Page 35 of The Academy
East seems different. He seems… happy. As in ready-to-explode-in-a-burst-of-piñata-candy happy. “I found a hookup for the alcohol,” he says.
Charley can’t believe anyone would be stupid or desperate enough to provide alcohol for a speakeasy at a boarding school. “Who is it?”
“I can’t tell you,” he says. “But Priorities is happening.”
“Priorities?” she says. “That’s the name?”
He nods. “We should have it up and running by spring.”
His use of the word “we” is both delicious and deeply unsettling. He must notice the expression on her face because he says, “Don’t bail on me now, Charles. You want this. Remember the literary salon? The Algonquin Round Table?”
“Is that what it’s going to be like?” Charley asks. “Or is it going to be”—what comes to mind is a scene pulled straight out ofEuphoria:Gunna thumping, the Olivias and Madisons throwing back shots of tequila and snorting bumps of cocaine off the base of their thumbs while Hakeem and Taylor fuck each other silly out in the hallway—“a place to rage?”
“I bet you”—East snaps an Oreo between his teeth, then brusheschocolate crumbs off the front of his T-shirt onto her duvet cover—“that the reason Dorothy Parker was so witty was because she’d had a martini or two.”
Charley deadpans him. “A woman can’t be witty when she’s sober?”
“They met at a hotel bar,” East says. “Because they weredrinking.”
“What if we get caught?” Charley says. She tries to imagine howoverher life will be if she gets…Honor Boarded.No college for her, or not the colleges she dreams of attending. And what if she gets sent home to live with her mother and Joey?
“We’re not going to get caught,” East says. He bounces off the bed and, without any warning, takes her face in his hands. She holds her breath, which she fears smells like Buffalo sauce and/or Caesar dressing. “I have impunity.”
Charley can’t help but smile. “That’s a pretty big word for someone who’s failing history.”
East brings her in for a hug. Charley instinctively wraps her arms around him. He rests his chin on top of her head and she closes her eyes.This,she thinks,is why people write romance novels.
“Just stick with me on this, Charles,” East says. He pulls away so he can look her in the eye. “It’s gonna be legendary.”
After East leaves her room, Charley sits on her bed amid the chocolate crumbs and tries to steady her breathing. East is the antagonist to her protagonist: He’s leading her down a wayward path. He’s opening a speakeasy called Priorities in the basement of their dorm, and for some reason he wants her as his partner. Not Davi, not Tilly Benbow, not one of the Madisons or Olivias.
He’s chosen her.Just stick with me on this, Charles.
The nickname would annoy her coming from anyone else, but now Charley can’t help grinning.
Almost involuntarily, almost as if she’s being manipulated by the hand of some unseen force, Charley sends East a text:I’m in.
There it is,she thinks. Her ruin, floating in a blue bubble.
There will be no more reading tonight. Charley carries the remains of her milkshake to the bathroom, where she immediately realizes she’s not alone. Someone is in one of the stalls, retching.
Charley pours her milkshake down the drain and runs the water for a while, making sure there’s no Milky Way residue in the sink, and then she rinses out the plastic cup. The person in the stall is probably waiting for Charley to leave, and Charley can’t blame her. Doesn’t everyone want privacy while they puke?
Charley shuts off the water and is about to leave when she hears more retching. She stops and thinks,What do you care?But tonight has taken such a bizarre turn already that Charley says, “Are you okay?”
There’s no response. She should leave. But instead, she crouches down to peek under the stall. She sees a pair of lavender Adidas Gazelles. It’s Davi.
Whoa,Charley thinks. Not who she expected. She has, of course, heard about girls at boarding school who develop eating disorders, but she assumed Davi Banerjee would be above all that. Isn’t Davi celebrated in the Paddock for her appetite? Isn’t she Chef’s favorite?
“Davi?” Charley says.
There’s a rustling, then the toilet flushes, then the stall door opens and Davi stands before her, eyes shining, strands of hair caught in her mouth.
“The barbacoa from the food truck was bad, I think,” she says. “I felt sick right away.” As she washes her hands, Charley holds her gaze in the mirror.
“What?” Davi says. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
