The Complete Private Collection: Private; Invitation Only; Untouchable; Confessions; Inner Circle; Legacy; Ambition; Revelation; Last Christmas; Paradise ... The Book of Spells; Ominous; Vengeance (116 page)

“I was just going to walk over to the solarium to get some coffee,” Sabine said. “Do you want to—”

At that moment, the door to our room was flung open and Noelle grabbed my arm. “Sorry, Frenchie. Gotta borrow our girl,” she said.

Then she dragged me right out of the room, leaving a very dejected-looking Sabine behind.

The entire population of Billings, minus Sabine, was gathered in the parlor, nursing coffees, talking in low tones and looking jittery. I felt as if I’d just walked in on an Al-Anon meeting. (I had attended one before, along with my brother, at the urging of my father, who had thought it might help us cope with my mom. It didn’t.) They all looked up at me with hopeful, bloodshot eyes.

“All right. I’ve brought our fearless leader,” Noelle said, depositing me in front of the fireplace. She took a step away and turned to me, arms crossed. “We need to figure out what to do about the Legacy,” she told me, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder. “Everyone’s freaking out.”

“Clearly,” I replied.

Even Lorna and Astrid looked upset. And, like myself, they wouldn’t be getting invites.

“This level of stress is not good for my complexion,” Portia said. “I mean, V.N.G.”

Very Not Good. I knew that one. There wasn’t a zit in sight, but who was I to quibble?

“I just don’t get it,” London pouted, tugging on her hair. “Why did everyone get them but us? What did
we
do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Vienna volunteered, quite unnecessarily.

“Whoever’s throwing it must have a grudge against Easton or something,” Tiffany said, snapping a photo of Kiki’s boots, which Astrid had painted with swirls of orange and yellow paint during their art class that day. “It’s the only explanation.”

“Unless the Easton stack of invites just got lost in the mail,” Rose offered hopefully as she tugged on her red curls.

“Still, somebody would have gotten one,” I said. “And apparently none of our alumni have received them either.”

Noelle shot me a “how did you know that?” look that made my toes curl. I wouldn’t be answering that question any time soon.

“Omigod! Even the grads have been blackballed? What are we going to do?” London wailed. There was a general grumble and a few sighs of despair. Enough was enough already.

“Okay, look. I have an idea,” I announced, silencing the room. “We need to get our hands on one of the invitations. If we can do that, maybe we can figure out where they came from. And if we can figure out where they came from, we can find out who bought them.”

“Good idea!” Tiffany announced.
“Very CSI.”

I grinned. “So . . . get dialing. You all know someone who got one. Get somebody to send us an original.”

A dozen cell phones flipped open. Texts were rapidly typed and
sent. A few people made actual calls. Of those few, we could all instantly tell the news wasn’t good.

“No way. No way!” Vienna half screeched. She stood up and removed the phone from her ear, the better to yell into the receiver. “You suck, Vanessa! I hope you choke on a condom and die!” she shouted, slapping the phone closed.

“Vienna!” Rose admonished.

“What? We all know my sister’s a slut,” Vienna said with wide-eyed innocence.

Her sister? That was kind of the pot calling the kettle black, wasn’t it? I wondered why Vanessa Clark didn’t go to Easton, but let that impertinent question pass.

“What happened?” I asked.

“She said, and I quote, ‘I can’t send you the invitation,’” Vienna said, putting on an overly shrill voice and tipping her head from side to side, like a little girl mocking someone on the playground. “‘I just got an e-mail saying that if anyone shared info about the Legacy with an Easton student, the planner would find out about it, and the person who blabbed would be kept out.’ Ugh! I am so not giving her Bubbles now.”

“Bubbles?”

“My horse,” Vienna mumbled.

Her horse. The best hand-me-down Scott had ever given me was a portable CD player.

“You guys? Rourke says the same thing!” London cried, clutching her phone with both hands as she read a text. “He’s afraid of the e-mail.”

“That’s what they’re all saying,” Kiki confirmed, kicking back on the sofa and crossing her now colorful combat boots on the table with a bang. She tipped her head back to look up at the ceiling and her pink bangs fell back from her face. “If Vanessa isn’t getting your horse, can I have him?” she asked the ceiling.

