Private: Ambition Part 2

Somehow, getting up the next morning was harder than it had been all week. It was like I suddenly realized that the nightmare of being without Josh was not going to end. That I was actually going to have to do this brave-face thing every day. The thought was exhausting. But tonight was my study date with Jason. The first date of the rest of my life. I had to get up. Get psyched. Act like the girl who was super-fine with moving on. So I stripped off my covers and swung my legs out of bed, forcing myself to smile, even though Sabine was in the shower and there was no one there to see me. I could do this. I could be fun, confident Reed. I had to be. Then I heard a loud spattering sound and glanced at the window behind my bed. It was gray outside and raindrops battered the pane. Wind whistled past, as if to hammer home the message that stepping outside today would be frigid, wet, and decidedly unfun. I groaned, shoved my feet into my slippers to protect myself from the always freezing wood floors, and trudged over to my closet. Forget the Single Reed power uniform. This was a jeans-andsweatshirt day if I had ever seen one. I yanked open the door and reached up to the left side of the first shelf for the cozy Penn State sweatshirt my brother had given me last Christmas. As my hand fell on the embroidered white letters, I froze. Hanging at the far end of my closet, perfectly s.p.a.ced on unfamiliar wooden hangers, were three items of petal pink clothing. A cardigan. An oxford. A short-sleeved silk blouse. Three items of pink clothing. Not one of them mine.

Shaking, I withdrew my hand and took a step back, as if the clothes were going to jump off their hangers and attack. Pink? I owned nothing pink. But I knew those clothes. Would have known them anywhere. They were Cheyenne's. Some of her favorites. My hand shot forward and slid the closet door shut with a bang. My heartbeat pounded in my chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe. What were Cheyenne's clothes doing in my closet? How the h.e.l.l had they gotten there? Okay, Reed, think. Take a deep breath and think. Maybe they're not Cheyenne's. Maybe they're Sabine's. She likes colorful clothing. Maybe she hung them up in your closet by mistake. Feeling slightly comforted by this theory, I breathed in again and opened the closet door. I tentatively reached for the sweater and held it out at arm's length. Little white roses embroidered around the collar. Tiny mother-of-pearl b.u.t.tons. Instantly, I was as saulted by images of Cheyenne wearing this sweater. Laughing at some stupid joke of Gage's in the dining hall, slipping it over her shoulders in the parlor when she got cold one Friday night last spring. It was Cheyenne's, definitely Cheyenne's.

There had to be a logical explanation for this. Maybe someone had taken these clothes from Cheyenne's room before her parents had packed it up. Maybe they had sent them out to get laundered and somehow they had ended up in here. London and Vienna had a cleaning woman come every week to work on their room. Maybe she'd been confused and had left their cleaning in my closet.

But these things hadn't been here yesterday. Had their cleaning woman, Rosaline, come yesterday? I doubted it. No, she usually came on weekends. And I was sure I hadn't heard those heavy steps of hers plodding around the hallway. Of course, there was another, more disturbing explanation for this. Whoever had planted the black marbles in my desk drawer had planted these clothes here as well. Someone was messing with me. But why? Why would any one want to keep reminding me of Cheyenne? Did someone know about her final e-mail? Did someone blame me for Cheyenne's death, like Cheyenne had? Ivy. She had been skulking around Billings yesterday evening. She had claimed we had done something to her. Did she think I had driven Cheyenne to suicide? But if she was doing this to get back at me, how was she getting into Billings? The bathroom door opened, startling me out of my skin. Sabine drew a hair pick through her long hair as she approached in her skimpy white waffle-weave robe, checking out the sweater that was clutched in my hands.

"I thought you didn't take any of Cheyenne's things after the funeral," she said, raising her eyebrows. "So this is Cheyenne's," I said, my temples throbbing. "Yes." She looked at me, confused. And why not? Shouldn't I know if I had appropriated the sweater of our dead house mate? One would think. "Remember? She spilled coffee on the cuff the morning of initiation and went into that temper." Sabine reached for the sleeve and turned it over, revealing the small, dark stain. "Why would you take a stained sweater of all things?" "I don't... I didn't...."

Sabine's brow creased as I fought for an answer to what was, to her, a simple question. "I didn't realize it was stained." I shoved the sweater back into the closet and slammed the door closed before Sabine could spot the rest of the pink clothing. "Too bad." Sabine turned around and continued combing through her hair. "It was a nice sweater."

'Yeah. Nice." I turned away from the closet. I'd wear something from my dresser instead. My fingers slipped from the k.n.o.bs of the drawer as I tugged on it, slick with nervous sweat. I paused for a moment and forced myself to breathe. Sabine, meanwhile, hummed to herself as she got dressed in the far corner, oblivious to my panic. I hadn't taken those clothes, had I? Maybe I... maybe I had taken them and just didn't remember. Those few days were still a blur. Everything that had gone on... the freaky e-mail, the funeral, the stuff with Josh... Maybe I had gone in there and taken some of her clothes from her room and had just blocked it out. But this new theory did nothing to comfort me. Because if I was blocking things out, that wasn't normal. It wasn't good. If I had blocked out something that simple, what else was I not remembering? What else might I have done? No. No. People didn't just block stuff out for no reason. They didn't just lose time unless they were on something--pills or way too much alco hol. It wasn't me. It couldn't have been me. Which left one other explanation. Someone was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with me. And as I yanked open my dresser drawer I resolved to figure out who it was. I was president of this house. No one messed with the president of Billings. No one messed with Reed Brennan.Not anymore.

SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOR.

One question kept repeating itself in my mind all day. If Ivy was responsible, how was she getting into Billings? The thought of Kiki's lost key crossed my mind. Maybe Ivy had found it. Or even stolen it. If that was the case, could I get the administration to change the locks? But then I would have to tell them why. Would have to admit to potentially being stalked. And that would open up a whole can of worms I wasn't ready to deal with. Like heightened security around Billings. Like people watching me as if I was a freak. Like, possibly, explaining about Cheyenne's e-mail--explaining why Ivy or someone else might want to stalk me. No, thank you. I would have to figure this one out on my own.

