Chapter Four
Can’t wait to meet them all. They sound so fun.
When I shake the rain off my umbrella and enter the building, I spot a dark-haired white girl sitting behind a heavy, old-fashioned-looking desk, talking on an equally dated landline phone. The moment she notices me, she pulls the receiver away from her face and sets it on the desk.
“Do you need any help?”
“Yeah, hey. Hi.” I shuffle my feet, suddenly awkward. But then I remember who I’m supposed to be and stand a little straighter. “I’m Belinda Winters.”
“Oh, the new student, yes! I’m Ruth, the resident assistant.” We’re both distracted by a tinny-sounding voice coming from the phone. It sounds like someone shouting Ruth, are you still there?
“My mom,” Ruth mouths, rolling her eyes.
“It’s fine. I know which room I’m in,” I reassure her. I don’t tell her how lucky she is to have a mom who wants to talk to her. Who can talk to her, whenever she wants.
“You’ll be all right, then? Stairs are around the corner.” Before I can answer, she’s picking up the phone again. I head in the direction she indicated while she resumes her conversation like I never interrupted at all.
No problem, I want to tell her. I’ve done everything else on my own. I don’t need a tour of the building.
I trudge my way up the winding staircase, gripping the worn wooden railing so tight I swear I’m going to get a splinter in my palm.
The building is quiet and damp, and the hallway smells faintly of lemon-scented cleaner and musty old wood.
My shoes squeak on the bare floor, my backpack bumping against my side as I reach the third landing and head down the hall.
I pause in front of the door to my room, staring at the slightly tarnished brass sign with the room number etched into it.
I yank the key from my jeans pocket, but before I can slide it into the lock, the door swings open, startling me.
“Who the hell are you?”
I rear back slightly, surprised by the girl’s hostile tone. “Uh, hi. I’m your new roomie.”
The girl I’m assuming is Priya rolls her dark-brown eyes, gripping the handle like she plans on slamming the door in my face.
“I begged Harrington to let me have this room to myself for the rest of the semester, but I guess that didn’t work.
Ugh. Don’t you just abhor the administration?
” She gives a theatrical sigh, then adds, “I’m Priya. ”
She thrusts her hand toward me, and I take it, giving it a firm shake. “Belinda.”
The name sounds foreign on my tongue. I hate it.
It’s the name that appears on my birth certificate, but I don’t recall anyone ever calling me that with the exception of teachers on the first day of school before I corrected them.
Mom started calling me Billie the moment we moved to the U.S.
, like I needed a new name to go with my new persona, “child of a single mother.” Maybe I did.
“Nice to meet you.” Priya opens the door wider, her gaze zooming in on my ratty backpack. “Is that all you brought with you?”
“Oh, uh, no. The driver has my luggage. Is there an elevator in this building?”
“You mean a lift?” Priya’s brows shoot up. “You’re in our territory now, American. You’ll have to learn what we call things.”
“Right. A lift.” I pause a beat, pushing down my annoyance. “Is there one?”
“Nope.” She pops the p, appearing very satisfied with her answer. “Guess your little servant will have to drag your suitcases up the stairs.”
“Oh.” I laugh, trying to sound carefree as I wave my fingers in the air. “He’ll be fine. He’s used to this sort of thing.”
I have no idea if he is or not, but I feel bad for him either way.
I’ve heaved a week’s worth of groceries up three flights of stairs enough times to commiserate.
Priya doesn’t need to know I was raised in shitty apartments in shitty neighborhoods, where a working elevator was a luxury and someone to help with heavy bags was a pipe dream.
Belinda wouldn’t think twice about someone carrying her bags up fifty flights of stairs, so I shrug like the insolent snob I’m supposed to be.
“Well, aren’t you lucky,” Priya mutters as we both head into the room. She closes the door, then leans against it. “Why are you here, anyway?”
“What do you mean, why am I here? I was assigned this room.” I’m playing dumb on purpose, but I’m not sure if she realizes it.
Another roll of her eyes. “I mean at Wickham. We’re almost six weeks into term, meaning you’ll need to catch up. The curriculum is rigorous here. It’s not for the weak.”
I lift my chin, not about to let this girl tear me down or fill me with doubt. “Aw, aren’t you sweet? Thanks for your concern, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Priya goes quiet, watching me, and I blatantly stare at her in return.
She has expressive eyebrows and beautiful long, black hair that cascades down her back in natural waves.
Brown eyes look into mine as if she can reach into my soul.
She touches her tongue to the corner of her full lips before sinking her teeth into the bottom one like she’s trying to draw blood.
“You remind me of someone,” she finally says, and alarm flares inside of me. If she says Isla, I might lose it.
“Maybe you’ve seen me on Page Six.” I laugh again, the sound so fake it might be swinging all the way around to believable.
“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. If they grieved.