Vienna looked like she was actually pondering this, but the rest of the room was on high alert. I looked at Noelle. Clearly this ostracism went far beyond anything I could have possibly imagined. For once, my baffled expression was mirrored in her own. For once, Noelle Lange did not know what was going on. That realization was the most disturbing of all.

“Whit is losing it. He thinks the world as we know it is crumbling,” Constance whispered to me during morning services on Tuesday. “According to him, this Legacy snubbing is an affront against everything it stands for.”

Like what? Drugs? Random sex acts? Underage drinking?

Not that I was getting all goody-goody, but it was kind of funny how old-world honor had somehow devolved into getting an invite to the biggest night of debauchery known to man.

“And I was going to get to go this year as his plus one,” Constance mumbled, looking down at her hands. “It figures.”

I gnawed on the inside of my lip. There was a general sense of disgruntled acceptance on campus this morning. I had spent half the night poring over the Billings info, trying to come up with a plan of attack, and I had a few ideas. But if people were starting to accept the fact that we weren’t going to the Legacy, then maybe I’d be better off
dropping it. Did I really want to bother some illustrious alumni with a petty, whining query about a party? Did I really want my first act as Billings president to be that superficial? Maybe Sabine was right. Maybe I’d be better off going back to my original plan and throwing a masquerade in Cheyenne’s honor. There was something more honorable in that. More mature and forward thinking. I was starting to think that the Billings Masquerade would make a much better first impression on the alumni committee. Plus there was the added bonus of me actually being able to attend. And of maybe, somehow, proving Cheyenne’s final e-mail wrong.

“Before you are dismissed, I have one final announcement to make,” Headmaster Cromwell said, taking the podium. He wore a dark blue suit and a yellow tie, pinned, as always, with an American flag tie tack. His white hair was slicked back from his square face and his eyes slid over the chapel with obvious disdain. Why had a man who clearly detested teenagers ever taken a job like this? “I am aware that the annual Legacy party is scheduled, as always, for the end of this month.”

The chapel filled with the sounds of creaking pews and surprised murmurs. No adult, as far as I knew, had ever avowed any knowledge of the Legacy to the students. It was the ultimate “don’t ask, don’t tell.” The headmaster rapped his knuckles against the podium to get our attention. The sound echoed ominously through the high-ceilinged chapel, and silence fell.

“I am also aware that previous administrations have looked the other way when it comes to this particular event, caring not for
the safety of our students, nor for the reputation of this academy,” Cromwell continued, his voice even more stern than usual. “That ignorance ends with me.”

There was no sound in the chapel other than my own breathing. Which was starting to grow shallow. I hated this man. I so,
so
hated him. First he’d dismantled every Billings tradition he could get his hands on, then he’d interrogated us all into the wee hours of the morning on the night of initiation and expelled Cheyenne. Which, of course, had seemed like a blessing, after everything Cheyenne had done. It had seemed like the end of a nightmare. But in twenty-twenty hindsight, it had only meant the beginning of a new one. Now this.

“If anyone attempts to leave this campus on the night of October thirty-first, rest assured that I will know about it, that those persons will be stopped, and that the punishment will be severe,” Cromwell said ominously. “This is my school. I make the rules. You are to follow them.”

Was I just imagining it, or did he look right at me when he said that? I felt my heart flutter with defiance. Was he challenging me? Daring me?

“You are dismissed,” Cromwell said.

The school rose as one and filed into the aisles.

“What a dick,” someone behind me said.

“Obviously the ignorance
didn’t
end with him if he doesn’t even know about the invites.”

“Like he could really stop us from going. If we wanted to get out, we’d get out.”

“I really don’t like this guy,” Noelle said as I joined her.

“Yeah. Tell me about it,” I said.

I shoved past her into the bright autumn sun, feeling adrenaline pumping through my veins. I had always hated being told what to do. The only time I had ever really tolerated it was last year, when I had been trying to get into Billings, but even then it had been difficult. Now, I found, I hated even more being told what I couldn’t do. The mystery planner was trying to keep us out of the Legacy, and now Cromwell was making it his own personal mission to thwart us, too. Who did these people think they were? Easton had as much right to participate in the Legacy as anyone.

“Oh, well. Looks like the poor Billings Girls are going to miss out on the biggest party of the year,” Ivy Slade said, giving us a fake pout as she strolled by. “Whatever will you write in your diaries that night?”

