“I don’t have time to keep track of gossip pages. Not here and definitely not in America. Where are you from, anyway?”
“Manhattan.”
“Nice,” she murmurs. “What school did you attend?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t know it.” I wave, dismissing her question. “A ghastly little boarding school with, like, one hundred students, all of us feral young women who ended up hating one another.”
I don’t know where I’m coming up with this nonsense, but I’d bet five hundred bucks it’s not in my father and Whitney’s dossier. They’re going to want to kill me if this gets out.
“Feral young women? That sounds … illicit.” Priya smirks like I’m alluding to something scandalous and dirty. I lean into this version of Belinda’s backstory, because why not? If I have to be a stuck-up brat, I might as well be a stuck-up brat who knows how to have a good time.
“Let’s just say I’m not welcome there any longer, so here I am. The newest student at Wickham Academy. My parents thought sending me to the English countryside would turn me into a dignified young lady.” I smile prettily, batting my eyelashes. If Priya falls for this bullshit, she might not be as smart as everyone thinks.
“Uh-huh.” Priya shakes her head, her doubt obvious. My grudging respect for her grows. “Keep up the mystery, Belinda. I’m sure the boys will love it.”
“Ooh, really?” I rest my hands on my hips, feigning interest. Why not play it up like I’m a silly, boy-crazy American? “Anyone I should watch out for?”
“All of them. They’re seriously the worst.” Priya moves about the room, trailing her fingers along the edge of her desk, drawing closer until she’s on my side of the small room. She pauses in front of the empty desk—the one I assume will be mine—and turns to face me, leaning against it.“Well, save for Freddie Pembroke. He’s an absolute doll and wickedly smart. Though he can say the most cutting things. Some people never recover from a Freddie insult. Oh, I also love Arlo Davies. Arlo is one of my favorites. Such a flirt. Everyone loves him.”
“So the boys aren’t all rotten,” I point out.
“I suppose not.” Priya’s face falls, disappointment filling her gaze. “Though truly, the rest of them are mostly horrid. Typical, boring males who don’t care about anything but their next sexual conquest.”
“Hmm. Sounds interesting.” I raise my brows.
“They’re all pigs,” she practically spits out. “Look, I need to get to my next class. Do you have your schedule yet?”
Panic fills me. I do, but I don’t want her to try and convince me to go to class with her. Not yet. I need to prepare first. “They’re still putting it together. I won’t be starting class until tomorrow.”
“Hmm, well good luck with that. I’ll see you later tonight.” Within seconds, Priya leaves, and the room goes deathly quiet.
She left the door half open. I let it stay like that. Not sure I’m ready for the full prison-cell aesthetic just yet.
Releasing a ragged breath, I glance around my new room, taking it all in. There are two beds, two desks, and a large window overlooking the quad. Priya’s side of the room is immaculate. Neatly made bed, fluffy pillows, and a deep-red throw draped across the foot. Her desk is clean, a black notebook sitting in the center of it and an expensive looking silver pen resting on top. There’s a corkboard hanging slightly askew on the wall above the desk, with a color-coded weekly planner pinned to it.
Even if I hadn’t just met her, Priya’s space would reveal her as the organized, type A overachiever I know she is. She’s the sort who only respects those who are as smart as her. Everyone else is trash.
She probably thinks I’m epic garbage with my pretend interest in boys and getting kicked out of my previous school.
The other side of the room, my side, is completely bare. As I drop my backpack on the desk chair and sink onto the plastic-coated mattress, a realization hits me: Could this have been Isla’s room? Why else would Priya be short a roommate? Unless her former roommate was Emily.
I swallow and run my fingers along the seam of the mattress. If it’s the dead girl’s old room, Priya didn’t mention it. Shouldn’t she still be upset about what happened here? Losing her roommate to either death or a coma is tragic—and traumatic.
A sour twist grips my gut. Shouldn’t everyone at this school be devastated? Or are they all moving on like nothing happened?
Peter called me a week ago. Isla has been in a coma since a week before that … I guess fourteen days is all the time the rich allow for grieving.Ifthey grieved.
Who knew I could loathe so many people I’ve never even met?
I unzip my backpack and check the schedule Mrs. Brown printed for me. If all class blocks are the same length, I should have the room to myself for at least the next fifty-five minutes. That should give me enough time to look through Isla’s yearbook and start matching faces to names. Belinda needs to have the kind of confidence that comes from knowingeveryone and caring about no one, which means I have some studying to do.
I click the switch on the desk lamp, but nothing happens—which is when I realize the plug is coiled around the base, rather than plugged in. I unwind it and pull the desk a little away from the wall, looking for an outlet. To reach it, I have to wedge my arm down the back of the desk at an angle that forces my head to the side. But I feel around and manage to plug in the lamp without electrocuting myself. As I pull my hand back, I feel the sharp edge of … something. It’s flimsy and slick—a photo, if I had to guess. It’s stuck between the desk frame and the back of the bottom drawer. I wiggle it side to side, careful not to tear it.
My prize comes loose. A Polaroid, bent at one corner and a little dusty from being wedged so close to the floor. I flick on the lamp and bring the photo under the circle of light to inspect it.
Isla. She’s wearing a Wickham uniform—velvety hunter green jacket with the school crest stitched in gold on the right side. A green-and-black tartan pleated skirt to match. Isla’s head is thrown back, a giant smile stretching across her face, and I can’t help but smile as well.
But the expression quickly melts off my face when I take in the figure beside my sister. It’s another girl, based on the cut of her uniform. But I can’t make out her face because someone took a pen and scribbled over it, drawing endless circles and Xs until the person’s features are nothing but ink. I can’t even make out the color of her hair.
