Page 29 of They're Watching You

“Look,” Remington says, still not making eye contact, “I didn’t ask you to meet me so we could talk to Headmistress Koehler.” His voice is rugged with anxiety or lack of sleep. “I asked you here to try to talk you out of it.”

“What?” I swallow, like maybe it will unclog my ears, because he couldn’t have said that.

A girl saunters out the double doors of my dormitory and down the path, eyeing the pair of us sharply, probably wondering what a guy like him is doing with Sweatpants Girl. Or possibly wondering what happened to my sweatpants. Remington shifts, putting his back to her. “Kids were already talking this morning. The girl, Alicia Jones, is still hanging on.”

Relief swells in my chest. “That’s great, but we still—”

“Apparently, she has a serious peanut allergy,” he interrupts. “She wasn’t paying attention, so she ate a cookie from the refreshment table that was labeled ‘nuts,’ and she didn’t have her EpiPen on her.”

“But that’s not what happened,” I say, my voice sounding strange and distant as I try to make sense of his words. “We know she drank the punch, right after we spiked it. That’s what the guy she was with said.”

“Well, apparently, he remembered wrong. I think if we lie low, this will all blow over.”

“This will all blow over,” I repeat, still getting the sensation that my words aren’t coming from my own mouth.

“That’s right. It’s very tragic, but an accident. No one’s fault.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“We weren’t exactly paying attention to what Alicia did after we left that table. We jumped to conclusions because of all the society dramatics and the adrenaline. You should let this go.”

“So you’re just going to don a black cloak and keep attending these meetings? A girl almost died, Remington.”

“And it’s very sad. But it isn’t the society’s fault. And I can’t turn on them now, especially not without proof. I need this, more than you know.”

“Right.” A bitter laugh escapes my lips. “You need your Ivy League connections andMinor Supremestatus, whatever that is.” I shake my head, tears stinging at my eyes. “I can’t believe how wrong I was about you.”

He’s not just covering his own ass. By chickening out, Remington is keeping the truth about Polly and the society’s role in her disappearance buried. I’m going to speak with the headmistress today, with or without Remington Cruz.

I mean, I put jeans on today, damn it.

Eleven

The Lawrence Administration Building stands hulking in the center of a cluster of dormitories. On my way, gossip purrs along the pathways as students amble to breakfast. Most of it parrots that lie about a peanut allergy, but there’s also the critical question of whether or not tomorrow’s classes are canceled.

My stomach grumbles, but I press on in the opposite direction. Waving hello to Dr. Yamashiro, I reach the red brick steps, worry knotting my insides. There’s a chance Headmistress Koehler won’t be in her office. After all, she had a lot to handle last night, with a student nearly dying at a school function. She could be off comforting Alicia Jones’s roommates or dealing with the girl’s parents. I smooth my still-damp hair, take a deep breath, and head through the enormous, marble-floored lobby to approach the front desk.

The place is dead on a Sunday, causing my steps to sound like a jackhammer; still, the ancient woman at the desk ignores me. I pitter on the wood with my short fingernails until she peers up at me over tiny rectangular frames.

She scowls at the interruption like someone who hates teenagers and schools and would very much like to be doing anything but this job. “Can I help you?”

“Is the headmistress in? I need to speak with her.”

“She’s very busy this morning.”

“It’s extremely urgent.” I push my shoulders back to try to seem important.

She folds her arms, considering me for several seconds with eyes half-obscured behind flaps of wrinkled skin. Finally, she turns her glare on the phone, lifting it. “I’ll call and see if she has a minute. Name and subject of your visit.”

“Oh, um, Maren Montgomery. And…” I don’t want to admit to this judgy old lady that I know what happened to the almost dead girl.

But I came here to tell the truth. “This is about Alicia Jones. The one who…” I expect a nod so I don’t have to finish the sentence, but she continues her blank gaze. “The girl who got sick last night at the ball.”

The woman starts to lower the phone. “Well, if you need to speak to someone, the counselor will be in tomorrow morning. The headmistress can’t—”

“I don’t need a counselor!” She flinches because, apparently, I raised my voice. I press my hands together in supplication. “I have information about what happened to Alicia that needs to be shared with the headmistress. Right now. Please.”

Still looking bothered, she raises the phone to her ear. “I have Maren Montgomery here to speak with you, ma’am. Says it’s urgent.” A moment later, the woman, whose name placard I finally glimpse says ‘Ms. Swishton,’ sets down the phone in defeat. “She’ll see you now.”

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