In the meantime, however, I had to keep up with my regularly scheduled life. And that in cluded a study date with Jason Darlington. Fun, independent Reed was about to start her fun, independent life. It was still raining and windy, as it had been all day long, when I started across the dark campus, keeping to the pathways closest to the buildings in an effort to duck the weather. I huddled under my black umbrella and kept my head down as I scurried along, already looking forward to being back in my room later, cuddled up under the covers. Halfway to the library, the wind carried a voice to my ear and I looked up. Headmaster Cromwell stood just inside the open doorway of Hull Hall, shaking hands with Detective Hauer. I nearly tripped over myself when I saw them.

Detective Hauer. Lead investigator of the Thomas Pearson murder case. The man who'd arrested Josh last year right in front of me. The man who had later arrested Ariana after she tried to kill me. What the h.e.l.l was he doing back on campus? My abrupt stop caught their at tention. Predictably, the Crom fixed me with a grim glare. But Detective Hauer was less in character. Last year he had almost always been nice to me--treated me as if I were his kid sis ter--as if he were on my side. But when he saw me there, he didn't smile or wave. Didn't even nod. He simply stared at me as if disconcerted. As if he didn't quite know what to make of me. What was up with that? Thrown, I quickly started walking again, and even jogged the last few steps to the library. Why had Hauer looked at me that way? And why did it make me feel so... guilty? I didn't have time to dwell on it. The moment I stepped into the cozy warmth of the li brary, my iPhone beeped. I had a text from Jason. U on ur way? im in 2nd flr stax. got a good corner, come up. Study-date time. I took a deep breath, shook my damp hair back, and start ed up the wide staircase at the back of the marble-floored lobby. The lighting in the upstairs stacks was dim at best, provided mostly by low-wattage, fogged-gla.s.s lamps in the ceilings. Way more conducive to sleep than studying. I could hear people whispering at the ends of the packed bookshelves, ensconced in the high-backed chairs or huddled over the small tables. I even caught a telltale snore near the antiquities section. When I finally reached the end of the aisle near the window, I looked right, then left, and spotted Jason. He had not only found us a private corner, he had found us the only corner in the Easton Library with a love seat rather than single chairs. He looked up and smiled, flashing those dimples. d.a.m.n. He really was cute.

Okay, date time. If Josh could have breakfast with Ivy, then I could do this. Fun, indepen dent Reed could do this. "Hey," I whispered, hoping I didn't look as unattractively waterlogged as I felt. "Hey." He was taking up one half of the small couch. I shrugged out of my wet coat and slung it over a nearby chair, out of the way. As I perched on the other side of the couch, I placed my bag on the floor and pulled out a hair band to wrap my soaked locks back in a ponytail. Once that was done I felt much more human. Much more dateworthy. Dateworthy. I was on a date with someone who wasn't Josh. How was this possible? "Can you believe this weather?" Jason asked. "Kinda makes you want to hunker down in here all night and wait it out." I smiled. Way to work in the phrase "all night" before I'd even settled in. Boy was jumping right in.

"Seriously," I replied. I dug into my bag and pulled out all the novels we had read so far this year, as well as my ma.s.sive notebook, all of which I dropped on the low table. "You sure you want to study here? There's not much light." Unless you want to make out. Which is so not happening. Not even with Fun Reed. Even she isn't ready for that. "It's fine," Jason said.

"I've been here awhile. Your eyes will adjust." His arm was draped along the back of the couch, so that when I sat down, I could feel the soft fuzziness of his sweater sleeve against my neck. "So, what do you want to do?" I asked, restacking my books nervously. "Do you want to tackle the novels in order, or--" "Yeah. That seems like a good plan," he replied, pick ing up his own, worn copy of The Death of the Heart.

Okay, so maybe he was here to study. We settled in and started to go over our notes, flip ping through our marked-up, dog-eared books to remind ourselves of specific references. Ja son turned out to be smart for a child star--a very perceptive reader--and before long I found myself enjoying our heated discussions.

"Wait, so you actually liked this book?" I asked, holding up my copy of Sister Carrie be tween my thumb and forefinger like it was a bag of smelly garbage. "Okay, I admit it was somewhat over the top," Jason said, flashing those dimples of his as he drew his knee up on the couch to better face me. "But Dreiser had his reasons for--" "Somewhat? Somewhat? Are you kidding me?" I demanded, my voice going shrill as I laughed. "There were points when I actually wanted to track down Dreiser's grave, dig his a.s.s up, and beat on his bones just for torturing me." "Um, don't you think it would be easier to take out your wrath on Winslow?" Ja son suggested, his eyes sparkling. "He did a.s.sign the book." "Point taken," I replied with a smile. "But he is giving me an A so far this term, so--"

"All right, then. Dreiser's bones it is," Jason joked. "Thank you," I said, dropping the book on the table. "You're welcome." He righted himself on the couch so that we were both facing forward again. We were both still smiling, and there was this warm camaraderie between us. A nice, friendly warmth. "This is fun," I said. "You sound surprised," Jason replied. "Do I?" I said, embarra.s.sed. "Sorry." "It's okay." Out of nowhere his hand fell on my shoulder. He was much closer than he'd been ten seconds ago. "The library's gonna close in half an hour," he said, looking into my eyes. "So?" I said stupidly. "Sooooo..."

He leaned in and kissed me. I was so taken aback that I didn't even have time to stop him or pull away, and suddenly I was leaning backward, with him bearing down on me, the arm of the couch pressed into the center of my back. Okay. Cute boy kissing you. Nice, cute boy kiss ing you. Don't freak out. Just... kiss him back. That's what Fun Reed would do. So I tried. I tried to kiss him back. But then his unfamiliar tongue shot into my mouth and I thought of Josh. How very not-Josh this guy was. Suddenly I wanted to hurl. "Jason, stop," I said, push ing him gently away and sitting up. Maybe there was still a way to salvage this. Get out of this gracefully and retain Jason as a friend. It wasn't his fault I was on the rebound, after all. He was just doing what half the other guys at this school seemed to want to do--land the Billings president. "I can't do this right now," I said.

"Sorry. Sorry," he said awkwardly, tugging at his pants legs as if to de-wrinkle them. "I'm such an idiot." "No. It's okay. It's just--" "You're not over Hollis yet. I get it." He was all red as he flashed me a self-deprecating smile. "I just figured that since he was already hooking up with Ivy Slade, you might be ready to, you know--" My heart plummeted. "What?" "What what?" Jason asked, surprised by my outburst. "Who told you they hooked up? Did he tell you that? " I asked. "No! I-" "Then who told you?" I demanded.

