Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel (29 page)

Remy just lies there. Unresponsive. I put a hand on her back to make sure she’s still breathing. She is.

Finally, a muffled sound comes out. She turns on her side and looks at me with red-tinged eyes. “Do you love Brent?”

My insides curl. What does that have to do with anything? “I don’t know, Rem. I was really falling for him. But he’s not who I thought he was.”

Remy wipes her eyes. “None of those stupid guys are. That’s the problem. They tell you you’re the smartest, prettiest girl in school, and the next day they’re back to their girlfriends and you’re just a home-wrecking slut.”

“Do not call yourself that ever again,” I say. “It’s just their word to make us hate one another. And we can’t.”

Remy’s voice is far off. She stares at the opposite side of the room, as if she sees something I can’t. “Alexis was my best friend growing up, but she was so controlling and manipulative. We had to play at
her
house. I had to be the ugly stepsister when we acted out
Cinderella.
Cole was the only thing she wanted and couldn’t get.”

I’ve never heard Remy like this—not bubbly or excitable but monotone, sad. Real.

“You probably think I’m horrible,” she says.

“No. I think you’re more like me than I realized before.”

Remy smiles. “I’ve never had, like, a real girl best friend. Alexis doesn’t count, and Apes and Kelsey are closer to each other. You’re the first person I could see, you know, making a toast at my wedding. It sounds dumb.”

I lie down on the bed next to her. We stare at the black decal of the Eiffel Tower on the ceiling. How did she get it up there?

“So you don’t hate me?” I ask.

Remy links her pinky through mine. “Nope. You really punched Shep for me?”

“And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

*   *   *

When Anthony said we were meeting Dennis somewhere “discreet,” I didn’t imagine the back of his police cruiser, pulled up to a scenic overlook. The Wheatley School is visible in the distance. From far away, it looks much less grand. Like a toy village a kid would play with.

Beside us is a sign that reads
DANGER! NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED UNDER MASSACHUSETTS PENAL CODE.

Anthony was right about Dennis being pissed; he hasn’t said a word to us the entire drive up here. He puts the car in park, reaches under the seat, and emerges with a brown paper bag. I half expect him to take a swig out of it, but instead, he hands it back to me.

“What is this?”

“Open it.” Dennis’s voice is flat.

The bag is heavy. I get a sour taste in my mouth for a minute.
Please don’t be a gun.
I reach in the bag and pull out something that looks like a men’s facial-hair trimmer.

“It’s a Taser,” Dennis says. “Put it back until I show you how to use it.”

“Whoa.” I can barely contain my glee. “I’ve always wanted one of these!”

Dennis turns around and gives me a look that shuts me up instantly. “Sorry, sorry.”

Anthony throws me a dirty look as Dennis gets out of the car. When Anthony and I don’t motion to follow, he sticks his head in the door. “C’mon.”

We follow Dennis to the railing separating us from plunging two hundred feet to our deaths. Beyond the Wheatley School, I see the shape of a cliff over the river. The quarry.

“Before I give you anything, I need you to tell me everything you know about the Matt Weaver case,” Dennis says.

By the time I’m done, Dennis’s expression has darkened.

“It’s like you guys have a freakin’ death wish or something, man.” Dennis runs a hand over his buzz cut. “I can’t even—do you know how stupid it was to get involved in this? Especially after all the attention you guys brought to yourselves a couple months ago.”

I grit my teeth. I don’t need a lecture right now. I need to know whether Dennis can find the man who, after the pepper-spray incident, probably wants to find me and cut up my body into little pieces.

Anthony says as much, ad-libbing with a few choice words. Dennis looks like he wants to hit him. He catches himself and leans against the guardrail.

“JR’s Electric is a real company. Based out of Southie. A few weeks ago, someone robbed the place. Stole some uniforms and cash,” he says. “The cops talked to all the employees, since it looked like the guy knew his way around the alarm system.”

“An employee,” Anthony says.

Dennis nods. “Tom Petrocelli was one of them. I looked him up. Middle-aged guy. Big scar on the side of his head from a surgery a while back.”

“That’s not our guy,” I say. “He was young, like late twenties.”

“What about the other employees?” Anthony asks.

