Chapter Six
Sophia’s lush, dark-brown curls glisten in the autumn light as she leads us across the central courtyard.
I’m momentarily mesmerized by the perfectly applied, pinkish-gold highlighter dusting her tawny cheeks.
Have I ever been that put together in my life?
Belinda Winters has a long way to go before she can believably play in the same league as Sophia Harrington, but standing next to her, I feel more than ever like Billie.
“It looked like things were getting a bit … intense in there,” she says, her accent soft and melodic to my ear.
I have to take a moment to breathe in Belinda despite feeling so woefully inadequate next to this perfect specimen of private school polish.
I paste a sheepish grin on my face and say, “You could say that. Thanks for the save, by the way. I may have dived into the deep end when I only meant to dip a toe.”
“You couldn’t possibly have known how dangerous those waters are,” she answers. “To say the sharks are circling is probably a gross understatement.”
Now this I recognize immediately. Sophia is in possession of tea, and she wants nothing more than to spill it. I raise an inquisitive eyebrow when she glances my way.
“Well, ever since the incident”—she pauses until I nod— “things have been strained to say the least. The girl who died, Emily Wells? She was Priya’s roommate.”
I suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed sends a shiver racing down my spine. “Should I feel some kind of way about taking a dead girl’s room assignment?”
Sophia sends me a kind smile, though her too-white teeth have a wolfish gleam.
“The way I see it, almost all of us are sleeping in beds that used to be occupied by students who are dead now. Your bed is just on an accelerated timeline.”
“Dark but logical,” I say, pursing my lips like I’m really giving this some thought. “You’re not wrong.”
Sophia waves to a few students walking by and calls out to one about a study date later today.
I’m not here to make snap judgments, and I know Peter wants me to keep an open mind, but my gut tells me Sophia is a genuinely good person—the kind of girl who sees a transfer student sitting at a table full of sharks and decides to rescue her before she’s turned into chum.
“So … Harrington,” I say, drawing Sophia’s attention back to me. Her eyes are light brown, almost hazel, and accentuated by retro-looking black-framed glasses. “Is it tough being the headmaster’s daughter? Like, socially I mean?”
She looks a bit taken aback, and it’s only after I repeat the words in my head that I hear how nosy they sound.
“I just meant, you weren’t sitting with that group, but it seems 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 stunningly beautiful 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 just endlessly.”
“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 on Downton 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 IN FRIENDSHIP IS THAT IT WILL
END.” – HENRY DAVID THOREAU
DEDICATED WITH LOVE BY THE CLASS OF 1998.
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 me a 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 parents are 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 convincing them of 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.”