Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel (7 page)

“Thanks,” I say. “But it’s not me who drew this. I was hoping you might recognize the drawing as a former student’s.”

Robinson chuckles. “I’ve had
many
students over the years, Miss Dowling. I can’t say I can be of much help.”

“Oh…” I trace Eve’s hair. “Well, Matt Weaver was one of the students who had this book before me.”

“Well, then. Isn’t that interesting.” Robinson rubs his chin. “Matthew was very talented.”

“Could he have drawn this?”

Robinson’s face falls. “It’s possible. May I escort you to fourth hour? We don’t want to be late.”

Robinson extends an arm to me. I study his face as we leave the classroom.

He couldn’t be more full of crap if he were constipated. He knows exactly who drew that picture.

*   *   *

Reason number 1 Ms. C is awesome: She hates Mondays as much as we do. Every week, she lets us quietly work on exercises from the textbook. Once we’re done, we can chill and work on whatever we want as long as we’re not obnoxious about it.

I finish my work faster than everyone except Lee Andersen, who is browsing Stanford’s Web site. If that’s where he wants to go to college, I’m totally on board with that, because California is nice and far away from me.

When Ms. C’s back is turned, I send a response to Anthony:

what do you know about Matthew Weaver?

I tuck my phone in my lap, beneath the folds of my skirt, even though I know it’ll probably be another whole day before Anthony bothers to respond, if he responds at all. I have to wonder if he’s making me wait for his responses on purpose.

If this is a game, I’m tired of it. But a part of me hopes it is, because the alternative is that he really doesn’t care that I reached out to him after all.

I let my laptop whir to life and set out to do what I meant to do over a week ago.

I type the first name on my list into Google:
Lawrence Tretter.
The results are as I expected. Larry Tretter is still beefy, sour looking, and living in Wheatley. He’s been the Wheatley crew coach for the past seventeen years. Under his leadership, the team has won six high school championships and various college invitational events.

Thom Ennis is trickier. There are tons of people with the same name in Massachusetts alone. I refine my search terms to include Wheatley School. I get a hit for Thom W. Ennis, attorney at law. He lives and practices in New York City. My brain races, wondering if my father knows of him.

I copy the number for Ennis’s office into my phone before I move on to Travis Shepherd.

Travis Shepherd is important enough to have his own Google bio. I know it’s the same Travis Shepherd as the guy in the photo because the bio has a recent picture of him. He’s striking: brown hair streaked with gray and thick dark eyebrows above brown eyes. And he’s apparently the CEO of Shepherd and McLoughlin Associates.

I almost miss that some of the most popular hits for Shepherd are news stories dated 2008. I peruse some of the headlines:

F
ORTUNE 500 CEO
D
ENIES
A
CCOUNTING
F
RAUD
C
HARGES
A
GAINST
C
OMPANY

I
NSURANCE
B
ROKERAGE
F
IRM
S
ETTLES
$
100M
L
AWSUIT

A
CCOUNTANTS AT
S
HEPHERD AND
M
C
L
OUGHLIN
F
IRED IN
W
AKE OF
S
TATE
D
EPARTMENT
I
NVESTIGATION

Looks like Steven Westbrook isn’t the only Wheatley alum having trouble keeping his nose clean. From what I can tell, Shepherd didn’t know about the alleged accounting fraud until the lawsuit was filed. But something about his smile strikes me as sketchy. Sketchy enough to murder a classmate?—I don’t know.

When I hear Ms. C’s voice behind me, I close my laptop.

“Anne. I have something for you.” She hands me three brochures for colleges: Brown, Wesleyan, Barnard.

I stare at them. “I can’t get into any of these.”

Ms. C just smiles and tucks a strand of penny-colored hair back into her bun. “We’ll see.”

I run my hands over the glossy finish on the Barnard brochure. Last year, a rep from the admissions office came to speak at St. Augustine’s. I was texting back and forth with Chelsea during the presentation. We have special text-notification sounds for each other, and mine is a cow. Anyway, her phone mooed right in the middle of the admission rep’s speech, and I laughed so hard I snorted. Ms. Cavanaugh kicked me out and made me see Headmaster Bailey.