“They all checked out fine,” Dennis says. “But according to the police reports, a few of them mentioned a guy that worked there eight months ago. Sketchy kid. Got fired for lying about having a record. Jeff Kowalski. Couple of petty-theft and assault charges. Mostly bar fights.”

The ground seems to sway beneath me a little bit. I can’t get rid of the image of the guy in my room, trying to crush Anthony’s trachea.

“So what happened with him?” Anthony asks, an edge to his voice as if he’s picturing the same thing.

“Didn’t have enough to hold him, I guess,” Dennis says. “The case is still open, but the guys over in Roxbury are stretched too thin to waste time on a small business robbery.”

“And this Tom Petrocelli guy,” I say, “—he didn’t report his ID stolen or anything?”

Dennis shakes his head. “Not according to the report.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black-and-white mug shot. “Is this the guy that came after you?”

With his thumb, Dennis covers the name on the mug shot. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to influence my answer, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know the guy standing against the wall is Jeff Kowalski. His blond hair is an inch or two shorter than the fake electrician’s, but there’s no mistaking the sharp planes of his jaw and the hollow-looking eyes. The eyes of someone who just doesn’t care about human life. Someone who would stamp it away like a spider under his boot.

“That’s him.” I have to look away.

“What are we gonna do to find him?” Anthony is behind me. He puts a hand on my shoulder.

“
You’re
not doing shit,” Dennis says. “I’ll try and track down Kowalski, and you two please, for the love of God, stay away from this. Pretend you never even
heard
the name Matt Weaver. You’ve already put me in a crappy spot. If they find a body at that house in Brody, I have to act like I didn’t know a damn thing about it.”

Anthony’s eyes flick to the ground. I’ve only seen the look on his face once before: when I confronted him about stealing money from Isabella. Dennis means more to Anthony than I realized, and because of me, they’re both involved in this mess.

“I’m really sorry,” I say, to no one in particular.

Dennis turns to me. Takes me in. I do the same. He can’t be more than twenty-three, twenty-four. He looks like any one of the marines I used to see outside of the recruiting building on Broadway back home, minus the USMC uniform. I have to believe he chose this life, staying in this shitty town, for a reason.

Dennis sighs but gives me a brotherly pat on the shoulder. “Don’t be sorry. C’mon, I better show you how to work that taser so you don’t kill anyone.”

CHAPTER

FORTY

There are no surprises waiting for me back at Amherst. No angry voice mails from my father to suggest he’s heard I punched out a classmate. No security guard to drag me to Goddard’s office and expel me. No ex-cons hiding in my room.

It’s a quiet night, as well. Wheatley lost this afternoon’s race against Downington, so the guys are having a beer-soaked pity party over in Aldridge. Remy, Kelsey, April, and I are in Remy’s dorm, piled onto her bed, watching movies on her mini LCD TV. She’s pushed Alexis’s bed into hers to make a double.

Remy has cracked open the bottle of 2007 Chardonnay she was “saving for a special occasion,” for no reason other than that we all need it. Remy is tired of Cole not speaking to her, and people are calling her a skank, and Kelsey is tired of having to choose between Cole and Remy. April … well, I guess she wants to get out of April-Land for a little while. It’s not that she’s completely vapid—she would just rather live there than in Wheatley-Land most of the time.

I really don’t blame her.

As for me, I need a little liquid assistance with Dennis’s command to forget I ever heard the name Matt Weaver. Especially since I’m now toting around a taser, like I’m in Trenton, New Jersey, and not a small town outside of Cambridge.

The girls are recounting the drama of the race, which includes Cole melting down and screaming at Justin Wyckoff after a disastrous performance in the men’s 8.

“You should have seen it,” April says. “It was hilarious.”

“Well, I doubt I would have been welcome there.” I dip a piece of celery into the container of hummus sitting on top of the latest issue of
Marie Claire.
“By the way, how does Casey’s face look?”

“His nose is swollen and bruised,” Remy says, as if it made her happy to study the damage. “You did a nice job. It was almost as awesome as Mr. Shepherd screaming at Coach Tretter after the race.”

I swallow. Try to forget the sound of Travis Shepherd’s threat in my ear. “He screamed at him?”

