“Did you mean the Reapers or the brat pack?”
I grinned appreciatively. “Ooh, well played.”
“I have my moments. Besides, who’d you borrow those kick-ass flats from?”
I glanced down at the screaming yellow and navy patent leather ballet flats she’d let me borrow on our hurried way out the door this morning.
“Fine,” I finally said. “Fashion trumps evil and prissy teenagers. You win.”
Scout grinned at me. “I always win. Let’s chow.”
We noshed, said our hellos to Collette and Lesley, and when dinner was done, returned to the suite for our hour-long break before study hall. The brat pack had made camp in the living room,
blond hair and expensive accessories flung about as we entered.
Veronica sat cross-legged on the couch, an open folder in her lap and M.K. and Amie at her feet like adoring handmaids.
“It also says,” Veronica said, gazing at the folder, “that her parents dumped her here so they could head off to Munich.” She lifted her head, a lock of blond hair falling across her shoulders,
and gave me a pointed look.
Was that my folder she was reading? Had M.K. taken it from Foley’s office while she was on hall-monitoring duty?
“Interesting, isn’t it, that her parents left her? That they didn’t take her with them? I mean, it’s not like there aren’t English-speaking private schools in Germany. She’s not evenfrom Chicago.”
“How did you get that?” I bit out. All eyes turned to me. “How did you get my file?”
Veronica closed the navy blue folder, the St. Sophia’s crest across the front, then held it up between two fingers. “What, this? We got it from Foley’s office, of course. We have our ways.”
I took a step forward, anger dimming my vision at the edges. “You have no right to go through my file. Who do you think you are?”
Outside, thunder rolled across the city, the steel gray sky finally preparing to give way. Inside,
the room lights flickered.
“You need to back off,” Scout said.
Veronica arched an eyebrow and uncrossed her legs. M.K. and Veronica shifted to give her room. She stood up, folder in her hand, and walked toward us, a haughty look aimed at Scout.
“You think you’re queen of the school just because you’ve been here since you were twelve?
Being abandoned by your parents isn’t exactly a coup, Green.”
Scout, amazingly, stayed calm after that outburst, an expression of boredom on her face. “Is that supposed to hurt me, Veronica? ’Cause, if I recall, you’ve been here as long as I have.”
“Irrelevant,” Veronica declared. “We’re talking about you”—she shifted her gaze to me—“and your new friend. You both need to remember who’s in charge here.”
Scout made a sarcastic sound. “And you think that’s you?”
Veronica flipped up the folder. “The ones with information, with access, always win. You should write that down in one of your little books.”
M.K. snickered. Amie had the decency to blush, but her eyes were on the ground, apparently not brave enough to intercede.
“Give it back,” I said, hand extended, fingers shaking with fury.
“What, this?” she asked, batting her eyelashes, waving the folder in her hand.
“That,” Scout confirmed, reaching out her own hand, and taking a menacing step forward. When she spoke again, her voice was low and threatening. “Keep in mind, Lively, that in all the years you’ve been here, some interesting little facts have crossed my path, too. I assume you’d like to keep those facts between us, and not have them sprinkled around the sophomore and senior classes?”
There was silence as they faced off, the weirdo and the homecoming queen, a battle for rumor mill supremacy.
“Whatever,” Veronica finally said, handing over the folder between the tips of her fingers, lips pursed as if the paper were dirty or infected. “Have it. It’s not like I care. We’ve gotten everything we need.”
Scout pulled the file from Veronica’s manicured hands. “I’m glad we’ve concluded our business. And in the future, you might be a little more careful about where you get your information from and whom you share it with, capiche? Because sharing that information with the wrong people could be . . . costly.”
Thunder rolled and rippled again, this burst louder than the last. The storm was moving closer.
“Whatever,” Veronica said, rolling her eyes. She turned and, like a spinning dervish of plaid,
took her seat on the couch again, attendants at her feet, the queen returned to her throne.
“Come on,” Scout said, taking my wrist in her free hand and moving me toward her bedroom. It took a moment to make my feet move, to drag my gaze away from the incredibly smug smile on Veronica’s face.
“Lily,” Scout said, and I glanced over at her.
“Come on,” she repeated, tugging my wrist. “Let’s go.”
We moved into her room, where she shut the door behind us. Folder in hand, she pointed at the bed. “Sit down.”
“I’m fine—”
“Sitdown .”
I sat.
Thunder rolled again, lightning flashing through the room almost instantaneously. The rain started, a sudden downpour that echoed through the room like radio static.
The folder beneath her crossed arms, she walked to one end of the room, eyes on the floor, and then walked back again. “We’re going to have to put it back.” She lifted her head. “This came from Foley’s office. We needed to get it out of their hands, which we did—yay, us—but now we’re going to have to put it back. And that’s going to be tricky.”
“Great,” I muttered. “That’s great. Just one more thing I don’t need to worry about right now.
But before we figure out how to sneak into Foley’s office and drop off a student file without her knowing it was gone, can I see it, please?”
“No.”
That silenced me for a moment. “Excuse me?”
“No.” Scout stopped her pacing and glanced over at me. “I really don’t think looking through this is going to help you. If there’s anything weird in here—about your parents, for example,
since Foley likes to discuss them—it’s just going to give you things to obsess over. Things to worry about.”
“And it’s better if only Veronica and M.K. have that information?”
Silence.
“Good point,” Scout finally said, then handed it over. “You read. I’ll plot.”
My hands shaking, I flipped it open. My picture was stapled on the inside left, a shot of me from my sophomore year at Sagamore North, my hair a punky bob of black. On the inside right was an information sheet, which I skimmed—all basic stuff. A handful of documents was stapled behind the information sheet. Health and immunization records. A letter from the board of trustees about my admission.
The final document was different—a letter on cream-colored stock, addressed to Foley.
“Oh, my God,” I said as I reviewed it, my vision dimming at the edges again as the world seemed to contract around me.
“Lily? What is it?”
“There’s a letter. ‘Marceline,’ ” I read aloud, “ ‘as you know, the members of the board of trustees have agreed to admit Lily to St. Sophia’s. We believe your school is the best choice for the remainder of Lily’s high school education. As such, we trust that you will see to her education with the same vigor that you show to your other students.’ ”
“So far so good,” Scout said.
“There’s more. ‘We hope,’ ” I continued, “ ‘ that you’ll be circumspect in regard to any information you provide to Lily regarding our work, regardless of your opinion of it.’ It’s signed,