The Complete Private Collection: Private; Invitation Only; Untouchable; Confessions; Inner Circle; Legacy; Ambition; Revelation; Last Christmas; Paradise ... The Book of Spells; Ominous; Vengeance (5 page)

As soon as the lanterns were lit, there was a hard rap on the door. Dean Marcus stood up and walked slowly down the aisle. He stood, regal and wise, in front of the double doors.

“Who requests entrance to this sacred place?”

I might have laughed if I wasn’t in such awe. And if everyone else wasn’t so rapt with attention.

“Eager minds in search of knowledge,” came the answer. Missy mockingly mouthed the words along with the hidden speaker. Lorna gave her a stern look. Missy rolled her eyes.

“Then you are welcome,” the dean said.

“They don’t do this every day,” Diana whispered to me. “Only at the first service.”

The doors swung open and in walked Noelle, chin held high. Next to her was her boyfriend, Dash. His blond hair was slicked
back from his face and he wore a serious expression. He and Noelle both carried large, antiquated volumes in their arms and kept their eyes trained directly ahead as they walked down the aisle to the lectern.

Noelle looked almost regal and certainly in control. Even though hundreds of people were staring straight at her, she didn’t blush or waver or even blink. She was confident, gorgeous, composed.

The pair placed their books on a table at the front of the chapel.

“Tradition, honor, excellence,” they said in unison.

Then they turned to the room and everyone echoed them. “Tradition, honor, excellence.”

Chills rushed over me at the sound of all those voices in unison. Noelle and Dash turned and bowed together toward the teachers, then each took a seat on opposite sides of the altar, Noelle in front of the girls, Dash in front of the guys.

I had no idea what all this ritual meant, exactly, but I loved it. It was totally different from anything I had ever known before. I was so enraptured that it took me longer than most to notice the slight commotion and laughter at the back of the chapel. When I turned around, Thomas Pearson was just slipping in as the dean closed the doors. He took a seat in the back pew, where one of his friends gave him a fist bump and laughed. Sunglasses hid his eyes. The dean shot him a look of death, but then walked briskly back to the front of the room. I waited for Thomas to remove the glasses, hoping he might search me out as well, but instead he grew serious and trained his attention on the stage.

I turned and did the same, biting down on my lip and trying hard not to laugh. There was something about boys being boys that always made me giddy.

The dean stepped up to the lectern and tilted the microphone toward him. “Welcome, students, to Easton Academy.”

“Good morning, class! I trust you are all tickled pink to see me.”

The teacher banged the door closed behind him and those who weren’t already in their seats scrambled. Constance sat down next to me just as the teacher placed his beaten leather briefcase and a tall silver Thermos on his desk. He had the straightest posture I have ever seen and seemed to fill up the entire room. Gray hairs peppered the tight black curls on his head and he wore a blue sport coat and striped tie over tan pants. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them, surveying the room. I could tell by the expressions on my classmates’ faces that none of them were actually pleased to see him. From the sarcastic gleam in his eye, it was clear that he was also aware of this fact.

“For those of you who haven’t already heard all the nasty rumors about me, my name is Mr. Barber and I am a by-the-book type of man,” he said, his voice booming from somewhere in the vicinity of his navel. As he spoke, he twisted off the top of his Thermos and poured himself a cup of steaming liquid. The pungent scent of black
coffee filled the room. “This class is American History. In history we have what are known as facts. I teach the facts. We will not be reading opinion or propaganda in this class. We will not be discussing the whining woes of every Tom, Dick, and Harry in every socioeconomic strata of every country around the world. I’ll let your college teachers deal with the gray areas. In the meantime, I will prepare you by having you memorize
facts
. Dates. Names. Places. Facts.”

I don’t think I had ever known anyone who enunciated as perfectly as this man. His jaw must have been working more muscles than my entire body. The word
facts
came out like “fak-t-ss.” He took a sip of his coffee and placed the cup down on his desk.

“So let us find out what you know.”

Gulp.

He walked to the center of the room, facing us. “You. What’s your name?”

“B-Brian Marshall,” the towheaded kid in the front row answered. I was surprised he didn’t pee on the floor.

