We don’t talk about the Ivies, or the things we did, or the things I discovered they did behind my back. The blackmail, bomb threats, testing scam, sabotage. The blowup in the atrium, the halfway heart-to-heart in Avery’s car will have to suffice for now. The way I see it, I only need to navigate these “friendships” for a few more months. I need my last semester at Claflin to pass smoothly. Get in and get out. Why not bond with Avery over Emma’s murder in the meantime?
I haven’t heard from Ethan.
I push down the swirl of emotions that kicks up every time I consider his silence. I’ve said my piece, and I’ll have to live with that. Ethan left campus Monday before I could catch him, so I had to settle for a string of long texts in which I tried to explain. That I’m truly sorry to have hurt him, but I won’t apologize for my ambition. Journalism is competitive; Ethan knows this better than anyone. I point out his hypocrisy. The boy who pursued Emma’s murder investigation for a clip, who published my information in the Ledger after I begged him not to, hardly has a leg to stand on. I say it more nicely than that. Besides, it all worked out, with Vasquez splitting duties between print and digital editions. Catfishing Seth wasn’t that bad. Bygones? To top it all off, I lay bare my yearslong crush, put myself out there.
And crickets.
Two days after Christmas, Cataldo calls.
“I need you to come up to Boston for further questioning.”
“Okay, when?” I ask, expecting her to say, oh, in a few weeks, before Claflin starts up again. Instead, she says she wants me there on Thursday.
“You cannot be serious. You want me to fly up to Boston for New Year’s?”
“The prosecutor wants to wrap this up ASAP. Unfortunately, Mr. Tipton destroyed the victim’s phone, and I need your help to re-create the text chain between him and Emma.”
When I tell my mom, she nearly blows a gasket. “Give me that woman’s phone number. I want her to explain to me who’s going to pay for you to fly up there, pay for a hotel!”
“Mom, it’s fine. I’ll take the train, which is much cheaper, or even a bus, and I’ll ask Avery if I can stay with her.”
She softens at the name. “That poor girl’s parents are probably ringing in the New Year in Shanghai or somewhere equally ridiculous.”
Actually, it’s Barcelona, but I keep my mouth shut.
I promise to come back right after New Year’s so we get the rest of our quality time together. Mom savors the three weeks of winter term break, and Cataldo is definitely throwing a wrench in the works. But secretly? I’m a bit glad. If Avery lets me stay with her, it means that for the first time, I’ll be able to attend her blowout New Year’s Eve party, like one of the cool kids.
* * *
—
I’ve been to Avery’s house more than once, but as the Lyft pulls up the winding driveway flanked by lush, crisp evergreens, and the country manor house—yes, that is what Avery calls it—comes into view, it is a revelation, like every time before. A glimpse into a life not lived, into a lifestyle I aspire to, if I can graduate from Claflin with my wits about me and matriculate at the most elite college I can afford. Strong foundations, networking, and a bit of luck will be the stepping-stones so maybe someday my children will know this kind of luxury. And they won’t take it for granted.
The house sits on 1.8 acres and abuts a slim twist of the Charles River. I once heard Avery say to Emma that her house had the narrow span of the river but was a huge mansion, while Emma got the wide expanse of the Charles and a fraction of the living space. Emma lived in a four-story brownstone approximately six times the size of my house in Maryland. Or was it a shack? Stepping out of the car here and comparing the two, who could say.
But I’m happy to be on the receiving end of Avery’s hospitality. Like staying in a hotel, but it’s free. This is no vacation, however. Tomorrow, New Year’s Eve, I’ll take the train into Boston to meet with the detective. And tonight? Avery and I are working on our RD supplements. A bunch of apps are due January 1, though some colleges are generous enough to give us until Monday. Megan, the admissions consultant, is coming over tomorrow afternoon for last-minute help at prime prices. It’s a tightly scheduled day, with the party. Work hard, play hard.
“You’re in here,” Avery says, opening the third door at the end of a long hallway. I wheel my suitcase in and practically have to shield my eyes for all the white that reflects the buttery light from the broad bay windows. “There are towels in the en suite, plus all the requisite toiletries. See you downstairs.”
She leaves me to take a turn of the room, which I do. The bed is king-size, with crisp white sheets and fluffy pillows three rows deep. I check to ensure she’s gone before swan-diving backward onto the down. Heaven. Better than the best hotel. And it’s a guest room that’s larger than my mom’s master.
Next, I avail myself of the shower, which is a ten-foot-wide marble walk-in with a waterfall spray and programmable horizontal pulse features. The shampoos, conditioners, and body soaps have French names and smell incredible. Finally, freshly outfitted in clothing I haven’t spent ten hours sweating in, I make my way downstairs for dinner, taking in the house with less travel-frenzied eyes.
The theme throughout the house is white: white-painted wood, white marble floors in the foyer, blindingly white kitchen and bathroom fixtures. The kind of white only the rich can afford, with a daily housekeeping staff to maintain it. The house is bright and fresh, open plan, and both effortlessly chic and completely lacking in personality. It doesn’t feel like people really live here. Nine months out of the year, Avery and Tyler don’t.
Avery ordered some artisan pizza, reminding me that even pizza delivery is highbrow here. We sit at a dining table in the windowed alcove off the open-plan kitchen, with plates of pizza and glasses of soda and our laptops open in front of us at angles as we work on our essays between eating and gossiping. She doesn’t miss a beat.
“So, have you heard from Ethan? There’s something going on there, right?”
“He hasn’t responded since I texted him about putting him on the Ivies’ List.” There’s a hard edge to my voice that’s impossible to filter.
Avery knows this is her fault. She winces. “I’m sorry I told him. You know I was just really angry in the moment, right? And doesn’t he get that it didn’t even matter, since Vasquez overrode Stina, anyway?”
I shrug. “Guess it’s all the same to him.”
“Well, then he’s an idiot who doesn’t deserve you.”
“Thanks,” I say, and mean it. It’s exactly the right thing to say, something only a good girlfriend would say. We don’t hash it out any further; we both said and did things we regret, hurting each other. Plus, the pretending-to-be-queer-for-blackmail thing is too horrific to broach.