The Complete Private Collection: Private; Invitation Only; Untouchable; Confessions; Inner Circle; Legacy; Ambition; Revelation; Last Christmas; Paradise ... The Book of Spells; Ominous; Vengeance (179 page)

“Whatever you have to tell yourself.” Thomas laughed.

Ariana shook her head, as if she could erase the memory of what she’d done on Saturday night like an Etch A Sketch. Her mom’s fragile voice echoed in her mind, her excitement about Daniel. About the Ryans. All Ariana wanted was to forget about Saturday evening. Forget about Daniel’s stupid drunkenness. Forget the way Thomas had made her feel free. Forget the way Thomas had looked at her, like he knew what she was thinking. He didn’t. No one did. Not Daniel. Not even Noelle. And definitely not Thomas.

She paused in the center of the quad and turned to Thomas, leveling him with the most serious glare she could muster.

“Let me say it again. Slowly so that you can understand through the haze of whatever drugs you’re currently road-testing. Leave. Me. Alone.”

Thomas’s face fell. For a split second he actually looked hurt. But then, just as quickly, he regained his cocky composure.

“Fine. I’ll leave you alone. For now.” He glanced left, smiled, then looked back at her. “Later, naughty girl.”

As soon as he was gone, Ariana glanced over to see what had made him smile and her stomach clenched. She found herself face-to-face with Daniel and Paige.

Ariana’s fingers shook and she gripped her left forearm with her right hand, practically cutting off her own circulation even through her heavy coat. Had they been behind her the whole time? Had they heard her conversation with Thomas? She forced a smile, leaning in to give Daniel a peck on the cheek.

“I didn’t know you guys were there.”

Had they heard him call her naughty girl? If so, her life as she knew it was over.

“Obviously.” Paige’s smile was frozen on her face, her eyes cold. “Ready for class?”

Ariana nodded, afraid to speak.

“Good.” Paige stepped between Daniel and Ariana. “Then let’s go.”

“See you later,” Daniel said. His expression was confused, but not hurt. Not angry. Ariana had no idea what to think.

“Yeah. Later.”

Ariana and Paige started across the quad and Ariana’s every step was shaky, tentative, as she waited for Paige’s attack—but it never came. Not in words, anyway. But every once in a while Ariana could almost feel Paige’s cold, judging stare boring into the side of her face. She refused to look over and meet her eyes. Instead, she told herself over and over that it was just her imagination.

And she almost believed it.

“You’ve all heard the saying ‘Life imitates art’? Well, this was a perfect example.” Mr. Holmes leaned against the mahogany desk at the front of the classroom, his copy of
Madame Bovary
in one hand and a stainless steel coffee mug in the other. “When Flaubert’s story of an unhappy, unfaithful married woman was printed in the
Revue de Paris
, Flaubert himself was brought to trial on charges of immorality.”

“He’s so hot when he’s talking about immorality,” Paige whispered from the chair next to Ariana’s.

“Agreed,” Isobel said. “Almost makes me want to read the thing.” She tossed her glossy black tresses over her shoulder. “Almost.”

Ariana rolled her eyes and focused on taking notes. Almost every girl on campus had a crush on the young English teacher, who had come to Easton several years ago after graduating from Princeton. But Ariana didn’t care about his looks. She loved the way he made the characters, the worlds they read about, come alive. Being invited to be
a part of his Topics in Eighteenth-Century French Literature seminar was a huge honor. There were only eight people in the class, all seniors, with the exception of her. She loved that Mr. Holmes thought she was smart enough—good enough—for one of the toughest classes at Easton.

“The thing is, Flaubert did feel a real connection with Emma Bovary,” Mr. Holmes was saying. “He wrote many of his own personal flaws into her character. One of his most famous quotes is ‘
Madame Bovary, c’est moi
.’” He rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white collared shirt. “Translation?”

“What is, ‘I am Madame Bovary’?” blurted Connie Tolson, a nerdy senior seated a few chairs to Ariana’s right. Her ramrod-straight posture made her look like she had just pulled something in one of the major muscle groups.

Mr. Holmes chuckled. “Absolutely right, Ms. Tolson. Bonus points for the creative delivery.” He dropped the book on his desk and wiped his palms on his khakis, leaving faint chalk stains.

“Oh, please. What is, ‘desperate and so out of her league’?” Isobel hissed, a wry grin creasing her olive cheek.

Ariana shook her head. “You’re terrible.”