"No one. Someone," Jason babbled. "I don't know! Everyone's talking about it." Every one's talking about it. Everyone but the people around me. If there was something going on, the Billings Girls knew about it. What were they trying to do, protect me?

"I have to go to the bathroom," I said, feeling more nauseated than ever. I had to get out of there. I had to think. "Wait! Reed, are you okay?" "I'm fine," I mumbled. "I'll be back." Then I turned and fled. Ivy and Josh, Ivy and Josh, Ivy and Josh. Suddenly the images my mind had conjured the night before took on a new and realistic clarity. His hands in her thick black hair, her short-but-toned legs wrapped around him. I had to cover my mouth to keep from throwing up as I raced down the staircase toward the bathrooms on the first floor. Please don't let me boot in the middle of the library. That's the last thing I need. At the bottom of the staircase I was about to turn toward the bathrooms when I saw him. Josh himself. He had just walked in through the front door and now stood, his curls glistening with rain, directly across from me. The length of the lobby separated us, the low gla.s.s cases displaying Easton artifacts acting as a barrier. But we might as well have been face-to-face. For a long second neither of us moved. Time stopped. How could you? How could you hook up with someone just days after we broke up? Did I mean nothing to you? You hooked up with Dash before we broke up, Josh's voice replied in my mind. And don't even try the "I thought you dumped me " line. Even if I had, what you did was still horrible. Silent conversa tion over, Josh turned and walked toward the circulation desk, which was hidden from my view by the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. I forced myself to make a left and walk to the bath room alcove, but before I went inside, I glanced down an aisle between the stacks. Glanced at the tall oak desk. Josh stood there with Ivy, her head tipped sideways against his arm in a comfortable way, as if they had been dating for years.

That was it. That was all I needed to see. From here on in, Josh Hollis was nothing to me. I would date every drop-dead-gorgeous guy at this school if that was what it took to get over him, and he would just have to watch it happen. From now on, Reed Brennan was on a mis sion. Forget the bathroom. I turned on my heel and walked determinedly back upstairs to Ja son. Back to my date. Back to my new life.

PRESIDENTIAL.

"You do realize we're not going to New York until next weekend," I said to Sabine on Fri day night. Her bed was covered with clothing, sorted by skirts, tops, pants, sweaters, and mis cellaneous accessories, and she was systematically removing everything from her closet to add to the piles. "I know. I just want to make sure there's nothing else I need," Sabine replied, studying a long-sleeved azure dress. "If Maman is to send something from home, I have to tell her tomorrow or it won't get here in time." Sabine wanted to look stylish for our trip to the city. Which I understood. It was the cool capital of the world. But I had enough trouble looking ofthe-moment at Easton. Trying to do the same in New York would probably make my head ex plode.

She took the last few things out of her closet and closed the door with a bang, which forced the door of my closet to pull back an inch. My heart caught in my throat. I hadn't been in my closet since yesterday morning, which meant that today I had worn the same jeans and shoes as I had yesterday. So far, my fashionista friends either had not noticed or had re frained from saying anything, but that wouldn't last long. Tomorrow I'd have to venture into my wardrobe again, but for now, I got up and closed the door without so much as a peek inside. I didn't want to think about those clothes. Didn't want to think about what they meant. Avoid ance was key to sanity. "Everybody decent?" Noelle asked, striding right into our room without waiting for the answer. She dropped down on the edge of my bed, leaning back on her hands and kicking her legs out, crossing them at the ankle. She was wearing camel-colored suede ankle boots with little silver buckles across the backs. Here was a girl who hadn't worn the same shoes twice since she'd arrived on campus a month ago. "So, the good news is, Dash is going to be in the city next week too," Noelle announced.

My heart leapt through my back into my bra strap, then slingshot its way through my body into my ribs. Dash was going to be there. Dash still existed. I'd been starting to wonder, con sidering he had yet to respond to my e-mail. I guess talking to his current girlfriend was more important than explaining himself to the girl he'd totally led on. For some reason, the thought of Noelle and Dash whispering sweet nothings to each other over the phone as if he and I had never happened made my fists clench.

It wasn't that I wanted Dash. Not anymore. Especially not now that he had sat on my mes sage for so long and hadn't bothered to call or write back. I had been enthralled by him, sure. I could admit that to myself. But that was all. And all before I realized exactly how much Josh meant to me. As for the pinch of anger, it was just that once again Noelle had won. She al ways, always won. "The bad news is he wants me to have dinner with Charles and Fiona,"

she said, rolling her eyes. "I would never force him to have a meal with Wallace and Claire. Mostly because my mother would probably come on to him after three gla.s.ses of pinot, but still. Ugh. Now I'm going to have to be all... polite." "I'm confused. Who are Charles and Fiona?" Sabine asked, neatly folding a cream-colored sweater.

"Dash's parents," Noelle said in a snotty tone, as if Sabine should have known that from birth. "The McCaffertys? " She watched Sabine with narrowed eyes as Sabine picked up an other sweater and refolded it neatly. "What's up, Frenchie? Are you dropping out? Hopping a Cessna back to island paradise ? "

Sabine blushed at Noelle's obviously hopeful tone. "No. She's deciding what to bring to New York next weekend," I told Noelle, crossing over to my desk. I picked up my phone to check for messages, but there was nothing. Not from Josh. Not from Dash. "Sabine is coming with us." Noelle laughed as she pushed herself up from the bed, lifting her heavy hair over her shoulder. "Uh, no." Sabine shot me an alarmed glance. "Uh, yeah," I replied, matching Noelle's tone. Noelle looked at me, incredulous. "Reed, it's going to be hard enough to get Cromwell to give us four pa.s.ses. There's just no way." My blood started to boil in my veins. Why did Noelle always have to be so bossy? Couldn't she let me make one decision without trying to override it?