“Yeah,” Kelsey jumps in. “You should have seen them nearly going at each other.”

“What were they fighting about?” I ask.

“Probably losing the race,” Remy says. “Men are such babies about that stuff. Mr. Shepherd kept yelling, ‘I told you this would happen!’”

A chill creeps up my spine.

“He’s just pissed because the naval academy recruiters were there to watch Casey,” she adds. “I heard him shout something about ‘that bastard Conroy.’ They’re blaming Brent for choking at the end of the race.”

Kelsey adds her own commentary, but my mind is racing. It’s possible Shepherd wasn’t yelling about Brent but another Conroy: his father. I swallow away a wave of anxiety, thinking the argument might be related to the box and Jeff Kowalski.

“Speak of the devils,” Remy says. She nods to my phone. Murali is calling me, and I hadn’t even heard it ring.

Murali?

There’s arguing and what sounds like a scuffle on his end. “Hello?” I say.

“Anne,” Murali grunts. “You, uh, should come downstairs. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Who?” I say at the same time as I hear Brent’s voice let out a blistering yell.

He’s
singing.

“I am
so
not in the mood for this,” I tell Murali. “But I’ll be right down.”

*   *   *

Murali calls me again when Remy and I get downstairs.

“Outside,” he says. “By the back door.”

There are a few people hanging in the lamplight outside the dorms, along with a few stragglers on the quad. Remy and I turn the corner to the back of Amherst, where Murali is holding Brent by the sleeve of his shirt. Brent is clawing at the air, trying to break away from him.

“What’s wrong with him?” I ask Murali. As soon as I say it, I smell the awful stench: a cross between beer, skunk, and vomit.

“I don’t know,” Murali says. “He was normal until he got a phone call a little while ago. Then he flipped out and started ranting about how he needs to talk to you.”

“I was not
ranting.
Anne.” Brent’s eyes light up when he sees me. Or maybe it’s the fact he is totally, completely, 100 percent
shitfaced.
“I need to talk to you.”

There was a time when I might have found this whole situation slightly adorable. Now I want to slap him. “You
need
to get back to your room.”

“Please.” Brent yanks himself away from Murali and holds his hands up as if he’s surrendering.

“Fine,” I say. “Five minutes.”

“Just you, though.” Brent glares at Murali.

Remy looks at me if she’s about to protest. “It’s okay.” I stare Brent down. “I can handle him.”

Murali walks Remy around to the front lobby, leaving me with Brent. “You have five minutes,” I say. “I’m cold.”

“Don’t be like that,” he slurs. “I came to apologize.”

“For what?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He smiles. “For being me.”

“I have bigger problems to deal with than your existential crisis, Brent.”

“I know. That’s why we broke up, right? You think I’m part of the problem.” His eyes are glassy. “And you’re right. I’m just a fucking monkey in a uniform. That’s all I am to everyone. A GODDAMN MONKEY!” He yells the last part to a pack of freshmen guys walking back to Aldridge.

I grab Brent and pull him to me, so it looks to the casual observer as if we’re embracing. His face is an inch from mine. I wish I could forget the little details of it. The freckle on his lower lip. The way his hairline comes to a point at his forehead. Suddenly I’m back on the floor of the woods with him, my chest pressed to his as he kisses me for the first time.

“Tell me what you want from me,” he pleads. “I’ll be whoever you want me to be, because I’m better with you.”

I want to believe him. I want to believe him so
badly,
’cause up until all this Matt Weaver nonsense, I felt the same way. But I’m also furious that the only times he’s capable of telling me how he feels are when he’s drunk or on the brink of death.

“Funny how you waited ’til you got
obliterated
to tell me this. Come talk to me when you sober up, okay?”

“No, it has to be now.” Brent breaks away from me, swaying slightly. “I have to tell you now that you were right. About everything.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask at the exact moment he trips over his feet. “Brent!”

He looks up at me with bleary eyes as I kneel beside him. “I don’t feel good.”

“What do you mean, I was ‘right about everything’?” I give him a little slap on the face when he closes his eyes.

Voices sound in the distance. Panicked, I think about calling Murali to come help me get Brent inside. Then I remember what Murali said earlier: Brent freaked out about a phone call before he came over here.