“From Mr. Marshall left is team A. The rest of you, team B.” Mr. Barber said with a dismissive flick of the wrist. He picked up a pebbled notebook from his huge wooden desk. “I have here the class roster. When I ask you a question, I expect an answer within ten seconds. Answer correctly, your team gets a point. Answer incorrectly, I’ll take a point away,” he said, eyeing us.

A couple of kids smirked. A couple more looked scared. I had no
idea
what
to think. No teacher of mine had ever spoken like this before. This guy had more authority in his little finger than the entire faculty at Croton High combined.

“Let’s get started,” Mr. Barber said. He looked up and down his class list as he approached the board. Every one of us prayed not to hear our name. “Miss . . .”

Crap. Crap. Crap.

“Talbot.”

I glanced at Constance. Her skin grew pale under all those freckles. My heart went out to her even as I was flooded with relief.

“Yes?” she said with remarkable calm.

Okay. If I knew the answer to this, I would be fine.

“Which king of England was served with the lawyer’s brief that declared this country’s independence in 1776?” he asked.

Wha-huh? Lawyer’s brief? Since when was the Declaration of Independence referred to as a lawyer’s brief?

Wait. What was the question again?

“King George the third,” Constance said.

“Correct.”

Constance beamed. Someone behind me said “easy one.” Right. King George III had received the Declaration of Independence. I knew that. I just had to focus. I took a deep breath, glad that I hadn’t been chosen as the first victim. On the blackboard Mr. Barber wrote a big A and B with bright yellow chalk. Under the B he added a point.

“Next. Mr. Simmons,” Mr. Barber said.

“Here,” a chunky guy near the door answered.

“Mr. Simmons, who was the first woman executed in the United States and why?”

Okay. That I do
not
know.

I started to sweat.

“Uh . . . oh. I know this,” Simmons said, clutching a pencil in both hands.

You’ve gotta be kidding me. You
do
?

“Um . . .”

“Ten seconds, Mr. Simmons.” Mr. Barber seemed to be enjoying this. “And for the record, we don’t say
um
in my class.”

“It’s Mary something,” the chunky kid said. “Mary . . . Surratt?”

Right. That sounds vaguely familiar. I think.

“Yes. And for what crime was she put to death?”

“Conspiring to assassinate President Lincoln,” Mr. Simmons said with much more confidence.

“Good. You pulled that one out, Mr. Simmons,” Mr. Barber said, adding a point under the A. I glanced at my watch, wondering if there was any possible way I could make it out of here without getting called on. There were still fifty-three minutes left in the class and only about twenty students.

“Miss . . . Brennan.”

Oh, God.

“Yes?”

My mouth was entirely dry.

“I see you’re new here,” he said with a smirk, looking up from
his ledger. Every person in the room turned to look at me.
Thanks. Thanks a lot.

“Yes,” I managed to say.

“I’ll give you an easy one, then,” Mr. Barber said condescendingly.

I wanted to smack him and thank him at the same time.

Give me something I know. Please just give me something I know.

“How many terms did Franklin Delano Roosevelt serve as president of the United States?” he asked.

Yes!

“Four,” I said, grinning.

“I’m sorry. The correct answer is three,” Mr. Barber said.

My eyes and face burned with humiliation even as my brain protested. It was four. I knew this. I learned this in eighth grade. FDR was my favorite president. I loved the New Deal and all the acronyms. I memorized them all and aced that quiz. He had served four terms.

“FDR
was
elected for a fourth term, but he died while in office and therefore did not serve four
full
terms,” Mr. Barber said.

My entire team groaned as he erased Constance’s one point. Under my skin my blood boiled.

“That’s a trick question,” I blurted.

Mr. Barber froze with his back to us. The students sucked in a breath. My body heat was almost unbearable. What had I just done?

“Excuse me?” Mr. Barber said, turning around.

I cleared my throat. “That was a trick question,” I repeated, unwilling to cower. “You didn’t ask how many full terms he served.”

Mr. Barber was incredulous. He took a few steps forward and crossed his arms over his chest. “I believe the question was fair, Miss Brennan.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off.

