Private 8 - Revelation (7 page)

Trying to ignore the ever-growing hole in my heart, I swung the door wide and walked inside. The post office was jam-packed with chatting students, the excitement in the air palpable. They were all holding little blue cards and passing them around to check out the names they contained. Everyone was there for the same reason I was: to find out who they would be gifting at the Holiday Dinner.

Steeling myself for another wave of glares, stares, and whispers,

66 I rolled my shoulders back and wove through the crowd. Sudden pockets of silence followed me all the way to my box. I thought back to the way the campus had felt after we had all heard about Thomas's murder last year. How eerie it was, with everyone wondering who among us might be a murderer. But this felt totally different, because this time everyone had already decided it was me. So instead of an eerie vibe, there was more of a growing sense of animosity toward me. A focused, sizzling, unifying hatred--like eventually, these people might organize and decide it was time to take me down.

Let's just say it did not feel good. My face was giving off as much heat as the summer sun, but I managed to shake my hair back and concentrate on opening my mailbox's lock. Sooner or later I would clear my name and these people would all have to apologize for suspecting me. For now it was get in and get out. That was the plan.

Then someone stepped up to a box a few feet away from mine and I could feel whoever it was eyeing me tentatively. Against my own will, I glanced over. It was Marc Alberro. My date for the Billings fundraiser who hadn't spoken to me once since dismissing me that night. He approached me slowly, letting his dark hair fall over his forehead as if he was trying to hide. My heart fluttered with nervousness. Not that I cared all that much what Marc Alberro thought of me, but would this be another public call-out? God, I hoped not.

"Hey, Reed. What's up?" he asked. His tone was conciliatory, which relaxed my tense shoulders a bit.

"Oh, I think we all know what's up," I replied, glancing at a group of girls who were eyeing me nearby. "What's up with you? I thought

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you were never going to speak to me again after the fund-raiser."

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when Marc basically told me to walk away after the Dash video had been zapped to everyone we knew. He was, after all, a decent guy and a member of Easton's Purity Club. A guy like that would definitely not be happy about everyone seeing his date's sloppy hookup with another guy. Another girl's guy, to be exact. I already had two strikes against me, so why was he talking to me now? Wasn't an alleged murder rap strike three?

"Yeah, well, I've thought about it a lot and... when it comes down to it, it's not really my business what you did before we met," he said quietly, leaning back against the wall of P.O. boxes. "It's not even really my business what you've done since."

His words made me feel both chagrined and relieved at the same time. He was telling me he no longer had any interest in going out with me. Which, while it was a rejection, was kind of a welcome rejection. With everything else that was going on right then, the last thing I needed was to navigate the murky waters of a new relationship. Especially one I hadn't been all that into to begin with. Marc was a nice guy and all--smart, cute, funny--but I had never felt that thing you're supposed to feel when you like a guy. That "I might die if I don't see him again before the next class" thing. That thing I always had with Josh.

"So... friends?" I said.

Marc smiled, his whole face lighting up. What? Had he expected me to make a scene? "Friends."

"Cool."

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I smiled, possibly my first real smile of the last two days, and opened my mailbox. Inside was the same little blue card everyone else had received. I pulled it out and flipped it over.

JOSHUA HOLLIS, KETLAR, SENIOR

"You have to be kidding me," I said aloud. Why didn't they just saddle me with Ivy Slade, too? "What? Who'd you get?" Marc asked, leaning over.

I turned the card for him to see and he whistled under his breath.

"Someone in Hell Hall has a twisted sense of humor," he said.

I slammed the tiny metal door shut and stuffed the card into the back pocket of my jeans. "I'm starting to think this entire school has a twisted sense of humor."

Marc glanced at our gaggle of onlookers. I saw Amberly's two sidekicks checking me out, but they both blushed and looked away the second I caught them, pretending to be absorbed in the new Barneys catalog. "I know what you mean. Come on."

He grabbed my hand and led me through the crowd, cutting a path so I wouldn't have to be there any longer than absolutely necessary. As soon as we were back outside in the cool evening air, I gulped in a deep breath.

"Thanks."