"If we can get him to give us four, we can get him to give us five," I said coolly but firmly. "I invited Sabine, and she's coming." My tongue wanted to add an "Is that okay with you?" out of habit, but I didn't let it. Instead I bit down on it until I tasted blood. Noelle glared at me, as if waiting for me to crack, but I didn't. I simply stared back. "Fine, Madame President," she said finally. Then she turned to Sabine. "Just don't get your hopes up. I wouldn't want you to be crushed when the Crom says no," she said in an overly sweet tone. Then she shot me a smile before turning and striding out. "Do you really think he'll say no?" Sabine asked me, her voice hushed. She had a light blue T-shirt clutched in her hands like it was a lifeline.

"No. I'll take care of it," I said, my voice solid even though my body was quaking from the effort of standing up to Noelle. I could talk a big game, but it wasn't easy. Noelle was still the girl who had intimidated me all last fall and kept me guessing as to where I stood every single day. I had a feeling contradicting her would never be easy. My iPhone sang out and my heart leapt. It always leapt at the sound of the phone these days, as if it was expecting Josh. Each ring was a chance that he was calling to make up. But when I grabbed the phone, it wasn't Josh's photo smiling out at me, it was Hunter Braden's. How had that even gotten in there? I could only imagine that Vienna or Portia or someone had swiped my phone and captured the pic when I wasn't looking. I took a deep breath and picked up. "h.e.l.lo?" "Reed Brennan." The way he said my name made my already weakened knees useless. I sat down on my desk chair. How did he have this kind of power over girls? Was that kind of talent learned or bred? I wasn't even sure if I liked the guy in a casual sense, but that voice. Incredible. "Hi, Hunter."

"You. Me. Dinner tomorrow night. I'll come by Billings at seven." There was something about his bold self-confidence that left a sour taste in my mouth, but I figured he couldn't keep that up all the time. Somewhere under all that product and naturally won tan there had to be a real person. Plus, Vienna and the others were right: Hunter was the perfect candidate for the Billings president's boyfriend. A smooth, sophisticated, popular, rich, Dash McCafferty type. Only better. Because he wasn't currently dating one of my best friends.

In the end, I'd had a great time with Jason--after we'd gotten over the awkward-kiss thing and decided to just be friends. Why not give Hunter a shot as well? He was the perfect guy to help me show the world exactly how over Josh I was. I could move on, too. I could move on with the best of them. "I'm in," I told him. "Of course you are," he replied. "See you then." I turned the phone off but called up his picture again and considered it. A date with Hunter Braden. I was feeling more presidential by the second.

When I told Vienna that I had agreed to a date with Hunter Braden, she let out an earpiercing shriek that definitely broke a few pairs of gla.s.ses all over campus. She spread the news quickly, and suddenly it was as if a housewide holiday had been declared. Plans were dropped. Club meetings skipped. Facials eschewed. By one o'clock on Sat.u.r.day afternoon, every Billings Girl had descended upon my room, offering up color palette suggestions, wardrobe items, and some seriously dubious etiquette pointers.

"If you happen to get something caught in your throat, do not choke at the table," Shelby told me as she laid out her collection of c.o.c.ktail dresses on Sabine's bed. "There is nothing less attractive than bug eyes and bread crumbs flying everywhere with your spittle." I stopped blowing on my freshly manicured nails, which Constance and Kiki had just clipped, buffed, and polished. She had to be kidding. "She's right. Choking will totally turn a Hunter Braden off," Portia added, organizing several eye shadow palettes on my desk for Noelle to inspect.

"It is TV." I glanced at Rose for clarification. She was always translating for Portia. "Totally ver boten," Rose explained as she sifted through her own jewelry collection for something to lend me.

"You guys are too funny." I laughed, shaking my head as I got up from Sabine's desk chair. Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. "This is serious, Reed," Vienna said, placing both hands on my shoulders as Kiki and Tiffany tested perfumes on each other. "If it happens, get up and walk over to the bathroom and get one of the waiters to Heimlich you in private. You'll thank us later." "Right. Unless I'm dead," I replied. That comment killed the chatter for a moment and I froze. But it only lasted a moment. When the Billings Girls were in a makeover zone, almost nothing could stop them.

"Okay. What are we thinking for our color scheme?" Astrid asked, holding a black silk dress under my chin, then a shimmery blue sheath. "Watch her nails!" Lorna gasped She and Missy--yes, even Missy was there--jumped up and held my arms out at my sides like a T so that Astrid could continue testing clothes under my face without messing up my manicure. I was starting to feel like a rag doll. "I still say red," Tiffany put in, stepping up to study me over Astrid's shoulder. "Red is her color." "I think pink," Shelby said, sitting on the foot of my bed.

"Why don't you ever wear pink, Reed. Don't you own anything pink?" My heart stopped beat ing. I looked at Shelby. Did she know something? Had she done something? Was that a teas ing smirk in her eyes? Or was I just completely and utterly paranoid? "Actually, she does have pink!" Sabine announced, bounding over to my closet. "What about that--" "No!"

My mouth was open, but I hadn't said anything. It was Noelle who had spoken and com manded the attention of the room. Sabine stopped in her tracks. "Pink? Did you all let your Vogue subscriptions lapse? Pink is so last season and so not Reed," Noelle said, dropping the eyelash curler she was toying with and walking over to stand next to me. "You girls can let her go now," she told Missy and Lorna. Which they promptly did. "Look at her, ladies," Noelle said. "She is no spring." "She's right. You're a total autumn," London said seriously. Then her eyes lit up. "I know! Wear your Nicole Miller!" "You have a Nicole Miller?" Noelle said, eyeing me with surprise. 'Yes!" I went over to my closet and whipped the dress out, tags and all, be fore anyone could see that the pink clothing hanging inside had once belonged to Cheyenne. I held it up for all to see.

"Not bad," Noelle said, fingering the slippery fabric. "I bought it for her," Portia offered, hap pily raising her hand. She had bought it for me on the day I had been elected president of Billings. Back when I had been planning a Halloween ball in honor of Cheyenne. Before Noelle's return and the Legacy debacle and the ten million other things that had changed in the meantime. "Ladies, I think we have the dress!" Noelle announced. "Now, who has shoes?

