OUTSIDE, THE MUGGY warmth of August hits me. I don’t need the cardigan, but I wrap it around myself as I hurry along the walkway toward the dining hall.
The dining hall is an austere brick building, ivy climbing up one side. It looks like something out of a boarding school brochure, and it is in fact plastered over the front of the booklets Atwood distributes.
I worried I would be too late, but I’m right on time, with a steady stream of students still arriving. I look with sympathy at the nervous freshmen and Lower School students—bouncing on the balls of their feet, glancing around, trying to work out the arcane rules of this ritual, which for some reason no one ever explains.
I slip past a petrified Lower School student, her sweater buttoned in the wrong hole and her hair a helpless frizz around her cheeks. “Back circular tables are for Littles, and don’t sit until all the upperclassmen are sitting,” I murmur to her, and she flashes me a grateful look.
The dining room is done up formally, with white tablecloths and seat covers, boisterous centerpieces dominating every table. At the very back of the room are two long rows of tables where the Lower School students are relegated. Upper School students get the large circular tables instead. As seniors, we’re allowed to use the front tables. The best table—the one by the window—is unofficially reserved for Atwood royalty, the Clarkes and Vaughans and Ryders and their crowd. I can already see a couple of freshmen being ousted.
Veronica and the others have staked out most of a table, with Diego and Remi joining them. Diego has scooted his chair in close to Ruth, and Remi has his arm slung around Veronica’s shoulders. She has her fingers threaded through his.
Remi—Remington Joseph Toombs—comes from a whole other kind of money than Atwood is used to. The kind built with land and cattle and oil rights. That drawl and the Texas flag on his wall made it easy to make assumptions when we first met that turned out to be totally off base. He’s a smart, shy guy with a keen sense of injustice and a burning desire to do good in the world. Plus, he’s utterly devoted to Veronica, which means I have to like him, at least a little.
“Hey,” I say, dropping into my seat next to Zoya—the singles side of the table.
“Hey, yourself,” Veronica says. “Where have you been?”
“It’s complicated,” I allow. “Nice to see you, Remi. How’s it going?”
“Going great,” Remi says, his Texas drawl shaping the words. “The sun’s shining, the food smells amazing, and I get to sit next to the most gorgeous girl in school. What could I possibly complain about?” he asks, giving her an affectionate squeeze.
“When he says gorgeous, he means I have big boobs,” Veronica says with a wicked grin, and Remi predictably turns bright red.
“That’s not what I said at all,” he protests as Veronica snickers.
“I know. You’ve had a crush on me since eighth grade, and I was flat as a board back then,” Veronica assures him, which doesn’t help the pure scarlet shade he’s turned but does quell the panic in his eyes.
“Though they are absolutely fantastic tits,” Ruth says, lifting her water glass in a salute.
“Aww, thank you, sweetie,” Veronica purrs. She turns her attention to me. “What did Geoffrey want?”
I blink, confused, before remembering that’s Dean Oster’s first name. Right. Her folks are close with him.
I could tell them. Admit to them that my parents can’t pay my tuition and why. But I’ve kept my worlds so carefully separate. I’ve told a hundred white lies over the years, papering over the dysfunction with distraction. If I tell them, that all breaks down. And they’ll want to fix it. Veronica will try to suggest that her parents pay. Ruth will start researching scholarships like it’s her job. Zoya would give me space, I think. She understands the need for a private part of your life. But the others wouldn’t be able to help themselves.
“He needed a favor,” I say carefully. “You know Aubrey Cantwell?”
“Wasn’t she in some kind of accident? She had to leave,” Ruth says.
The others look surprised, so they must not have heard.
“Yeah. She’s okay, but I guess she’s not coming back to school,” I say. I look at Ruth instead of Veronica. I don’t want to see the expression on Veronica’s face. “Anyway, with Aubrey gone, they need someone to help Delphine Fournier out.”
“The sick girl?” Diego asks.
I nod. “So I’m staying in Abigail House for a little while,” I say briskly.
Ruth looks skeptical. “Why you?”
Veronica doesn’t give me the chance to come up with an answer. “But that means you won’t be in Westmore with us.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” I say, raising one shoulder. I look at her at last. Her face is screwed up in an expression of bafflement and anger—and maybe a touch of fear.
“It’s senior year. We’re all supposed to be together,” she says. “That’s why we got Westmore.”
“We got Westmore because your parents paid for the new gym,” Ruth points out.
Veronica doesn’t even glance her way. “It’s our last year together,” she says. “Why would you agree to that? What are we supposed to do now? Pick some rando to fill the fourth room?”
“If Aubrey’s not coming back, there isn’t anyone who needs a room, though. It’ll just be the three of us,” Zoya points out. Our bread has arrived, and she snags a slice, slathering it with butter. Her tone is casual, but I can tell she’s trying to defuse the tension. “And it’s not like Eden is going to vanish into thin air just because she’s a three-minute walk across campus. We’ll just have to do plenty of sleepovers.”
“I’ve always wanted to check out Abigail House,” Ruth says, mulling it over.
“Are visitors even allowed?” Diego asks.
“I think so. There are just some extra rules,” I say. “A lot of them, actually. But I haven’t gotten the chance to learn them yet. It happened pretty fast.”
Veronica is still staring at me. “This is such bullshit. He could have asked anyone,” she says, but at least she sounds more petulant than furious now. Zoya and Ruth look uncomfortable at her vehemence, and Zoya clears her throat unsubtly.
“I’ve always wondered what Delphine is like,” she says. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Such a small school, and there’s this girl we don’t know at all.”
“She has to be weird,” Ruth says. She seems the least concerned with the whole thing, but then, Ruth isn’t big on vulnerability. “It’s inevitable, right? Being that isolated? Not even allowed to go outside? She’s got to be at least a little eccentric. I bet she collects dead bugs or something.”
“What, to eat or display?” Diego asks, and she laughs.
“She’s got to be so lonely,” Remi says.
The table goes quiet for a moment.
Then Veronica grabs a piece of bread and tears the middle out of it, tossing the crust down onto her plate. “Well, she won’t be lonely anymore. Now she’s got Eden,” she says. She flings her weight back in her chair, slumping down and tearing into the soft heart of the bread with her perfect white teeth.
After so long, I can read Veronica. I know that the anger in her voice masks the fear in her eyes.
We saw Delphine Fournier die that night. She couldn’t have survived, and yet she did.
And now I’m going to be living in her house.