In pursuit of the furthering of women’s education and placement in society, the Remington Family established the Finish—a two-week program led by the esteemed Remington matriarchs—in which we annually select twelve girls of already outstanding rank, with the intent of cultivating the poise, skill, and survival instincts needed to succeed at new heights. These skills are then put to the test in three distinct competitive events, evaluating for initiative, strategy, and finally mettle.
Among these twelve, the best of the best, a final girl will rise and be rewarded with opportunity and the full financial and emotional support of the Remington Family, in perpetuity.
Candidate Adina Walker, you have been nominated and selected from a sizable and impressive pool of candidates to compete in the Finish. We challenge you to prove your vigor, your valor, and above all, your ambition. If you choose to accept this offer, you will arrive at Remington Estate on Sunday, June 3, promptly at noon.
There is no signature. My hands are shaking and I ball them into fists to steady myself.
A way to even the playing field.
“The Remingtons are a strange bunch. They keep to themselves. But I’ve heard… rumors. That the competition can get out of hand,” Dad says, his natural skepticism overshadowing his positivity.
My mind is already focused on the game at hand, though. I can go to Yale again. I can create the destiny I want again. All I have to do is win.
CHAPTER 5
I PACK LIGHT, AS THE itinerary buried beneath the fanfare indicated. It didn’t reveal much about what I’ll be doing beyond two cocktail parties and a dressier affair toward the end of it all.
Jeans, a few blouses, a nice pair of slacks that I bought for college interviews. Pajamas. Sweats. Three dresses, two of them wrap dresses and the last an old formal dress from Toni. Today I wear my nicest blouse, tucked into a borrowed tartan skirt. Toni slipped it to me as she tried to drill in some of the upper-crust manners that have been trained into her from birth during the week that we’d had together between graduation and the Finish.
“You’re going to do so well, Adina,” Dad says firmly as he turns down the long, winding driveway that leads up to the Remingtons’ estate.
“And even if you don’t win, we’re still so very proud of you,” Mom affirms. “We’ve only ever asked you to do your best.”
“Thanks,” I say softly. Cynicism and hope war within me in equal measure.
Through a break in the thicket of woods, I catch a glimpse of the Remington Estate. We curl up and around it as we get closer, revealing more and more of the bleached white wood and pale, craggy stone. At the top of the hill are the wrought-iron gates, twice the size of a large man, wide open. There aren’t any other midsized sedans waiting at the entrance, only a Rolls-Royce that’s already driving back the way we just came and an enormous black Escalade, the kind celebrities travel in.
I paste myself to the window, staring as a girl I don’t recognize climbs out of the Escalade. She’s Chinese and moves with the air of someone that has money, but not New England money with country homes and horses. This girl is chrome and skyline. She looks powerful, like she’s just walked out of Blade （1998）， all black vinyl and oddly placed buckles and… is that a harness?
“This place is huge,” Mom murmurs, calling my attention back to the mansion. Even with all these years at Edgewater, none of us has ever been to the actual Remington Estate.
“So fucking cool,” I whisper to myself. My parents are too in awe of the Remington Estate to call me out on my language.
The girl turns back to the Escalade and waves for someone in the front seat. Then she stands there in her vinyl and doesn’t look up from her phone once as her driver climbs out and goes around to the trunk, pulling out three suitcases.
My two duffels feel very small, suddenly.
We pull to a stop just behind the Escalade and I unbuckle my seat belt, but my parents do too.
“I can take it from here,” I say quickly, leaning forward between the front seats.
“What? You don’t want us to come inside?” Dad asks. He hasn’t peeled his gaze away from the big doors. They’re slightly open, and every few moments I can see a person sweep by, though only enough to make out their shape.
I wonder briefly if Pierce is standing there, or maybe his father. I don’t remember seeing his mother very often; I wonder briefly if she’s even alive. It would be very theatrical for her not to be. The golden boy with his eccentric father and loser brother and dead mother.
I shake my head—it’s an asshole thought, what is going on with me?—and I clear my throat.
“No,” I say. My mother opens her mouth to complain, but I anticipate her words. “That girl doesn’t have her parents going in, demanding to speak with the adults. I’m the adult. I’m eighteen.”
“Okay,” Mom murmurs finally. Dad nods too.
I swallow back a squeal that’s wholly unlike me, that probably stems from the part of me that belongs to Toni, and instead I leave smacking kisses on both my parents’ cheeks.
“Thank you, thank you. I’ll call when I can—”
“I don’t love that there aren’t phones,” Mom says, lips pursed.
“I can’t be distracted,” I remind her, just like it said on the itinerary. “I’ll tell you everything when I’m done.”
I mean it. I want to memorize every piece of this moment, of this time, brand it to my brain stem so that it feels real and lived in, even decades later, instead of fuzzy around the edges like an old, ill-kept photograph. The moment that changed my life forever.
“You be good, Dina,” Dad says.
“I will. I’ll be the best,” I promise.
I’ll be twice as good, is what I mean, and they know it. They know I have to be, like they taught me. I wrench open the back door and climb out, tugging my duffels over my shoulders.
I leave behind our sedan and wonder if the girl still by the doors will turn around and look at me, but instead she sashays forward in her black Balenciaga sock sneakers that should only look good on Instagram, but that she makes work in real life. I bite my bottom lip as she slips between those front doors before I catch up to her.
This is the start.
I could do anything.
Be anything.
All I’ve ever needed is access, and finally… the doors are literally open.
When I enter the foyer, I expect to find myself amongst the eleven other girls. Instead, only the girl from outside and I are there. Briefly, I wonder if we’re late. The girl doesn’t seem too concerned, but she does finally notice me, and I notice her right back.
Her long glossy thick hair spills down her back in a river. The sharp jut of her chin is intimidating, and she’s taller than me, even in her weirdo expensive sneakers.
The eyeliner on her eyelids is sharp, like she used a knife to apply the straight lines. There’s something about her stance that makes me stand even stiffer and taller. She looks out of place here, but not in the way that I do.
“Oh, good. Someone who isn’t the color of copy paper,” she says in a stiff, almost British accent.
I drop my bags as I burst into a surprised round of laughter and her mouth twitches too before she turns to face forward, toward the sound of clicking heels. I just manage to smother my laugh as an unfamiliar figure appears on the grand staircase.