Because I really don't think Chuck T.'s are going to work." Everyone giggled and dove into their shoe boxes. Suddenly pairs of peep-toes and pumps and stilettos and kitten heels were whipped at me from every direction. Noelle shook her head at some, wrinkled her nose at oth ers, and finally settled on a pair of Tiffany's Jimmy Choos. Black with delicate straps. In about two seconds I was zipped up, strapped in, and whisked off to makeup with Astrid and the Twin Cities. Just before the bathroom door shut, I glanced back at Shelby to see if she was still watching me. See if she was gauging my reaction to her pink comment. But she had sim ply kicked back on my bed to check her messages, eyes glued to her phone as always. It was just a coincidence. Had to be. Shelby Wordsworth had no reason to hate me. To torture me. Right?

"I can't believe this restaurant doesn't have a valet," Hunter said as he parallel parked his gorgeous Bentley on a side street in the town of Easton. A couple inches of snow had fallen earlier that day, which made it harder to see the lines, and I felt for him. Parallel parking was so stressful. Doing it on a first date couldn't be easy. "But it shouldn't be too far to walk." "Be lieve me, I don't mind," I told him. Where I came from a fancy dinner out meant not wearing jeans to the Steak & Ale. Yet here I was, decked out in thousands of dollars' worth of couture, with a guy wearing a cashmere coat and leather gloves, looking like a movie star behind the wheel. Walking a couple blocks to the restaurant was not going to kill me.

"No, no. I'll get that," Hunter said, stopping me as I reached for the car door. I giggled to myself as he got out, strolled around the front of the car, and opened my door for me. Noelle said it all the time and I was starting to agree with her--there was no subst.i.tute for good breed ing. He offered his hand, which I took--as awkward as it felt--and helped me out of the car.

"This is my favorite restaurant in town. It's not easy to get a reservation here, but they always save a table for me," Hunter said as he used his remote to lock his car. "Must be nice," I said as we turned up the sidewalk. "It is," he replied with a smile. We walked carefully, avoiding patches of ice on the freshly shoveled walkway. I felt like I should be making conversation, but I was at a loss for the moment. The silence was just starting to feel awkward when we came around the corner onto Main Street and half a dozen flashbulbs flashed across the street.

"Oh, you have to be kidding me," Hunter groused. He ducked into the doorway of a chil dren's clothing boutique, which had already closed down for the night, and pressed his back to the brick wall. "What? What's going on?" I asked, looking up. "Get in here!" he hissed. I did as I was told, hopping up the one step and huddling next to him. "What is it?" I asked. "Pa parazzi," Hunter said through his teeth. "c.r.a.p. Someone must have tipped them off that I was going out tonight. You date one socialite..." "Seriously? You're actually being stalked by the paparazzi?" I asked. "Must be a slow news week for them to come all the way up to Connecti cut," Hunter said, then cursed under his breath. "My dad warned me about this. He said they were going to want to get pictures of whoever I dated after the heiress."

"Which would be me," I said, trying to make this sink in. "Which would be you," Hunter agreed. "Are they coming over here?" Okay. This was surreal. I was being stalked by the pa parazzi on a date. If the shallow chicks back home could see me now. Well, maybe they would when they opened next week's Us Weekly. Weird. "Reed! Are they coming over here?"

Hunter sounded desperate. I peeked around the corner. The four photogs were still hanging out across the street, probably waiting for our next move. "They look like they're staying put."

"Yeah, until I come out. I'm going to kill whoever did this," Hunter said. "Well, why don't we get rid of them? " I asked. Hunter scoffed. "No offense, Reed, but how? You have no idea what kind of people you're dealing with."

I glanced down at the pile of snow that had been shoveled up against the wall of the shop. The idea was so basic, but so deliciously evil at the same time. "Maybe not. But I do know that no one likes a face full of icy s...o...b..ll. Also, water is really bad for cameras." Hunter fol lowed my gaze and smiled wickedly. "I like the way you think." I crouched to the ground in the black designer coat I had borrowed from Shelby, and Hunter followed my lead. Together we dragged as much snow into our little alcove as possible, remaining hidden from the photogra phers, thanks to the cars and SUVs parked all up and down the street. Quickly, silently, we cobbled together as many s...o...b..a.l.l.s as we could. When we'd used up all the snow, I gath ered a few b.a.l.l.s in my arms and stood, pressing back against the wall again. "What's the plan?" Hunter asked, his eyes full of mischief. "We fire at will until there's no ammo left, then make a break for the restaurant. Hopefully they'll be too disoriented to follow," I whispered. "I like it," Hunter said. I felt a flutter of pride in my chest. Hunter Braden liked my idea. "On the count of three," I directed. "One, two, three. Fire!"

Together the two of us jumped out of our hiding s.p.a.ce and launched our s...o...b..a.l.l.s. My first hit one of the cameras right in the lens, splattering all over its owner's face. Hunter didn't quite have my arm, but he managed to bean a couple of guys in the shoulder before we reloaded. There were a few desperate camera flashes while we grabbed more s...o...b..a.l.l.s, but when we came up again, we managed to smack two more guys directly in their faces. The cursing and sputtering across the way was utterly ridiculous, and Hunter and I laughed the en tire time. "I'm out! Let's go!" Hunter shouted, grabbing my hand. We raced up the sidewalk, me teetering in my high heels, Hunter leading the way through klatches of moviegoers and couples walking off their dinners. Before long he was opening the door of the restaurant for me, and with a glance over my shoulder I saw that none of the photographers had followed. Our a.s.sault had done the trick.

"That was intense," Hunter said, catching his breath just inside the door. He looked gor geous, all ruffled and ruddy-cheeked from the cold. So gorgeous I almost felt unworthy in his presence. "That may have been the most fun I've had all week," I replied with a grin. Hunter shrugged out of his coat and looked me up and down with a new admiration in his eyes. "And we're just getting started." Okay. This was going to be the best date ever.

NOT MY NIGHT.

Or not. After five minutes alone at the table with Hunter Braden, I couldn't for the life of me figure out how anyone had ever lasted more than five minutes alone at a table with Hunter Braden. Every other sentence out of his mouth started with the word I. He couldn't go for more than ten seconds without talking about himself, so if I was in the middle of a sentence, and more than ten seconds had gone by, he would interrupt me mid-syllable to tell me some thing super fascinating and totally out of context about him, like how he'd gone deep-sea div ing last summer or how he'd beaten the world chess champion when he was fifteen. But of course, no one knew about that, because Hunter didn't want to ruin the guy's life. Plus, he wasn't one to brag. Yeah, right. At least he was nice to look at. In a perfectly cut dark blue suit and striped tie, he looked completely at ease and comfortable, like he'd been born in formal wear. I was feeling quite sophisticated and s.e.xy as well, in all my couture. Not that Hunter had said a word about it or even appeared to notice. He did, however, check himself out in every reflective surface available, including the weathered silver platter that hung on the wall next to our table. No surprise, he always appeared pleased by his own reflection. I had thought he was so cool when he'd gone for the snow war idea. But clearly that had just been a means to an end to him. I had helped him stay out of the tabloids for another day. And come to think of it, he hadn't even thanked me for it.