My fingers curled into fists. What the hell did this girl have against us?

“Welcome back, Noelle,” she said with obvious distaste. “Killed anyone lately?”

A klatch of junior guys overheard this and paused to cackle at the joke, waiting for Noelle’s reaction. My stomach clenched. Ivy needed to go. Seriously.

“No. But I can be tempted,” Noelle replied.

Ivy snorted a laugh, but wisely turned around and sauntered off. So did her audience, looking suddenly wan.

“God. Who let that girl back in?” Noelle said under her breath. Quite ironically, I thought.

“I cannot believe Cromwell issued an ultimatum about the Legacy,” Missy said at my shoulder. Most of the other Billings Girls had gathered behind Noelle and me just outside the chapel doors. “I mean, seriously. Like he hasn’t done enough already.”

She was, of course, referring to his supposed role in Cheyenne’s suicide.

“But this is a good thing, no?” Sabine asked. “We will definitely hold the Billings Masquerade now.”

I turned around slowly, my jaw clenched. Everyone was watching me, waiting for my signal.

“No,” I said tersely. Between Cromwell, Ivy, and whoever this mystery Legacy planner was, there were a lot of people whom I wanted to see eat crow right about then. “Easton is going to the Legacy. No matter what I have to do to get us in.”

I was officially pissed off. And when I’m pissed off, I take action. So in the fifteen-minute break between lunch and history class, when most of the school was enjoying the warm autumn day on the quad, sucking down lattes, or cramming for quizzes, I stole back to Billings and went to work.

The night before, I’d had a bit of an epiphany while reading through the alumni files. Several Billings alums had children who had chosen to go to other private schools. Places like Choate or Barton or Chapin—often, the schools their fathers had attended. Some of these alums had family lineages listed, and next to each family member—dating back generations—was the name of the school from which he or she had graduated. This was the information that was most useful. Because if a Billings alum was married to, say, a Barton man whose father had also gone to Barton and whose child now went to Barton . . . then that child would be invited to
the Legacy. After an hour of searching, I had come up with a list of Billings alums whose kids had, without a doubt, already received invitations to the Legacy, thanks to their fathers’ lines.

With not much time to spare, I sprinted up to my room, grabbed the list, and chose the name right at the top. Jenna Korman, CEO of Posh Cosmetics, one of the biggest upscale cosmetics companies in the country. Considering her stature, I was fairly certain she wouldn’t have time to take my call, but I had to try. I grabbed my cell phone and dialed the number.

“Posh Cosmetics, Ms. Korman’s office,” a clipped voice answered on the first ring.

“Yeah, hi, I’m calling for Ms. Korman. I’m from—”

“I’m sorry. Ms. Korman is unavailable at the moment,” the woman said, clearly annoyed. “I can take a message.”

Dammit. My skin burned, realizing how unprofessional I must have sounded.

“Oh. Okay. My name is Reed Brennan. I’m calling from—”

“Oh. Miss Brennan. I apologize. I’ll put you right through,” the voice said, turning suddenly warm.

I blinked, feeling like I’d just slipped through Alice’s looking glass. What was that? Was she kidding? And why had she acted like she knew my name?

“Reed Brennan. This is a pleasant surprise,” a throaty voice said in my ear. “What can I do for you?”

“I—is this Jenna Korman?” I asked, stunned.

“Yes, it is. How is everything at Easton these days?” she asked
pleasantly. “I trust you’re all recovering. Such a tragedy. Cheyenne Martin was a real asset to the house and the school.”

“Yes . . . yes, she was,” I said. This was so not what I had been expecting. “We’re . . . fine, I guess.”

“Good. Now, is there something I can help you with?” Ms. Korman asked.

“Actually, yes,” I said, clearing my throat. I didn’t want to waste any more of her time than I had to. “For some reason Easton has been shut out of the Legacy this year.”

“Yes, I’ve heard grumblings to that effect,” she said bitterly.

“Well, I’m trying to figure out why, so I can fix the problem,” I told her. “But I need to get my hands on one of the actual invitations. I hear that your daughter goes to Hotchkiss and that she might—”

“Not a problem. I’ll call home right now and have our butler FedEx it right to you,” Ms. Korman said.