, and resentful that no one sent any to me. Except for that one I’d written to myself once, and claimed it was from resident cutie J.R.

We didn’t know for sure who was writing them to her until one day in fifth grade, when I caught Brett in the cubby room writing one while everyone else was playing Heads Up Seven Up. I’d been cold and going to get my jacket when I found him.

There he was, sitting in the corner with a piece of pink construction paper on his lap, writing in the boyish handwriting I recognized from all the other valentines over the years.

Lying on the floor next to him were several failed attempts. I remember the validation of my suspicions that it was he who had been writing them feeling like a victory.

Snatching the card from his lap, I ran out of the cubby room shouting “Brett loves Miche-elle” in that singsong voice strictly used in this particular brand of torture. Everyone’s head had shot up, and I read the poem aloud.

Though my love goes unrequited I’ll love you beyond when the pigs are flighted.

Though I may be a snowball, and you the heat I’ll melt with you if you stay as sweet.

You are Michelle, my belle,

And without you, this place would be …

Brett would later insist that he hadn’t intended to put hell at the end of the poem, but was going to somehow rhyme dwell. But to us, it might as well have been written there.

None of us knew the real meanings behind the words. Even so, the class got what the poem meant: it meant that Brett wanted to be K-I-S-S-I-N-G Michelle. Sitting in a tree, if you went by our prediction.

Brett had stayed in the cubby room the entire time I read it, and the only other person, besides him and our dimwitted teacher, not joining in the roar of laughter was Michelle. She had turned a deep shade of red and then run to the bathroom. Brett went to the office and got picked up early that day.

All the while, our teacher handed out bags of heart-shaped candies, an uncomprehending smile on her face.

A few years later, when we all entered middle school, Brett had come in with a seriously misguided attempt at dyed black hair, which had come out a sort of awful, metallic blue, and a newfound interest in all things rebellious. He didn’t start dressing normally again (i.e., not wearing the goth-style pants that looked like an entire flap of a circus tent had been stitched together) and stop skipping school until tenth grade. That was also when he started obsessing about the grades he couldn’t seem to keep up very easily.

Judging by the way Brett never spoke to Michelle again and instead gazed at her every chance he got, I was pretty sure he still wanted to sit in a tree with her. Lucky for me, his expression when I said her name removed all doubt from my mind.

“What about Michelle? What do you mean you’ll trade her?”

“I’ll get you a date with her if you give me the answers.”

He hesitated. I saw something that looked like the tiniest bit of consideration in his eyes. I jumped at it.

“Come on, Brett, it’s totally worth it. It’s not like we’ll get caught. And, be real, when else are you going to have a chance with Michelle?” He looked a little offended and, for some reason I could not imagine, amused.

I would have felt bad saying that he didn’t have a shot with her except that it was true. And just because I pointed out the obvious didn’t mean it was my fault that he never would have asked her out.

“It’s not right, you can’t expect to just trade her like money or something.” He seemed to give himself an idea.

“Here, just ask her to talk to me. I’ll ask her out myself.”

Ha! He was making this way too easy.

“So we have a deal.” It wasn’t a question. I wanted him to feel like he had already agreed.

“She’ll sit with you Monday at lunch.”

I snickered to myself and walked past him to the cafeteria. But as soon as I walked away, Liam loomed in my mind again, removing any trace of laughter.

I STAYED QUIET THROUGHOUT the lunch period, ignoring the gossip Jillian was imparting to Michelle. Instead of participating, I spent the whole period looking through my Allure magazine and glancing at Liam as furtively and often as possible.

He was about six foot three, his body lean and toned. His hair was the dark, shiny brown that you might see in a shampoo commercial, and reached down just past his dark, straight eyebrows. His eyes, though I couldn’t see them from where I sat, I knew to be the same light color of a swimming pool. The dark circle of his pupil and his thick, dark, straight eyelashes made the color seem even more striking.

He was sitting with Anna, who was taking a bite out of a cheeseburger. Eyeing the bottle of Coke Classic that sat in front of her, I wondered how she ate like that and still stayed so thin. Even if we had been friends, though, I never would have asked her that—that was what people asked me.

