Exposure (5 page)

The fancy pieces looked so . . . uncomfortable. Breakable. The bizarrely asymmetrical coffee table seemed destined to collapse at any moment. A pair of living room lamps resembled medieval torture devices.

Worst of all, I’d been evicted from the bedroom facing the ocean. It was the larger chamber of the two—okay, fine, it was the master—but I’d been its sole tenant since joining Kit on Morris. It was mine.

No longer. As Kit explained, the bigger bedroom was better suited to handle a double occupancy. And, with the back room all to myself, I’d still have the most space out of anyone.

Blah blah blah.

I’d been unceremoniously bumped to Kit’s smaller, rear-facing cell. Thanks so much.

Why all the changes?

The reason was sashaying around my kitchen at that very moment.

Whitney Blanche DuBois. My father’s ditzy gal-pal.

The blond bombshell had become a permanent resident at Casa de Kit.

My own private nightmare.

Hurricane Katelyn had shown less mercy to Whitney’s property than to ours. A massive oak had reorganized her kitchen, after crashing through the two stories above it. Pouring rain and gale-force winds had done the rest.

Homeless, Whitney had moved in with us while her place underwent repairs.

Five months later, she showed no signs of ever leaving.

“Tory, darling!” Whitney cooed in her sugary Southern drawl. “I thought we’d discussed being home
before
sunset. It’s not safe for a girl to wander alone after dark.”

Coop slunk past me and beelined for his food dish. Whitney tracked him from the corner of her eye.

Make no mistake—wolfdog and bimbo did
not
get along.

Whitney considered Coop a wild animal infesting the property. Coop considered Whitney a meddling interloper disturbing the peace. I backed the wolfdog’s take.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Lost track of time.”

“Don’t talk to your shoes, sweetheart.” Whitney
tsk
ed. “A proper lady prides herself on making firm eye contact.”

I fought an urge to flip her the bird. “Thanks for the tip.”

Whitney desperately wanted for us to be friends. But her personality and priorities made it all but impossible. I’d tried my hardest to like her. And failed. Repeatedly.

It is what it is. The woman doesn’t get me, and I can’t fathom her.

But Kit adored his Barbie girl, so I kept those thoughts to myself. As far as he knew, the bimbo and I were getting along okay.

Oh, sure. Everything’s just hunky-dory.

Kit’s an outstanding marine biologist, and a good dad, but he’s not the most perceptive guy on the planet. Or even top half. A fact I’d used to my advantage more than once.

You’re probably wondering about that.

I’d been living with Christopher “Kit” Howard for over a year, ever since my mother was killed in car accident. Broadside. Drunk driver. Mom never stood a chance.

The pain still surfaces unexpectedly. I’ll hear a Rolling Stones song, or see a ratty yellow futon, and
boom,
it all comes rushing back. A raw wound that never quite heals.

I try to hide the eruptions, but the guys can always tell. They do their best to support me even though it makes them uncomfortable. It’s very sweet, but teenage boys make lousy grief counselors. Same with Kit, though he’s getting better at it.

I’m working things out on my own. Seems easier that way.

If the accident hadn’t happened, I’d likely never have met my father.

A sad thought.

Kit and I got off to a rocky start. He’d had zero idea how to deal with the shattered, weepy teenage girl who’d dropped into his life like an H-bomb. But slowly, we’d learned to trust each other. To peacefully coexist, and even enjoy each other’s company.

We’ll never have a “normal” father-daughter relationship—I call him Kit, and decided to keep my last name—but we weren’t strangers anymore. Real progress had been made since those first awkward weeks.

Until he’d added the ditz to our household, anyway.

And Whitney’s dreadful presence wasn’t the only change.

As if making up for prior negligence, Kit now watched me like a hawk. That’ll happen when your teenage daughter manages to get stalked, attacked, shot at, or arrested every few months.

What can I say? Being Viral is like golfing in a thunderstorm.

Trouble seems to find me.

“That you, sport?” Kit emerged from the kitchen wearing an apron that said “Hail to the Chef.” The mind weeps. “Good walk?”

“Yes.” I swept past Whitney. “It’s getting really nice outside.”

Kit knew my friends and I had a secret clubhouse, but he didn’t pry. Which was fortunate. The bunker’s true scope would blow his mind.

Tossing my bag onto one of the awful chairs, I flopped on the living room couch, the lone piece of furniture to survive
Extreme Makeover: Whitney Edition.

I pretended not to notice as Whitney retrieved my bag and hung it by the door.

Grrrrr.

Whitney was a compulsive straightener. I don’t know why it bugged me, but it did.

Whitney walked over and kissed Kit’s cheek. “I was just telling Tory how it’s not wise to walk alone after nightfall.”

“I learned a lot.” Straight-faced.

“Okay, who’s hungry?” Kit forced a smile. “Tory, set the table. Now, please.”

Sometimes I pitied my dad—he often walked on eggshells around the two women in his life.

You brought her here, pal. We were doing just fine before.

I laid out the flatware and took my usual seat. Whitney began distributing her latest masterpiece: chicken-fried steak, okra, mashed potatoes, and butter beans, everything slathered in thick, beefy gravy.

One point I’ll concede—Whitney is a phenomenal cook. Lights out. I can’t imagine how she maintained her figure, eating like that, but I was happy to be along for the ride. Her culinary prowess was the sole perk of sharing a roof.

“Tory!” Whitney flashed synthetically whitened teeth. “Now that you’ve debuted, have you thought about how you’d like to give back to the community? We’ll need to get you admitted first, but there are several interesting committee openings in the Mag League.”

I froze, mid-bite. “The what?”

“The Magnolia League.” Mascaraed lashes fluttered in surprise. “Surely you’ve heard?”

