“I just meant, you weren’t sitting with that group, but itseems like you know them?” I backpedal, turning statements into questions to soften my forwardness.
“I’ve known most of that crowd my whole life, but yeah, there’s a little separation because of the role my dad plays here now. We all grew up together, of course—the Wickham circle is small, which is why a fresh face like yours garners so much interest. It’s so rare for an outsider to just … find their way inside, I guess you could say.”
I don’t know if Peter and Whitney’s paranoia is rubbing off on me or if I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop, but I hear suspicion in her tone. Time for a subject change.
“Were Priya and Emily close? Is that why things are so weird in that group right now?”
“Friends? Hardly,” Sophia says, punctuating the sentiment with a chuckle so dry, it’s a fire hazard. “Priya was Emily’s Big, but fulfilling the role properly would require her to give a shit about someone other than herself. Or Abigail. And between you and me, I don’t see that happening any time soon. Even if Priya had wanted to care about her Little, Abigail would hardly have tolerated sharing her affections.”
“Are they together?”
Sophia lets out a hard-edged bark of a laugh. “I think it would be more accurate to say that your roommate belongs to Abigail Roth. I don’t know how much you know about the Roths, but they’ve never been famous for playing well with others.”
Before I can ask what exactly that means, and find out if “not playing well with others” could possibly translate to “throwing others off a cliff,” Sophia grabs my arm and pulls me over to a low wrought iron fence surrounding a stunninglybeautiful garden.
“Daddy will blow a gasket if I tell him I walked you across campus and didn’t point out the alumni garden. Green spaces are particularly dear to Mother, you see, so naturally Daddy and I are supposed to care about them justendlessly.”
“In fairness, it’s really pretty,” I say, and I don’t even have to pretend. The garden is beautiful, and I can tell it’s been well tended, since everything is lush and green. There are so many willow trees, their long, sweeping branches blowing in the breeze. Rosebushes almost overwhelm the space, but not in a bad way. They’re still blooming in a variety of colors, and I can smell their rich scent when the wind blows across my face. Gray and white crushed stone pathways meander in and out of the mossy green ground-cover foliage. I even spot a few wrought iron benches painted a crisp white, inviting anyone to sit down and enjoy their surroundings for a bit.
With a pang, I realize that Mom would know the name of every blooming flower and green shoot in this garden. I wish I could snap a picture and send it to her. I shake off the moment of melancholy by asking about the statue at the center of the square patch of greenery.
“He was a student in my dad’s year, actually. I guess he died? Maybe he was sick or something, I don’t know. Happened in the early aughts, so like … forever ago.”
“Can I take a closer look?” My mom was here from 1996 to 1998. It might be nice to ask her about her years at Wickham next time we talk, and maybe she remembers this guy’s story. He must have been something pretty special to warrant a six-foot-tall bronze statue in the middle of the alumni garden.
Sophia checks her watch, which looks like a sparklier,sleeker version of the Cartier knockoffs I’ve seen around Chinatown. “I have to get to class a few minutes early to check in with my study group, but you’ve got time. When you’re finished, head through that door,” she says, pointing to a heavy, red-painted door in one of the buildings adjacent to the courtyard. “Our classroom is the third door on the right. Can’t miss it. See you in a few minutes, and don’t be late!” she warns, already walking away. By the time I remember to shout a thank-you—because Belinda may be fake as hell, but she’s not inconsiderate—Sophia is too far away to hear me.
I check the time on my phone. Sophia’s right. I only have a few minutes to spare here. But I feel drawn to the alumni garden. Maybe that’s what gardens are designed to do—make you want to linger. Literally stop and smell the roses. I step onto the stone path and walk with purpose toward the statue. Pollen-drunk bees cling to purple flowers on my left, while a large, white-winged butterfly suns itself on milkweed to my right.
The statue has a friendly smile and swoopy hair. He’s wearing a Wickham Academy uniform and cradling a book against his chest. At his feet lies sporting equipment that could be for croquet or polo or some other rich-people game I’ve only ever seen played onDownton Abbey. I spot a rectangular plaque on the statue’s base. Shriveled white flower petals obscure the words engraved there, so I bend down to brush them aside and get a closer look.
“THE ONLY DANGER INFRIENDSHIP IS THAT IT WILL
END.” – HENRYDAVIDTHOREAU
DEDICATED WITH LOVE BY THECLASS OF1998.
1998. The year Peter and Mom graduated from Wickham. I wonder if they knew this boy.
I spend another minute studying the statue and turning that epitaph over in my mind. Thoreau might have a point. Any relationship can be dangerous if you care about it too much, because when it inevitably ends, there goes your peace of mind. I never thought sisterhood would be a hazard, but—
I cut the thought off before it can fully form. Isla isn’t dead. Nothing is over. I may not have a lot of time to figure out what happened to her, but I’ll use every second I’ve got.
But first, class.
…
Sophia saves me a seat next to her in the back row. She keeps up a running commentary on the other students who trickle into class. Most of her intel is useless to me, but when a few familiar faces from the dining hall stroll in, I tune back in to her monologue.
“Freddie is absolutely awful,” she declares, her voice firm. “Comes from an obscenely rich family. His father manages some kind of private equity fund whose investors are basically a who’s who of Wickham alumni. And while yes, Freddie can be charming,”—she pauses here to give mea look, like maybe I’ve already fallen head over heels for the auburn-haired demon spawn after our brief dining hall interaction—“he has a terrible temper. Credit where it’s due, he knows how to throw a good party. His parents have an estate not too far from campus where he hosts his infamous bashes. His parentsare rarely there, and I guess they don’t care what he does.”
“They invite you to their parties, or is it just the inner circle?” My real question is, what’s the likelihood I can score an invitation to see these creatures in their natural habitat?
“Sure. If I’m there, they figure I can’t rat them out to my dad.” Her smile is small. Downright victorious. “I’m not actually a snitch, but there’s no convincingthemof that.”
“Hopefully you’ll let me tag along.” I bump my shoulder into hers, hoping my camaraderie isn’t too forced. “I do love a good party.”
“Of course! Though there haven’t been many parties around here lately. Not much to celebrate, really.” Her mood turns somber. “How much do you know about what happened?”
