The Complete Private Collection: Private; Invitation Only; Untouchable; Confessions; Inner Circle; Legacy; Ambition; Revelation; Last Christmas; Paradise ... The Book of Spells; Ominous; Vengeance (106 page)

Portia dropped her hand, her gold watch smacking against the wooden table. “You are
so
F.O.S,” she said, lifting her thick hair over her shoulder. “No one likes calculus.”

“F.O.S.?” I asked, looking at Rose. Portia hated it when anyone asked her to decipher her strange abbreviations. Maybe if she issued us all our own Ahronian-to-English dictionaries, we could keep up.

“Full of . . . you know,” Rose whispered, her cheeks turning pink.

“Ah.” Rose never cursed unless she absolutely had to.

“Anyway, Cheyenne liked calculus,” Rose said. “She liked math in general. Something about it being unsubjective.”

Lately, Cheyenne’s name was the ultimate conversation killer. Everyone stopped talking—everyone except London and Vienna, who were sitting across from each other at the far end of the table. In the fresh silence their voices carried like shouts over open water.

“I know, I know! Your gown is perfection. It so sucks that you’re not going to get to wear it,” Vienna said.

“I mean, why did we even go to Milan this summer if the Legacy was gonna get canceled?” London whined, crossing her arms over her chest. “Two weeks couture-hopping in that ridiculous heat, and for what?”

“Well, you did get to meet Fabrizio,” Vienna reminded her, lifting her perfect brows.

“Ah . . . Fabrizio,” they both said wistfully, looking off into the stacks.

“What is the matter with you two?” I demanded, my eyes darting again to Cheyenne’s empty seat.

Kiki Thorpe tugged her ever-present earbuds out of her ears and sat up straight, her heavy black boots slamming into the floor. Her blue eyes darted hungrily back and forth between the Twin Cities and me as she popped her gum, sensing impending conflict. “Catfight?” she asked with interest.

“No,” I replied. “No catfight.”

Kiki sighed in disappointment and sat back again. She tugged her pink bangs up until they stood straight out from her head, her eyes practically crossing as she looked up at them.

“It’s just . . . this is really what you’re talking about?” Sabine asked the Twin Cities, backing me up.

London and Vienna looked at us with a mild sense of distaste. Vienna rolled her eyes and turned to face us. “Don’t make us out to be the villains here, okay?” she said, pressing her finger and its perfectly shaped nail into her open-but-ignored notebook. “You know you all wish the Legacy was happening even though Cheyenne’s . . . gone. We’re just the only ones who are woman enough to say it.”

Everyone at the table looked at everyone else. Aside from Sabine and Constance, they all guiltily agreed with their eyes—even Rose, who had seemed more broken up about Cheyenne’s death than anyone.

“Maybe if we talked to Mr. Martin about it. Maybe if he saw how
much it meant to Cheyenne’s friends, he’d change his mind,” Vienna suggested.

“I don’t think so,” I replied.

I could just picture it: Cheyenne’s dad sitting alone in his study, trying to pick out a coffin for his child. Suddenly the phone rings, and there’s Vienna, pleading for him to throw a party for us, because Cheyenne would have wanted it that way. Man would probably drive out to Easton and strangle the girl himself. His daughter had taken her own life. Every time I thought about it, my heart swelled painfully, and tears prickled at the corners of my eyes. I couldn’t imagine what he was feeling.

“Why not? It’s worth a try,” Portia replied. “I had the whole weekend planned with Hamilton, and now he’s talking about saving his frecs.”

“Frecs?” I asked.

“Frequent flyer miles,” Tiffany explained. She placed her camera aside and pulled out her leather portfolio, filled with her latest prints.

Nice boyfriend. Is he more interested in you or the free-flowing drugs and sex-capades?
Maybe it was time for a relationship evaluation. A re-eval, to put it in terms Portia might understand.

“I really think we should try calling Mr. Martin. Maybe he’d be happy to have something fun to focus on!” London suggested hopefully. “You know, something to take his mind off what happened.”

“I don’t think one little party is going to take his mind off the fact that his only daughter is dead,” I said flatly. I mean, really, people.

“It’s not a
little
party, Reed. We’re talking about the Legacy here,” Portia said. “It’s, like, bigger than X-mas.”

That was how she said it.
Ex-mas.
I had no response to that.

