Hurry up, Dylan,” Piper Taylor ordered as she marched on her four-inch stilettos toward the main door of St. Cecilia’s School. She didn’t have time for her daughter’s moods today. Not only was it disgraceful that Dylan had purposely missed her flight from New York and made them all a day late; it was also embarrassing. Piper had had to make a huge donation to the school in order to get Dylan in at such short notice, and now it looked like they were vulgar Americans who didn’t give a rat’s ass about punctuality.
“And when are you going to stop sulking?” she called, turning back around. “It’s all you’ve been doing since you got to London.”
“Okay, Mom. Give me a break.” Dylan Taylor slammed the car door extra loudly. Gazing up at the grand old red-brick building where they’d just arrived, she frowned. Ivy trailed heavily down the front and sides. Big round towers with pointed roofs rose up into the empty blue sky at either end. Lines of blank windows gaped down at her, and Dylan’s heart sank. Was her mother serious? Was she really forcing her to go to school in this… prison? Dylan was used to having the whole of New York City throbbing at her feet: friends, taxis, her family’s apartment on Park Avenue.
Her first view here only confirmed what she’d always known: she was going to hate St. Cecilia’s. It looked like the kind of place where nothing ever happened—at all.
“Dilly, come on,” Dylan’s mother snapped again. “The headmistress is waiting. Ouch!” she squealed, as the man next to her pulled her in close and grabbed her behind. “Oh, Victor,” she giggled, rubbing up against him.
Vomit, thought Dylan. Damn Victor Dalgleish. She still didn’t get what her mother saw in him. He might be a TV personality, but he was also a sleazy creep. Receding hairline? Check. Oily skin? Check. Those hideous sideburns that curled into his ears and looked like he hadn’t washed them for weeks? Check, check, check.
Besides, Dylan brooded, stomping up the path after them, if it weren’t for Victor none of them would be here in the first place. She thought back to four months ago, when her mother first met him at that party in New York. People had talked about their flirtation, of course, the way they talked about everything else—but most of their acquaintances had just written it off as one of those social things.
Then Dylan’s mother had started spending less and less time at home. Finally, one terrible Sunday, she had announced that she was throwing in the towel on eighteen years of marriage, packing up her life, and following Victor across the Atlantic. Talk about selfish. Now she had dragged Dylan and her sister, Lauren, over with her. Made them leave everything they knew and loved and valued behind. Lauren at least was allowed to go to a day school in London, whereas their mom was making her come here. “You’ll meet all the right people, sweetie,” she’d insisted. “It’s your way into society.”
Whatever.
Dylan was walking very fast. Suddenly she tripped and lurched forward on the wide, shallow stairs at the front of the school. Fuck. She felt tears pricking up behind her eyes. No. Digging her nails into her palms, she took a deep breath, and strode on inside.
“Don’t walk on the grass,” instructed Miss Sharkreve. The teacher had introduced herself about five minutes before as the Junior Housemistress, and was now leading Dylan briskly through a beautiful old courtyard.
“This is Quad,” she elaborated. “It’s the oldest and most formal part of St Cecilia’s.”
“Nice,” Dylan mumbled. Miss Sharkreve was kind of pretty for a teacher. She was young and voluptuous with long, wispy hair and watery blue eyes in a smooth, freckled face. “So, um, why can’t I walk on the grass? Are you watering it or something?”
Miss Sharkreve wheeled round, looking shocked that anyone could be so dumb. “No! Because only teachers may set foot on it. It’s a privilege. Otherwise the courtyard would be ruined, now wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose,” Dylan said. She was silent for a few seconds. “What about the cooks and janitors and stuff?”
“What about them?”
“Well, are they allowed to walk on the grass?”
“Of course not. They’re not teachers. Everyone else has got to walk round the edge.”
Talk about equal opportunities. Dylan stopped a minute to heave her hand luggage onto her other shoulder. This place was clearly stuck in the Victorian times and she was going to have to get to grips with the rules, fast.
They passed through a stone archway at the back of Quad, into a lush expanse of lawn dotted with trees and bushes and crisscrossed with unpaved paths. Clusters of students lay around with books spread out before them, and in one corner, a circle had gathered for a sunny morning lesson.
