Thorn Abbey Read online

  The boy next to me glances up from his spiral-bound notebook. He and I seem to be the only ones without an iPad or laptop. “Well, the heroine of the book, Sarah Woodruff, is an outcast,” he says. “But she brings it on herself. She lies to make herself seem like more of an outsider than she really is.”

  “Example?” Mr. Bagley prompts him.

  “Well, like how she claimed that she’d, uh, had a relationship with a French lieutenant. She hadn’t. She just wanted people to think that she was a—”

  “Ho,” the boy on the other side of Franklin cuts in. Everyone laughs, except for Franklin, who blushes and looks down at his notebook.

  Mr. Bagley seems amused. “You’re actually on to something, Nate. Even though your choice of vocabulary is rather questionable.” He pauses and glances around the room. “So why would Sarah Woodruff want people to think she was a woman of ill repute? Tess?”

  Oh, God, Mr. Bagley is calling on me. Does he seriously want me to discuss sex in class? Help!

  I clear my throat. “I guess she lied about . . . that . . . because in some ways she wants to be an outcast. I mean, being an outcast is not fun for her. People judge her and criticize her for being different. But being an outcast also gives her freedom.”

  “Freedom from?”

  “Freedom from Victorian morals and rules. She’s completely alone, so she can be her own person and do what she wants.”

  Mr. Bagley beams. “Yes, yes, that’s right, isn’t it? Which leads us to our next subject, existentialism.”

  Okay, that wasn’t totally horrible. No one is laughing and pointing at me, although the two Kerrith girls look as though they would if they could. I ignore them and check out the other people sitting around the table. There’s Mila Kunis, Franklin, Nate . . .

  . . . and then there’s this boy at the far end of the table.

  He has wavy brown hair and long, slender fingers like a concert pianist. He’s so cute, is my first thought. Then: Why is he so sad? He is staring moodily out the window. At the sea? At something else? I wish I could give him a hug, which is about the dumbest idea ever. I don’t even know his name.

  Just then, he turns and looks right at me. His dark eyes flash with anger. How utterly humiliating. He thinks I’m spying on him. Which I kind of am. I pick up my pen and pretend to be busy taking notes.

  After class is over, I’m the first one out the door. I don’t want to run into the two mean Kerrith girls. Or that cute boy, who might accuse me of being a “creeper” the way Jason Delgado did in geometry last year when I happened to notice his new haircut. People can be so touchy. Besides, I need to figure out how to get to my Latin class.

  But the boy who sat next to me, Franklin, catches me in the hallway as I’m poring over my schedule and campus map. “I think we’re the only ones who read the book,” he says with a friendly smile. “Do you need help?”

  “Room 212M? What does that mean, M?”

  “M stands for ‘Mezzanine.’ Go down to the first floor, then loop back to the auditorium and take the back stairs up one level.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  “By the way, I’m Franklin. Franklin Chase. Are you new here?”

  “I’m Tess. I just transferred.”

  “What do you think of Thorn Abbey so far?”

  I hesitate. “It’s a lot nicer than my old school,” I say, which is the truth. “What about you? How long have you—”

  “Franklin!”

  That boy, the one who caught me staring, strides over to us. Or rather, to Franklin. He doesn’t even acknowledge my existence. “Let’s walk to precalc together. I need you to fill me in on what I missed at soccer practice.”

  “Sure. Tess, this is my roommate, Max. Max, this is Tess. She’s new here,” Franklin says.

  Max’s expression is cold and indifferent. Up close, I see that he has a jagged scar on his left cheek. And big shoulders. And beautiful lips.

  “Hi!” I hear myself squeak.

  “Yeah. Hi. Come on, man, we’ll be late,” Max says to Franklin.

  “Okay, okay. Hey, Tess, do you know about the Monday Night Movie Fest? In Chapin? Maybe we’ll see you there tonight,” Franklin calls out.

  I nod. I have no idea what the Monday Night Movie Fest is.

  Max nudges Franklin, and they hurry down the hall. As they turn the corner, Max glances back at me.

  Our eyes lock. For a second. Two seconds. An eternity.

  Then he is gone.

  Why is my heart beating so fast all of a sudden?