“Can’t say that I have.” Voice flat. I didn’t like where this was going.

Whitney turned disbelieving eyes on Kit. “The Magnolia League of Charleston is
only
the most exclusive young women’s service organization in the South. I’m sure all of your debutante friends have already joined.”

“My debutante friends? Who would they be, exactly?”

“I don’t understand.” Whitney cocked her head like a sparrow. “I’m referring to the wonderful group of young ladies with whom you shared your introduction. Why, you’re practically
sisters
now! Members of a debutante class are lifelong friends. You girls will be grouped together when you join the League.”

Blargh.

I’d thought this nonsense dead and buried. Apparently my debut was merely a prelude to a life sentence.

I tried to be diplomatic. “I’m not sure that’s a good fit for—”

“It’s a
perfect
fit. Tory, this is simply
what you do
as a member of polite society. It’s also a tremendous honor. Only daughters of the finest families are even
considered
for admission.” Whitney’s lips thinned. “Frankly, you’re lucky to still be invited, after this nasty court business.”

My jaw clenched. I fought an impulse to say something I’d regret. Whitney describing the Gamemaster’s trial as some kind of embarrassing inconvenience drove me bonkers.

“It’s completely up to you.” Kit gave me a hopeful look. “Might be fun?”

“You simply
must
continue with your charitable work.” Whitney practically whined.

“I’ll think about it.” Changing the subject. “Everything good at work, Kit?”

“What?” Kit lowered a forkful of mashed potatoes. “Oh, fine, fine. Business as usual. The hurricane damage has been repaired, and the monkeys seem unaffected. Overall, we were very lucky.”

“We need to pay better attention to the social side of things.” Whitney folded her napkin and placed in on her lap. “Your employees need diversions, living out here in the sticks.”

Meaning
you
do, you harridan.

“There’s much more to do in the city,” I said innocently. “When is your place due to be finished?”

“Not for weeks yet,” Whitney murmured.

Kit dodged my eye. “What diversions did you have in mind, Whitney?”

She perked up. Had been waiting for the question.

“We should host a block party. Right outside, on the front lawn. We could rent a white pavilion, tables and chairs, and serve barbeque and iced tea. Maybe have some games. Croquet. Or even badminton! And door prizes, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” I repeated.

Kit gave me a warning look.

Whitney clapped her hands, delighted by her own idea. “Doesn’t that sound wonderful? And LIRI should cover the entire cost. A gesture like that would show the neighbors how much you care about their well-being.”

“Great idea,” Kit said automatically. “You should organize it.”

Whitney positively beamed. “I’d be
honored.
Tory, you can help!”

“Fantastic.”

Double blargh.

Tuesday

I
braced myself for the coming storm.

Downtown. Tuesday morning. 7:00 a.m.

Time to face the music.

Shelton, Hi, and I stepped off
Hugo,
exited the marina onto Lockwood Drive, and walked south to Broad Street. Moments later we reached Bolton Preparatory Academy’s majestic front gates.

I stopped. “Ugh.”

“Yep.” Hi adjusted his backpack. With no court appearance that morning, he was back to the inside-out jacket, with the blue lining exposed. “Gonna be wild.”

Shelton snorted. “By wild, you mean horribly awful, right?”

Bolton Prep is Charleston’s oldest and most prestigious private school. For well over a century, admission to its hallowed halls has been a coveted and expensive status symbol. Most students hail from the city’s wealthy elite.

My crew couldn’t have been more out of place.

As an incentive for LIRI employees living out on Morris Island, the institute provides tuition for their children to attend Bolton. Otherwise, we’d never set foot inside. And since the drive to campus takes over an hour, LIRI also provides Tom Blue’s daily shuttle service. All in all, not a bad deal.

Hi, Shelton, and I were on the backstretch of our sophomore year, my second at the academy. Our time there hadn’t been easy.

To most of our classmates we were aliens—unknowable foreign beings, dropped from the sky to spoil their lavish party. For a few, our presence was actually offensive. We had no place in their indulgent, privileged world.

Everyone knew we attended on scholarships. We’d been called “island refugees,” “boat kids,” even “peasants.” Rarely had a day passed without one of us getting picked on.

The three of us had identical schedules that year, so we watched one another’s backs.

“Safety in numbers” is a real thing.

Our course load was nearly all AP classes, which drew students from across Bolton’s different grade levels. The previous semester Ben had been in half our classes, too, despite being a junior. Obviously, he was no longer around. Sometimes it felt like a limb was missing.

For a group of middle-class, unapologetic science geeks, Bolton was a social minefield. The mocking began the first time I opened my locker, and found a Barbie doll dressed like a homeless woman. And when those same jokesters discovered that the “snotty ginger genius” was also the baby of the class, the sniping turned uglier.

Freshman year had been brutal. No other way to describe it. Only my Morris Island buddies had kept me from demanding a transfer. Depressingly, sophomore year hadn’t started much better.

But that was all out the window.

The Morris Island Three. That’s what they called us now.

Since the events of last fall, we’d practically become celebrities.

The Gamemaster saga had been headline news for months. Every infinitesimal detail of the case had been examined, debated, printed, broadcast, and blogged. There were seven Tumblr accounts dedicated to the trial alone.

Our classmates had learned what almost happened at the debutante ball. Most had been there that night, or had friends or family who’d attended. They’d learned that the “boat kids” had stopped a murderous psychopath. That those dirty “peasants” had saved their upper-class asses.

The effect was shocking.

Former tormentors now regarded us with something close to awe. Dozens of wide-eyed classmates—many who’d never glanced our way before—had personally thanked us for what we’d done. A few seemed too intimidated to even approach.

Sometimes the world flips upside down, then forgets to right itself.

Suddenly, every day at Bolton felt like that.