Isobel smiled. “And proud of it.”

“Remarkably, Flaubert establishes a strong connection between his readers and Emma. So even though she’s weaving a web of excess, sex, and betrayal, we really empathize with Emma throughout the novel,” Mr. Holmes continued. “We see the destruction this woman is causing, solely for the purpose of her own fulfillment, and still we
feel for her. In a strange way, we root for her, want her to find happiness. And we’re devastated when she doesn’t.”

“Um, I’m not,” Connie called out. “She was wrong to cheat on her husband so many times. A woman who does things like that doesn’t deserve to be happy.”

And a girl who wore red slip-on ankle boots didn’t deserve to be a student at Easton, but Ariana wasn’t raising her hand and announcing it to the class. She kept her eyes on Connie, taking in the holier-than-thou smirk she was broadcasting in hi-def around the semicircle.

“Interesting idea, Miss Tolson.” Mr. Holmes raised an eyebrow. “But I’ll play the devil’s advocate here. Don’t we all deserve to be happy? Or at least to search for what we think might make us happy? Isn’t that a basic human right?”

“Not if being happy means you’re hurting someone else,” Connie replied matter-of-factly.

“I agree,” Paige announced. Shock passed over Connie’s pinched features, and Isobel nearly choked on her coffee. “People who don’t think about how their actions affect the people they love are selfish.” She leaned forward in her chair, looking past Isobel and directly at Ariana. “Don’t you think, Ariana?” she asked sweetly. Her green eyes blazed.

Ariana’s pulse raced. Paige had heard Thomas’s nickname for her. There was no other explanation.

“Miss Osgood? Care to weigh in on this one?” Mr. Holmes smiled.

“Actually, I do,” she said quietly, taking a deep breath. If they had been inside Billings, Ariana would probably have submitted to being
bullied by Paige, but not here. Not where it might affect her grade. “I don’t think it’s fair to place all of the responsibility for Charles Bovary’s happiness on Emma. He’s responsible for his own happiness, just like she’s responsible for hers.” Mr. Holmes nodded, and Ariana felt her voice strengthening. “And even though she never found it, at least she had the guts to try.”

Connie crossed her arms over her navy sweater vest and flashed a judgmental glare. “So you’re saying it’s okay to have . . .” She paused, tossing her skinny French braid over her shoulder. “. . .
intercourse
with as many people as you want to, just to make yourself happy?”

“Sounds like Emma isn’t the one who needs to be having intercourse,” Isobel said, just loudly enough. Ariana could have sworn she saw a hint of a smile pass over Mr. Holmes’s face.

She’d known she liked him.

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Ariana shook her head emphatically, avoiding Paige’s glare. “She made mistakes, and she paid for them. We all make mistakes, and I think that’s what makes us feel so close to Emma. She’s human. She’s flawed. But she’s doing her best, and we have to give her some credit for that.” She sank back into her chair, surprised at the tirade that had slipped, almost involuntarily, from her lips. She hadn’t known she felt so strongly about the issue until she was face-to-face with Connie and Paige and their intolerant views. But she was smart enough to know why she had reacted the way she had.

Thomas.

“Ariana’s absolutely right,” Mr. Holmes said, slipping his book into a leather messenger bag on top of his desk. “Emma Bovary’s flaws are what make her so accessible to us. And she does pay for her mistakes. Although, Miss Osgood,” he said kindly, “one could also argue that her painful death is retribution for her immoral behavior.”

Ariana felt a distinct pang in her chest. Like Holmes was condemning her to the same fate as Emma Bovary right then and there.

“Like karma,” Ariana said quietly.

“Exactly like karma,” Mr. Holmes replied, fiddling with his wedding band. He glanced up at the clock. “Sorry, folks. I kept you a few minutes late. We’ll continue this discussion after the break, so if you have any thoughts on morality as it relates to the book, jot them down and bring them in.” He pulled a folded newspaper from his back pocket. Like Natasha, Mr. Holmes was always working on the
New York Times
crossword puzzle. “Just a reminder that your papers are due
in my mailbox
—no e-mail attachments, people—before you leave campus,” he called over the din of chatting students. “Have a great break, everyone.”

