Page 21 of They're Watching You

The Masquerade Ball is held in the Grand Banquet Hall, like it is every year. Classical music rings through the air. Remington and I make it through the double doors, the elaborate rose and gold décor a flash in our periphery before he tears open the envelope.

The top half of Remington’s face is covered in a villainesque black mask with a long, thin crooked nose. It reminds me of “The Cask of Amontillado,” a short story we had to read for World Lit, about a guy who eventually buries another guy in a vault. I try not to think about this as Remington reads, his voice barely audible above the shrill orchestral notes. “Your task is to change the music to a tune of which the headmistress would never approve.”

My gaze floats around the room, skimming blush-colored globes of twine draped from the ceiling and white and gold flickering lanterns clumped on the refreshments table, before eventually landing on Dr. Hutchins, the ancient math teacher playing DJ on the expensive sound system. “How are we supposed to do that?”

Remington shrugs. “I should be able to figure out the system. The better question is how to get past Dr. Hutchins.”

“I can try to distract her,” I offer, taking the card from him and ripping it into shreds over a trash bin wrapped in gilt tulle. “I took Algebra II from her last year.” Indicating the decimated pile in the trash, I add, “Just so none of the other teams can figure out our task.”

“Good idea. Well, here goes nothing, I guess.” Remington offers his arm, and my cheeks sizzle. Instead of refusing like I did Gavin’s, I take Remington’s arm, feeling his strong football player muscles through the coat sleeve. But guilt knots my stomach. Last year, Remington always had his girlfriend, Jane Blanchet, pasted to his side. I hope I’m not treading on her petite and probably perfect feet. Now that I think about it, though, I haven’t seen them together in a while. Maybe they broke up. This is the thought I repeat to myself as I glide around the room, a queen on a king’s arm.

We reach Dr. Hutchins, and I wish I’d spent the brief walk over here rehearsing my distraction speech rather than contemplating Remington Cruz’s love life. “Dr. Hutchins.” I smile, lifting my mask momentarily so she can recognize me. “How are you?”

“Maren,” she says, matching my enthusiasm. Considering how quiet I was in her class, I’m relieved she remembered my name.

I station myself so that she’s forced to turn away from the equipment. “I really miss your class,” I lie, fiddling with my clutch. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Dr. Stravinsky is great too. You just had a way of getting those tough concepts across. Um…where did you go to school to learn how to teach?”

“Well,” Dr. Hutchins says, her eyes gleaming with pride. I hit the exact right note. “I started at Columbia for my undergrad, followed by my teaching credential. This was back in”—her lips twist in thought—“1968, I believe. No, that’s incorrect. 1969.” She chuckles, like it’s a big relief we got that straightened out. “Then I transferred to Yale for my MA and my PhD. Both in mathematics.” Behind her, Remington is still squinting at the panels and the laptop that seems to control everything.

“Wow, that is impressive. No wonder you have such a gift.” I shoot Remington a discreethurry-it-alonglook, but he doesn’t catch it.

“You’re very sweet, my dear,” Dr. Hutchins says, running her hands over the length of her velvet gown. The song is winding down, and I catch the distracted moment Dr. Hutchins realizes she needs to cue up the next one.

“Do you ever offer tutoring to students during your office hours?” I ask, attempting to reel her back in. “If they’re not your current students, I mean.” Remington finally has his fingers on the keyboard. Sweat beads on my forehead; this place is stifling.

Dr. Hutchins’s head tilts in thought. “I can’t say I’ve ever been asked before.” Beyond her head of cotton curls, Remington slips away into the throngs of dancers. “I suppose, if the hours aren’t occupied by—”

The last trilling violin note fades away. For an excruciating moment, I wait, certain another classical number is about to start playing. But the synthesizer starts in, followed by a lively drum beat as a pop number pulses through the speakers. Before Dr. Hutchins can bat an eye, the artist is making dirty innuendos. The room erupts with whooping as the choreographed waltz breaks into a frenzy of thrusting hips.

“Wha—did you see—” Dr. Hutchins begins, spinning around to grab for the laptop.

“No, sorry, ma’am. I wasn’t paying attention. Do you need help?”

“No, it’s—” She emits a guttural sound and presses one hand to her forehead, the other still toying with the controls. I sidle off into the manic crowd just as a bass note is replaced by the pluck of a harp.

The students moan and giggle as they reshape, the teacher chaperones shaking heads and waggling fingers at some particularly enthusiastic dancers. I find Remington toward the back of the room and tip my head in commendation. “Love the song choice,” I say, high-fiving him discreetly. “So how are we supposed to get our next task?”

He turns his other hand over, revealing a brand-new card. “Some girl in a mask and fairy wings just handed it to me.”

“Wow.” I steal a peek over my shoulder. “That was fast.”

“It’s like they’re watching us.” His gaze floats to the ceiling, where cameras blink in every corner. He digs a hand into his jacket pocket, flashing me a hint of gold. “This coin was inside the second envelope.”

A couple fumbling through the waltz bumps into me, apologizing profusely. Remington checks to make sure I’m all right, but my eyes fasten on to the back of the boy who nearly knocked me over. The one whose tuxedo jacket has a large red GS painted onto it.

I nudge Remington with an elbow, but a quick scan of the room turns up two—make it three—other vandalized jackets. “It must’ve been another team’s task,” I say.

“There are going to be some unhappy people in this room very soon.”

“Then we should hurry. What does the card say?”

“‘Your next task is to obtain an opponent’s linchpin pendant,’” he reads. He rips up the card like I did the last round.

“Two problems,” I say, fanning myself with my clutch and wishing we could afford to take a punch break. I force myself to ignore the allure of the table sparkling with orange and white frosted cakes and a crystal bowl of pink punch, raspberries floating on top like jewels. “One, I’d barely recognize most of our opponents, especially considering the masks. And two, no one is going to let us get that close. I could see if we were dancing, maybe, but none of our opponents are going to waste precious moments in this game to slow dance. Not for anything.”

“They might. I know I’d be tempted to waste precious moments,” he says, blushing, “if you were asking me to dance.”

My already hot face scorches. The clutch halts in midair as my gaze drops to the polished wood floors. There is no way a guy like Remington Cruz is flirting withSweatpants Girl. I already learned this lesson with the donuts. “Uh, right,” I mumble. “But seriously, the only guy in the society I even know is Gavin Holt. And he’d never fall for me asking him to dance. We have sort of a hate-hate relationship.”

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