Not the other way around.

I decided that of all things, I didn’t have the energy to look at the pair of them.

“Bridget?”

I blinked away images of times Liam’s eyes had been close enough to mine that I could memorize them.

“What?” I snapped, and looked up to see a girl named Laura’s eager-looking face.

She recoiled slightly at the harshness in my tone.

“Um. Well, I was, uh …” she nervously tripped over her words “.wondering if you guys wanted to come over to my house tonight. I mean, it’s not going to be like a big deal party or anything. Not like your parties.”

“Have you ever actually been to one of my parties?” I asked impatiently, barely interested in the conversation.

“Um. No, but, I mean, I hear they’re great.”

I narrowed my eyes at her and cocked my head a bit to the side. She cleared her throat.

“Well, anyway, it’s just going to be like board games and stuff. My parents will be there.” She looked sheepish.

I waited to see if she said anything else. When she didn’t, and instead shifted her weight uncomfortably, I smiled.

“Uh-huh. Well, I know that I’ll be busy tonight. I don’t know about the other girls. Michelle? Jillian? Busy tonight? Want to go play some board games with Laura and her parents?”

Michelle shook her head down at her food, her face red. Jillian looked sympathetically at Laura and then said something about plans with her mom.

I crinkled my nose, and made a tsk-ing sound as I turned back to Laura looking regretful.

“Aw, that’s too bad. Maybe next time?” I smiled dismissively, and looked back down at my magazine.

“You know what, Bridget?” Laura asked, her ears turning red.

I gave her a challenging look.

“What’s that?”

“You’re just …”

There was a lurch in my stomach. I would not be told off, and I could tell that was where this was going. But I’d learned long ago to deflect this sort of thing.

“I’d stop now, if I were you. Which thank God I’m not.”

I watched her fury grow, and I felt the growing sense that I’d really gone too far.

“I’d always rather be me than you.” And she walked away.

I scrambled to think of something to say. I thought of nothing. I’d never had to. Since when did anyone challenge me?

I knew I’d been unnecessarily cruel to her, and I felt kind of guilty. But my day had sucked so far, too, and no one was apologizing to me. “Bridget—”

“So I ran into Anna today,” I started, cutting off Michelle. I knew she was going to give me grief and I just couldn’t deal with that on top of it all. Plus, I had to pretend that what had just happened didn’t bother me.

“And she introduced herself to me and all—she already knew my name—and then told me that Liam had told her to ‘look out for’ me. What do you suppose that means?”

Jillian, always interested in a good outrage, gasped and dropped her celery stick.

“He said that?”

I enlightened her on my theories of what he might have meant, and we talked about it for the rest of the period, eventually agreeing that he must have meant that I am so popular she’s bound to run into me, and to then introduce herself.

As soon as the bell rang indicating the end of lunch, I told Michelle about the deal I’d made with Brett. Well, I told her the half she needed to know, which was that she was sitting with him on Monday at lunch.

She raised her eyebrows at me.

“I’m what?”

“It’s no big deal. Seriously, I said I’d get him a date, and all he wanted was to ask you out himself.” She stared at me.

“Oh, my God, Michelle, just say no to him, it’s not that hard.” “Bridget, you can’t just—” What, now she was going to start rebelling, too? “Well, you’re going to sit with him, so …” I let the so hang in the air, letting her fill in the blank for herself with stop arguing with me. I smiled superficially, wiggled a goodbye with my fingers to Jillian and then strutted off to class. I didn’t look back to see what Michelle did next.

As I walked away, I began to wonder if what I was about to do was wrong. Sure, chances were that Brett wouldn’t get caught helping me, and that he wouldn’t dive into a depression when Michelle said no to his date. But still—what if we did get caught? What if he did fail the class, and it was my fault? What if between that and Michelle rejecting him, he did slip into a depression? Anyone would, after being expelled from this school. It was such a high-profile place that anything that happened here was practically in the society pages.

But no, I thought to myself. I was giving my actions far more credit than they deserved. Brett would be fine. We wouldn’t get caught, and even if we did … Brett would be fine.

