Page 8 of Raise Hell

Two

“Olivia Pratt is back.”

The harshly whispered words barely register as Vaughn slides into the chair next to me at our lunch table.

Lunch is my favorite meal of the day. It isn’t frenzied and sugar-laden like breakfast, but it also doesn’t turn into a ridiculous production in the way dinner does. Lunch is low key and quiet, the best remedy for the hangover that only starts to go away around this time of the day.

Which is why I’m not expecting the words that drop like rocks into the pit of my still empty stomach. Everybody knows not to bring serious shit to me while I’m eating. Vaughn might be my best friend, but he needs to learn quick that things have changed.

We’re newly-minted seniors, which means I am now the president of Havoc House.

I get to make the rules.

The vote only passed last week, but I’m already enjoying the perks of my position.

When what he said finally filters, I freeze with my sandwich halfway to my mouth.

“You’re serious?”

Except today is the day when the rulebook gets set on fire and tossed out the window because the old rules no longer apply.

“As the grave.” Vaughn’s smile is grim. “A little birdie told me that she picked up room keys from the front office this morning. I don’t think any of us have actually laid eyes on her, yet.”

I instinctively lean forward, putting less space between us so I don’t miss a word.

My gaze catches on the large crucifix hanging on the wall. Jesus’s bowed head makes it seem like his pained gaze is focused on our table. Someone is always listening at St. Bart’s College, but it isn’t the Lord that I’m worried about.

“So what?” Bringing the sandwich to my mouth, I take a gigantic bite. Chewing will give me time to think.

“So…what are we going to do about it?”

On paper, St. Bart’s is technically a private Catholic college. In reality, it is so much more than that. The most elite families in the world have been packing their kids off to this place for centuries. When you want a more personal experience than the Ivy League, you come to St. Bart’s. The connections we form here are what will keep us a step ahead of everyone else. Almost everyone here is rich, and the ones that aren’t are extremely well-connected.

There are a few scholarship students, but the admission standards are so high that we only have a handful at any given time. Most of them are easy to ignore.

And it’s an undisputed fact that Havoc Boys are on the top of the heap. People want to be us and even when they can’t, settle for being as close to us as possible.

St. Bart’s is preparation for the social dynamic that will continue for the rest of our lives.

It’s easy to let that shit go to your head.

“What are we going to do about what?” Cole dumps a tray laden with bags of chips and snack cakes on the table. Already a big guy, he has the appetite of someone training as a Sumo wrestler. He flirts with the cafeteria ladies for extra snacks. “Who are we talking about?”

“O-liv-i-a. Pratt.” Nolan grabs a bag of chips off Cole’s tray and noisily opens it before settling into his own seat. “At least, I assume we are. She is all anybody seems to be talking about today.”

“Can you assholes keep your voices down?” Vaughn hisses. He leans forward in his seat like we’re about to trade state secrets. “We need to figure out what we’re going to do about her.”

Olivia Pratt.

I didn’t know her name when I stumbled on her unconscious in the woods.

But I know it now.

Everyone does.

That name has been on everyone’s lips for months, ever since the night of the Bacchanal and police showed up to shut us down for the first time in Havoc House history. The local newspaper ran stories about a girl from St. Bart’s ending up in the hospital. It doesn’t take an idiot to put two and two together. She never came back to school, and the rumor mill has been churning nonstop as everyone speculates about what happened to her.

Nobody has outright said that she got hurt during a Havoc House party, although most people must have guessed. She was attacked on the night of the Bacchanal, the biggest party of the entire year. Everyone on campus was either there, or sitting at home wishing they were.

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