Chapter 19 6–11 February 2017
In the weeks following the party at Orchard beside it was the student lounge.
Both rooms were visible to passersby through large glass windows lined in gleaming oak.
A few minutes remained in fourth period lunch; the dining hall bustled with students driven in from the courtyard during the winter months.
In the lounge, Ami was reclined on a deep Chesterfield sofa, upholstered in bright polo green leather.
The décor in the lounge was a bit louder and more modern than elsewhere at Prescott.
Most of the furnishings had been recently donated by an alum famous for curating wildly successful experimental art shows at a gallery downtown.
Mixed in with the leather sofas were modern Eames lounge chairs and fabric pouffes in bright jewel tones.
The wide-plank oak floors were laid with area rugs in bold geometric patterns, and abstract onyx sculptures decorated the fireplace’s polished marble mantel, which was original to the building.
Ms Caldwell had hemmed and hawed about accepting the donation, replacing the worn but traditional furnishings, but she’d ultimately consented – as long as the renovation was limited to the student space.
Beside Ami on the couch was Beatrice Whitmore. Ami’s boots were on the floor; her stocking feet rested on Beatrice’s lap. To their right, perched on a sapphire blue pouffe with his back against the wall, was Bash. Hannah tucked the red envelope deep into her backpack and zipped it up.
‘They’ve gotten chummy,’ Bruno observed.
Hannah frowned. Ever since the party upstate, Ami had been avoiding her at school, spending her time instead with Beatrice and Bash.
Even if there was nothing romantic going on between Bash and Ami – and Ami swore up and down there was not – Hannah could still see the writing on the wall: while she had managed to stay largely out of the Madison–Elle crossfire these past weeks, Ami was the latest pawn in their never-ending chess match.
Any minute now, Elle would sweep into the lounge and offer to escort Ami to fifth period.
In the days following the party, she’d more than once overheard Elle reassuring Ami that Madison’s upstate takedown had been inappropriate and in poor taste.
Ami should spend time with whomever at Prescott she pleased.
Madison was all bark and no bite, and Ami shouldn’t let herself be bossed around.
It was obvious manipulation meant to land Ami in hot water and score Elle another point, but Hannah’s attempts to show Ami the light had been broadly rebuffed.
Ami had chosen wilful ignorance, and much as it pained her, there was nothing else Hannah could say or do to shield her little sister from whatever retaliation Madison was sure to bring down eventually.
‘Too chummy,’ she said to Bruno.
With his chin, he gestured to the lounge doors. You coming?
Instead of following, Hannah shook her head and turned in the direction of the stairwell. Every molecule in her body screamed to protect her little sister. But look where that had gotten them last time. All she could do was give Ami the space she so clearly wanted.
Saturday night arrived, and with it, a churning feeling in Hannah’s gut.
She’d declined Madison’s invitation, hoping the lie that she was grounded along with Ami would suffice.
It had been met with the most overblown eye roll Hannah had ever seen – the drama, Jesus – but Madison seemed to have bought her story.
The truth was, Hannah was newly eighteen (a birthday she’d celebrated with minimal fanfare over winter break) and it was Saturday night.
She had no intention of staying home. She just didn’t plan to spend the night with Madison.
Pulling her puffy coat over a crop-top and tiny skirt, Hannah sent up a silent prayer to the universe that no one from Prescott would see her and rat her out.
Her destination was the Meatpacking District; her company, Oliver.
Her parents had consented on the condition that she go directly to the one pre-screened and pre-approved venue, a trendy new all-ages club with a reputation for never serving minors, that she send hourly check-in texts, and that she arrive home by midnight.
No second locations. She’d agreed, and ignoring a chilly glare from Ami, had slipped out of the apartment and headed to the subway.
Now, her coat was slung over the back of a low, black leather sofa in the side lounge, and she was in the centre of the dance floor with Oliver, oversize metallic heart balloons in reds, whites, and hot pinks gleaming in the LED lights above.
The club, which had once been an auto-body shop tucked away on a narrow cobblestone street, was aptly named Gear.
A blinking neon sign flashed the club’s name from a steel-framed window near the entrance, and a classic 1968 Chevy Impala had been raised on a lift over the bar, paying homage to the building’s former life.
Everything else about the space was slick and new.
High ceilings, sleek beams and a state-of-the art lighting system synced up to the DJ booth.
A projection wall displayed a cheeky selection of visuals on a loop: candy hearts, LOVE and KISS in bright neon scrawls and silhouettes of couples dancing.
It was, in short, nowhere any of Prescott’s old money elite would be caught dead, and therefore a perfect spot to cut loose with Oliver.
‘Where’s Gemma?’ Hannah shouted into his ear when they’d been dancing long enough for her legs to begin to ache. Her voice carried above the Drake chart topper pumping from the speakers. ‘I thought she was coming out!’
Oliver made a face she’d once seen mirrored on her two-year-old cousin while upending a bowl of spinach onto the floor. ‘Oh, she’s out… just not at Gear.’
Hannah pulled a hair tie from her wrist and tugged her sweaty curls into a ponytail. ‘What does that mean?’
He gestured to an empty patch of wall, and Hannah turned to follow. It was still loud, but they were no longer directly beneath the speakers.
‘It’s whatever. She found friends at her new school. Blah blah.’
‘Oh.’ So Oliver was jealous. It was hard to blame him; he didn’t have a lot of close friends at Prescott, and Gemma’s departure had hit him hard.