"No problem. I seriously can't believe anyone thinks you would have hurt Cheyenne," Marc said, shaking his head. "I mean, just because a person makes a sex tape, that doesn't mean they're capable of murder."

My face flushed crimson. "I didn't make a sex tape. Someone did that

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without me knowing. And by the way, there was no actual sex involved." "Well, in any case," Marc said as we started across the quad, "I bet there are at least fifty suspects who make more sense than you do. I mean, the girl was always juggling two or three guys at a time. Maybe one of them finally snapped. A crime of passion makes a lot more sense than someone killing for a spot in a dorm."

A warm, tingling rush came over me and I paused. That rush you get when you suddenly realize that someone has said something important. Maybe something they didn't mean to say.

"Wait a minute. How do you know she was juggling several guys at a time?" I asked.

Marc stopped walking, already a couple of feet ahead of me, but it took a second for him to turn around. A long second. Every inch of my skin was on fire. This wasn't the first time Marc had blurted something about Cheyenne that he'd had no real reason for knowing. He had also brought up the whole Cheyenne-drugging-Josh thing a couple of weeks ago.

"Just something I heard," he replied with a shrug, looking me in the eye. His expression bordered on defiant.

"Kind of like everyone's now heard I killed Cheyenne," I said pointedly. "How do you know it wasn't just a rumor?"

"Well, let's just say this one I had on good authority," Marc replied with a smirk. "Anyway, I should be getting to the paper. I have a couple of stories to polish before we put it to bed."

He turned and speed-walked away so fast, I didn't even have time to formulate another question, let alone a good-bye.

70 NEW HOME

I sat at my desk on Tuesday evening, listening to a Katy Rose CD and rereading the same gossip article about Ivy for the ten millionth time. It didn't matter how many times I Googled her, it was always the same articles. Mentions of her family's philanthropy, her grandmother's long obituary, some old piece about Ivy and her horse winning some random juniors competition years ago. Google wasn't about to explain that photo I had found in Ivy's room. It wasn't about to spit out a video of Ivy killing Cheyenne. All it was going to do was frustrate me.Giving up for now, I slapped the laptop closed and turned around to look at my cavelike room. I hadn't put anything away yet. I think I was hoping that it wasn't real. Or maybe I just wasn't ready to give in. Stashing my clothes in that sad little dresser and tucking my bags under the creaky old bed would be like admitting defeat. But that night, as I looked around the dreary, confining space, I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't live in a bare cell, plucking my clothes out of

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suitcases all wrinkled like some kind of vagabond. It was too depressing. It might just send me over the edge.

Slowly, reluctantly, I pushed myself out of my chair and started to unpack my suitcase. Of course, right on top was the black cashmere sweater Noelle had given me on her return to Easton this fall. Just looking at it made my spirits plummet even further. Maybe this was not the best idea.

There was a quick knock at my door.

"Who is it?" I called out.

"Surprise!"

It was Constance and Sabine, and they had come bearing gifts. "What're you guys doing here?" I asked, still clutching the sweater. I reached over to my CD player and turned the volume almost all the way down.

"You said your room was depressing, so we brought you some things to cheer the place up!" Sabine announced, walking in and placing a mini Christmas tree atop my dresser. She unfurled a bright red woven rug in the center of the floor. It just fit between the bed and the dresser.

"I picked out the posters," Constance said, holding up a cardboard tube. "I remembered you really liked Turner's seascapes in art history last year, so I ordered you a few prints and had them shipped overnight."

"Wow. Thanks, you guys. This is incredible," I said, taking the tube from Constance. Tears of gratitude actually welled in my eyes. They had come at the perfect time. "You didn't have to do this."

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"Yeah, we did. Look at this place," Constance said, holding out both hands. Her face turned bright pink under her freckles. "I mean, not that it's bad. It's not. It's cozy, actually. I- -"

"It's okay, Constance," I said, tossing the tube on my bed. "It's a hole."

"It's not a hole. In fact, I asked Headmaster Cromwell if I could transfer over here so we could be roommates again, but you were right. He wouldn't allow it since it's a single," Sabine said, smoothing out the corners of the rug.