My conviction wavered a bit once I walked into my NSL class and saw that there was a substitute teacher.

Okay, this could go one of two ways. Either the sub was nicer than Mrs. Remeley, our usual teacher, or she could be nasty.

Nasty like that teacher we’d had in middle school who kept telling us to sit up straight and hold our books a certain way during reading time.

Nice like my first-grade teacher with Valentine’s Day candy and the inability to stop me from doing what I wanted. Which, in first grade, was to use Brett to my advantage.

On my way to my seat, I watched her. She looked to be about in her fifties, but according to the chalkboard, she was a “Miss.” Miss Smithson. She was mousy and looked nervous. I instantly felt some indefinable emotion for her.

Brett was in his seat looking down at his notes when I sat down. I tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey, Brett?”

“Yeah?” he asked, eyes still on his paper. I clicked my tongue at his lack of interest in what I had to say.

“I talked to Michelle.” I grinned as he looked up at me.

“She’s looking forward to Monday.”

I could tell that he wasn’t sure if I was telling the truth or not. Whatever, he was probably hopeful enough to choose to believe I was telling the truth. And there was nothing wrong with giving him some hope. Especially because my hope was that this encouragement would stop him from backing out.

The bell rang, and Miss Smithson cleared her throat.

“Good afternoon, students!” She waited for a response. Though she didn’t seem to notice, the only response she got was a raised eyebrow from me.

“As you know, you’ve got a test today. It’s only three pages long, and it’s all multiple-choice. I’m sure you’ll all do fine.”

Really, you are? I thought, unnecessarily.

She started passing out the papers.

“Be sure to write your names in the upper right-hand corner!”

This spurt of enthusiasm had me raising both of my eyebrows.

When the test finally got to me, I wrote my name and took a look at the first question.

What the hell was “gerrymandering”?

I looked over at Brett’s paper, which already bore the answers to three questions on the first page. I circled the a on the first question and hurried to write the other answers. He couldn’t go this fast, or I wouldn’t keep up.

“Slow down!” I commanded in a whisper out of the side of my mouth.

He looked at me, looked at the substitute and then ripped the corner off of the first page of his test. The teacher looked up, and we both tried to look busy. She finally put her nose back into her romance novel, and I glared at Brett.

I inhaled deeply as I saw that he was writing something to me in his slanted handwriting, which gave all of his letters long stems.

He slid the note onto my desk. After one glare at him for his entire lack of stealth and several discreet glances at the teacher, I opened the note and read it.

I can’t do this. You have to do the work.

My eyes and mouth widened and I turned toward Brett, who was staring determinedly down at his paper. What was happening to everyone? No one ever said no to me!

I spoke through my teeth. “You. Have. To.”

“I can’t,” he whispered.

“I can’t risk it.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Miss Smithson stand up and walk toward us. I shushed Brett, who was no longer making any noise, and went back to my test. My heart was beating so hard, I was sure she would see the pounding in my chest. I circled the other answers that Brett had put down and answered the two following without reading the questions. I heard her soft, non-heeled steps come closer and finally stop in front of our desks.

“Could you two please step out into the hall?”

There were times when I was trying to get away with something but felt positive that the fact that I was practically swallowing my face would give me away.

This was one of those times.

How was this possible? Out of absolutely nowhere, everything I did today was failing. Nothing was going my way. And truthfully? That’s not how my life works.

I looked up to see Brett’s panicked glare and then Miss Smithson’s disappointed gaze. We walked out into the echoing hall and she followed us. Once in the hall, she headed for the staff lounge a few doors down.

Brett and I stood in silence for a few seconds.

“I, um …” I wasn’t sure what I was going to say, whether it would come out as an apology or as an accusation. I didn’t have time to decide because, at that moment, Miss Smithson came out of the lounge. Chubby little Ms. Chase, whose mouth was full of food and who had clearly just been pulled from her lunch period, followed.

Ms. Chase waved jovially at Brett and me, and then walked into the NSL classroom to chaperone. To make sure no one else was cheating, I guess.

What was I going to do if my father found out about this? He was no tyrant, but he would definitely find cheating unacceptable. There would be angry words. Punishment. Disappointment. Though that might be my own, once Meredith was proven right about me. That I could not handle.