He’d confided in Hannah more than once that he felt guilty, like he should have done more to push back against Madison and all the haters.
But Oliver knew as well as anyone else that there was no winning against Madison DuPont.
Once those photos leaked on The Upper Edge, Gemma had been a dead woman walking.
‘I mean, I’m happy for her. She deserves better friends.’ He took off his glasses, chunky two-tone frames, and swiped at his eyes, clearing away either tears or sweat or both. The glasses were new; he had so many pairs Hannah had lost track.
She put her hand on his other shoulder. ‘You’re a good friend. I’m sure she isn’t intentionally ditching us tonight. I’m glad she’s finding her people or whatever.’
‘Totally.’ He straightened up. ‘Let’s get back out there.’
For the next hour solid, Hannah and Oliver danced.
The Weeknd, Rihanna, Bruno Mars. When Hannah could no longer feel her feet, she left for a bottle of water and the bathroom.
When she came back, Oliver was attached at the lips to a pretty brunette in a tight red minidress.
For a moment, she stood awkwardly against the wall, watching her friend dance and make out with the mystery girl.
Now she did wish Gemma had come. Oliver deserved his fun, but Hannah didn’t want to dance by herself.
A minute became ten, and Oliver and red minidress still hadn’t detached. Hannah scrolled on her phone, then zoned out watching the projection wall. The sixth time LOVE and KISS came up, she blinked hard, then shot Oliver a text. Time for her to go.
She ducked into the side lounge in search of her coat, then she was outside again, the night air biting her cheeks.
Her curfew was over an hour from now, and home was only twenty minutes away.
But she’d promised Dad and Yoko she’d head straight home.
No second locations. She shoved her hands into her pockets, in search of her gloves.
Then, she started across the street, in the direction of the subway, scuffing her boots against the cobblestones.
Where else was she going to go anyway, alone and under twenty-one?
Halfway to the train, the doors opened at the club across the street, and Bruno and Ethan spilled out onto the sidewalk, laughing and holding hands.
Bruno wore tightly fitted jeans and a snug tank-top; Ethan was outfitted in a combination of pleather and mesh.
Both boys had their coats draped over their arms, despite the cold.
Hannah’s eyes widened. She was used to seeing them in their Prescott uniforms, usually attached at the hip to Madison or running one of her errands.
She felt like she was catching a glimpse into their post-Prescott lives. They looked happy.
‘Coffee, now,’ she heard Ethan say. He began tugging Bruno up the sidewalk.
Hannah hesitated, overcome by the urge to follow them. It was a bit of a risk – if they saw her, they might rat her out to Madison – but she was curious about what Madison’s disciples got up to when not trailing after her or otherwise doing her bidding.
She glanced at her phone. She had time. And she’d texted her dad just ten minutes ago.
If she was lucky, her parents wouldn’t track her location for at least the next few minutes.
When the rush of cars and taxis had passed, she crossed the street.
Ethan and Bruno were a block ahead, and she hurried after them.
Soon, she was close enough to catch a snippet of their conversation.
‘… such a cunt lately. Like, a cunt with a nasty yeast infection.’
Her jaw hinged open. Ethan could be cutting, but she’d never heard anything like that come out of his mouth.
‘And still wearing yesterday’s panties,’ Bruno added.
She slowed her pace, staying just close enough that she could keep eavesdropping. Were they talking about her? Because she’d turned down Madison’s invitation after Bruno had urged her to go? Her throat felt tight.
‘It’s out of control,’ Ethan said. ‘Even for Madison.’
Oh. Hannah relaxed. Not her, then. But… she’d thought Bruno and Ethan worshiped Madison. Clearly, things were a touch more complicated.
‘She’s like a fucking slave driver. I’m so over it.’
‘Bruno. You can’t say that.’ Ethan gave his boyfriend a little shove.
‘Whatever. You know it’s true. And it’s been worse than ever this year. Ever since Hannah and Ami got here.’
Her step faltered.
‘I wish they’d go back to Plattsburgh,’ Ethan said.
‘Pittsburgh.’
‘Whatever.’ Ethan threw up his hands. ‘I mean, they’re fine, no offense to the Millers. But they’re like dolls to Madison and Elle, and it’s only gotten worse. The queens of Prescott are constantly on the warpath, and who catches Madison’s worst moods? Us. I’m so over it.’
‘Girl, same.’ Bruno hooked his arm through the crook of Ethan’s elbow. ‘Madison is way out of control. Organising this whole fucking singles party “for Elle” but really so she can remind everyone that Elle and Theo are done. It’s cruel.’
Ethan’s shoulders went up and down. ‘She’s cruel. But what are we supposed to do? Stage a rebellion? Slit her throat?’
Bruno laughed, a harsh barking sound. ‘That’s morbid as fuck.’
‘Really, though.’ Ethan’s voice was serious now. ‘How would you do it?’
Bruno’s pace slowed, then he stopped walking altogether. He turned slowly to face Ethan, who had also halted in the centre of the sidewalk.
‘How would I kill Madison DuPont?’ Bruno asked.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.’
Hannah stepped beneath the green awning of a bodega, out of sight. She wasn’t sure she wanted to keep listening.
‘I’d probably go tyre iron. Or the butt of a pistol.’ Bruno sounded contemplative, his voice soft now. ‘Sometimes, when she’s all up in my face, telling me what a worthless prick I am, I think it would be so fucking satisfying to bash in her pretty little head.’