“And why do I believe the question was fair? Because I expect my students to
think,
Miss Brennan,” he said. “I expect them to take one moment to consider the options before simply blurting out the first response that pops into their heads. This is not the set of
Jeopardy!
, Miss Brennan; this is your education. You should be more conscientious in the future. Do we understand each other?”

Well. I was officially beaten down. “Ye-yes,” I said, my mouth dry.

“I’d like to believe you, Miss Brennan, but perhaps you should see me after class so that we can make sure of that fact,” he said.

I swallowed hard. Tears of embarrassment stung my eyes. Every single soul in the room was either staring at me or pointedly struggling
not
to stare at me.

He wanted to see me after class. My first teacher on my first day at the new school that was supposed to change my life wanted to see me after class. Well, something in my life had changed already. I had never been reprimanded by a teacher before. Ever.

“Okay,” I said.

“Good,” Mr. Barber replied. “Now that we’ve wasted several minutes of your classmates’ precious time, perhaps you would allow me to move on.”

I felt hot and sick and stupid. I nodded stiffly. It was pretty much all I could do.

Mr. Barber turned to his next victim and Constance clucked her tongue in sympathy.

Good start, Reed. Really stellar start.

I hovered next to Mr. Barber’s desk as he scribbled on a piece of white paper. Everyone avoided eye contact as they filed out of the room, like I was some kind of freak not to be associated with. One class and already I had pegged myself.

“Mr. Barber—“

“I know you are there, Miss Brennan. Kindly allow me to finish.”

My jaw snapped shut. I hated him. Even as I wanted to beg him for a second chance. I hadn’t been able to answer a single one of the three questions he had posed to me during his sick little game and I knew he thought I was some little-known breed of moron. But what kind of person did that—put students on the wringer on their first day back from summer break? Plus he had humiliated me in front of everyone when he
knew
that I was new here.

Mr. Barber placed his pen down. He took a long, deliberate sip from his coffee cup, then placed that down carefully as well. He was torturing me. He was making me wait here and worry on purpose. Finally, slowly, he tore the top sheet from his pad and held it out to me.

“Some reading for you,” he said, looking at me over the top of his glasses. “I expect you to catch up by the end of this week. You should know that I don’t take pity on scholarship students. If you do indeed belong here at Easton, you will do the work. No exceptions.”

I took the paper, which trembled in my hand. On it was a list of no less than eight books. I wanted to tell him I didn’t need to read all this to catch up. I wanted to tell him that I knew the answers to several of his game show questions, but that I had never been good at being put on the spot. I wanted to tell him that his FDR question was a load of shit and that I was fairly certain that he knew it. Most of all, I wanted to tell him that I didn’t want to be an exception.

But looking into his watery brown eyes, I knew without question that he wouldn’t tolerate me talking back to him again. So all I said was “Thank you.”

“And I trust that today’s outburst was the last of its kind?” he said.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Good. You may go.”

I turned slowly. I could feel him staring at me as I left the room and wondered what he was thinking. I made myself stand up straight. I couldn’t let him think he had broken me.

In the hallway, a couple of girls stood in front of a bulletin board where an orange flyer advertised the Welcome Back Dance, scheduled a few weeks into the semester. I stared at it and wondered if it was even remotely possible that I would be around that long.

No.

None of that.

No negativity. No pessimism. I was going to catch up in this class. I would catch up in everything. Even if I had to work all night, every night, I would do whatever it took to stay at Easton. The alternative—going back to Croton a failure and proving my mother’s rantings right—was inconceivable.

Instead, I was going to prove to Mr. Barber that he was wrong about me. His chagrin would just be an added perk.

When I returned to the cafeteria, a mere five hours after my first trip there, my attitude had completely reversed itself. That morning I had felt hopeful and determined. Now I was exhausted and overwhelmed. As I joined the other girls from my floor at our table—the same one we had claimed that morning—I realized my latest and possibly most alienating mistake of my superterrific morning. On my tray was a heaping bowl of macaroni and cheese and a large Coke, plus three chocolate chip cookies. Their trays? Nothing but salad and diet Cokes. Constance had already hidden her one cookie under a napkin, no doubt in an act of self-preservation.