I laughed, touched. "Well, at least you tried."

"Forget moving in here," Constance said, sitting down on my bed, which emitted its signature creak. She dropped her floral Betsey Johnson messenger bag next to her, spilling some of her books and notebooks halfway out. "What we really have to do is get you back into Billings."

"I second that," Sabine said, raising her hand. "But how?"

"Well, I was thinking," Constance said, sitting forward. She pulled her long, red braid over her shoulder and toyed with the piecey end. "You know how everyone who's trying to get into Billings is giving us gifts? Well, Reed, why don't you give Noelle something? Like a peace offering."

"Yes. It would be like telling her you want to start over from scratch," Sabine agreed, her green eyes excited.

"I don't know, you guys," I said, perching on the edge of my chair. "Wouldn't that seem kind of pathetic? And, you know, desperate?"

Constance's face fell into a pout. "I think it would be sweet."

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"Maybe," I said, trying to bolster her. Looking at that face made me feel as if I'd just kicked a puppy. "I'll think about it."

"Good," Constance said. "Because I really think Noelle would respond to something like that."

Yeah. With a marathon laughing fit.

"We should put these up," Sabine suggested, reaching over for the posters. As she opened the tube and started unrolling the prints, I glanced at Constance's things and saw a copy of last week's Easton Chronicle sticking out of her bag. Instantly I thought of Marc and his odd comment earlier.

"Hey, Constance. You knew Marc last year, right?" I asked casually.

"Yeah. We met at the paper. Why?" Constance asked. She sat forward and turned the toes of her D&G sneakers together.

"Did he and Cheyenne ever hang out?" I asked.

"Not really," she said with a thoughtful frown. "But he did do a piece on her."

"He wrote a story about her?" I asked. That was unexpected.

"Yeah. Remember how we used to do that thing where we profiled a different student each week on page two?" Constance said. "I always thought it was kind of lame, so I cut it this year. But Marc wrote the one on Cheyenne."

"Huh. Interesting," I said.

That sort of explained why Marc knew about Cheyenne's love life last year. Although I didn't see her advertising her sexcapades for a puff piece in the Chronicle. Still, if he'd spent time with her, he would have observed some things. Like maybe even her receiving texts from

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the mysterious S.O. But that still didn't explain why he had known that Cheyenne had drugged Josh to get him to hook up with her back in September. I filed all this away to consider again later. "Why are you so interested in Marc and Cheyenne?" Sabine asked, glancing over her shoulder as she held up one of the prints to the wall.

"Oh, no reason," I replied. "He just said something earlier that made me think they knew each other, but I couldn't imagine the two of them hanging out, you know? She'd never have given a guy like him a second glance."

Sabine laughed. "True. She probably would have walked right over him without even noticing." She moved the poster to the small area of wall next to the door and held it up with her arms above her head. "What do we think of this?"

"Looks good to me," I said. I jumped up and grabbed some tape out of my desk drawer. Just as I slammed it, my entire room filled with the sound of Ivy's high-pitched laughter. A cold chill skittered down my spine.

"What was that?" Constance asked, wrinkling her nose.

Sabine's arms dropped along with the poster. "Does Pemberly have an evil ghost?" she joked.

"No, just an evil next-door neighbor," I told them, dropping my voice. "Ivy Slade," I said, tipping my head toward the wall by my bed.

"Ew," Constance said, standing up. "I do not like that girl."

"Join the club," I said quietly.

"She's right next door? What bad luck," Sabine sympathized. 75

I glanced at the wall, the hairs on my neck and arms standing on end. Suddenly I couldn't help wondering whether Ivy could hear what was going on in my room as well as I could hear what was going on in hers.

Maybe it was time for me to start watching what I was saying around here. Just what I needed--to feel even more paranoid in my own room. One more reason to get out of here and back to Billings as quickly as possible. Back to where I belonged.

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***

When I walked out the back door of Pemberly the next morning, my gray cashmere scarf pulled up around my chin, the first thing I saw was a horde of students gathered in the middle of the quad. And at the center of the crowd were Noelle Lange and Amberly Carmichael.