The restaurant was a tiny French bistro with only six tables and twice as many waiters. I tried to orchestrate a short evening by skipping the appetizers and going straight for the en tree, but Hunter--shockingly--didn't take my cue. He ordered a salad and an appetizer, then sat there and ate it in front of me while my stomach growled audibly and I sipped my ice wa ter. I was going to have to kill Vienna later. Or, possibly, eat her.

"So I'm definitely getting into Columbia early admission and my father has already put the down payment on the apartment I picked out," Hunter said as he nibbled on his foie gras. "We start renovations over Christmas break, so it should be exactly the way I want it by fall."

"Columbia. That's great," I said, taking a stab at enthusiasm. "How's the campus? I've always wanted to check it out." "Who cares? It's the only Ivy in New York," Hunter replied with a shrug. He looked up and snapped his fingers, signaling a waiter to refill his winegla.s.s.

"There's no point in even looking at the others. I have to be in New York." Oookay. "Speaking of New York, I'm going down there next weekend," I said, attempting to turn the conversation toward myself for a moment. "We're going to hold the fund-raiser there." "What fund-raiser?"

he asked, taking a sip of his wine. "The Billings fund-raiser," I said, surprised. The whole Billings scandal had been all anyone could talk about for the past week. "You know... how Headmaster Cromwell challenged us to raise five million dollars to save the--"

"Five million dollars," Hunter scoffed. "My apartment will be worth more than that once I'm done with the overhaul." My jaw clenched and I found myself clutching my tiny purse under the table. G.o.d, I missed Josh. Even though he hated Billings, he would have at least listened to me. If we were still together, he'd be supporting me right now, helping me with ideas, at least letting me finish a d.a.m.n sentence. What I wouldn't give to go back in time and give preLegacy Reed a good slap across the face. If only I could tell her to take Josh up on his offer in the woods and just stay home that night. If only I could tell her not to go up to the roof at the Legacy. If only I could impress upon her what a nightmare that whole party would be.... No. I was not going to think about that. I was supposed to be on a mission here. Creating a new Reed. Unfortunately, I was starting to think that the new Reed was too good for the cur rent Hunter. "I'm definitely going to create my own major," Hunter was saying. "Something not boring. Like water-sports marketing. I could definitely be a pioneer there. I know I--" That was it. I couldn't take it anymore. If I heard the word I one more time, I was going to break some thing. "You really like talking about yourself, don't you?" I said. Hunter paused, looking at me across the table with interest for the first time all evening. For a moment I thought he was go ing to backtrack, to apologize, to ask me something about me. But then, he smirked, wiped his mouth with his linen napkin, and leaned his wrists on the table. "If you were me, wouldn't you?" That was when I got up and walked out. I snagged my coat from the coat-check girl, told her to get her tip from the jacka.s.s with the permanent smirk, and headed into the cold night.

As soon as I was outside on the quaint Easton sidewalk, I tipped my head back and let out a groan, watching the cloud of steam from my breath disappear against the stars. I glanced around for lurking photographers, thinking I might tell them exactly where Hunter was and that I had just ditched him, but they were nowhere to be found. Oh, well. One thing was clear, how ever--it was time to take the search for the next boyfriend of the Billings president in a new di rection. This particular president was not a Hunter Braden type of girl. I shoved my hands in my pockets and started walking through town toward school. It was a long trek, but that was fine by me. It was a clear, cool night and I wanted to delay my return to my room anyway. With nothing better to do, I knew I'd start obsessing about the black marbles and the pink clothing and who might have thought it would be fun to freak me out. All things I didn't want to consider.

It occurred to me somewhere in the middle of block two that Hunter might come looking for me in his Bentley, but I doubted it. He probably had yet to notice I was gone. And if he had, I was sure he didn't care. At the edge of town I spotted the old-fashioned light posts with their big, round lamps that marked off the front of the Easton police station. Not my favorite place in the world. I approached it, my heart starting to beat erratically as I remembered the last time I had been there, the awful things that had occurred. I ducked my head and speed walked past, feeling conspicuous. I wondered if Detective Hauer was inside. Wondered what that look had been about on Thursday night. My heartbeat didn't return to normal until I was well past the bright lights of the building and had turned onto the relatively dark Hamilton Park way, which would take me back to the Easton Academy gate.

I kept a good distance into the shoulder, knowing I was barely visible to motorists in my black coat. Cars whizzed by, tossing my hair into my face with their back drafts. The speed limit on Hamilton was forty-five, but people routinely broke it. I was just starting to wonder if this walk was the worst idea ever when a slow-moving car approached me from behind. I turned around, expecting to see Hunter and his newly discovered conscience, but instead of the Bentley, I found myself staring into the headlights of a modest, late-model Ford. The car pulled up alongside me and Detective Hauer leaned away from the steering wheel toward the pa.s.senger-side window. You have to be kidding me. "Need a ride?" he asked. "No. Thanks. I'm fine." I started walking again, shakily. He inched forward. "I think you need a ride," he said.

"No, really. I'm--" "Reed, there's something I need to talk to you about." He reached over and popped the door open so that it almost hit me in the legs. "Get in the car."

I sat stiffly in the cold, hard chair, my bag placed on the cracked wooden table in front of me. My coat was still on. It felt colder in the interrogation room than it was outside. And be sides, I wasn't planning on being here long. No need to get comfortable. Detective Hauer walked in through the door behind me, but didn't shut it. He took a seat opposite me, placed a thick brown folder on the table, and folded his beefy hands on top of it. As unkempt as ever, he wore a green sweater with some kind of food stain near the hem, and one point of his white shirt collar stuck out while the other was still tucked in. His brown eyes looked heavier than I remembered. Behind me, the station was fairly quiet, aside from the oc casional ringing phone. Nothing like the last time I was here, with the police force bustling around, trying to handle Thomas's murder and failing miserably, routinely arresting the wrong people. Including Josh. "Don't you need my parents here or, like, someone from school if you're going to interrogate me?" I asked, wanting to show him how very unintimidated I was, even though I was shaking in my borrowed-from-Tiffany Jimmy Choos. "I am a minor, you know."