Miss Sharkreve strode even faster than before. “You’ll find your way round soon enough,” she declared. “That’s the theater. Science buildings. Art block. Riding stables. Lacrosse fields. Netball courts. Tennis—”
“Netball?” Dylan interrupted, grinning widely. “Don’t you mean basketball?” She giggled.
“No. I mean netball,” Miss Sharkreve retorted. “It’s a different sport altogether, much more skillful. None of that silly American dribbling involved. Every English schoolgirl can play it. You’ll have to learn.”
I can’t fucking wait, Dylan thought, rolling her eyes. She sneaked glances at the students on the lawn, wondering.…
Butterflies fluttered in her tummy at the thought of trying to join any one of the cliquey-looking groups. She fingered the enamel Hermès cuff bracelet that her best friends in New York had given her as a going-away present just two nights ago.
“Here we are: Tudor House,” Miss Sharkreve said at last, halting in front of a pretty building shaded by an oak tree. “This is where the entire junior class lives. St. Cecilia’s is a very selective school, so there are only thirty-six of you in the year.”
“Umm, cool,” Dylan nodded. Miss Sharkreve seemed to be waiting for her to make some other comment. She scrambled around for one. “So… do we get en suite bathrooms?”
The teacher gave her an indignant look. “En suite bathrooms?”
“Umm, yeah.”
“Of course you bloody well don’t,” Miss Sharkreve muttered. She didn’t mind if she did swear in the face of such stupid questions. She led Dylan past a cheery living room and kitchen and up a flight of stairs, at the top of which was a hallway lined with wooden doors. Most of them were plastered with photo-collages of girls hugging each other and dancing and playing sports.
“This is your room,” she said, stopping in front of one. It was already covered in pictures, even though school had only started yesterday. Most of them showed an Indian girl in front of a lavish palace that looked a bit like the Taj Mahal. “I’ll leave you to get settled in.”
“Thanks,” Dylan said quietly. She watched the teacher’s back recede down the corridor, feeling a hard bubble of emptiness expand inside her chest.
Well, here goes. She pushed open the door and stepped into the room. Immediately, a sickly stench of musk and amber invaded her nostrils. Repulsive. Whoever lived here was using way too much perfume. What were they trying to hide? Dylan sized the place up. The big window on the far wall had bright yellow curtains, and the light wood furniture looked new enough. She and her roommate each had a bed with drawers built in underneath, a night table and lamp, a bureau, an armchair, and a desk. There was even a sink in one corner, with a mirror nailed above it. Not exactly the Four Seasons, but still. Maybe there was something to be said for not having to live with her mother and that hideous man.
Dylan’s roommate had already made herself at home. A few reed mats were tossed across the gray regulation carpet. They looked like the kind of thing you might buy when you go traveling in Cambodia or something. Bunches of necklaces, gold and beaded, hung from random hooks and nails around the walls. The bed farthest from the door—obviously the best one—was covered in a purple and gold sari-style duvet, piled with plump cushions embroidered with expensive threads.
Dylan noticed a jumble of clothes hurled across the other bed as well. Wonderful. Was that supposed to be some kind of subtle message? Screw you if you think we’re going to share.
She sank down onto the purple bed and stared longingly at her phone. Still no text from Tristan. He must not have got her message from last night. Maybe his cell phone was broken. Wait, she’d better learn to start calling it a mobile phone instead. Tristan had always teased her about that in East Hampton over the summer. Suddenly it didn’t seem so funny though. How was she ever going to fit in over here?
Absently, Dylan picked up a stack of photographs lying next to her hand. A little spying might give her a head start.
The top picture showed four impeccably stylish girls drinking out of steaming mugs in the Alps or somewhere like that. Dylan had never been to the Alps, but she guessed that was where it was from the wooden beams in the café and the sharp, white peaks in the background. She examined their faces. They didn’t look anything like her friends back home; they seemed older for some reason. More sophisticated.
One of them looked especially intimidating: a flat-chested brunette. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but was very striking. She had a figure like a model, with the kind of collarbone that juts out dramatically, and razor-sharp cheeks. Her hair was pulled back tight and all her attention was focused on pouting into the camera. But her eyes… There was something sort of vindictive about them, as if they concealed a poisonous snake, waiting to fly out and strike. Watch out.