When I had done something wrong was the only time I was even a little not-horribly-resentful that my mother had died in a car accident when I was seven. That way I had only one parent I worried about, one stepparent I couldn’t care less about and one parent I tried never to think about.

I was so busy worrying about what my father was going to say when he found out that when Miss Smithson spoke, I was surprised.

“Cheating,” she said, looking far more intimidating than I had initially suspected, “is an unacceptable act of behavior. I must say I am disappointed.”

I thought nastily of asking her how in the world she could be disappointed in us when she didn’t know us to begin with.

She continued on.

“Now which one of you wants to explain to me what happened?”

If I had been a cartoon character, there would have been an exclamation point over my head.

She wanted one of us to explain.

She didn’t know which one of us had done the cheating. I wasn’t dead, not yet. My next words came tumbling from my mouth faster than I could think them through.

“I tried to tell him to stop, Miss Smithson. I know it’s wrong to talk during a test, but I didn’t know what else to do.” I looked her in the eyes, and tried to look as sincere as possible.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Smithson, really.”

I knew it was wrong to cheat. I knew it was wrong to lie. I knew it was wrong to push someone in front of a speeding train. But all I could think at that moment was that I had to get out of trouble.

And somehow, miraculously, it looked like I might.

“Brett, is this true?” Miss Smithson’s gaze shifted to him. I could feel his eyes on me.

“I was trying to tell her not to cheat!” The pure rage in his voice shook me.

Miss Smithson had seen it all before.

“You’re either going to agree here on who it was, or you’re both going to be punished to the full extent.” She watched us, waiting for one of us to say something.

“I understand,” I said. One of the things I understood was that Brett was going to get in trouble for something he didn’t do. I knew that I would probably be in the same amount of trouble either way, and that I was dragging Brett down with me. I also knew that this was the perfect chance to tell the truth.

But I couldn’t do it. I don’t know why.

And then I made it all worse by remembering the note Brett had passed me. I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it to Miss Smithson.

“See? You can see that it’s his, because it’s the corner of the first page on his test.” It was from him. The words were his. The meaning, however, had shifted to suit me.

“See, he said he couldn’t do it, and that I had to do the work. For him.”

Miss Smithson took the piece of paper from my outstretched hand. Lifting her glasses from the chain that hung them around her neck, she read it.

“Did you write this?” she asked Brett, peering at him over the top rims of her lenses, which were scooted down her nose.

I was banking on him starting with the truth.

He did.

“Yes, but—” Brett said, desperately trying to explain what I had done. It was too late.

“All right then,” she finally said, “gather your things and go to the office. Miss Duke, I know it doesn’t feel like you’ve done anything wrong, but you’ll have to go explain what happened to the headmaster. I’ll call to let him know you’re coming.”

On the way to the office, I kept my face pointed purposefully in front of me, terrified to make eye contact with Brett. Not that I would have if I had looked at him, because he wouldn’t look at me either. I didn’t blame him; he must have been disgusted with me. I wanted to fix it, but it was too late. If I said something now, I’d be in even more trouble.

Trouble I couldn’t afford. And something in me knew that I would never have chosen to be noble and do the right thing. There was no taking it back. I always took the self-preservation route.

But maybe I could explain to Brett why I really couldn’t get in trouble right now. Last time I’d gotten in trouble, my father had given me this death stare he’s awesome at, and told me that I didn’t even want to know how much things would change if I got in trouble again at school.

“Listen, Brett—”

“Shut up, Bridget.”

I gasped and resolved to stick to my lie when I spoke to the headmaster. Perhaps even make up some more lies.

CHAPTER THREE

I spent the afternoon trying to forget how awful school had been for the past two days. I tried to forget the meeting in the office about Mr. Ezhno, the conversation with Anna, the test, the consequent second meeting in the office and seeing Liam with Anna everywhere.

They never looked romantic, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be. I knew Liam to be the perfect gentleman, one who would be very cautious not to rush things. Ever again, anyway.

