Alice waited till the rest of the class had exited the garden, then gathered her things into the boho-chic tote that she and Tally had snapped up on their Saturday-afternoon shopping spree in Harvey Nics. She was doing her best not to freak out. Not visibly at least. Members of the Rochester family never showed weakness. That was why they were so respected in society.
She thought back to the time when her older brother, Dominic, had been suspended from Hasted House and stripped of his position as Head Boy for smoking weed. (In fact, Dom had been the biggest pot dealer at school, but he was too wily to get nabbed for something as serious as that.) Their mother had gone to collect him in the Mercedes, keeping her mouth sealed about the incident all the way back to London, and to this day, no one in the family had ever mentioned what had happened—not even during the week that Dom was home serving out his punishment. He was doing brilliantly now: reading Land Economy in his first term at Edinburgh, keeping at least three girlfriends on the go, and acting as head of Edinburgh’s Hasted House Old Boys Club.
Because that was another thing about Rochesters: They always ended up fine.
Alice looked Mr. Logan in the eye.
“I apologize,” she told him stiffly. “I can do the essay by tomorrow morning. If you like.”
Mr. Logan said nothing, but reached into his forest green canvas bag and drew out a sheet of paper. He held it to his chest so that Alice couldn’t see what was on it, just like a six-year-old who doesn’t want anyone to copy his prep. Lame. Still, Alice could see why people thought he was attractive. Sort of. Up close, he looked much younger than he did at the head of the classroom. The angles of his face hadn’t hardened yet. He had curly brown hair, shiny hazel eyes, full lips, and a little cleft in his chin that could possibly be called cute. But he was so fucking pleased with himself that it canceled everything else out.
“I don’t appreciate you making me look a fool in front of everyone,” Mr. Logan commenced in his deep voice. “Didn’t you listen to Mrs. Traphorn’s address this morning? You should respect me.” He paused, presumably to let that piece of wisdom sink in. “I expect to have your essay on my desk by the end of the week. Meanwhile, I want you to volunteer for something.”
Volunteer! That didn’t sound like detention. Alice had known it all along: He wouldn’t dare.
“Umm, doesn’t volunteer imply that something’s voluntary?” she asked. “Whereas I’d say you’re forcing me into this. Whatever it is.”
The light in Mr. Logan’s eyes wavered. He regarded Alice coldly, giving her upturned mouth, shiny hair, and long legs the onceover. He’d got the lowdown on her in the staff room: father had inherited the family’s immense trading firm, mother came from old nobility. Bunch of toffs, never had to work for anything in their lives.
His gaze was making Alice uncomfortable. She smoothed her skirt, and her silver bracelets jingled on her wrist.
“Nobody’s forcing you,” Mr. Logan said evenly. “You could always choose detention instead.”
“Fine. Do I get to know what I’m volunteering for?”
“Naturally.” Mr. Logan took the sheet of paper away from his chest, leaving Alice to stare at his hideous candy-striped button-down shirt. It looked like something an estate agent from Essex might wear out on the pull. Maybe he’d only been holding the paper there to hide it.
“On Wednesdays,” Mr. Logan explained, “I usually take a group of ninth-grade girls to visit the old people’s center in town, as part of their Duke of Edinburgh Award scheme.”
Alice shrugged. Wednesday was Elective day, when lessons finished after lunch so the girls could practice sports, go on educational outings, or do community service.
“This Wednesday, I’d like you to take them instead.”
“What? Why?” Alice cringed. She hated old people. They smelled like mothballs and they liked dark places. She even hated visiting her grandmother’s estate in Hampshire.
“Why? Because I can’t send them by themselves. And since you’re a junior, you’re allowed to lead an outing. School rules.”
“No, I mean, why can’t you take them?”
“That is a private matter. Let’s just say I have an engagement I can’t miss.”
Alice crossed her arms. This was unbelievable. Not to mention unprofessional. She should really report Mr. Logan. Except she couldn’t, or they’d know that she hadn’t done her essay. It would be like a car thief complaining to the police about another car hitting him from behind. She shut her eyes for a minute.
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Deal.” Mr. Logan handed her the paper. “Here are instructions and a list of students. The school bus will bring you there and back. I’ll let the office know that you so generously offered to help out.” He winked. “Don’t be late.”
They were done. Alice scooped up her handbag and swept out of the garden, stalking past the Chapel to the Great Lawn. When she reached it, she glimpsed, in the distance, Farah and Emilia sitting with someone.
Dylan Taylor. That man-eating bitch. Alice got out her phone. This, at least, was in her control: There was no way she was letting Dylan win.
How about tonight? she replied to Tristan’s text. A drink in town.
Then, hesitating a minute, she added: AR xox.