Page 6 of They're Watching You

Gavin laughs lightly. “The kid beat me at a game of cornhole. I hardly think he’s going to carry through on the death threat.”

“So then, you think it’s all a joke?”

“I don’t know. I’m kind of glad I failed, to be honest. Bunch of kids playing games and pretending it’s life or death. Sounds like a waste of time.”

“Unlike blowing stuff up.”

He shrugs again, but a grin forms on his lips. Lips that I’m definitely not thinking about because he’s Gavin.

“I heard the initiation is some sort of burial ritual involving a casket,” I say. “Not a game.”

“The game isn’t the initiation.” His eyes finally fasten on mine. “That comes later. First you have to win an invitation to even make it to the initiation. I obviously wasn’t given the opportunity to see the inside of a casket.” He frowns, like he’s truly disappointed.

“Well, who’s this Gamemaster person?”

“No idea.” He pops the last bit of cone into his mouth and I’m forced yet again to wait for the chewing to stop. “I found him back in Form I—a somewhat reckless Form IV tipped me off. This year it could be anyone.”

But there’s only one person at this school who befriended Polly right before she disappeared. My eyes trail over the bustling room, past Jordan—who’s sulking off in a corner, stabbing at her salad—and land on my target.

In the center of the hall, Annabelle Westerly perches on a bench, back straight as she lifts a silver soup spoon to her lips. As usual, a flock of beautiful people surrounds her.

“Thanks, Gavin,” I say, remembering my untouched salad and gobbling up a couple quick bites.

“No problem, m’lady. Just remember.” I look up from my salad to see his usually playful eyes eerily stoic as he reaches to touch my hand. “Be careful.”

I freeze, incapable of chewing the lettuce trapped between my teeth as the noise of the hall suddenly fades away.

But Gavin chuckles and pulls his hand back. “’Cuz you might get hit in the head with a bag of corn.” He shakes his head gravely. “Dangerous sport, cornhole.”

I toss a lettuce leaf at his chest, stand up, and walk my tray to the dirty stack.

***

I met Annabelle Westerly last year while we were waiting for our parents to pick us up for winter break—well,Iwas waiting for my parents. I soon learned that Annabelle was waiting for a shiny black limousine to chauffeur her to the airport. We were seated on a bench beneath the bare cherry blossom trees at the main entrance. The air was sweet with the scent of Dr. Theodore Lowell’s prize rosebushes, which had won some award for their virus-resistant foliage.

“Are you going to stay local, or does your family have plans to holiday abroad?” she asked. Her words carried a lazy, almost Mid-Atlantic intonation I’d heard only in old movies.

“Oh,” I said, startled that a Form III, let alone someone like Annabelle, was talking to me. “Staying home, with my parents in the city.” Immediately, I felt like an idiot.The city? Students come to this New Hampshire academy from all over New England—hell, from all over the country—and I said I lived inthe city. “Providence,” I added quickly, feeling my chest constrict. “What about you?”

“We always spend Christmas in London,” she said, applying red lipstick in her phone’s camera before blotting audibly. Her blond hair was twisted up into an effortless bun, and she wore a long black peacoat, jeans, and leather ankle boots. I, by contrast, was wearing soccer sweats that weren’t warm enough for the weather, so I’d thrown my ratty old snow jacket on top. We must’ve made quite the picture sitting side by side. “We lived there until I was eight. But my father grew up here—he was a student at Torrey-Wells, you know.” I didn’t know. But the moving around explained the accent. “He moved us back here for his company, but kept our country house there.”

Annabelle spoke to me for a solid five minutes, during which time I learned what a country house was and how many servants it takes to keep it running.

“It sounds amazing,” I said, fascinated by her perfect posture.

“You’ll have to come for a visit,” she said, as if we’d been long-time friends rather than schoolmates who’d just met on a bench. “Yes, over summer holiday.” She clapped, smiling over at me. “It’s so lovely with the garden in full bloom. And you’ll be able to meet Beatrice—she’s my horse.” Annabelle then went on to tell me all about her grueling schedule as a prima ballerina for the academy. She asked me about my extracurriculars too. “Three sports?” She looked genuinely impressed. “Which one’s your favorite?”

“Soccer,” I answered, wondering if I should’ve called it ‘football’ in her presence. “It’s the one I’m best at. Coach says I could get a scholarship someplace.”

“Where’s someplace?”

I shivered and zipped my puffy coat up higher. “Maybe California. UCLA sounds nice and warm.”

When we exhausted the topic of our futures, she tugged a pack of cards from her designer handbag. “Do you play rummy?” she asked.

The truth was I hated cards, but I would’ve done anything to please her at that point. It’s probably the reason I’ve never faulted Polly much over the past year. If it had been me instead, I’m not sure I would’ve been able to resist Annabelle’s charm. I’ve never cared about the money; still, there was something about her attention that day beneath the bony cherry blossom trees that made me feel special. It might’ve been all too easy to slip away from my best friend, fading into oblivion as sharp curfews turned to hazy mornings and hangovers.

I never got to play the card game that day. Annabelle’s car arrived and the driver scuttled over to take her bags. With a smile and a wave, she tucked her long legs into the spacious back seat. No promise to hang out after the break before the car drove off.

---