The second meeting with Headmaster Ransic had been awful. It was like I was hypnotized into lying again and again.

Of course, I was not hypnotized, and didn’t have the luxury of having that as an excuse. I was just watching my own back and no one else’s. I had spoken to Headmaster Ransic before Brett, given my story—and it was a story—and agreed that it was true, things really weren’t going my way lately. I then walked out of the office, trying hard not to look anyone in the eyes. I left feeling like if I did catch anyone’s glance, I was sure to be found out. And then, instead of being given any mercy for ultimately telling the truth, I’d get in trouble for the whole thing. I wasn’t exactly on death row, but still. Being expelled from Winchester Prep and not going to college would have been mortifying. Unheard of.

The talk of the town. Especially if it was because of something stupid like this.

I decided I shouldn’t think about it too hard. So after figuring that spending most of an afternoon by myself was enough coping, I decided it was time to move on to bitching.

And that meant calling Jillian and Michelle to come over for Chinese food and, though I didn’t mention it, a bitch-fest.

Michelle said she’d come over, but after dinner. Jillian was all for it, and said she’d be over as soon as she could. I told her to pick up the Chinese, and that it should be on her. I reminded her that she owed me for the pair of Von Dutch jeans I’d given her anyway. I’d given them to her because my father had made some comment about them being tight, and since then I had felt self-conscious in them. Not that I’d admit that. I just told her that I’d never liked them.

When Jillian finally got there, we settled onto the couch with our chopsticks and paper boxes of food and turned on some trashy reality TV show.

I took a bite of my chicken fried rice and glanced at her. She looked down, dipped her dumpling in soy sauce and took a bite. I contained myself for a few minutes as we ate our food and watched the show. Then I launched into what had happened with Brett.

Well, the version of the story she had to hear. That was the biggest problem with Jillian; every word I said to her had to be carefully considered, as if I was shouting it through a megaphone.

It’s not that Jillian went around whispering other people’s secrets into people’s ears like in that old Norman Rockwell painting. She just let everyone in on the secrets through heavy implications, broad hints and, from the experience I had with extracting the best gossip from her, a lot of facial expressions that served as answers to leading questions. I truly believed, however, that she didn’t do it intentionally. You could doubtless hook her up to a lie detector and she would pass with flying colors.

She honestly seemed unaware.

So that was why I was going to have to be careful what I said to her.

“Okay, so are you ready to the hear about the biggest drama of this week?”

“Um, duh?”

I told her everything I had told Headmaster Ransic. Everything from how hard I’d studied to Brett passing me the note during class, to getting caught, feeling bad about having to rat out Brett and going to the office. She drank in every word, gasping in all the right places.

By the time I finished the story, I knew she wasn’t going to need persuading. She was on my side. And if she was, then anyone who heard the story from her would be, too.

After she gushed about how unfair it was that I even had to go to the office, I asked her if she’d heard anything more about the new girl.

“Well, nothing except that she’s way nice and everyone loves her. She’s really popular already. It’s only been like forty-eight hours since she got into town!” she said, chewing on the end of a chopstick.

“Oh, my God! You guys should totally hang out. I mentioned you on her first day, and she didn’t even know who you were yet.”

I almost asked her why she would suggest that when she knew what I’d told her about what Anna had said. Then I remembered the grenade. And then I thought about what had been happening to me.

My popularity was dwindling, and Anna’s was increasing.

Inside, I felt like some kind of worst fear had been confirmed. I had to stop this Anna girl from blowing up my life. And I knew exactly how.

“Jillian?”

“Yeah?”

“How quickly can you tell everyone about the big party tomorrow night?”

“What big party?”

“The one we’re going to have.”

Jillian squealed and started bouncing quietly on her sofa cushion. She was obsessed with parties. Sometimes I’d wake up on the day of one of my parties, wander blearily down the stairs, and spot her outside setting up with Meredith. I was lucky to have them—I rarely had to do much.

A party was the perfect solution. It was time to reassert my popularity. Time to show Anna who wore the skinny jeans in this town. Better too soon than too late.

“'K, so get started,” I said, and Jillian nodded. I was gratified by her consistent agreeability.