“Maybe someone else could throw it. Tiff? What about your dad? Tassos is always up for a party, isn’t he?” London suggested.

Tiffany chuckled. “I so love that my father has a rep.”

Tiffany’s dad was the uni-named Tassos, an internationally renowned celebrity photographer who had been paid gazillions of dollars to photograph everyone from the Prince of Wales to Britney Spears’s dogs. I had never met him, but he was one of the rare Easton dads who called his daughter at least once a week and chatted with her for hours at a time. Most girls in Billings, whose dads were too busy to recall they’d ever procreated, were jealous not only of Tassos’s worldwide fame and Tiffany’s many celebrity connections, but of their father-daughter relationship. Of course, I talked to my dad once a week as well, but being that I was from a middle-class family in central Pennsylvania, no one ever seemed surprised by that. Like my family was automatically assumed to be functional. If only they knew. I mean, maybe it was more functional lately, since my mom had cleaned herself up and stopped with the painkillers, but this time last year? The Brennan clan had been on a serious downward spiral.

“Well?” Portia asked.

“Sorry, girls, but the town house isn’t big enough, the Sag Harbor house is under renovation, and I don’t see everyone flying to Miami or Crete,” Tiffany replied as she flipped through her portfolio.

“I’ll fly to Crete!” Vienna announced. A few of the others murmured their assent.

“Listen, you guys, the Legacy isn’t happening this year, okay? Just get used to it,” I said. I picked up my pencil and returned to my assignment, hoping that would put an end to it.

“You’re just bitter because you wouldn’t be able to go anyway,” Missy said, her eyes flicking over me in that derisive way of hers.

She was, of course, correct about that. I had only been able to attend last year as Walt Whittaker’s date—well before he was Constance’s boyfriend, of course. Josh didn’t qualify for plus-one status, so even if the Legacy did happen, I’d be spending the biggest night of the year watching reruns of
The Closer
on the plasma in the parlor.

“Wait, so you mean you can go?” I asked Missy. “You didn’t go last year.”

“I had something better to do,” Missy said, averting her eyes.

“Oh, please. Your mom forbid you from going till you were sixteen,” Lorna blurted. We all laughed, and Lorna earned herself a look of death that sent her hiding behind her chemistry text.

“This is just unacceptable,” Portia said. “Cheyenne was all about tradition, and the Legacy was one of her favorite nights of the year. If the Legacy was canceled because of her, she would hate it. I mean, not having the Legacy is like dishonoring her memory.”

Honestly? She kind of had a point there. Cheyenne would have hated to know that a tradition as hallowed as the Legacy was compromised because of something she had done.

There was a loud laugh from the next aisle over, and suddenly Ivy Slade appeared at the head of the table. With her raven hair pulled back from her angular face, her big silver, straight-drop earrings, and her flowy black baby-doll dress, she looked way too sophisticated for the library. Even the Billings Girls knew to dress down slightly for a study session.

“You people are unbelievable,” she said. “Poor little rich girls can’t have their party? Aw. How pathetic. One of your best friends just killed herself, and this is all you can talk about?”

“Shut up, Ivy,” Portia snapped. “You didn’t even like Cheyenne.”

Ivy glared at Portia with such venom that I half expected Portia’s gold necklaces to turn green and rot. Then Ivy sort of straightened up, a smirk lighting her otherwise pale face.

“You’re right. I didn’t,” she said, placing her hands on the back of Cheyenne’s empty chair. “So what does it tell you that I seem to care more about the fact that she’s dead than you do?

Her gaze slid over table in silent judgment before she turned and strode away. Suddenly I found myself staring at that empty chair again, my heart heavier than a concrete slab. I had pretty much detested Ivy Slade from the first time I spoke to her, but right then I couldn’t have agreed with her more.

Since the beginning of the year, the Ketlar Hall advisor, Mr. Cross, had been leaving campus for three hours every Friday night for some unknown reason (AA meetings? A torrid affair? Karaoke night at the Boar’s Nest?), leaving the dorm that housed the most coveted guys on campus unguarded. The pattern had just recently been confirmed by the boys of Ketlar as unwavering and therefore useful. So that Friday night, it was as if a Marc Jacobs sample sale were being held in the upperclassman boys’ dorm. Females from all corners of campus descended on the place, giggling and chatting in excitement, their four-hundred-dollar heels click-clacking on the lobby floor.

