Page 17 of The Pawn

"New York, of course. Paris in the summers, and LA in the winters. My dad likes to keep an eye on all his branches." My mind conjures up trees for a moment before I realize she must mean branches of a company. "Like I said, I've known these kids forever. It's like that when all your parents rub shoulders all the time. You couldn't pay me to listen to them complain."

Seeming to realize she might've put her foot in her mouth, she hastily adds, "You should apply, though. I mean, it's not like you've had to deal with their particular brand of bullshit before. Maybe it's all feel brand new to you."

"Right," I say, souring on her already. I thought she was like me and Hector, but she's just a less popular one ofthem."I can't exactly say no to the opportunity, so I'll apply. Even though I doubt I'll get it."

"You never know. Holly is a pretty nice girl, all things considered. As long as you never cross her."

Thing is, I'm going to cross her.

And then some.

Someone new has taken up position on the stairs where Holly was just giving her speech: an adult, maybe a teacher or a staff member. She's a tall woman in her late 40s with a rich dark brown complexion and sharp cheekbones. From the tight black bun of her hair to her perfectly pressed pantsuit, she looks in charge and in control.

"I'm Mrs. Reynolds. I'm the Residence Director here on campus. I manage four dorm buildings and the staff rooms, so you'll have to share me. Go to the Rosalinds if you need something, and if it's important enough to bring to me,they'lltell you." She looks over all of us. "No drugs, no alcohol, andespeciallyno e-cigarettes. I absolutely can't abide them, and they're just as addictive as the real deal. None of you should be smoking them, and if I find one I'll throw it in the trash."

She seems to get extra incensed about the idea of e-cigarettes. I have to cough to cover up the laugh that wants to leave my mouth; a good tenth of the Coleridge hashtag on Instagram is kids with a Juul hanging out of their mouths. You'd sooner get them to stop listening to BTS or using Snapchat. I'm sure they'll just smoke in secret, post proof on their finstas, and completely avoid her notice.

"Now that that's clear," she says, as if she's single-handedly threatened a generation out of rebelling, "your room assignments are ready. So come to me, Holly, or Piper to find out where you'll be living for the rest of the year and who you'll be living with. Before you ask, yes, your room requests were honored when possible, but many of you will be bunking with someone you've never met before. So get used to it."

A whole year living with one of these struck-up, impossibly rich, and impeccably made up girls. It sounds like a nightmare. Based on the grumbles of the girls as we get into line for our assignments, they agree. The girl in front of me is threatening to call her dad if she doesn't get a room with her best friend.

"I hope I don't wind up with one of the Rosalinds," Chrissy says. "I mean, imagine having a narc as a roommate. That can't be fun."

I look at her askance. "What, are you planning on stuffing your mattress with a few kilos of cocaine or something?"

She rolls her eyes. "No, of course. I mean for having boys over." Leaning in, she adds, "Everyone does it, and most of the time the RAs look away. But if you room with one of them, all bets are off. Last year my friend Leila got demerit points and two detentions because her boyfriend came to her room to return her keys, and her roommate told. She goes to Pembroke now—apparently they're not quite so anal about the rules."

"Do you have a boyfriend?" I ask her, insatiable curiosity getting the best of me.

"Not yet. But I plan to have one by the time sweater weather rolls around. And there's no way I'm going to chastely hold hands in the library, so I better get a cool roommate. Otherwise I'm seeing if my dad can get my off campus like that Mary Anne or Miriam or whatever girl."

We reach the front of the line before I have a response to that. I move down to the girl named Piper, who has names A-E at her table, and give her my name—or at least the name I go by here—to find a room.

She frowns as she thumbs through her stapled papers. "No Brenna Cooke in here. Sure it's not under another name?"

My heart leaps wildly. "It shouldn't be." There's no way I'm moving down to Holly and asking for "Brenna Wilder" since I'm sure she knows my brother's name. "Check again."

"I'll look, but..." She shakes her head, pink lips pursing. "I don't see it. Cooke with a C, right?"

"Yeah." My heart sinks. "I guess I'll go talk to someone."

"No need, sweetie." Mrs. Reynolds waves me over. "You're that girl who registered last, right?"

"Um, yeah, that's me."

"Your room assignment didn't make it into the system in time, but no worries dear. You won't be homeless." She smiles up at me. "You'll be staying in room 101, with our very own Holly."

Chapter 9

My mouth goes dry. Nothing comes off my lips in response.

Looking over at me from her own set of stapled papers, Holly says, "You're my roommate? Nice to meet you! I'll show you to our digs once I'm done with this."

I feel like my heart has sunk into my stomach and is getting kicked around a bit. Chrissy gives me a sympathetic look, no doubt because I'm staying with one of the rule-enforcing Rosalinds, but all I can think is: Cole Masterson's girlfriend is going to be my roommate.

Cole Masterson, who harassed my brother with a false accusation until he took his own life.

Cole Masterson, who marked me just outside, and declared open season on me.

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