The murmurs had already died down considerably. Like Maya had said that morning, the picture really wasn’t that scandalous. The only reason it had gotten any traction at all was because it was Emilia Rhodes—picture-perfect, angling-for-valedictorian, eyes-on-the-prize Emilia. She managed her reputation with the same fierceness with which she attacked SAT prep. She’d cultivated an image, and this wasn’t it.
“Consider it my opening salvo.” John Thomas Wilcox slid behind me in the lunch line. He kept his voice low—clearly, those words were meant only for my ears.
Henry was at the cashier now. Asher and Vivvie were talking to each other.
John Thomas leaned into my personal space. I helped him out of it. Forcibly.
“Careful,” John Thomas sneered. “You wouldn’t want to get sent to the office for fighting.”
Whatever. I noticed that he didn’t attempt to leer at me again.
“If you ask me,” he announced, his voice louder this time—and designed to carry, “someone did Miss Priss a favor. No one should be wound that tight.”
I reached the front of the line and gave the cashier my student ID to pay for my food.
“The picture makes her seem more human,” John Thomas continued behind me. “Like she really knows how to have a good time.”
Once the cashier handed my card back, I turned to leave. The expression on my face never changed. Eventually, John Thomas would realize he hadn’t gotten a single verbal reply out of me.
Some people weren’t worth the breath it took to shoot them down.
I’d made it halfway to our normal table when I noticed that Emilia had a visitor at hers. Mr. Collins. He was the photography teacher. Even from a distance, I could see the disapproval on his face and the flash of panic that crossed Emilia’s as he led her out of the room.
“Pity,” John Thomas said, coming up behind me once more. “The Hardwicke administration has never been known for their approval of good times. Especially,” he added, “when someone is careless enough for that good time to be caught on camera.”
CHAPTER 14
I skipped lunch.
The Hardwicke administrative building had once been a residence. Now it was a historical landmark. The headmaster’s secretary looked up from her desk when I entered.
“Tess,” she said warmly. “What can I do for you?”
I wasn’t sure that twinset-wearing, cookie-baking Mrs. Perkins had any setting other than warm.
“I’m looking for Emilia Rhodes,” I said. There was a chance that John Thomas had misled me, a chance that Mr. Collins had merely pulled Emilia aside to speak to her himself.
Mrs. Perkins cured me of that notion. “She’s in with the headmaster. You can wait if you’d like.” She tilted her head to the side. “But isn’t it your lunchtime? You really shouldn’t get in the habit of skipping meals, Tess.”
A phone on her desk rang. She answered it, and when she turned to consult her computer, I ducked past her desk and made a beeline for the headmaster’s office.
Adam had said my father had always had a tendency to act with no mind to the consequences. I took that to mean I came by it honestly.
I twisted the knob and pushed the door in just as Headmaster Raleigh was gaining momentum on a very pointed lecture. “You are, I can only assume, well aware of the Hardwicke policy on alcohol and other such substances,” he told Emilia. “While we cannot police your behavior outside these halls, the distribution of this picture reflects poorly on both you as an individual and on this institution—”
“I didn’t distribute it.” Emilia’s voice was steady enough, but I could tell her composure was hard-won.
“Be that as it may,” the headmaster continued, “this is hardly behavior befitting a would-be student-body president. I believe it would be best, for all involved, if you withdrew your name from the race.”
The Emilia I knew would have refused on the spot. The girl sitting in front of the headmaster’s desk did not.
“I understand you intend to apply to Yale next year.” Raleigh hit Emilia exactly where it hurt. “Hardwicke has enough students apply each year that the admissions committee relies heavily on the recommendations of our teachers and staff. You want to put your best foot forward. This”—the headmaster nodded toward a phone he’d placed in front of Emilia—“is hardly your best foot.”
I stepped forward, drawing Raleigh’s attention to me. Emilia didn’t even turn to look, her eyes locked on the front of the headmaster’s desk, her head bowed.
“Ms.—” the headmaster’s voice boomed with disapproval, but he still hesitated when it came to my name.
“Kendrick Keyes,” I supplied. Headmaster Raleigh flinched slightly at each of the names. Ivy Kendrick. William Keyes. Like it or not—and most days I didn’t—those names meant something at this school and in this town.
“This is a private conversation,” the headmaster informed me. “Unless you want to face disciplinary action yourself, I strongly suggest you leave the way you came. Immediately.”
“Just like you’re strongly suggesting Emilia drop out of the student council race?” I asked. “Remind me: Was there alcohol or any kind of illegal substance in that picture? Was Emilia holding a drink?”