Dylan flicked on through the pile. More pictures of the skiing trip. A load of party shots. Drinking, dancing. Boys wrestling each other in the snow, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and suspenders and socks pulled up to their knees. Dylan had thought the English were supposed to be proper and uptight, but these people looked exactly the opposite.
Wait! Suddenly, a familiar face stared out at her from the stack. It couldn’t be… yes, it was. Tristan!
Her heart was galloping. Maybe things weren’t going to be so terrible at St. Cecilia’s, after all.
She’d obviously landed in the right place.
“He’s just such a fucking bastard!” Alice exclaimed angrily to Sonia Khan as the two girls walked back to Tudor House during Break. Alice had stormed out of English as soon as the bell rang and had run to find Sonia in the science wing. She was still seething about Mr. Logan. “Why the hell didn’t Tally take my side?”
Sonia nodded sympathetically and slipped her arm through her friend’s. Girls were milling all around them, rushing off to get books, or heading to the cafeteria for a snack, or sneaking off for a quick cigarette in the bushes. She didn’t want to look around too much in case Alice thought she wasn’t paying enough attention, but she hoped people were watching them. Sonia loved it when she had visible proof of how close she and Alice Rochester were. Besides, she knew she looked so much prettier now, after Dr. Essex had stuck her under the anesthetic last month and sculpted her horrendously massive nose into a pert, curving slope.
“Well, we all know what Tally’s like,” she said, trying to control her voice from sounding too obviously bitchy. Alice had a good ear for things that were over-the-top. “She always fawns over older men. How old is Mr. Logan?”
“Who gives a shit?” Alice replied irritably. “The point is, she shouldn’t have been taken in by him. I mean,” she said, her voice suddenly turning into a feel-sorry-for-me whine, “he was so beastly to me. I didn’t even do anything. I’m really pissed off at Tally. She should have backed me up.”
Sonia was just formulating the perfect appeasing answer, when the two girls stopped short. They had reached their hallway, and the doorway to Sonia’s room was wide open. There was a massive green suitcase outside.
“Ali,” Sonia said, her big brown eyes widening. “Do you think that’s…”
“Shut up,” Alice whispered, snatching her arm away from Sonia’s grasp. That girl could be such a moron sometimes. She wished she had Mimah around to help her strategize. Shame Mimah had been designated damaged goods.
Alice tiptoed up to the doorway of the room and peeked in.
A blond girl was lounging across that tacky duvet cover that Sonia had brought back from her trip home to India. She had huge breasts and a glowing suntan, Alice noted, glaring. But her uniform looked new and stiff, and unlike any of the cool girls, she was already wearing the winter version. She was clutching a picture in her hand, gazing into space with a stupid dreamy smile on her lips.
She’s thinking about him. Alice stared for a minute, then turned to Sonia again.
“Why the fuck is she on your bed looking through your stuff?” she whispered. “Is she brain-dead?”
“Obviously,” Sonia giggled, with her hand over her mouth. “I’ll bet that’s why T dumped her. She’s a kleptomaniac!”
Both girls snickered.
“But seriously.” Alice suddenly fixed her eyes on her friend and switched off her smile. “Remember what we talked about last night. You know what to do.”
Sonia nodded significantly.
Footsteps clicked in the hallway behind them.
“Quick, let’s go, Sharko’s here,” Alice said.
“Oh, Alice, Sonia—hang on a second.” Miss Sharkreve’s voice rang out. “Goodness,” she gasped, batting her hand in front of her face like someone swatting a fly. “That’s very strong perfume, isn’t it?”
Dylan jerked her head around in surprise at the racket. That thin girl from the pictures! She locked eyes with Alice for a split second. The photo of Tristan fluttered to the floor between them.
“This is Dylan Taylor, girls,” Sharko nattered on. “She’s joining us all the way from New York. I’m counting on you to introduce her round and make her feel welcome.”
Dylan saw the two girls exchange glances behind Miss Sharkreve’s back. The skinny girl looked across at her, gave a slight smirk, then turned silently around and left the room.