I thought Bailey would find a mooing phone as hilarious as I did, but she wasn’t laughing when I got to her office. Instead, the first thing she said to me was, “Anne, at some point you’re going to realize that the only person standing in your way is you.”

I think I understand what she meant, now.

*   *   *

Cole, Brent, and Murali are hanging outside the athletic building when I get out of my last class. They all have final-period athletics together, during which they get special access to the rowing equipment. The rest of us have to take a sport that’s not really a sport, like squash or dance.

Phil isn’t with them. The looks on their faces tell me I don’t want to go there, though. When they see me, Brent smiles, but I get the feeling it’s only for my benefit.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Brent says, ignoring the way Cole’s eyes are probing him. “Coach was just a little rough on us today.”

I can’t help but look through the doors of the athletic facility. It’s a newer building, with clean locker rooms and a pool we’re allowed to use when the swimming team isn’t using it. I’ve only ever been on the girls’ side, where the dance studio is.

It’s possible Larry Tretter is still in the building.

“Hey, I left my bag in there after dance today,” I say. “I’ll meet you guys in the Amherst lounge to study for Matthews’s history exam in fifteen?”

Cole grunts in approval, and Murali blathers on about how it’s not fair we’re being tested on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict since we wrote an essay on it two weeks ago. They start heading for the dorms, but Brent hangs behind.

“You have dance class on Tuesdays,” he says.

Fricking frick.

“I left it there Thursday. I just remembered now ’cause I have class tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Brent’s eyes are focused on a point beyond me as he leans in and kisses my cheek. “I’ll see you in a few, I guess.”

I’m completely stunned that he
I-guessed
me. I mean,
I guess
isn’t that bad in itself, but it’s a sign that next time I’m going to get a
Do what you want.
Or even worse:
Whatever.

For a split second, I consider forgetting the whole thing and going with Brent. I hate keeping things from him. But I can’t let the Matt Weaver thing go until I know his dad wasn’t involved. And telling Brent about the photo is
not
an option.

There are a couple of stragglers leaving the boys’ locker room. A few of them wave to me on their way out, even though I can’t remember or don’t know their names. The girls’ locker room is at the end of the hall. I study the plaques and pennants on the walls as I amble down there.

I stop in front of a trophy case with two bronze oars crossed over the top. There are lots of championship trophies inside, but the one on the center shelf catches my eye. There’s a photo beneath it of the crew team gathered around the trophy.

In minuscule letters, the words
IN LOVING MEMORY OF MATTHEW WEAVER
are etched into the frame.

I turn my head to the office next to the trophy case.
ROWING
, the inscription on the door says. It’s cracked open just enough for me to see inside.

Larry Tretter is a carbon copy of his photo on the athletics Web site, down to his maroon Wheatley crew T-shirt. A tall blond guy with ridiculously good hair sits across his desk, his back to me.

“Heyward looks pretty good so far,” the guy says. “The freshman.”

Tretter grunts in response. “Lazy. They all are. It’ll be a goddamn miracle if we make it to the semifinals after you all graduate.”

“They just need to be scared, that’s all.” The blond guy leans back in his chair and lowers his voice. “That’s what The Drop’s for.”

Tretter’s enormous cheeks flood with color. “You know you can’t talk to me about that shit, kid.”

The guy snorts. “Fine. If someone were trying to scare the shit out of them, there’s The Drop. Hypothetically.”

“It’s not a joke.” Tretter’s hand comes down on his desk so hard it rattles whatever is in his drawers. I jump a little, but the guy seems unfazed. “People have gotten hurt. What’s your father told you about it?”

“Nothing.” It’s just one word, but he says it so snottily, I can tell there are a million Daddy Issues hidden underneath.

Tretter pushes himself away from his desk and stands up. The guy follows suit.

“I can’t know about what you guys are doing. I don’t want to see it, smell it, or hear about it. Got it?”

The guy smirks and gives Tretter a two-finger salute. I can see his face now. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him hanging around Justin Wyckoff, Kelsey’s ex-boyfriend. Justin is a senior who carries himself with the smugness of a guy who is content with being a Hollister model and living off his trust fund for the rest of his life.

“Shep,” Tretter says. “Don’t be stupid.”

