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Her eyes lower almost catatonically. She reminds me of a barnyard animal that sleeps standing up. It makes my heart twist. My friendship with Sienna might have started out less than sincere—I saw her as yet another stepping-stone to truly get close to Alfred Manning—but she’s grown on me. If I’m rocked by Greg’s death, I can’t imagine how I’d feel if Greg were my stepfather.
“Are you okay?” There’s a hitch in my voice.
Another slow blink. “I took some NyQuil,” Sienna admits. “It’s making me feel... I don’t know. Like my bones have turned to vapor.”
I breathe out. It’s just pills, then. She doesn’t know anything. And I’m actually glad she’s taken something. It’s probably better just to blur these next few days... or even weeks.
“Do you want me to call anyone?” I ask. “Friends from thedorm? Maybe Anton?” That’s the boy she admitted she had a crush on but was too nervous to act on it. They were just friends, for now, but Sienna could totally snare him if she tried.
Sienna closes her eyes. “No.” Her voice is soft and faraway. Her features slacken.
“Okay. Sleep it off.” I pat her shoulder. “Let me help you into bed. Where’s Aurora?”
“Don’t know.” Sienna lets me pick her up and walk her over to the little bed by the corner. She is a rag doll as I move her legs onto the mattress. “She’s pissed at me. She didn’t even sleep in this room last night.”
“Why would she be mad atyou?” I ask, but Sienna is snoring as I finish the sentence.
Ten minutes later, I’m walking around Aldrich campus. The place is a shitshow. Classes are still being held, but a lot of kids are using the hack and the downed systems as an excuse to go home for a long weekend. Many who are still here are protesting about things that have come out in the hack—there’s a group by the library up in arms about some uber-racist remarks one of the people in housing made to his staff. Over by the Campus Life building, a stately brick house with columns, girls are holding signs bearing Greek letters with slashes through them—something must have come out about a frat. There’s a news van on every street corner. It all makes me a little sad. I adore Aldrich. I don’t want its reputation to be tarnished. I don’t want people to stop applying here. I went through enough to get accepted; I want this all to be worth something.
But will I get tostayhere? What am I going todo?
As I turn a corner, I get that prickly feeling again.Someone is watching me.I stop short and glance over my shoulder, but the sidewalk is empty.
I pull my hood down.No one sees you.No one knows what you know. You have to believe that.
Around the corner from the hospital is a coffee shop called Becky’s. I push through the door, relishing the darkness and dankness. Greg and I used to meet here a lot, actually. We sat at one of the back tables, looking around to make sure no one we knew came in. I had as much to lose as he did, after all—it’s one thing for an Aldrich girl to be seen with an upperclassman, even a grad student. But a man old enough to be her father? I had an image to uphold as a good, dutiful coed. I’d told Greg I wanted the whole Aldrich shebang: dorm life, an editorial position on the literary magazine, maybe even student government. I wanted to go to football games, fencing matches, rallies. I had three purple Aldrich sweatshirts hanging in my closet, and I wore them with pride. I loved the appreciative nods I sometimes got from people on the street when they saw the school’s name.That’s right, people, I go here. I’m smarter than you.
I think of the first time I met Greg. Ironically, it had been in passing. I’d been at my interview at President Manning’s office; he was looking for a new executive assistant because his last girl, Tara, unexpectedly quit. I might have had something to do with that. Some careful spying on Tara’s weekend activities and drug use, a strategically worded e-mail telling Tara that she resign as Manning’s assistant or else I spill the beans—it was that easy.
I’d called his office the day she quit, before he’d even had time to post the job online. Naturally, I was the very first interviewee. I knew Manning would choose me. Not because he needed someone immediately—he was the type of man who seemed to flounder without an assistant—but because I’m just that enticing, that good.
I was sitting in the waiting room outside his office, staring at the paintings on the walls. They were of presidents of Aldrich Past. All men, of course, sitting on their tufted chairs with their pipes and their smug smiles. I’d read online that the president of a top-notchcollege made more than three million dollars a year. With that kind of cash, I’d be pretty damn smug, too.
The door to the back office opened. “Raina Hammond?”
It wasn’t Manning but a haggard, fake-smiley blond woman. She introduced herself as Marilyn O’Leary, Manning’s deputy. “He and I work very closely together,” she said. She looked me up and down, and I thought I caught a little disapproval in her gaze. “Whatever gets to Manning goes through me first.”
I didn’t like the sound of that, and I also didn’t like that she followed me into Manning’s office. There, at his desk, was Alfred Manning in the flesh: that golden skin, those sparkling, dancing eyes, those expressive eyebrows I’d seen rise so comically in the many interviews he’d given on CNN or60 Minutesas the leader of a progressive, esteemed university. He wore a button-down shirt and well-fitting wool trousers, and he seemed to ooze superiority. Instead of feeling insignificant—or off my game—I was proud. I’d infiltrated a top school’s inner sanctum. I knew I was going to get this job.That’s right, all you assholes who thought I was going nowhere,a voice taunted in my head.Look at me now.
A look of delight crossed Manning’s features when he saw me. He was coy about it, but I knew he was taking in my face, the size of my breasts, and my long, shapely legs. “Why don’t you come in?” he said, gesturing to the door. Then he turned to Craggy Blonde: “Marilyn, we’re all set here. Thank you.” Craggy O’Leary made a pinched face and left the room.
Alfred Manning’s office was kitted out in warm cherry bookshelves, a low-slung leather couch, and a grand desk that spanned the width of the room. Upon the desk was, among other things: a bust of William Shakespeare, a photo of a younger Alfred Manning and Robert De Niro, who’d received an honorary Aldrich doctorate, and a gold Rolex that was flung so haphazardly you’d think it was a Swatch.
My fingers crept toward it. Maybe I could just steal it, sell it, andnot have to go through the rest of this bullshit. But then Manning sat down, and my hand snapped back.
“So.” Manning said, looking at his notes. “Miss... Raina.”
I reached into my oversize purse and handed him a résumé. “I heard you weren’t a fan of e-mail, so I figured I’d better print this for you to read again.”
“You heard I didn’t like e-mail?”
There was something challenging about the man’s smile, like he found this all a game. That was okay. I liked games. “I mean, I know youuseit. I just knew it wasn’t your preferred mode of communication. And in fact, I’mverytech-savvy—I can do all of your computer responsibilities, if you want. Social media and all that.” I lowered my lashes in the way I’d practiced in the mirror. “If I get the job, I mean.”
“I like people who show some initiative,” Manning said in praise. Was he flirting? I decided yes.
Manning glanced at the paper in front of him. “You studied at Columbia’s Summer Creative Writing Program. Who’d you work with?”
My mind scrambled. “Professor Cordon. Among others.”
