Mallory sprints up the steps and bids me to follow. I’m mesmerized watching her legs pump as she leaps from one wide stone riser to the next. Every rock-hard muscle contracts and contorts, each fiber working to propel her forward. Lot of power in those skinny legs. Does the tan help? Zip, zip, zip, like a mountain goat on a vertical face.
Yes, the tan must help.
Once we step inside, the hallway’s less Glee and more Hogwarts or perhaps Downton Abbey, with grand, dark oak-paneled walls and wide staircases illuminated by two stories’ worth of stained-glass walls.
Mallory isn’t interested in sharing the Architectural Digest details, though. Instead, she leads me to the trophy case, spanning from one end of the timber-beam-ceilinged hallway to the other. She practically levitates as she names the various championships the Knights have won over the years. The pitch of her voice rises as she prattles on about achievements both athletic and academic.
I should be impressed by all the bred excellence, but she’s giving off a peculiar vibe. Her energy is Rumpelstiltskin-frenetic, as though all the gold in the world still isn’t enough, she just needs to spin more, more, more.
I’m uncomfortable.
Suspect Mallory and I won’t be friends. I can tell I’m too mellow for her liking. Not focused enough. Too bohemian. I had the inkling we weren’t destined to be pals when she noticed the shaved patch over my right ear. Guess she didn’t spot that part at first because the rest of my hair’s pretty shaggy. When she did, she caught her breath and asked if I’d had skull surgery.
Um, no, I’d replied, just personal choice.
Then she shuddered.
Now she says, “I could not be more proud of everything the senior class has achieved thus far. Do you realize we have 211 AP scholars?”
I do not; that’s largely because I have no clue what it means.
“Last year, 98 percent of the graduating class went on to college, at 176 colleges and universities.” Her cerulean eyes practically brim with tears as she recounts this triumph.
Then she pauses and stares at me.
What in the bloody hell is she waiting for? Applause? Back slaps? Tips? A biscuit? Actually, a biscuit may be the best option. Her manic behavior could be due to low blood sugar.
“Um...everything sounds fab?” This comes out more as a question than a statement.
“Awesome. So, do you have any questions so far?”
“Um...yes,” I say, thinking about the one big question mark I keep encountering since moving here. “Why’s everyone so uptight when I mention we bought the Barats’ house?”
Her face clouds over. “Long story.”
I glance at the clock on my phone. “I have time.”
“I don’t,” she replies, shutting me down yet again. She appears to take a moment to center herself.
Once righted, she tosses her braid. “Anyway, we’re going to hit the athletic fields and then the math campus, followed by the activities hall, and then I’ll get you to your Good and Evil in Literature first-period class. If we hustle, we can grab an espresso at the coffee cart in the quad before then.”
She smiles at me expectantly.
Maybe she is expecting a tip. Mum says Americans tip more than Europeans and I should be prepared, so I’m keeping dollar bills in my pocket at all times. When Kent and Stephen saw my wad of cash, they laughed, asking me if I was planning to hit up a strip club.
Still, a tip can’t be appropriate here... Can it?
While I internally try to calculate how much 15 percent of a campus tour is worth, I reply, “Thanks for such a thorough introduction. I appreciate it.” Yet what I’d like to say is that I’ve been at this school for only half an hour and already I’m exhausted.
At first glance, Mallory seems the sort to have it all. Lovely and bright and tons of energy. Girls defer to her in the halls as though she’s important, like she owns the place, and boys eye her pretty hair and lean, tan legs. Teachers nod at her in a way that makes me suspect she’s a worthy adversary. But given her reaction to a simple question about the Barats, I wonder if there isn’t something going on beneath the surface.
Also?
If she’s spent twelve years running at this frenzied pace, then I’m so very glad to not be her.
6
MALLORY
Okay, a few more stops and this stupid tour will be over.
Have I mentioned how much I loathe being the campus cruise director?
Nothing personal with Simone. She seems nice enough, albeit seriously clueless. At one point, I thought she was going to tip me. (Who does that?) My issue is that now I’m going to be responsible for her, which is the last thing I want. That’s what they don’t tell you about this club. Novus Orsa isn’t just about giving tours; it’s about taking new students under your wing for however long they need guidance.
Ain’t nobody got time for that.
When I told Liam that I was appointed as the leader of Novus Orsa, he didn’t ask why. One of the reasons we get along is that he recognizes a command performance when he sees it. Hell, he lives it, too.
“Step it up, Mallory,” my mother had said last spring, giving me the side-eye over her nth glass of wine. To myself, I was all, Glad you don’t let the daylight stop you from getting your drink on.
I stood there in the kitchen, bracing myself for another one of her Your Brother Theo Is Perfect and You, Mallory, Are Sadly Lacking lectures. (At least she never compares me to our older brother, Holden, anymore.) So I stood and waited for her to describe what unspeakable crime had I committed this time.
In what way was I not reflecting proper glory on her now?
She sat there in the breakfast solarium, posing on the padded bench like it was her throne. I knew that she’d jump all over my shit about posture if I didn’t hold my chin up and keep my shoulder blades pressed together, so I stood extra tall. Stop curling up like a shrimp in a sauté pan, she’d hiss when I was kid, until standing up straight became as second-nature as breathing. I stiffened even more under her penetrating gaze.
She took a long pull from her glass and then said, “Your father tells me you were asked to lead Novus Orsa and you declined.”
“I did.”
Dad agreed with my decision when we spoke about Novus Orsa. Said he worried I was spreading myself too thin—ironic coming from the guy who puts in seventy-plus hours a week at his law firm. But maybe his schedule feels like he’s slacking—before he made partner, it was more like one hundred hours per week. For a couple of years during elementary school, weeks would pass without my seeing him, even though we lived under the same roof.
“Why’s that?” She said this more to her glass than to me, as though I weren’t even worthwhile enough to demand her full attention while being addressed. Wouldn’t it be something if she ever looked at me with the kind of affection she happily bestows upon Theo—especially when his team is winning—or bottles of Sauvignon Blanc or her Facebook timeline?