Chapter 3
“I’m not going to say I told you so,” Analiese says as she splits a dinner roll in half. “But what did I say?”
“You’re not helping,” I groan.
We’re in the dining hall, sitting at our usual table beside one of the arched windows overlooking the main quad.
The last of the late summer sun sighs a weary breath as it acquiesces to the wash of gradient darkness.
Wisps of blushing pinks and muted oranges bleed into obscurity.
Inside it smells of roasted garlic and warm bread, a juxtaposition to the thickening chill that’s muscled its way over the Adirondacks.
Analiese shoves a bite of bread between her lips. “You’re not in A&P.” She swallows before continuing. “And now you’re forced to join the worst student org, which takes time away from The Herald.”
I scrape my spoon against the bottom of my soup bowl and purposefully avoid her gaze.
I’ve written for The Herald for the last three years because that’s what Analiese wanted us to do, despite the fact that I started as the worst writer on the staff.
That’s not hyperbole. The notes I’d get were longer than the US Constitution, and I once caught two editors rock-paper-scissoring over who had to give me feedback.
“So obviously not an option anymore,” Analiese’s saying. She’s abandoned her roll to flip through her planner. “When are we going to find time to hang out? Because this is our last year together, and not only do I have to keep a perfect GPA, but I also have to uncover a groundbreaking story.”
A knot of tension eases in my chest. I’ve wanted to quit The Herald for a while, especially now that I’m being forced to join Ladies of Polite Society. What I didn’t want was to disappoint Analiese. At least this punishment has offered me a graceful out.
“Back up,” I say. “What’s with the groundbreaking story?”
“I need something that sets me apart when applying for colleges so I can seal my place at NYU.” She points her fork at me accusingly. “Meanwhile you’ll be Bridgerton-ing it up in hoop skirts and tiaras.”
I don’t even know where to begin.
“First of all,” I say, “you’re going to find a story because you’re Analiese Jacobson, and it will be incredible because you’re incredible. I mean, you could write about the new fertilizer they’re using on the quad, and it’d be the most riveting thing anyone’s ever read.”
Her mouth slips into a smile. Flattery can yank Analiese right out of a stress spiral.
She’s the daughter of multimillionaires, her mother an entertainment industry executive and her father an e-commerce founder for a huge online shopping platform, so for her, standing out is difficult when the bar of success is sky-high.
“Second of all,” I continue, “might I remind you I didn’t ask for this?”
“And might I remind you,” she tosses back, “that I said volunteering for Capture the Flag was a terrible idea?”
Simmering irritation flits through my veins as my eyes tick to Sumner.
He’s eating with the rowing team a few tables over, which is odd since he’s not part of crew.
His hands gesticulate wildly, a motion that causes his frames to slip down the bridge of his nose.
He pushes them into place and laughs at something I can’t hear.
“It would have been a great idea,” I grind out, “if Sumner kept his mouth shut.”
She sighs. “I thought we weren’t going to do Capture because it pulls too much focus into a game that, to be fair, doesn’t matter.”
Quite frankly, the game does matter. Because last night Sumner took it as his own personal challenge to pulverize my chance of escape. He sealed his own fate as my public enemy number one, and I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure he pays.
The jerk.
But on the other hand, part of me wanted to experience what it felt like to subvert people’s expectations.
Everyone’s placed me on the same overachieving pedestal as my older brother.
I’m not just Delaney but “Jared’s younger sister Delaney,” so I work hard to live up to this outward image of perfection.
Just this once I wanted to do something for me.
“I don’t know,” I hear myself say. “It was kind of fun.”
Since Analiese’s idea of fun is spending her free time creating multilayered spreadsheets to maximize her study time, I don’t expect her to understand. Her disapproving stare says it all. And I do see it from her perspective. Look where fun landed me.
But I don’t want to quit Capture. I’m going to make it up to the team. It’s okay if Analiese and I disagree about that.
Isn’t it?
“I don’t mean to be dramatic, okay? But I worry about you.” The tenacity behind her eyes melts into sympathy. “We barely spoke all summer. Don’t get me wrong. I understand why. But I just—I don’t want to see you waste your potential.”
My excitement shrinks to the size of an acorn.
Analiese means well, but this is the last thing I want to hear.
It’s an echo of what Ellerby told me this morning.
Never mind that I’ve spent the last three years hunched over textbooks until my neck ached.
