Why did Whitney include this in the dossier? She probably wants to make sure I understand the type of people I’m dealing with here at Wickham, but she doesn’t realize that “too rich for their own good” is a population I interact with regularly. A good number of them manage to make their way into Doug’s bar. Maybe there’s some appeal in slumming it at a local NYC dive bar, or maybe we’re just conveniently located next to the PATH train that shuttles white-collar professionals from their Manhattan offices to their New Jersey condos. If Whitney thinks I need this kind of preparation to sit in class … well, I’m sure she’s just being overly cautious.
The warning bell rings, and it feels like a sign from the universe agreeing that time is not on my side. I snap the yearbook shut before I shove it into my backpack. I hide all of the photos I just took in my Notes app and slip my phone into the outside pocket of my bag. Within minutes, I’m wandering the corridor, entering the office like I’m out for a midday stroll. Like my impending mental breakdown from earlier this morning never happened. I smile brightly at Mrs. Brown, who frowns the second she spots me.
“Belinda.” Mrs. Brown’s voice is wary, and she’s watching me like I’m a wild animal ready to strike out at any second. “Can I help you?”
Yeah, Mrs. Brown. I’d love to know who the boy is who’s been immortalized forever as a bronze statue in the garden. You look like you’ve worked here for more than a few years. Do you remember the class of 1998? My mother? Or my—the word gets stuck in my brain like I’m actually trying to choke it out—father?
But I say none of that. Instead, I keep the smile pasted on my face and act like the concerned student I’m supposed to be. All the while, my brain is churning, churning, churning. Over and over again with the same questions.
Who’s the boy? Who was he to my mother? Did Peter like him? Were they friends? Did he hate him? Were they rivals? I wish I could ask Mom about him, but she probably wouldn’t tell me anything. She’s got too many secrets.
Seems like everyone at this school does.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mrs. Brown gave me three options for my elective class. Considering Advanced Mandarin would be impossible and Robotics sounded like my own personal nightmare, I went with Art. How hard can it be to paint and create stuff? Plus, Mom used to call herself an artist before she drowned her creativity in vodka. Taking this art class will make me feel closer to the best version of Mom. The one I adore and miss the most. The one I haven’t seen in a long time.
I make my way to the arts building with hurried steps, though I’m not sure why. I’m already late to class, thanks to my meeting with Mrs. Brown. I shift my backpack strap on my shoulder as I head up the steps, wincing at how heavy it is. The yearbook and dossier add unnecessary weight, and I can’t wait to get rid of them. Won’t be until after class, though, and I have no idea where I’m going to hide them, considering I can’t trust anyone around here.
The moment I make my way into the building, the door slams shut behind me, cutting off outdoor noise. The entiresouth wall is lined with massive windows, letting in plenty of early-afternoon light. After yesterday’s drizzle, today’s weather has been pleasant, though far from warm. It’s cold around here, and I’m thankful for the cardigan Whitney loaned me this morning.
I stutter-step to a halt as realization washes over me. Why would Whitney have uniform pieces in the closet in her office? She certainly never has to wear them. But a mother whose daughter has to wear a uniform to school every day might very well stash a few spare items in her office on campus, just in case. My mind ricochets back to the moment earlier today when Whitney held me at arm’s length and smoothed the cardigan over my shoulders. It was such a tender gesture … but I have to wonder if it was meant for me or Isla. Because I’d bet all the money Doug shoved into my hands the last time I saw him that this sweater belongs to my sister.
The fabric seems to grow warmer against my skin, like it’s not just a poly-wool blend—it’s a hug, too. If Isla and I had never been separated by divorce and an ocean, we probably would have shared clothes all the time. Maybe it would have become so commonplace to borrow without asking that I would have gotten annoyed with her—would have yelled at her to stay out of my closet. What does it say about my life that the thought of having a spat with my little sister over something as trivial as clothes feels like the stuff of daydreams? Because it’s true—I’d give anything to hear Isla’s voice again, let alone argue with her.
I’ve wasted so much time being jealous and letting the jealousy hide behind anger. What wouldn’t I give to go back in time and tell myself to get my head out of my ass? To yellat myself to wake up and pay attention, cherish Isla at every opportunity, and stop being salty about our very different lives?
None of it was ever Isla’s fault. Or mine.
Like most revelations, this one comes too late to be useful. There’s no going back in time. All I can do is move forward. Find the truth. Bring Isla justice, even if she may never know I was here, fighting for her.
I swallow down the lump in my throat and run a finger under my eyes, expecting moisture but finding none. While my brain was spiraling into memory and regret, my body remained rock-steady. Maybe that’s the secret to falling apart—you never let yourself go 100 percent. You hold back the pieces of yourself the world will see, and keep the devastation inside, where it can belong to you alone.
I pull the sleeve of Isla’s cardigan over my hand until it covers my fingers, then curl the fabric into my palm. It’s as close as I can get to holding her hand right now, so I’ll take what I can get.
I come to a stop in front of room thirteen and peek inside the open doorway. There’s no one in the classroom save for one boy with his back to me, sitting at an easel. In front of him, a large piece of paper is taped to a paint-splattered board. I can’t really make out details from this distance, but the picture taking shape in front of him is dark and … lonely.
I clear my throat as I enter the room, not wanting to startle him, but I do anyway. His head jerks, and he glances over his shoulder. My breath catches in my throat.
Connor Wells.
He frowns the moment he spots me, then turns to face hiseasel once more. His fingertips are smudged with charcoal, but when he touches the stick to the paper, the line he produces is slim and delicate. I force my eyes away from his confident hand and take a few steps forward so I have a better view of the picture taking shape. It’s a dark forest with a lone cabin receding into the background. A gray curl of smoke rises from a chimney. Though the picture is entirely done in black and white, Connor has managed to capture warm light in the cabin’s windows.
I approach slowly, stopping just behind him.
“You’re … amazing.” I sound breathless and a little starstruck, and I shake my head once, silently berating myself.
Connor grabs a short stick of what looks like tightly rolled paper. He smudges a shadow into the ground under the cabin. And he doesn’t acknowledge me, the jerk.
I remain quiet, and so does he, as he adds highlights to the moonlit sides of trees and roughs in additional details around the cabin. The start of a woodpile, maybe. An overturned wheelbarrow.
“You don’t belong here.”
Alarm races down my spine, leaving me ice-cold. I want to stutter a defense—of course I belong at Wickham! Just another rich private school student, reporting for duty!—but I swallow down the panic and let Belinda’s confidence take center stage. “You’re always telling me where I shouldn’t be,” I say. “Any ideas about where Ishouldbe?” I raise my eyebrows in a way I hope looks suggestive. I don’t have the backbone to eye his lap, like maybe that’s where I should take a seat, but part of me wishes I did. I’d like to see Connor squirm.
“You don’t belong in this class,” he clarifies, and I exhale softly. I thought he could tell I don’t belong at Wickham at all, and he’d be right. “As you can see, no one is in here.”
I glance around the empty classroom before I return my gaze to his. “Art elective field trip day?”