The paper. Suddenly, Ariana’s blood coursed through her veins at a fevered rate. In all the morning’s drama, she had completely forgotten about the paper. And so far, all she had was a blank Word document and a massive case of writer’s block—which was unlike her. Ariana had always been able to focus, no matter what was happening around her. As a child, she’d learned to sink into her own mind and settle there until it was safe to return to reality. To curl up
in bed with
Jane Eyre
or
Mrs. Dalloway
and pretend she didn’t hear the chilling screams, the threats her mother tossed at her father like active grenades.
Just try me. I’ll do it. . . . I swear to God, I’ll do it, and you’ll be sorry. . . .

“What’s wrong with you?” Isobel pulled a pair of oversize Gucci sunglasses from her tote and slipped them on as Ariana and Paige gathered their things.

“Nothing,” Ariana said, nervous about making eye contact with Paige. Paige had the power to make her winter break miserable. To make her life in Billings miserable. In her quest to please Mr. Holmes, she had gone temporarily insane and forgotten that fact. Why had she felt the need to show Paige up? No one crossed Paige Ryan, and everyone at Easton knew that. Even Connie Tolson. “It’s just this paper,” she told Isobel as she buttoned her coat. “I’m nowhere close to being done. I think I’m going to have to stay behind for a day or so to finish.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Paige scoffed. “Just ask for an extension.”

Isobel nodded. “He let me turn in my paper on
Dangerous Liaisons
a week late.”

“Yeah. I suppose,” Ariana said, even though the thought filled her throat with bile. She had never asked for an extension before, and she didn’t want to start now. But she knew that Paige wasn’t simply suggesting that Ariana get an extension. Paige didn’t suggest. She ordered. Clearly the idea of Ariana missing a day of Daniel’s precious Christmas plans was unacceptable to her. “I’ll ask,” Ariana conceded, letting her blond hair fall over her face as she reached down to pick up
her bag. Anything to avoid having to look at Paige. “I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

“Later,” Isobel said lightly. Ariana watched as she and Paige sashayed past Mr. Holmes’s desk and out the door. She sat quietly in her chair as the classroom emptied, her insides writhing with nerves. She hated the idea of asking for more time, of losing Mr. Holmes’s respect. But short of pissing Paige off even more than she already had, it was her only option.

“Mr. Holmes?” Ariana’s voice sounded small. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Can I ask you a question?”

Mr. Holmes looked up from his crossword puzzle. “Of course, Miss Osgood,” he smiled. “What can I do for you?”

He had a way of making her feel calm, self-assured. She took a deep breath. “I was just wondering if I could get an extension on the paper? I’m leaving town tomorrow morning with my boyfriend, and—” She stopped, her face flushing. Why had she mentioned Daniel? A completely unnecessary detail, and not one that made her case any stronger. Her heart felt like lead in her chest as she saw Mr. Holmes slowly shaking his head.

“I’m afraid not,” he said, interlacing his ink-stained hands on the desk in front of him. “Ordinarily, I would, but I have to get final grades in to the registrar by Friday at noon. I’m sorry.”

Ariana’s heart sank. “Right. Okay. Thanks anyway.”

She quickly rose from her chair and slipped out of the classroom before Mr. Holmes could say another word. Her face burned with humiliation. She knew she shouldn’t have asked. It was a mistake. A
mistake that she would now have to remedy by writing an A+ paper, since he was now going to be expecting something substandard. And she was going to have to pull this A+ paper out of thin air in a matter of hours. Otherwise, she was going to be forced to explain to Paige why she couldn’t leave for Vermont tomorrow. And facing Paige was the last thing she wanted to do.

“Would you just pick something so we can get out of here?” Noelle snapped as she stood between two racks of windbreakers in downtown Easton’s North Face store. With her flawless skin, Tiffany diamonds sparkling in her ears, and a Longchamp tote hanging from the crook of her arm, she looked like a mannequin that had accidentally been displayed in the wrong store.

“Okay, what about this?” Ariana held up a ski hat—red, fleece, thermal.

“Really? We’ve been standing in this hot-as-hell store for half an hour so you can buy him fleece?” Noelle said. “I don’t understand. You already bought him a perfectly acceptable Christmas present.”

“I just wanted to get him something a little extra,” Ariana said, feeling deflated.

“Then just get the hat and let’s go. This place is giving me hives,” Noelle said, adjusting her scarf.

“I don’t know. . . .”

Noelle groaned and slipped her sunglasses on. “Whatever. Come meet me at Sweet Nothings when you’re done being obsessive.”

“I’m not being obsessive,” Ariana replied. But Noelle was already gone, filling the store with cold air as she swept out. “I’m not,” Ariana repeated quietly to herself as she fingered the red hat.