CHAPTER 3

“Is the bus always this late?” Miles leans past me, peering around the corner. “My schedule says six fifty-eight.”

“I think you’ve just brought up an important philosophical question.” I glance at my cell phone. “Does the term ‘late’ apply when the time reaches six fifty-nine or when it reaches six fifty-eight and one second? Because by my calculations, it’s six fifty-eight and twenty-two seconds…twenty-three…”

“Right. I get it,” he grumbles, still looking around the corner for the yellow school bus. “Punctuality equals not cool.”

I give him a look. “Even the word ‘punctuality’ equals not cool.”

If I thought our last exchange weirded me out, that is no comparison to this conversation. Miles reeked of cool, smooth guy Saturday morning when he was planting his feet beside me, showing off his abs and Spider-Man-climbing my balcony. Now he’s too early, too pressed, too tucked in, and way too combed. He’s wearing the same white school polo and khakis as I am, but the perfect creases down the legs of his pants, the shiny black dress shoes, make his outfit completely different from mine.

All weekend long, I haven’t seen one person besides Miles emerge from the apartment next door. But maybe his mom is in there ironing her life away so he can look like a can of spray starch attacked him on his first day at a new school.

“Right,” Miles says again, this time without sarcasm. Like he’s taking notes. The bus comes thundering around the corner and screeches to a halt in front of us—at sixty fifty-eight and fifty-seven seconds—and Miles gives me a polite smile. “Thank you for reminding me to trust the system.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I laugh. “You won’t ever get that reminder from me.”

I hop on the bus before him and slip into the last seat on the driver side. Miles takes his time walking down the empty aisles—we’re the first stop—until he finally decides to sit beside me. I lean back and look at him. “Seriously? Dude, there’s, like, every other seat to choose from.”

He shoves his backpack—navy blue, of course—between his feet and pulls a folded paper from his pocket. “Yeah, but isn’t it bad for my rep to sit alone?”

“No.” I keep my voice flat. “It’s bad for your rep to have topless girls run out of your apartment.”

Where was his ironing mother when that was going down? At the store buying spray starch?

“I see.” He looks at me, his brown eyes all wide and innocent. “Guess that dirty-laundry thing wasn’t so true?”

That’s right, I had said yesterday that I wasn’t one to judge people by their dirty laundry. Is that his angle this morning? Going from dirty boy to squeaky-clean just in case? Okay, I’m sort of impressed if that’s true. Well done, Miles Beckett. I shake my head and hold out a hand. “Let me see your schedule.”

He hesitates and then finally hands over the now unfolded sheet of paper on his lap. “You think it’s a good idea for me to go out for the football team?”

“When?” I ask, quickly reading over his schedule. AP calc and he’s a junior. Impressive. “Next year? Because they started practice in, like, July or something. Where were you last week, anyway?”

Kinda weird to miss the first week of school.

“Uh,” he says. “Summer camp?”

Why is he asking me? “What kind of camp?”

He shrugs. “Oh, you know, the regular kind.”

“Miles Beckett, calculus extraordinaire. Where are you from?”

“Where am I from?” he repeats. A clear effort to stall. “Well, it’s a small town…”

“In Transylvania?” I suggest because seriously? What’s the big deal, saying where you’re from? That’s never the information I’m reluctant to share, and I’m a professional secret keeper.

“California, actually. A small town outside San Jose.” He leans closer, pretending to study the schedule, but surely an AP calc student would already have it memorized.

“A West Coast guy,” I say as the bus jerks to a stop, sending both of us forward, foreheads slamming the seat back in front of us. “Should be an interesting transition for you. Just don’t say anything about Stanford or the cost of living in California. D.C. people are very proud of their outrageously expensive homes.”

He nods, and I quickly realize he took all that seriously.

Whatever. I can spot a lie a hundred feet away, and it’s clear he’s lying. But I’m not sure exactly what part of his story is false—being from California, summer camp, his brand-new starched-up look.

Two sophomore girls get on the bus. I know of them because they are the notorious, popular volleyball-player type. They both eye Miles, and he surprises me yet again by leaping up from his seat and sticking out a hand to the redhead who stands in front of her friend. “Hi, I’m Miles. Resident new guy.”

The girl stares at his hand, and I’m sure she’s about to laugh in his face, but then her gaze roams up, taking in all of Miles, and she quirks an eyebrow. Instead of laughing, she looks over her shoulder at her friend and clearly mouths, Hotty, then turns to him and shakes hands. “I’m Gabby. And this is Laura.”

“What year are you, Miles?” Laura asks.

“Junior,” he says right away. “I’m seventeen.”

Now that came out much easier than the rest of his story. The girls both look at each other again and giggle. Then Gabby glances my way and says, “Hey, Ellie, how’s it going?”

I’m a little taken aback, but then I realize she’s done this before. And I’ve given her a polite nod and nothing more. Maybe Harper is right. Maybe I do need to up my effort with the kids at school. “Hey, Gabby.”

The bus is back to full speed, so Miles returns to his seat. He looks at me as if to say, How am I doing so far? When I don’t honor him with a response, he eventually asks why there aren’t many kids on the bus.

“Holden Prep costs thirty thousand dollars a year. How many families, paying that much for school, do you think would put their kids on a yellow bus?”

He angles himself to face me. “Probably only the ones not paying thirty thousand a year.”

Aidan had to pull a ton of strings to get me financial aid at Holden. He insisted I go to the best school nearby and also that private schools tended to be more lenient on proper documentation. But the waiting list is long and kids start the application process for East Coast prep schools before middle school. Which makes me wonder about my neighbor beside me… Was he on that waiting list?