His bushy eyebrows shot up. "I'm not going to interrogate you. I'm just on a fact-finding mission. I want to chat." "About what?" I spat. "Cheyenne Martin." If I was shaking before, I was trembling now. What could he possibly want to ask me about Cheyenne after all this time? She had been dead for more than a month. "I understand that you and Cheyenne had quite the contentious relationship," he began. My heart was in my throat. "So?" He blew out a sigh and leaned back in his chair, adjusting his semi-twisted sweater over his belly before lac ing his fingers together over its widest point. "Reed, I'm going to be straight with you here," he said. "Cheyenne's parents have had some time to go through her things, and they've asked us to look into the possibility that Cheyenne's death was not a suicide."

All the oxygen was sucked right out of the room with those few words. Was not a suicide. Was, therefore, a murder. I knew they had checked into this in the very beginning, but I thought they had come up with nothing. They had cremated Cheyenne's body, for G.o.d's sake--the most important piece of evidence according to any of the ten billion police procedu ral dramas on TV. How could they even begin to investigate something like this now? "So you think Cheyenne was murdered," I heard myself say. "Personally? No," he replied, sitting for ward. "But I believe we owe it to the family to check out every lead." Okay. Okay. So he didn't think it was a murder. Only her parents did. That was better, right? If the detective was uncon vinced?

Hauer flipped open his folder and slid a piece of paper toward him. "That said, I wanted to talk to you in particular because we've just finished going through Cheyenne's computer files."

Oh, s.h.i.t. Oh, c.r.a.p; oh, c.r.a.p; oh, c.r.a.p. The room was no longer cold. Quite the opposite, actual ly. Was that the devil breathing down my neck? "And we found something interesting in her email outbox," he said, looking over the top of the page. "Any idea what that might be?" He had the e-mail. He knew. He knew that Cheyenne had blamed me for her death. My worst night mare was coming true, right here and right now. Under the table, my hands gripped the wool of Shelby's coat and my feet slipped out of Tiffany's shoes, too wet to hold them on any longer. "Do I need a lawyer?" I asked, Up went the eyebrows again. "Do you feel you need one?"

"I didn't do anything, if that's what you mean," I replied quickly. "Okay then." He placed the page on the table, turned it to face me, and slid it across with his fingertips. "Why don't you tell me what this is all about?" It was a printout of the e-mail. Her address, my address, the time sent, the subject line empty. Then the lines that had become so excruciatingly familiar over the past few weeks. Ignore the note. You did this to me. You ruined my life. My empty stomach clenched at the sight of them and a dry heave rose up in my throat. But I swallowed it back. As terrified as I felt--what did Hauer think this meant?--I also felt a slight sense of re lief. Someone else had read the e-mail. It was real. It was right in front of us. Both of us. Part of me had started to wonder if I had imagined all the Cheyenne-related oddity that had been swirling around me lately. But not this. This was real. I wasn't going insane. I took a deep breath and released Shelby's coat from my sweaty palms. "You already know Cheyenne and I were fighting." I knew this because my friends had told me the cops had been asking about us when I'd returned from a weekend in New York with Josh. They had told me that the cops knew about Cheyenne's and my screaming argument over Josh. "I got this the day after she died. "Why didn't you report it?" Detective Hauer asked, sitting up straight again. "I didn't think it was important," I replied automatically. He gave me an incred ulous look. "A girl blames you for her death and you don't think it's important?" "No! Not like that," I blurted, suddenly frustrated. "Obviously I think it's important. It's practically all I think about, that she might have killed herself over something she thought I'd done to her. I mean, I don't know if she blamed me because she wanted my boyfriend and she couldn't have him, or if she blamed me because she thinks I somehow got her expelled or what, and I'm never go ing to know. And believe me, that is important to me. But is it really important to you? I mean, doesn't this e-mail sort of prove that she killed herself?" I asked, holding it up. "This was just her last-ditch effort to get to me."

"Actually, I do think this is our best piece of evidence for suicide," Hauer said. "I just want ed to hear what you had to say about it." I took a deep breath. It felt good to have this out there. To have someone listen. Even if it was Detective Hauer. "I wasn't Cheyenne's biggest fan and she wasn't mine," I said, placing the page down again, feeling a bit more in control.

"But I'm sorry she's dead, and I had nothing to do with it." The detective picked up the e-mail printout and placed it atop the other pages in his folder. "All right then," he said. "There's just one other question I have to ask. Do you know if Cheyenne had any other enemies at school?

Anyone else who could help shed some light on what might have been going on in Ms. Mar tin's mind?" Instantly, a name popped up in my mind. A knowing smirk. Cold blue eyes. The eyes of someone who had known Cheyenne but had grown to hate her. "What is it?" Detec tive Hauer asked, clearly noting the change in me--the realization in my eyes. "Ivy Slade," I said, a bit too loudly. "You definitely want to talk to her."

I speed-walked back to Billings after Hauer dropped me off on the circle, hoping that no freshmen or soph.o.m.ores with big mouths saw me getting out of the detective's car from their windows in Bradwell. If they did, the news would certainly be all over campus in the morning-Billings president leaves campus with Hunter Braden, returns with police--and that could not happen. No one was going to know about my meeting with Hauer. No one was going to know that Cheyenne's parents had asked the police to open up a murder investigation. Not if I could help it.

I remembered all too vividly the dreary, morbid, terrified atmosphere on campus once it was revealed that Thomas had been murdered. I couldn't go through that again. This school couldn't go through that again. Especially considering there was still a good chance Cheyenne had taken her own life. I mean, if she hadn't, then why had I gotten her suicide note? It made no sense. I wished Hauer had told me what kind of evidence her parents had discov ered that had spurred them to reopen the case. I couldn't imagine what it could possibly be. The girl had been found alone on her floor with pills and a note. No signs of a struggle. No one in the dorm had heard a scream. How could she possibly have been murdered?

