Chapter Four
FOUR
We don’t go much farther before Cecilia turns into a driveway. There’s no signage, but it’s obvious something lies past the stone walls and open wrought iron gate. As we turn in, I don’t see any buildings, though. Just a long, winding road.
We pass forests and fields, then an orchard and greenhouses. Cecilia explains that the academy grows most of its own produce and has a chef from a Michelin-starred restaurant.
We reach a second gate, this one attached to a fence at least twelve feet high.
“Welcome to Westdale,” Cecilia says.
I stare at those huge iron gates. “Do we need to buzz in or something? I don’t see a call box.”
“If anyone makes it this far, security has already been monitoring their progress. If you aren’t expected, those gates will stay closed—”
The gates begin to mechanically open.
“I texted with your car model and license plate earlier,” she says. “Like everything else here, security is state of the art. Don’t let the exterior fool you.”
I’m about to ask what she means, but then the academy appears.
“Holy shit,” I whisper. “Well, I definitely chose the right outfit.”
She laughs softly. “Not a lot of Gothic architecture out here, but the founders knew what they wanted.”
Gothic is right. It’s a massive dragon of a building, wings curling on either side. A gray stone structure, three stories tall, with arched windows, and spires.
As the Jeep creeps up the drive, I spot students out for their morning break. One guy is shooting hoops, and as we pass, I twist for a better look.
“You like that?” Cecilia says with a low chuckle. “Theo Dubois. His dad is Bernard Dubois.”
“The movie director?”
“Yep, who himself also descended from Hollywood royalty. And Theo’s mom is Trinity Nilsen, the actor.”
“So that’s why he looks like that.”
She laughs under her breath. “It is.”
Theo Dubois is tall, with golden curls and the sort of muscles that say he definitely fulfilled any athletics requirement.
Watching him dunking so effortlessly, I kinda want to take up basketball myself.
I’m not the only one, apparently. He’s playing solo, but four girls and two guys sit on the lawn, watching.
“He has a fan club,” I say.
“Theo Dubois has an actual fan club, hon. You’ve never heard of him?”
“Uh, no.”
“Well, he’s his own kind of famous. But that didn’t get him into Westdale.
Every school needs their golden boy, and you are looking at him: 4.
0 GPA, MVP on his last school’s winning basketball team.
Directed a short film that debuted at Sundance.
Helps little old ladies across the road every Sunday before church. ”
She looks at me. “I’m kidding about the last one. Mr. Theo’s charity work is restricted to gracing Hollywood fundraisers with his presence. He has no time for anything that won’t help him get ahead, and if you get in his way, he’ll mow you down with a wink and a smile.”
“I might not mind getting mowed down by him.”
She bursts out laughing.
“Who are the others with him?” I ask as I discreetly remove the bandage from my ear.
“Nobodies.”
My brows shoot up, and she shrugs. “Even at Westdale, there are nobodies, Liliana. Anyplace else, they’d be kings and queens. Here, they’re rank and file.”
“Okay. So besides Theo Dubois, who do I need—”
“Ah, there. That’s who I want.”
She stops the Jeep. All I see is a guy slouched on the front steps, reading what I think is his phone until I realize it’s a paperback novel.
I can’t tell much with that slouch, but he looks lean. Mostly what I see is dark hair hanging over his face as he reads. He’s dressed in jeans, a plain black T-shirt, and motorcycle boots. He looks like he should have a vintage Harley beside him and a cigarette hanging from his lips.
When I climb from the Jeep, he glances up briefly, as if seeing movement. Then he stops. His gaze slides over me, and then quickly away, jaw setting as if he didn’t mean to look. He goes back to his book, but I swear he’s still watching me over the top of it.
“Mr. Maddox,” Cecilia calls.
He closes the book with an audible sigh. “Ms. Cecilia.”
“Whatcha reading, Maddox?”
He stuffs the book in his back pocket. Then he looks up, showing bronze skin and a face that’s all angles. Strong jaw, carved cheekbones, sharp chin. Dark eyes meet mine with a studiously blank half-lidded stare.
“The new girl arrives,” he says, in a deep voice with an accent I recognize from our year in Southern California.
“Liliana Chamberlain—” Cecilia begins.
“I know who she is.”
“Then let me finish the introduction, Mads.”
Chamberlain? I want to protest. My name is Liliana Green. But a coldly practical corner of my soul knows what Cecilia is doing. Here I will be Liliana Chamberlain, because the name proves I belong.
The guy rises, languidly, his gaze on me, eyes still shuttered.
“Maddox Moreno,” Cecilia says. “Son of Marilyn Perez-Moreno, the tech wizard behind Chatbox and Snapshots and—”
“They’re waiting for you inside, new girl,” Maddox says.
“No, they’re waiting for me,” Cecilia says. “You are waiting for Liliana.”
His dark brows rise. “Uh, no. I was—”
“You’re going to show her around.”
He snorts. “Do I look like the welcoming committee?”
“No, you look like a boy who owes me and is going to repay it by taking care of my girl here. Showing her around today. And looking out for her the rest of the term.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Maddox beats me to it with “I’m not—”
“You owe me, unless you’d rather spend your last term in a prison school.”
He looks at me. “Ignore Cecilia. She thinks she’s funny.”
“Oh come on, Mads. I’m giving you some bad-boy cred. Boost that thing you’ve got going on—James Dean by way of Holden Caulfield.”
He rolls his eyes. “Showing your age, counselor. You gotta update your refs.”
“Take Liliana around. Answer her questions. Look after her. That’s an order.”
“I don’t really need—” I begin.
“An order, Maddox. Or I tell Mommy what you really did.”
She walks past us into the house.
“You don’t have to,” I say to Maddox once Cecilia is gone. “Obviously. I can—”
“Follow.”
He leads me up the stairs. I’m trying to read the title of the book in his back pocket, and he must catch a glimpse of me in the door glass.
“Checking out my ass, Chamberlain?”
My cheeks heat. “The book. I was trying—”
“If you’re trying to read the title so you can make conversation, don’t bother. I don’t do small talk.”
“I guessed that. I was actually curious about what you’re reading.”
A grunt, and then he yanks open the door.
“This is the front door,” he says.
“The tour commences.”
He walks down an empty hall lined with portraits. “Where you from, new girl?”
“Thought you didn’t do small talk.”
“It’s a long hall. Gotta say something.” He doesn’t glance back, just strides along, leaving me jogging to keep up.
“Chicago,” I say.
“I mean what school?”
I tense. “Nothing you’d know.”
“Try me.”
“You know many public schools?”
His steps slow. “Uh, no.” He glances back. “You are a Chamberlain, right?”
I fix him with a level stare. He squares his shoulders and resumes his stride.
“Whatever,” he says. “There’s only one place you really need to see on this tour.” He makes a sharp turn and keeps walking until he reaches another exit. “The back door.”
Anger sparks, hard and sharp, and before I can stop the words, I say, “Fuck you.”
He turns sharply, looking startled. “Excuse me?”
“Are you saying public school kids don’t belong here? Or that I belong on the staff, using the back door?”
He stares for a second. Then he leans back against the wall. “I meant…” He waves at the back door. “Escape while you still can.”
“Because I don’t belong at Westdale.” That anger burns white-hot, and deep down, I’m not sure he deserves it, but it feels as if I’ve been holding in my confusion and fear. All it takes is for someone to suggest I don’t belong, and that bubbles over.
He shakes his head. “I just meant you should escape because this place—”
“Everything okay back here?” a voice says behind me.
I turn to see Theo Dubois strolling toward us.