“Tomorrow you should get here early. We’ll have to set up. Plus I’ve got better makeup than you do. We’ll have to tell Michelle to come early also. She wears stuff from, like, the drugstore.” I made a blech sound.

Jillian was already on her phone texting out invites.

She, Michelle and I were up until two in the morning setting up for the party. I’d inform Meredith of my plans the next day. Not that it mattered anyway, because she would be flying to Florida that afternoon.

And with that parent- and guardian-less freedom, I decided that Michelle’s twenty-two-year-old brother was going to have to do something more useful than sitting around playing video games.

THE NEXT DAY, JILLIAN, Michelle and I were sitting at my kitchen table eating breakfast.

Well, mostly I was.

I was scarfing down sugary cereal. Jillian was reading the nutritional facts, eating a banana and telling me all of the reasons why I shouldn’t be eating “that bowl of sugar.” Michelle wasn’t eating anything.

“Michelle, eat something.” I glared at her.

“I’m not hungry, it’s fine.”

“Michelle.”

“Seriously, Bridget.”

I considered her for a moment.

“What, do you not like what I have to eat or something?”

I narrowed my eyes at her as she exhaled edgily.

“I’m just not hungry, okay?”

My phone vibrated on the table. I silenced it, not interested in reading yet another excited text from someone I didn’t care about saying something about C ya tonite! or Thanks for the invite!

We’d invited everyone we knew. And it felt like all of them were texting me. Which was all well and good—maybe people hadn’t been doing what I told them to lately, but I seriously doubted that everyone would stop being this eager to be my friend any time soon.

“Fine,” I said, as I took another bite from my cereal.

“As long as you’re not just overreacting to Jillian’s little health freak-out over there. It’s not like she even knows what she’s talking about.”

She didn’t say anything, and just as I was about to grill her some more, Meredith came quietly into the kitchen. She was rubbing her lips together and closing a lipstick.

“Oh, good morning, girls!” She smiled.

I sneered. I didn’t know why, but as soon as she walked into the room, I felt like she’d been offensive somehow.

“I’m having a party tonight,” I said, giving her no greeting whatsoever.

“Are you?”

“Yes.” I looked challengingly at her. Then I spotted her purse and suitcase by the front door. “I thought your flight wasn’t until four. Are you leaving now?”

It would be exactly like her to leave so ridiculously early for a flight. Even that conscientiousness of hers bothered me.

“Oh, well.” She pulled a to-go coffee mug from the cabinet and turned around to get the milk from the fridge.

“I’m meeting somebody beforehand and I’ll have about an hour and a half before the shuttle picks me up after that. I just want to be ready to go in case the meeting runs long.”

“Meeting with who?” I asked.

She turned back to me and looked into my eyes warily. It had something to do with me, I knew it.

“Who?” I demanded.

She sighed. “John Ezhno.”

Of course she couldn’t bring herself to lie, and save me the embarrassment she was now inflicting on me.

“Really.” I stared at her.

“Yes, does that surprise you?”

“Um, yes.” It did. I could not believe this was still going on. “Does that surprise you?“

She set down the skim milk, and looked at me.

“Bridget, stop it.”

“You stop it.” She was the one going around having secret meetings. About me, for God’s sake.

“Bridget, I mean it! You know, I wouldn’t have to keep seeing him if you or your father would just—” She stopped.

If Meredith started defying me, I’d start a damn war with her. I didn’t have anything to lose in this relationship.

“Would just what?”

She dropped her head, clearly holding back more tears. Taking a deep breath, she stood up straight, secured the lid on her mug and walked out the door. I felt a small wave of guilt wash over me. I hated when other people took the high road in an argument. It made me look foolish.

When I turned back to my cereal, I felt two pairs of eyes on me. I looked up to see Jillian’s and Michelle’s mouths hanging open.

“Wha …?” I said with my mouth full.

The two of them exchanged an uncomfortable look.

“Nothing,” Jillian said, turning her face back to the nutritional facts. Her eyebrows were still raised.

“Look, I can’t help what she’s doing. You guys aren’t going to tell anybody, right? Jillian?”