I don’t catch the expression on Shep’s face, because I’m trying to get the hell out of there before they realize I was listening. I’m halfway down the hall when the guy calls, “Hey.”

I stop and let him catch up to me, furiously applying rosebud salve to my lips.

“I don’t think we’ve officially met.” He extends his hand to me. It’s nonthreatening enough, but I don’t trust him. “You’re Anne Dowling.”

“In the flesh.” I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you…”

“Casey Shepherd,” he says. “But everyone calls me Shep.”

CHAPTER

EIGHT

I see Casey Shepherd again that evening in the dining hall at a table of seniors. The only ones I know by name are Justin, Bea Hartley, and Vera Cassidy. Bea Hartley is Casey’s stuck-up girlfriend. She and Vera live on the floor above me. They’re the type of girls who never sneak out or party—at least on campus—because they’re so involved with saving orphans and polar bears so the Ivies will be impressed.

Casey catches me watching him and waves with two fingers. I can’t help the tiny bit of flush that creeps into my cheeks. I mean, I can tell Casey Shepherd is a yuppie brat, but he’s a really good-looking yuppie brat.

I decide to track down Kelsey. She dated Justin, so she can probably tell me more about Casey.

I find her on the all-day omelet-station line, examining her split ends. In her black velvet headband with the bow on the side, she looks so innocent that I’m overcome with jealousy. I remember when the hardest decision in my daily life was whether or not to get a haircut.

“Hey.” She scoots over so I can stand next to her on the line.

“So I think I made a new friend today,” I tell her.

“Really? Who?”

“Casey Shepherd.”

We inch up the line. “Oh. Shep.”

I can’t tell if it’s a bad
Oh. Shep
or a good
Oh. Shep
. “He seems nice.”

Kelsey gives a half nod. “He’s from, like, the richest family in Massachusetts. His dad owns a huge brokerage firm.”

So Casey is Travis Shepherd’s son, like I suspected. “Wow.”

“I mean, he’s nice,” Kelsey says. “But he dates Bea Hartley, who’s totally stuck up. But in like a sneaky way, you know? Whenever I hung out with Justin, she and Vera were always around, saying stuff like ‘Oh, Kelsey, you’re from Berkshire County? That’s so
cute.
’”

I glance over at Bea Hartley. She’s wearing the unofficial Wheatley casual uniform: a J.Crew cardigan, jeans, and pearl earrings. Her long brown hair falls across her profile as she leans in to Vera, a tall girl with deep skin and curly black hair. They laugh together in a way that makes you feel like you’re not smart enough to be in on the joke.

“So Cole asked me to the formal,” Kelsey blurts.

I swing my head back to her. “What?”

“He said he was thinking we should go together.” Kelsey shrugs.

“And you said…”

“I said yes.” There’s a silent
but
at the end of her words.

“You don’t want to go with him?” I ask.

“No, of course I do.” Kelsey’s cheeks flush. “I just feel like … maybe he asked me to get Remy pissed. They usually go together.”

“Why do you always think like that, Kels? You’re gorgeous and funny. He probably just wants to go with you.”

A smile quivers on Kelsey’s lips, and I hope for her sake I’m right.

*   *   *

The next morning, I call Thom Ennis’s office.

“Ennis and Cameron Associates.”

“Hi. I’m looking for Mr. Ennis.”

“This is his assistant,” the clipped voice says. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’m a student at the Wheatley School,” I say. “I’m writing an article for the newspaper on notable alumni, and I wanted to see if Mr. Ennis would be interested in being interviewed.”

“I’ll leave him a message. What did you say your name was?”

“Chelsea,” I say. “Chelsea Brady.”

The assistant takes my number and hangs up.

*   *   *

I find myself flipping through Matt Weaver’s Brit-lit textbook—
my
Brit-lit textbook—during art history this morning. If Matt’s drawing of himself as Adam is a clue about the events leading up to his disappearance, maybe there’s something else hidden in the pages.

It turns out there’s not much else in his handwriting. A few of the other owners of the book highlighted some passages here and there. (By the way, huge pet peeve of mine
=
highlighters. They stain your hands, and they’re neon. I hate neon.)