  5.

  “WHAT’S THE MONDAY NIGHT MOVIE FEST?” I ASK DEVON AT lunch, casually.

  We are in the Lanyon dining hall, which Devon keeps reminding me is not called a dining hall but the Commons and which looks nothing like the industrial cafetorium at Avery Park High. Everything in the Commons is glossy dark wood, and chandeliers hang from the high, high ceilings.

  Devon’s phone beeps. She glances at the screen and scowls. “She is such an annoying whore.”

  “Who?”

  “My mom. She’s constantly texting me with her OCD crap. Why do I give a fuck if her Visa’s near the credit limit? What were you saying?”

  My mom would kill me if I ever called her a whore. I guess Devon doesn’t like her mom too much. “The Monday Night Movie Fest. What is it?”

  “Oh, that. The Cinema Club runs a movie series every Monday night. It’s in the Chapin parlors; Chapin’s one of the boys’ dorms. What the hell are you eating?”

  “It’s today’s special. Eggplant Parmesan casserole.”

  “It looks like a miscarriage. And it’s going to go straight to your thighs. No offense, but with your body type, you need to be careful about your diet. Otherwise, you’re going to end up looking like the Whale.” She stabs a cherry tomato with her fork and pops it into her mouth.

  Ew. I stop eating and push away my plate. Devon was in such a friendly mood at breakfast. “What whale?”

  “Mrs. Hale, the head librarian. We call her Hale the Whale, for obvious reasons. Anyway, I recommend the salad trough. Just avoid the cheese, ham, and croutons. A little white-meat chicken is okay once in a while. Or a hard-boiled egg. But no dressing.”

  Now I feel fat and humiliated. More humiliated than usual, that is. “So you basically live on lettuce?” I joke feebly.

  “This is arugula, not lettuce. Is that what you farm girls from the Midwest call it?”

  “I’m not—”

  “And yes, I’m very disciplined about what I eat. We all are. But don’t worry, I’ll get you down to a size zero before you know it.”

  “Hey, y’all!”

  Priscilla makes her way through the Commons and over to our table, along with Elinor and Yoonie. They set their trays down next to ours. Priscilla and Yoonie both have tiny, doll-size salads. Arugula salads. Elinor has a cup of what looks like plain broth.

  “I’m still cleansing,” Elinor explains. “Day four. One more day to go.”

  “My grandpa had to do a cleanse last summer. For his colonoscopy,” I pipe up.

  “I’m sorry. Was I talking to you?” Elinor snaps at me.

  My cheeks grow hot. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. I should never open my mouth.

  Devon turns to Elinor and smacks her on the arm. Hard. Elinor’s eyes well up with tears. “What the hell?” she cries out.

  “Be nice to Tess,” Devon says in a steely voice.

  “But she was being gross! Who wants to hear about her grandfather’s butt operation?” Elinor whines.

  “I don’t care. She’s new here. We should make her feel welcome.” Devon turns to Yoonie and Priscilla. “This applies to all of you.”

  “Whatevs,” Yoonie says lightly, although she looks a little scared. “I need to stop by the music building. I think I’ll skip lunch today.”

  “I think I’ll join you,” Elinor says, rubbing her arm. Priscilla gets up too.

  The three girls wave and take off.

  Devon sighs and shakes her head.
“They’re not as horrible as they seem. They’re super-sweet, once you get to know them.”

  “O-okay.”

  I bite my thumbnail, trying to quell my anxiety. At the rate I’m going, I’ll never make any friends here. Except Devon, who has to speak to me since we’re roommates.

  I glance around the Commons. No sign of Max. I wonder where he eats lunch, and when. What grade is he in? Do we share any other classes besides English? Mr. Bagley’s seminar is only on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

  Devon reaches over and squeezes my hand. Her nails are painted dark red, almost black. “Listen, I’ve gotta get my glam on before Spanish. Xander Gates is in my section, can you believe it? I think he’s hooking up with Izzy Fallon, but—minor detail. See you back at the convent.” She rises to her feet.

