I groan and scoot down, sliding into the pillows with a palm over my eyes. “How to make enemies in less than sixty seconds flat. I wrote the freaking book.”
Sunny chuckles. “Don’t worry. It wasn’t like you were auditioning for Renata’s role. Audrey is her only real competition. But no one’s ever been able to beat Kat out. I’d sure like to see that change.”
A caramel scent hovers over me, reminding me of my aunt when she stepped into my personal space earlier. I move my hand to find Sunny standing beside the bed with the cigarette perched on her lower lip. Her face is oval with dark freckles spattered across her nose and cheeks in the shape of a harlequin mask. In the low light, her eyes are a striking shade of bluish purple, and her features are elfin. She resembles some wild wood creature, dressed for a masquerade.
She takes another drag on her glowing stick. Her exhalation curls like condensation from a person’s mouth in freezing weather. It’s not a traditional cigarette. It’s an e-cig. She has it clamped in an elegant holder—a smaller version of the slender black one that Audrey Hepburn used in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
“Do they know you smoke?” At Mom’s insistence, I read the student handbook on the way here. Tobacco is a one-way ticket to expulsion and home. I’ve kept that little tidbit tucked away on the chance I want to get kicked out of this place. Now I know where I could get a supply. Although that would hurt Mom’s budding relationship with Aunt Charlotte, so it would have to be a very last resort.
“Nah. They’re oblivious. There’s no fire or smoke to give me away. It’s vaping. I’m practically exhaling water.” She hands the cylinder to me.
I run it under my nose, sniffing the sweet aroma, then hand it back.
“I’ve got an extra atomizer in my room,” Sunny says. “If you want one. I lifted the e-juice refills off your aunt. She orders them in bulk from some place online, so she never misses one or two. I kinda like the clove ones, but the chocolates are best. There weren’t any of those in her latest stash, though. Unless they’re hid behind the boxes of disposable contacts in her armoire. Speaking of, I hope those aren’t just for upcoming costume accessories. She needs to incorporate them into her style. Her glasses look like they’re from Ben Franklin’s special collection.”
I can hardly register Sunny’s babbles about my aunt’s questionable fashion choices; it’s too insignificant compared to her other confession. “Wait. You sneak into her room and steal from her?”
“I told you, I use my powers for good. She’s been trying to quit smoking since I’ve been here. I decided to help her along.” She wrinkles her freckled nose. “You aren’t a snitch, are you? Gonna go running to her because she’s your aunt? If she finds out I’ve been rattling around the teachers’ rooms—”
“No. We’re not that close.” I motion for Sunny to join me inside my bed-cave. Before she sits, she picks up my soup and hands it to me. I nod a thank-you. “To be honest, this is the first time I’ve met Mademoiselle Fran?ais de fantaisie in my life.”
Sunny barks a laugh that comes from her belly—a cheery and round sound that warms me almost as much as the steaming mug in my hand. “So you caught that, did ya? Your aunt even takes us on field trips sometimes, so we can have a real expérience Paris. Still not sure if she’s a French diplomat or our dance teacher.”
I sip my chicken broth and grin. Maybe I’ll make at least one new friend. Sunny’s quirky enough to overlook my own eccentricities—like Trig and Janine always did. And her knack for “lifting” things could be useful.
“How about this?” I ask as the soup coats my throat with comfort. “I’ll keep quiet about your extraordinary ‘talents,’ if you can do me a favor in return.”
Sunny cocks her head. “A gal who sings like an angel and knows how to blur the line between flattery and blackmail.” Taking a puff of her e-cig, she smiles. “A kindred spirit. Okay. What’s the favor?”
I swallow more soup to soothe my spinning stomach and attempt to appear mildly interested—as opposed to how I really feel inside: desperate for information. “Tell me anything you know about the estate’s gardener. You mentioned there’s a cottage somewhere in the forest. Is that where he lives?”
My companion chokes on her caramel-flavored vapor. “Haven’t you seen the garden? There hadn’t been a keeper . . . well, since the whole time I’ve been here. We have a caretaker—Mister Jippetto—who lives in the cottage in the woods, but he mainly tends the cemetery . . . keeps it tidy. He does a few odds and ends around the school. Pruning the bushes that hang too close to the parking lot, sweeping leaves off the steps, helping us make sets for the stage. Simple maintenance. But he’s too old to wrangle all those plants and weeds.”