Prep School Experiment (10 page)

Friends? Oh no., She barely knew him.

Grandmother touched his arm. “You have any questions?”

He kept pace with her as Grandfather led the way. “What do you do when you see someone who dissed you?”

She blinked. A small frown formed on her powdered forehead and then smoothed out. She pointed to the stone Shay Academy sign over the entrance. “Tilt your chin high enough so you can see your name on the plaque over the building. Lose any expression that doesn’t connote superiority and walk on by.”

She was a kick.

Grandfather hung back. “That’s what your British ancestors did. It’s called the cut-direct. And if your name’s not on the building, you eye a wall where you’ll place it when you take over.”

Rhys nodded, loving how they thought. Their tutelage these last few days had been enlightening. On the nature versus nurture debate, he now flew toward nature. He got these people in a way he’d never gotten Mom or life at the trailer park. It wasn’t even the money. If these people were dirt poor, they’d still think the same way, a way he understood.

Red leaves blew across his path and Rhys’ Italian leather loafers stepped through them while his mind filtered around their words. He clenched his fists, hoping to keep it together. He responded to the least challenging bit. “We’re British? I kind of always liked being Polish.”

“You’re an American.” Grandfather paused on the final step. “Don’t let them see your clenched fists. Your father does that. Dead giveaway on nerves. Put your hands behind your back.” He demonstrated. “That’s what they trained your father to do.”

Father? No one had ever described any action of his as like his father’s before this moment because
Mom
had never known who he was. He oddly liked it.

“Worst case: cross your arms over your chest, or around your books. Last choice: put them in your pockets.”

“Not in your pockets,” Grandmother said. “That looks like you have something to hide.”

No problem there. Hands in his pockets? He’d never do that—too slow in a fight. Behind his back could give momentum to a swing and around his books would give weight to a punch. Either would work. He nodded and crossed the threshold. He was ready.

***

As uncool as it was, Rhys watched his grandparents leave before heading back down the hallway, class assignment in hand.

The corridor was empty, except for a lanky guy leaning against the nearest set of lockers. Rhys wondered if this school had a New Kid buddy program like good old Trallwyn High. From the guy’s insolent expression, he didn’t think that was where this encounter was headed.

“So a bastard finally fell out of the Brentwood basket. Bet it sticks it to the Shays to send a Brentwood bastard to
their
academy.”

Rhys the bastard. Grandmother. Red haze.

He shot his fist out, without further thought and popped the guy, shutting down his drawn-out words. Rhys registered the sting against his knuckles with a touch of annoyance.

First damn day.

The other guy didn’t move to hit him back. His expression was total surprise, stark as the red blood blooming against the corner of his privileged mouth.

Rhys readied for his counter move.

The other guy laughed. “Thayer Estridge,” he said and held out a hand.

Rhys stared at him.

Behind the guy, the principal leaned out of his office, looking right at them.

Damn school must have cameras.

The principal made an over here, now, motion with his hand. “Rhys Brentwood. Thayer Estridge. My office. Now.”

Rhys let the other guy, Thayer, lead the way so he wouldn’t try a sucker punch. Once they crossed the threshold, Rhys slumped into the wooden chairs nearest the doorway.

This would take a while.

The principal took his seat behind the desk. He propped his elbows on the surface and pressed his fingertips together. “Who’d like to explain what happened?”

Rhys stayed silent. The principal’s office still smelled like the hot tea and coconut cookies he’d served his grandparents. But, this time, there was no offer of refreshments.

The principal gestured to the second chair, and Thayer moved slowly toward it. He sat, leaning slightly forward with a smooth charm and ease that didn’t spring from a childhood spent at the trailer park.

Rhys waited for the B.S. to fly, and wondered if his grandparents had programmed the driver’s phone number into his new smart phone so he could call for a ride back. He sighed. They’d stuffed enough cash into the wallet on his dresser that he could take a cab or learn how to use the subway. Subway and a wad of cash. This probably wouldn’t be his first fight today.

“We were horsing around. Sir, you know how it is.” Thayer wiped at the blood on his mouth with the back of his hand. “Mr. Brentwood meant to miss. Piss poor aim. We’ll work on it.”