  I’m pretty sure “the convent” means Kerrith Hall, and I have no idea who Xander Gates or Izzy Fallon are. But I want Devon to like me and don’t want to seem any stupider than I already am, so I don’t ask. “Right. Oh, and Devon? Do you happen to know . . . I mean, there are so many students here . . . but there’s this guy? He’s tall with dark brown hair, and I think he plays soccer. His name is Max something,” I blurt out.

  Devon stops in her tracks and swivels around to face me. “Max De Villiers?” she says slowly. “How do you know him?”

  “I don’t,” I say, surprised by her reaction. “He’s in my English class. I just met him this morning, and his roommate Franklin, too.”

  Devon folds her arms across her chest and is silent for a long moment. What’s going on? Do she and Max have some kind of a history?

  “He used to date my roommate Becca,” Devon says abruptly. “My ex-roommate. They were pretty serious.”

  I wasn’t expecting that. “Oh! Did Becca transfer?” I ask hopefully.

  “She died.”

  “She . . . what?” I’ve never known anyone my age who died. Not personally, anyway.

  Devon’s eyes pool with tears. I feel like a jerk. I just wanted to find out about a cute boy in my class. I had no idea the conversation was going to lead to this.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say meekly.

  “Yeah, well, thanks. It was pretty awful.”

  “What happened? I mean, how did she . . . ?” I hesitate.

  “She drowned. Last spring. The police said that her death was an accident.” Devon glances away. “And Max . . . he was totally obsessed with her. He’s still not over her, and he probably never will be.”

  After lunch, I find an empty carrel in the computer center and Google “Becca” and “Thorn Abbey” and “dead.” I manage to track down a local newspaper article from May 17, which is less than four months ago. It says that sixteen-year-old Rebecca Rose Winters drowned while sailing in the waters off Whitwater Beach, just down the hill from the school. She was from Philadelphia, the president of the sophomore class, the captain of the girls’ tennis team, and a member of the drama club.

  She sounds perfect. The opposite of me.

  There is no picture with the story. I check out website after website, trying to find one until I run out of time and have to race off to algebra.

  I’m not sure why I’m so curious about Becca Winters all of a sudden. I guess it’s because Max liked her. And I like Max. My stomach is doing giddy somersaults just thinking about him.

  But why? I only met him this morning, and we exchanged like two words. Sure, he’s handsome. It’s more than that, though. I get the feeling we’re similar inside. Different from other people. Outsiders, like the French lieutenant’s woman.

  I’m not sure how I know all this about him already. I think it was the way he was staring out the window. Or the way we locked eyes as he was walking away. We definitely shared a moment.

  Of course, Mom always said that I have a vivid imagination. And I’m a sucker for boys who notice me. It’s not something I experience often. Still, maybe if I can learn more about Becca, I can get closer to Max. Find out what kind of girl he likes. And then maybe, just maybe, he’ll like me, too?

  I’m so pathetic.

  6.

  A FEW MINUTES BEFORE SEVEN THIRTY, I HURRY INTO THE Chapin parlors and slip into a seat in the back row. Up front, a boy I recognize from Afternoon Assembly is fiddling with a big flat-screen TV. Another boy is operating a popcorn machine, and the air smells like heat and salt and butter. A thirty-something guy is helping him; I wonder if he’s the Mrs. Frith of this dorm?

  The room is crowded, but I see Priscilla and Elinor a few rows away, their heads bent close. For a second, I consider joining them. But then I remember what happened at lunch and stay where I am. I can only handle so much rejection in one day.

  There is no sign of Max or Franklin. Disappointment washes over me. What did I expect? It was dumb coming here on the slim chance that I might run into Max . . . and on the even slimmer chance that he might want to hang out with me.

  I’d been en route to the library, to study. Instead, I walked here as though on autopilot. “I’ll only stay for a minute,” I murmur, clutching my backpack to my chest. “I’m sure he won’t even come.” I’m talking to myself just as the two Kerrith girls from my English seminar pass by. They must definitely think I’m a freak now.

  “Tess?”

  I turn. Franklin is making his way to the seat next to me. My heart skips, and I instinctively glance past him before I even say hi.

  And there is Max, looking like he’d rather be in detention or jail. Anywhere but here. Still, my night has just gone from zero to amazing in about two seconds.