“Exactly.” I nod. “Practically everyone in school has a giant house and a personal driver.”

When I started last spring, everyone assumed I had transferred from another fancy prep school. Apparently that can make it easier to get into a school so late in the game. If one top school accepted you then you must be worthy of their school… That’s the mindset, anyway.

“Except us, apparently,” Miles says.

I’m not sure how much I like being lumped in with him. Not after that comment about my freestyle. “Apparently you weren’t studious enough to do your homework on Holden before today. If you had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Believe me, I’m all about homework.”

I laugh. “Well, you’ll fit right in.”

“Right. Because Holden sends fifteen percent of its graduates to Ivy League schools every year,” he says.

“Two gold stars for you.” I give his shoulder a pat. “You memorized the big flashing words from the front page of the school website.”

“I also know the senator from California’s son went to Holden,” Miles adds, and a chill immediately runs through my body. “The kid who killed himself last June? It was all over the news back home.”

It was all over the news here, too. It’s not like I hadn’t expected him to know about Simon. But the way he says it, like a challenge, like he’s asking me personally what I know, it hits a nerve. “Yeah, well, everyone around here is a little bored with that story.”

I unzip my bag and busy myself with my U.S. history book. But I don’t miss Miles stiffen beside me. His expression hard. Almost like it was on Saturday when I made the dirty-laundry comment. Like I’ve offended him, which doesn’t make any sense, considering I’m the one who knew Simon. I’m the one who’s been around for three months dealing with all the questions.

I’m the one who saw him last.

Miles Beckett has no right to come in here and bring the Simon Gilbert gossip mill back to life just because he heard about it on the news. Just because he’s from California—if that’s even true. Simon lived here.

The brakes squeal, and we jerk to a stop. I look out the window and see one of my awesome classmates, Bret Thomas, in a brand-new red Mustang, turning into the parking lot right in front of us. Across the aisle, out the opposite windows, I get a perfect view of a red car taking a sharp turn. I gasp out loud, and several others on the bus do the same. Bret’s car stops a few inches from a girl. She spins around, her eyes wide. Bret lays on the horn until the girl, who stood frozen for several seconds, finally shuffles out of the way.

I clutch my chest with one hand at the same time Miles mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

The bus finally makes the turn into the parking lot and pulls up front. I stand on shaking legs and make my way off the bus. Parked in front of the school is a black town car. An SUV sits in front of it.

Miles exits the bus and walks up behind me while I’m still staring at the town car. “Who’s in the fancy car?”

“You should know him,” I say when I see the tall man with stylishly graying hair exit the car and glance around. “That’s Senator Gilbert.”

Bret Thomas, the guy who nearly committed a hit-and-run in the school parking lot moments ago, walks right up to Senator Gilbert, a grin on his face. They shake hands, and I’m still staring. Awkwardly. I don’t know what I’m feeling, but it’s a lot. Too much. The senator’s head turns, and his gaze freezes on me. For a moment, I’m back at Simon’s house the night of the spring formal, shaking hands with his dad, letting Simon put a flower around my wrist.

I can still smell those pink roses like they are under my nose. My breath catches in my throat. Senator Gilbert lifts his sunglasses, looks right at me, and then looks away. Dismissing me. He slings an arm around Bret’s shoulders and the two of them, followed by an unusually large security team, head inside. It takes every ounce of my energy not to scowl at Bret. Who does he think he is? He didn’t even like Simon.

Gabby walks up to my other side. She’s watching this whole ordeal as closely as I am. “I heard they’re planting a tree for Simon this morning.”

I stare at her. “A tree?”

“Yeah, I know, right?” She shrugs and then walks past me to go in the front doors.

I look to my right, expecting some comment from my new neighbor, especially considering he brought up Simon this morning. But he’s gone. I hadn’t even heard him walking away.

I guess Miles has bigger things to worry about than a guy he didn’t even know. Especially considering it’s his first day of school. I, on the other hand, will probably be distracted all day by the idea of a tree with Simon’s name on it. I stare down the front entrance of the school, and instantly I’m transported to the first time I walked through these doors, the first time I met Simon.

“So I hear you’re my tour guide?” I prompted to the red-haired, freckle-face kid standing outside the office.

“Eleanor?” he asked.

“Ellie.” I nodded down the hall. “And you are?”

“Simon.” He cleared his throat. “Simon Gilbert. Yes, that Gilbert. But we don’t have to talk about our parents’ professions. We can go look at the cafeteria and science lab, and I can give you a speech about how Holden is incorporating technology into all its courses.”

“I definitely vote for ditching parental talk.” I handed him the schedule I’d just been given. “Want to show me where these classes are?”

“We have bio together.” He shoved his glasses farther up after they’d slid down his nose a bit. Then he looked at me, serious as hell. And genuine. I could read him like a book. “Feel free to ask me any questions. I promise I’ll tell you whatever I know, no judgment; it stays between us. I can think of quite a few things I would have liked to know about this school before I started here.”

I stared at him long enough to watch his pupils for dilation. “How about we start with that? What you wished you would have known.”

If only Simon were here now, ready to answer all my questions. To tell me what really happened, because he dropped me off after the dance and was dead the next morning. He said good-bye to me, looking happy and normal and just very Simon. And then he killed himself. Before his parents even got home. Before anyone else saw him.

Maybe I can get used to hearing his name again, but how the hell am I supposed to move past those few hours that lapsed between fine and, well, not fine?