Or that I’ve made hundreds of flashcards for every subject under the sun.
I’ve put in the hours. I’ve pulled all-nighters.
I’ve spiraled over the best adjective choices for essays.
I already know how this year will go. Analiese will plan our study sessions, where we’ll compare notes and exam scores.
Time will be dedicated to preparing college applications and perfecting essays.
She’ll organize the deadlines by due date, and I’ll shoot my shot at applying for ones that offer exceptional premed programs, like UPenn.
Living up to my potential is all I’ve ever done.
So while I can have my fun playing Capture the Flag, I also need to fit the mold expected of me.
“I won’t,” I say. “I’m still the same Delaney.”
Her eyes soften. She leans over and squeezes my hand. “You know,” she begins, “wish night is fun. The kind of fun that doesn’t get you in trouble.”
This gets my attention. In the past Analiese has complained wish night throws off her sleep and her weekend study schedule, which she has mapped out to the half hour.
Maybe she’s offering because she knows I look forward to it.
It’s a harmless Ivernia event that takes place on the first Friday of the new semester.
At midnight, students toss a penny in the main quad fountain and make a wish for the forthcoming year.
“You want to go?”
“When have we ever missed it?” She lights up. “It’s tradition.”
I’m not sure whether she’s agreeing because she wants to or because it’s a familiar ritual, but it makes me feel a tiny bit better.
By the time we finish eating, we complete our usual routine—trash on her tray and dirty dishware on mine—before navigating to opposite ends of the dining hall for proper disposal.
I’m stacking our used dishes in the bin when I realize Sabine’s heading toward me.
Dread sinks like a stone in my stomach. I wasn’t supposed to get caught last night.
She’s probably coming to tell me I can’t play anymore.
Now I’m a liability to the game, and everyone’s voted to boot me from the team.
I’m about to say hi when she says, “Delaney, you’re a real one.”
Oh. Well. This is not what I expected. “I am?”
“Of course.” She tucks a glossy strand of dark hair behind her ear. “The guys won this round, but so what? At least you located the trophy. There’s no way they’ll hide it in the kitchenette again.”
I think I’m starting to understand. This is a process of elimination. There’s more strategy to a victory than I assumed.
“Did Ellerby go hard on you?” she asks.
She looks concerned, like she cares about my personal repercussions. That’s also unexpected.
“She’s making me join Ladies of Polite Society.”
“That’s it?” She grins as though I’ve gotten off easy. I guess I have. “I’m joining too. Same with Inessa.”
Huh. Now this is interesting. Ladies of Polite Society has never been one of the cool clubs per se, but to be fair, Ivernia is a STEM-centered boarding school full of nerdy-at-heart academics who crave a level of intellectual challenge public schools usually can’t provide in larger class settings.
Therefore, any student-led organization is slightly nerdy by nature.
The question blurts from my lips before I can stop it. “Why?”
“My mom did it when she went here?” Her voice goes up at the end, like she’s unsure about sharing this, but then she laughs it off. “She loved it. And since there’s a new teacher taking over, I thought, why not?”
“Totally,” I say noncommittally. I don’t want to burst Sabine’s bubble, but I can’t see how it’ll be different from previous years. So I navigate back to our original conversation. “I thought I blew it last night.”
“No way,” she says. “Flops leave room for unexplored opportunities. Hyde House is winning this year. And we need your help.”
A surge of motivation lifts my spirits as I slide my tray onto the washing rack. “Really?”
“Really,” she tells me. “If we don’t keep trying, we’re letting them win.”
I sneak another glance at the crew table. Sumner’s still there.
That’s when it occurs to me. The reason he looks so out of place.
Sumner was part of my brother’s circle of gamer friends.
Jared was the ringleader because he’s like the moon: everyone looks up to him in this weirdly magnetic way.
Paul and Carlos were also in his grade, but Sumner’s in my year.
Which means his core friend group graduated and moved on without him.
A twinge of empathy stirs within me. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if Analiese graduated and left me alone during my final year at Ivernia.
But that sympathy comes to a record-scratching halt when he catches my eye. His lips sharpen into an amused grin, and I absolutely do not miss the way he mouths, You’re going down, Carmichael.
Hot annoyance spikes through me. Oh hell no. He’s not even a little bit sorry for what he did.
I turn back to Sabine. “I’m in.”
If he wants to play dirty, then game on.