“Of course not. Did you know this has partially hydrogenated oils in it? That is so bad for you. Oh!” She stopped to answer her phone, which had just started emitting a tinny version of “Respect.”

After talking for a minute, she hung up and announced that she had to go. Her brother had knocked his front tooth out, and she needed to take him to the dentist.

Michelle stuck around, which was weird, because usually she left earlier than Jillian. It was always strange when it was just the two of us. It always felt a little naked without someone else around as a buffer.

After closing the door on Jillian and reminding her to come back ASAP so I could fix her face with my makeup, I walked into the living room, where Michelle was sitting, and turned on the TV.

“Bridget?” she said.

“Can we talk for a second?”

“Sure,” I said, flipping through the channels. She looked at the TV, and then at me.

“Like, without the TV on?”

I exhaled noisily and turned it off. She took a deep breath before speaking.

“It’s kind of … embarrassing to talk about. I just think … that you kind of … make me feel bad about myself sometimes.” She said the last part of her sentence so fast I barely understood the words.

I scoffed and raised my eyebrows at her.

“I what?”

“It’s just … I’m sensitive about my weight and—”

She couldn’t be serious.

“Oh, shut up, Michelle.”

“No, Bridget, I won’t shut up!” She stood up. “You say things all the time that make me feel really bad about myself, and it’s just not okay!”

I sat there on the couch, looking up at her skinny body and bony cheekbones. I was shocked. I had hardly ever seen her mad about anything, and here she was, flipping out about something stupid.

In retrospect, I realize I should have taken her seriously, if only just because she was my friend and I owed her that.

Instead, I was embarrassed by what she’d said. I took it as an attack on me and stood up, too.

“Like what?”

“Oh, my God, Bridget, you really don’t know?”

I suddenly felt defensive. What could I have ever said to make her feel insecure about her weight?

“No, I really don’t know,” I said, saying her words with a nasty tone. “Are you seriously telling me you feel fat?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, puh-leeze. You’re deluded. You’re crazy! And I’m not going to listen to crazy talk.” Not anymore, anyway. I’d had enough of that lately.

Plus, Michelle was super skinny. She was like five foot eight and a hundred and fifteen pounds. She was the kind of pretty that made you want to just eat vegetables and fruit and sacrifice all the fat/delicious in your diet. She had always been gorgeous. The only reason she wasn’t the queen of the school was because she was too shy, not good with makeup or hair or clothes, and wasn’t willing to claw her way to the top of the social ladder. And because I wouldn’t let it happen.

But even though the situation warranted me saying something reassuring like that, I just kept shouting at her.

“I didn’t say you’re fat, Michelle. I wouldn’t say anything like that. But if you feel fat, eat a salad or something, I don’t know. It’s all in your head. Just don’t blame your insecurities on me!”

She was so obviously thin that this conversation seemed ridiculous, and I didn’t want to waste time catering to Michelle’s compliment fishing.

“It’s not my insecurities only, Bridget, you’re always making comments about what I should do to look prettier and telling me my clothes are all wrong, and I just can’t—”

“I’m your friend, Michelle, it’s called advice?” Then something occurred to me. I hushed my tone in disbelief at what this whole thing might be about.

“Is this about the gym shorts? They’re from freshman year. And they just don’t fit you anymore!” And there’s nothing wrong with that, I should have said.

Instead, I shushed her when she tried to talk, and turned the TV back on. We spent the next hour in awkward silence, each with our faces pointed in the direction of the TV show neither of us were interested in, pretending that the argument hadn’t happened.

A FEW HOURS LATER, I wondered if what I’d said to Michelle was too harsh. I was considering dialing her number on the phone in my hand when I heard a car door slam in the driveway.

I raced down the stairs so that when Meredith opened the front door, I was standing on the bottom step with my arms crossed and my lips pursed.

She looked at me and sighed.

She was impatient with me?

“Listen, Bridget—”

“What did you guys talk about? Did you swap stories about how awful I am?”

“Bridget, please,” she pleaded, quietly.

I closed my mouth only because I was desperate to hear what had happened.

She walked into the sitting room off the foyer and sat on the love seat.

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