The principal appeared relieved for a flash, and then his mouth firmed. “I’m sure you can find a better adjective than “piss.” This is not what we’d expect from a Yale-bound Estridge.”

“You are absolutely right, sir. I meant to say, deplorable aim. Mr. Brentwood has deplorable aim.”

“Yes, well, that’s settled. Shake hands like gentlemen and depart my office.”

No detention. No suspension. No calling Mom, who wouldn’t show anyway.

Mr. Yale-bound Estridge held out his hand. Rhys shook it, and they headed to the door. He didn’t know the rules here.

“Rumors abound about who you are.” Thayer spoke the same way he talked—in a lazy stroll. He drawled out each word with none of the speed Rhys had expected from a New Yorker. Thayer was either a transplant or so weighted down by his money that he expected people to take the time to listen to him.

Money. Enough attitude to get popped on Day One.

Rhys processed what had happened. Either Thayer owned the school or he was an outsider with no friends. As he was bothering with the new kid who was tainted by rumors, it probably meant Thayer was an outsider. Dude had no friends here. Neither did Rhys.

Guys didn’t have the same problem with his being from the wrong side of the tracks or blanket. The girls at Trallwyn had the hang ups, or more likely their parents did. They saw his home on the worst end of the trailer park and envisioned their daughters there, clipping laundry to the line. Guys didn’t tie that shit together the same way and leap ahead a decade.

Thayer watched him carefully. Rhys wondered how long his mind sprint had been this time. Back to the moment. Thayer. Outsider. Attention-seeker. Needs a friend. Rhys clapped him on the shoulder. “You can sit at my table at lunch. I got your six.”

Thayer’s brown eyebrows rose under his perfectly cut brown hair. Rhys recognized the perfect cut because a barber had come to the house yesterday to cut his own hair into a similar style. He’d be back next week to give him a trim. Rich people. Who knew?

A voice boomed over the speakers. “Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Violin Concerto Number Five
in A major.” Strains of a violin followed and the classroom doors opened. Uniformed students buzzed out, escaping the boredom with the same fervor of the Trallwyn High students. Only at Trallwyn, the bell was a strident shriek that featured well in nightmares and awakened you with ease if you fell asleep during class. The music prancing on the overhead now wouldn’t wake up anyone. Rhys figured that they had to get to class before the music stopped—like a fancy cake walk with no prize at the end.

He walked on, though he had no clue where room 223 was located. He had no intention of asking. Thayer kept up with him, and five other perfectly coiffed students joined them. Students who made the same uniform everyone else wore look different, students whose families also had tailors on call.

He’d miscalculated.

Thayer didn’t sit alone at lunch.

Thayer turned to his entourage. “This is Rhys. His family owns the school and half the upper east side.” He turned to Rhys. “This is everybody. They own the rest of the five boroughs. Well, the ones worth having anyway.”

Twin blonde girls assessed him, their gazes lingered on his obscenely expensive, if unnecessary, platinum watch, and his messenger bag, which Grandmother said was just off the Paris runway, whatever that meant. The blondes moved closer with identical sly grins. “Hello,” they said in timed unison.

The three guys following Thayer nodded in an Upper East Side version of “What’s up?”

Regina fell back against the lockers next to Kaitlin’s. Her mouth gaped. “OMG, Kit Kat, In your old Shay Prep uniform, it looks like you grew a foot.”

Six inches.

Even her parents had grown concerned about her growth rate now that she’d reached 5’5.” And
when
were her friends going to ditch the old nickname already? And did they remember it was her birthday?

All her friends had talked about since she returned was how great she looked: slimmed down and taller. They spoke of the changes like she’d been a Norwegian troll before. They spoke of things that didn’t matter at all as if they were the most important things in the world.

Elena probably wouldn’t like them.

Kaitlin wondered if she did anymore either. But it was senior year. She couldn’t switch cliques. That didn’t happen at Shay Prep. Once you were in, you were locked in. A few cliques could go up the ladder and merge with others. But, it was rare and usually involved a team sport. And the bottom of the social pile? Well, anyone could drop there. And if she lost Regina and Raven, that’s where she’d be. Nowhere to eat lunch. No one to text. No life at all.