I was one of them, of course, but I wasn’t giggling or chatting, and my sneakers merely squeaked. I found Josh kicked back on his unmade bed in his room, which was wallpapered on his side with his own paintings, and on Trey Prescott’s side with posters of famous European footballers. Josh’s blond curls looked as unruly and touchable as ever, and
he wore rumpled jeans and a white long-sleeved tee, which highlighted not only his perfect pecs, but what was left of his summer tan. Trey had kindly vacated the premises, having no girlfriend to fool around with at present, so Josh and I tried to get down to the reason we were there, but I was too distracted to concentrate. As was Josh, apparently. After attempting to make out on his bed for fifteen minutes, we both sat back and sighed. My back rested against the wall next to his bed. He leaned into his headboard. We shot each other apologetic smiles and looked away.

This was totally insane. Here I was with the most beautiful guy on campus—a guy who loved me so much I could see it in his gorgeous blue eyes every single time he looked at me—and yet the only thing I could think about was that e-mail from Cheyenne.

And about the Legacy.

And Noelle.

And Dash.

What the hell had Noelle meant when she’d said, “Everything happens for a reason?” Was it just a coincidence that Dash had typed the very same words to me in his last e-mail? Was it something that they both liked to say? Or did Noelle somehow know about my secret correspondence with her ex-boyfriend?

Suddenly I started to sweat. I shoved my hands into my long brown hair and pushed it back from my face. I couldn’t think about this. Not now. Not with Josh’s legs resting over mine and his paint-speckled fingers toying with the strap on the hip of my cargo pants.

“Hey. Are you okay?” he asked me.

“Fine. Why?” I replied.

“You looked like you were having deep thoughts,” Josh said, reaching up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “What are you thinking about?”

Oh, I’m thinking about my secret e-mail relationship with Dash McCafferty. And about how it’s not only a betrayal of you, but of Noelle—because even if they’re not together, she must still consider him hers. And about how if she finds out about it, she’s going to kick my ass into next semester.

No. Not if. When. When she finds out about it. Because who am I kidding, here? This is Noelle Lange we’re talking about. I wouldn’t be surprised it the girl had top secret clearance at the freaking Pentagon. She always knows everything.

Also, I’m thinking about Cheyenne, and the fact that you cheated on me with her. And the fact that I called her a whore and a hundred other nasty things. And the fact that she subsequently killed herself and blamed it on me.
My heart constricted and my eyes welled. I looked away, willing myself to chill.

“Reed?” Josh prompted.

“Sorry. I was thinking about the Legacy,” I told him, figuring it was the safest topic. I took a deep breath and stared straight ahead, not ready to give him a good look at my probably blotchy face quite yet.

There was a long pause. Too long. Then Josh drew his legs back, curling them up story style, and pushed both hands back through his dark blond curls—all of which snapped right back into place. Suddenly, no part of him was touching any part of me. Misjudgment, thy name is Reed.

“The Legacy?” he asked. His very tone was a reprimand. His mouth twisted into a frown of distaste. Like it soured his tongue to even say the words.

“Yeah. It’s pretty much all my friends can talk about right now,” I told him. “Not me, but them. Everyone’s pretty crushed that it got canceled.”

Josh scoffed. “Why am I not surprised?”

Instantly I felt defensive. Even though I agreed with him. That was just the way I was when it came to the Billings Girls. Just call me the devil’s advocate.

“I know,” I said, turning to face him. “But for some of them this is the most important event of the year.”

Bigger than X-mas.

“That in and of itself is sad,” Josh said. He shoved himself up and crossed over to the easel at the foot of his bed, where he rather vehemently began to sort through pots of paint and crusty paintbrushes. “How can they be thinking about getting wasted and partying, when Cheyenne just died?”

“Well . . . some people use that stuff as escape mechanisms, don’t they?” I asked facetiously.

“Yeah. That’s a great way to cope,” Josh replied, just as facetiously.

“I’m not saying
I’m
gonna do that—I’m just trying to understand where they’re coming from,” I replied, my voice rising a bit as I scooted to the edge of his bed. “The same thing happened last year when Thomas died, remember? All anyone wanted was to figure out a way to get their minds off what had happened.”

“Right. Because God forbid anyone at this school ever has to actually deal with something,” Josh snapped. “Why are you always blindly defending those people?”