“Between these events, you will have the opportunity to foster bonds with the family and each other through the Repartees. These cocktail evenings will be crucial to your advancement, with certain advantages or disadvantages being gained based on your performance during them,” Leighton says. She finishes her glass of wine, then sets it atop the piano, as if it’s not a B?sendorfer. She takes a step closer to Hawthorne, taking her delicate hand in both of her own. “I understand the pressure that you will all be under to perform. I want you to know that I am a trained psychiatrist, and I will always be there for you to speak to.”
What could be so intense that we would we need a psychiatrist? A twang of not-right shoots up my spine.
“Now, I must ask of you… your phones.” It’s the first time I notice the little basket at her feet.
There’s a beat, stiff with simmering tension. I look over at Saint. Her fingers clench around the sleek edges of her iPhone. I squeeze mine tighter between my thighs. The itinerary said phone use would be limited. They warned us. But I still don’t feel prepared to hand over a piece of myself. No one moves—and then surprisingly Esme stands up, tugging Hawthorne to her feet.
She stalks forward, shoulders back, completely confident as she holds her phone in an outstretched hand. “Aunt Leighton, here you go.” She drops her phone in like she hasn’t been glued to it since the sixth grade. Hawthorne is shakier, but murmurs her assent too.
And then it’s a melee, everyone fighting to not be the last to obey Leighton’s request. That status falls to Saint, Penthesilea, and me.
Leighton smiles. “I do not take your phones to punish you,” she says firmly. “You will need all your focus. When you agreed to come here, you made a commitment.” She turns to address the room at large. “That means that you are to follow the rules of this house, as they are set by me. There will be no after-curfew wandering, no bothering the staff. No distractions, at all. These next two weeks will test your grit, your ambition, and your minds. You will either rise to the occasion or you will fall, but you must do it alone. Your future begins now.”
She swoops down to pluck the basket from the floor, and no sooner does the door click behind her softly than everyone explodes into chatter again, that excited hum from before changing into something more frenetic.
Penthesilea slots into my line of sight and she seems to be gearing up to say something when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I sag with gratefulness when I meet Saint’s eyes.
“Want to look around?” Saint asks.
“Are we allowed to do that?”
“Have we been told that we aren’t?” Saint retorts, and I can’t help but crack a smile. I nod my agreement, and look back over at Penthesilea but can’t quite meet her eyes.
“I’ll see you around,” I murmur, and she nods, but there’s something else there, something that crinkles at the corner of her eyes like confusion.
No one has ever rejected her, I think. Without Charles and Pierce, she seems almost… lonely.
As Saint and I move toward the door, I overhear Esme speaking to a small gaggle of the girls, “Come closer, Margaret. Let me tell you about our competition. Some are barely worth a breath but—”
I shut the door behind me and take a deep, noisy inhale.
“That seemed pointed,” Saint murmurs.
I look up at her, forcing a smile. “Yeah, Esme and I… have a history.”
“That’s obvious,” Saint says, but she shakes it off and looks around.
We don’t wander with a destination in mind, but there’s something to look at everywhere we go.
“So, how are you liking Massachusetts?” I ask awkwardly as I look closer at the Tiffany glass.
“It’s very green,” Saint expels, and it isn’t a compliment. “I’ve never been on this coast of the States before.” Her gaze drifts to the exit again as we march downstairs.
“She took our phones… Why did she take our phones?” I ask, accidentally skipping the next step. I grab on to the banister hard to keep myself from pitching forward, and then Saint’s arm—surprisingly strong—yanks me back, steadying me. “Oh, thanks.”
“Don’t make a habit of it,” Saint warns. “I expected this. I don’t like it, but I definitely expected it.”
“Yeah, I guess I should have too. They’re probably trying to make it even more intense by cutting us off. The Finish… is, like, super private. No one even knows what the requirements are to be invited. It’s just… you suddenly get a letter out of nowhere. But it sounds different from what I’d expected so far. I thought it would be more… academic? I don’t know.”
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll have to use our brains somehow,” Saint explains. She gives me one of those looks, like I’m supposed to hear something else in what she’s saying. But when I don’t, her face falls and the look she gives me is almost pitying. I chafe at that, glaring forward.
“All I’m saying is, whatever it’s going to be, I don’t like giving my phone away,” I insist. It’s like she doesn’t want to even examine the weirdness of it all. The way that suddenly the walls seem to be closing in. “Your phone… is like an extension of yourself, right? It has important parts of you on it. I don’t like that someone else could potentially have access to it.” The idea that they might actually go through my phone makes me squirm.
“Of course it bothers me.” Saint shakes her head, wary. “I expected the possibility so I have nothing on there that would give much away, but having my phone steadied me. Gave me an out. Without it, I’ll need to find another out.”
The idea that it does bother her too makes me unwind. I’m not acting out of place. I’m not crazy for thinking that the air is off.
My curiosity gets the better of me. “An out?”
“Yeah, in case I decide that this is not for me.”
I snort to myself. “So… you don’t need to be here either. Figures.”
“Do you?” she asks.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I retort.
Saint doesn’t apologize. Instead, she looks me up and down, not in a judgmental way, but assessing. “Yes, I suppose it is,” she says simply.
Instantly, the edge sharpening in my chest dulls. There’s something about her outright honesty that makes me like her instantly.
“You’re all right, Saint,” I decide.
Saint looks thoughtful again. “Yeah… so are you.”
Another sharp ding of not-right zips up my spine and settles at the base of my skull, because in that moment, Saint sounds sad about it.
CHAPTER 7
“DO YOU NEED HELP WITH your hair?”
“Does anyone have a red lipstick?”
“Shit, I broke a nail—”
“Wait, I have nail glue, here.”
Each voice layered one upon the other grates against me. It’s evening and all the girls are gathered in the same common room where we met. Instead of sitting prim and proper in white lace—the stupid dresses we took a group photo in around midafternoon—they’re all frantically putting finishing touches to the canvases they’ve made of themselves.