Raven backed up another step and continued talking in an overloud, dramatic fashion. Kaitlin could see what she was doing. One more step, and she’d be near the Shay Crew lunch table, close enough for any outsider to wonder if she belonged there. Raven was fooling herself. Their clique was a good five rungs below that select group of moneyed New Yorkers—the kind of people who thought it was admirable that her parents, both doctors, were
in the service industry
.

Kaitlin sighed. Her parents would love for her to hang out with the jaded, sophisticated, upper echelon—nicknamed the Shay Crew. No one climbed higher. Her friends would love it too. None of them saw that it would never happen.

How many months until graduation?

“What an expression. Meow, meow, Kit Kat. What are you thinking about?” Raven asked.

“Get the laser pointer out. Make her focus,” Regina said, and Raven laughed.

She’d been friends with these girls since her first year at Shay Prep, before she’d spent a year abroad. Then, she’d returned and had a certain cachet from living overseas, so they’d taken her back into their group. Then, this year, she’d been so happy to go off to boarding school in Alaska. The whole experience had held incredible highs and lows.

She shook off thoughts of The Scientist and his experimental drug and focused on the highs. She’d made real friends with Elena and Geneva. And then there was Rhys.

Rhys.

She hadn’t even been allowed to say goodbye to him. Her parents had rushed her off so fast. She’d sent a number of emails both to Elena and to Rhys. No answers yet. But, hopefully, when the erratic messaging system got fixed, she’d get flooded with responses.

After school, she’d also spent time searching for Geneva’s family in Seattle. She’d sent off a couple of emails there and hoped she’d connect with her soon.

When she didn’t answer Raven’s question, Raven ripped open a bag of lemon drops with fingernails painted the same green, black, and white plaid as their Shay Academy pleated skirts. She offered the lemon drops to Kaitlin and Regina. “And the boys? You totally ignored all our emails and told us nothing.”

Kaitlin took one of the hard candies. She knew she had to give her friends something because she had nothing to say in any other arena that fascinated them. She had no idea Who Wore It Best and wasn’t in on the latest school gossip—who the Shay Crew twins were dating, who Thayer Estridge looked twice at. She was so far out of the loop that she had no idea how to jump back in. “There was this one guy.” She sucked on the sweet-tart lemon candy.

Raven and Regina stopped checking out the crowd and focused on her. “Tell,” Raven said.

“Rhys Zukowski.” Saying his name made her smile.

“Zukowski?” Regina shook her head. “I don’t know them. What are they in?”

What? No clue. “I don’t know. But, he was gorgeous. Sandy hair. Green eyes. Tall.”

“Ooh, Rhys’s Pieces and Kit Kat. Nice,” Raven said. “Did you kiss him?”

No.

“Lots. He
was
my boyfriend.”

She’d wanted him to be her soul mate. She hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.

“Nice.”

Regina arched a dark eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah. We kissed lots.”

“Hot.”

“Yeah.” Through the rush of the crowd she saw him, as if by the act of talking about him she’d called him forth.
Rhys!
She blinked and moved past her friends.
Rhys Zukowsk
i.
Rhys. Her Rhys.
Excitement rushed under her skin. No way.
Rhys
?
Here in New York.

He’d almost passed her locker, and she moved into the middle of the crowd to get in front of him. “Rhys. Rhys. Hi.”

Rhys looked straight through her.

“It’s me. Kaitlin.”

His ocean green eyes stared directly at her. “Do I know you?” His tone said he didn’t. He tilted his chin and moved on.

The incongruity of his Texas accent paired with Manhattan Prep School tailoring and cold attitude threw her. Her jaw dropped, and she stood there while students brushed past her like she was a statue in the square. It was one of the oddest things that had happened to her—and a lot of really strange things had happened this semester.

Had the vitamins affected his memory? How was he here? What was he doing here?

Maybe it was her eyesight. Maybe she wanted him to be here so badly that she’d imagined him. She blinked and stared at his back as he walked off. He stopped at the cross corridor and looked back at her. Dead at her. His green eyes flashed with a feral light. Oh, he recognized her all right.