High on nervous adrenaline, I hurried up to my room and found Sabine sitting on her bed, working on her needlepoint. Big Sat.u.r.day night for my roommate. But then, maybe she had the right idea. Going out hadn't exactly been enjoyable for me, to say the least. "Reed! It's so early," she said, tucking her needlepoint ring away. She sat up and scooted forward, all ears.

"How was the date?" "Awful," I replied. "I left early and walked myself home." "Oh," she said, sounding overly disappointed. I whipped off Shelby's coat and started for the closet, but imme diately changed my mind and tossed the coat on the foot of my bed instead. "It's no big deal,"

I told her, running my fingers through my hair. "So the guy's a jerk. Half the guys at this school are." "Maybe more than half," Sabine said under her breath."What?" I turned on my computer, more determined than ever to do a little research on Ivy Slade. Now that I had implicated her to the police, I had a sudden desire to back up my claim. To find some kind of evidence that she was, in fact, capable of very bad things. "Nothing, it's just... I was over at Coffee Carma earlier and Missy came in...." Sabine trailed off, looking squeamish. My heart thumped extra hard. "Missy came in and what?" "She said she saw Josh and Ivy in front of Pemberly... kiss ing," Sabine said with an apologetic look.

The floor went out from under me, but I quickly grasped at the first straw I thought of. "And you believed her?" Sabine's brow furrowed. "You think she lied?" "She's Missy. She hates me. And she would just love to spread a rumor like that." "Oh. Well, it didn't seem like she was ly ing," Sabine said. Then, on seeing my face, she quickly added, "But if you think she was, then I'm sure she was." "I'm sure she was," I affirmed. I hoped she was. Please, G.o.d, let her be ly ing. But I couldn't believe it. I refused to believe it. He couldn't have really moved on so fast. Despite what I'd heard from Jason, I'd thought they were just becoming friends. Close friends. Which sucked, but still. It wasn't as bad as the alternative. "Reed... what exactly happened be tween you and Josh?" Sabine asked. "No one knows and everyone's speculating.... It might help if you talked about it." "I really don't think so," I replied. No one was ever going to know that I'd cheated on Josh with Dash. For many, many rea sons. Well, aside from the random drunk and stoned partiers in the hallway that night who had witnessed our fight--but apparently none of them had been from Easton or they were just too far gone to remember, because so far, there were no rumors flying around campus. Thank G.o.d. If the Billings Girls found out, I was sure that they would be able to forgive me for hurting Josh--they were, after all, my friends, and most of them were dedicated to instant grat ification and having fun above all else. But no one would ever forgive me for betraying Noelle. And Noelle, of course, would kill me. That was reason enough. "Did he cheat on you?" Sabine prompted, toying with her silver ring. "Did he and Ivy hookup at the Legacy or something? Be cause if he did, that's just reprehensible and I'm glad you dumped him. I mean, how anyone could do that to someone they loved--"

"Sabine, I really don't want to talk about it," I said, cutting her off as the ever-present guilt in my gut started to expand. "Okay. Sorry," she said quickly, "but if you ever do--" "I won't. But thanks."

I turned toward my computer and went straight to Google, trying to focus on the task at hand. Trying not to think about Sabine's opinions--about how reprehensible she would find me if she knew the truth. I thought about taking out my disc full of info on the Billings Girls, but I didn't want to crack that open in front of Sabine, and I wasn't certain it would have anything on Ivy, since she had never actually been a Billings Girl. I could always check it later. For now I was going to search the old-fashioned way. As Sabine settled in with a book, I Googled Ivy Slade. Luckily, it was not a common name. I got only thirty listings. The first, an obituary. Victo ria Slade, 89 Boston Socialite Was Groundbreaking Feminist I scrolled through the cached ar ticle for Ivy's name and found her listed as one of Olivia's survivors--her granddaughter. Olivia had died over the summer, having suffered a stroke more than a year ago. Sad. But unhelpful. I closed the obit and went back to my list. There were a couple of men tions of Ivy attending this party or that fund-raiser. Then, jackpot. The headline: millionaire teen caught stealing... from own MATRIARCH. I clicked the link, which took me to a Boston gossip site called Dish of Beantown. Okay, not the most reliable source, but I had to see what this was all about. Sources inside the BPD have confirmed that the "minor" whose name was withheld from the Boston Globe's front-page B&E story yesterday was in fact Boston princess Ivy Slade, r6, daughter of financier Colton Slade and former supermodel Esmeralda LakeSlade. Apparently home for the weekend from her tony Connecticut boarding school, Easton Academy, Miss Slade got tired of inspecting her diamonds and organizing her couture and de cided it might be fun to bust into Grandma's house to s.n.a.t.c.h G.o.d knows what. That pair of Jack Kennedy's boxers the elder Ms. Slade is rumored to have tucked in her trousseau, per haps? Too bad the prodigal grandkid never noticed during all those Sunday teas that Grand ma had a state-of-the-art security system installed. Miss Slade was pinched, and we're all tick led pink to see what happens next. Is this the new fave pastime of the rich and semifamous?

Better get out the shotguns, people, before all the kids in the others start emulating the fab ulous Miss S. We could have an inept-crime trend on our hands!

I covered my mouth to keep from laughing in shocked glee. Ivy was arrested for breaking into her own grandmother's house? Why? What was she hoping to steal? Clearly the girl had everything she needed. But even more baffling was the fact that the police had yet to investi gate her in Cheyenne's death. Didn't a girl with a record--one who was so intimately connect ed to the victim--merit a first look? I sat back in my chair and saved the pertinent files to my hard drive. At least I had proven one thing--there was definitely something off with that girl. But was she capable of murder? I couldn't wrap my brain around that--the idea that there was another student at Easton who was that evil, that insane. An image of Ariana's cold, hard face flitted through my mind and a dreadful shiver raced down my spine. No. There was no way it had happened again. Cheyenne had committed suicide. End of story. Still, I needed a distraction. Now. "Sabine?" She looked up from her book. "Yeah?" "Do you want to play, like, Spit or something?" I asked her. "Absolument!" she answered brightly, tossing her book aside. I took a deep breath and grabbed my deck of cards. Thank G.o.d there were still a few normal things to do around here. Maybe I should just leave the investigating of potential psychos to the cops.