“Well, now I have to know. Celine Dion? Barry Manilow? ABBA? What’s your dirty little secret?”
“ABBA does have some good songs,” he says. “But I kind of like . . . um—” He mutters something under his breath I can barely hear.
“What?”
“Katy Perry.”
I groan. “Katy Perry? That’s so cheesy. I don’t know if I can be seen with you now.”
“C’mon! Her songs are awesome!”
“You’re worse than my dad.”
“Don’t hold it against me.”
“Oh, I definitely will,” I say, grinning at him. “Is this better?” I change the music to a poppy sixties French playlist: lots of Fran?oise Hardy and Serge Gainsbourg. Perfect make-out music.
“I don’t know it, but I like it.”
I gesture to my bed, and he plops down on it. “Wine? It’s cheap, I promise.”
“Sure,” he says, laughing.
I unscrew a bottle of Chianti that I bought from the Tesco on the high street—they never ask for ID.
“Here,” he says. “Let me, please.”
“Ooh, you’re so chivalrous,” I say, teasing. He pours us two small glasses in Sussex Park coffee mugs. I look down at the inch of wine, frowning. “Are you this stingy with everybody? My ten-year-old cousin drinks more wine than that.”
He laughs. “Okay, alkie.”
“Hardly. Gotta make sure you’re liquored up. How else are we going to tolerate each other’s horrible company?” We both take sips, grinning at each other.
“I don’t know—I think we could find something to do,” he says, standing up, touching my hand with his, and pulling me toward him. We start kissing, and even though his lips are soft and his hands are roaming all over my back and I should totally be losing myself in this moment, I can’t stop thinking:
OH MY GOD, EDWARD AND I ARE KISSING.
At some point, we tumble onto the bed together, and eventually I lose myself in the feeling of his lips and fingers on my skin. It feels like ages before we break apart. His nose and cheeks are red, and I’m sure my hair is a tangled rat’s mess.
“You look like a disaster,” I say.
“Totally worth it.”
I pull out my phone to take a selfie of the two of us, but Edward puts his hand on my arm gently.
“No photos, okay?”
“Huh?” I put the phone down.
“I don’t like . . . it’s just . . . I know it sounds weird, but I don’t like taking selfies, okay?”
I feel stung. “Okay.”
“It’s not personal,” he says, all in a rush. “It’s just that—you know how the press is, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Hackers have gotten really good. They can break into your iCloud storage. They can steal your photos and download your voice mails. I just don’t like too much private information about me floating around.” His voice is shaky but his gaze is firm.
“It’s not information, it’s just a silly photo,” I say in what I hope is a light voice. “I’m not going to post it to Instagram.”
“I get that—but I’d still rather maintain my privacy, if it’s all right with you.” He sounds a little icier than I’m used to.
“Okay, that’s cool. No worries. Um. So . . .” I put the phone away, changing gears. “Oh, how crazy is this? My sister Libby is transferring to Sussex Park tomorrow.”
He looks grateful for the diversion. “Oh, yeah? After the year’s already started? Why?”
I explain last week’s phone call with Libby. The day after she started back at Greene House, the board discovered proof that the headmaster had definitely been taking bribes, and they ousted him. Word spread like wildfire through Greene House that the headmaster had been sleeping with one of the parents, too, although I haven’t seen that tidbit hit the papers yet. Once the writing was on the wall, Libby knew she couldn’t risk staying and ruining her university chances. Mum and Dad have already put the wheels in motion, and Libby should be here tomorrow morning. I’m beyond excited.
“That’s awful,” he says. “I’m surprised more people aren’t talking about that.”
I look at him weirdly. “Everybody’s talking about it. It’s in all the papers.”
“I don’t really read the papers.”
“Ah. Right. Of course.”
We look at each other awkwardly. Somehow, the night has gone from fabulous to flat in an instant.
He looks at his watch. “Well, you’ll probably want to get a good night’s sleep if your sister will be here tomorrow. It’s getting late anyway.”
I peek at my phone. It’s already way past midnight. “Holy shit, it is late.” We spent about three hours kissing and three minutes talking. “Get out!” I say, shooing him toward the door as we both laugh.
“See you tomorrow?” he asks.
“You know it.”
We exchange a quick kiss and then Edward leaves, sneaking back down the hallway.
I pace outside the master’s office, my black heels making little scuff marks on the shiny marble floor. I wonder what’s taking them so long. They’ve been in there for an hour.
Behind the large oak doors, Libby and my mother are having a meeting with Master Kent, discussing the details of Libby’s transfer from Greene House. It’s been just over a week since Libby called me.
I figured the meeting with the master would be a quick formality and offered to go along and wait outside. But after pacing the halls of the administration building hundreds of times waiting for them to come out, I’m beginning to regret my decision.
I slump in an uncomfortable leather-and-wood chair across from the door, pulling my pleated skirt down as I open Viewty on my phone. I scroll through the looks, hearting my favorite nail art and bookmarking a cool braids tutorial I want to try myself later. Once I’ve tapped out the latest looks on my feed, I open Instagram and start scrolling.
Flossie’s posted a selfie holding her field hockey stick in front of a mirror. I like the photo, hoping she’s not still upset that Edward picked me over her. India’s assured me that she’ll get over it.
India’s most recent picture aims down at her boots on the grass, her arm bangles and rings visible as she holds a Starbucks iced coffee. I make a mental note of the rings she’s wearing; I’ll have to pick some up like that.
Georgie rarely posts on Instagram, preferring Snapchat, but I see that she’s posted a photo of Oliver by the Oaks. I wonder what that means. Are they hanging out now?
I’ve been so preoccupied with Libby’s arrival that it’s been a full day since I’ve posted anything. I scroll through my photo album, looking for an appropriate photo.
I could post one of me in the dining hall—David grabbed my phone and snapped it as I stuffed my cheeks with bread rolls while the group died with laughter—but I look like I have seven chins. Nope. Everybody knows you post unflattering or self-deprecating photos of yourself only if they’re at least semi-cute.
I wish I had just one photo of me and Eds. I get his privacy thing, I guess—but I still think he’s being a little paranoid. Obviously I’d never post anything of him, and I sincerely doubt the press is going to be hacking into student phones.