  “Hey, Franklin. Hey, Max.” I give a little wave.

  “You made it. That’s great!” Franklin nods at the seat on the other side of him. “Max. You promised you’d stay.”

  “Thanks for the reminder.” Max sits down and tries to adjust his long, long legs to fit the cramped space. He glances not so subtly at his watch, which is gold and expensive looking.

  “Have you seen it before?” Franklin asks me with a smile.

  “Seen what?”

  “To Catch a Thief. Do you like Alfred Hitchcock?”

  “Yes!”

  Franklin’s smile wavers; he’s obviously confused about which question I answered “yes” to. I do like Hitchcock movies, and I’ve seen this particular film twice. But I don’t get a chance to clarify because the lights dim, and the boy up front tells us to enjoy the show. “And try to keep the making out to a minimum, people,” he adds with a grin.

  I wish.

  Franklin shifts in his seat, and his elbow bumps my elbow. “Sorry,” he whispers, sounding embarrassed.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper back.

  The movie starts, and a woman with cold cream on her face screams about her missing jewels. As the plot unfolds, I’m paying attention but not paying attention because I’m hyper-aware of Max sitting on the other side of Franklin. If I turn my head slightly and Franklin is leaning back in his seat, I can sort of see Max’s rigid, regal profile in the dark.

  Is he thinking about Becca? Was he thinking about her in Mr. Bagley’s class this morning as he gazed out the window with that lost, lost look?

  Or is he maybe, just maybe, thinking about me?

  Yeah, dream on.

  Someone gives a loud whistle. It’s the famous hotel room scene. Grace Kelly is in a strapless white dress and diamonds, and Cary Grant is in a black tux. They flirt like mad until he can’t take it anymore and kisses her almost violently. Fireworks explode outside their window as they fall back against the couch.

  Max jumps to his feet. “Sorry, homework,” he mutters to Franklin, and takes off.

  “Maximilian!” Franklin calls after him.

  “Shhhh,” a girl in front of us hisses.

  Franklin stares after Max.

  “I’ll go make sure he’s okay,” I whisper to Franklin, which is completely random, because what am I doing, offering to check up on Max? He’s Franklin’s friend, not mine. And it’s not like Max said he wasn’t okay.

  B
ut before Franklin can talk me out of it, I get up, grab my backpack, and take off too.

  I find Max sitting on a bench in the middle of the quad, tossing pebbles into a massive fountain. Water trickles down from a tall stone pillar that is engraved with the phrase AD PERPETUAM MEMORIAM, which means “in perpetual memory” in Latin. I’ve been taking Latin since the beginning of freshman year. Most of the other kids at Avery Park chose Spanish or French. Only six of us chose Latin, and I was the least socially challenged. Which is not saying a lot.

  I slide onto the bench next to Max. “So I guess you don’t like Hitchcock?”

  “What? No. He’s fine. I just needed to . . .” He pitches a pebble into the water, hard. “It was stuffy in there.”

  “Yeah, definitely.”

  He continues flinging pebbles. I know he doesn’t want me there, but I can’t seem to move. A moment ago, I was on this boy-crush adrenaline high, following him out of the movie. Now I’m frozen with terror. What should I do? What would someone who’s not socially challenged do?

  Probably ask questions, get him to talk about himself.

  I clear my throat and clasp my hands in my lap. “Do you live in Chapin?” I ask him politely.

  “Yup.”

  “Do you like it?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve been there since freshman year.”

  “Are you from around here?”

  “New York City. You ask a lot of questions.”

  Crap. My strategy is backfiring.

  “Sorry. I tend to babble when I’m nervous,” I admit.

  “Why are you nervous?”

  “I’m always nervous.”

  He cracks a smile.

  “I’m from Avery Park,” I volunteer. “I’m sure you’ve never heard of it. It’s this incredibly depressing suburb upstate.”

  “Why do you live there if it’s so depressing?”

  “I’m not sure. We’ve always lived there. My mom works as a receptionist at the chip plant.”

  “Like potato chips?”

  “If only. Semiconductor chips. A potato chip plant would have been way better, though. Free samples. I’m a huge sour cream and onion fan.”