tore out the page. But who? The most logical conclusion is that Ms. C did it. If she really is Natalie Barnes, a former student, she would have had to clean up her bread crumbs to be Jessica Cross without getting caught.
I don’t know for sure if Ms. C’s real name is Natalie Barnes, but I at least know how I can find out.
It doesn’t take me long to identify the girl standing next to Ms. C in the art club photo: Caroline Cormier-Frey, Class of ’05. Massachusetts State Junior Equestrian champion. Science Olympiad finalist. Harvard Class of ’09.
In every one of her photos, she’s glaring as if it would physically pain her to smile.
This should be fun.
During lunch, I google Caroline to see what she’s up to now. Apparently she works at the Massachusetts Republican Assembly in Weston, Massachusetts. Even more fun.
There’s no contact information for Caroline on the MRA’s website. But I know where I can find out where she was living fifteen years ago. The tunnel system beneath the schools leads to the basement, where all of the school’s old records are kept, including student files.
I plan to head straight for the tunnels after orientation breaks for the day, but I need my laundry basket so I don’t raise any suspicions about going into the basement empty-handed. But as it turns out, Brent is sitting outside my room, his back against the door.
“April let me in, but Remy’s not here,” he says.
“I’m sure she’s on the quad with everyone else.”
“I didn’t come here to see Remy.”
I lower myself until I’m sitting cross-legged next to him. I’d invite him in, but my clothes are all over my bed. Besides, I don’t need people spreading rumors about me leading Brent into my room.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I’ve been here less than forty-eight hours. My mom’s called four times to make sure I have all my meds, Cole talked about Princeton until two in the morning, and Remy already has my whole weekend planned out.” He turns to me and tilts his head against the wall. “Be my friend again? I’m starting to think you’re the only normal person here.”
I hope not, since I’m the one who spent her morning at the police station trying to convince a detective that a missing woman using a stolen identity is the key to solving a murder. “That’s not true.”
“Well, my kind of normal,” he says.
I breathe him in—the familiar scent of his grapefruit-smelling Ralph Lauren cologne. He only wears it because his sister gave it to him as a Christmas gift.
It takes me a couple seconds to settle on what I want to say. There’s a lot I wish I could say, but these moments never last as long as they do in my head. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming back.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I wouldn’t be bursting to see me either, after the way I treated you.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t girlfriend of the year, either.” I bump my shoulder into his. He gives a hollow laugh, and I wish he’d smile because I miss the way it looks on him: a little crooked and self-conscious. It balances out how cookie-cutter cute the rest of him is.
I look away from him, realizing I’m staring.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, just anxious, I guess,” I lie. “I have a ton of ass-kissing to do to fix up my transcript. Definitely not getting into Princeton, that’s for sure.”
“I don’t think the Ivy League is for you anyway.” He pokes my side. “You like … fun too much.”
I poke him back. “Okay, Mr. Straight and Narrow, where are you applying?”
He shrugs. “No idea. My mom’s been hassling me to look at Notre Dame. My dad thinks I can do better.”
“I asked what you wanted.”
“I’m not … really sure yet.”
His words come out slow. Deliberate. Brent hates talking about himself, as if he’ll somehow say the wrong thing and mess up how he wants you to see him. He’s the guy who shamelessly admits to nonessential things, like having a One
I don’t know for sure if Ms. C’s real name is Natalie Barnes, but I at least know how I can find out.
It doesn’t take me long to identify the girl standing next to Ms. C in the art club photo: Caroline Cormier-Frey, Class of ’05. Massachusetts State Junior Equestrian champion. Science Olympiad finalist. Harvard Class of ’09.
In every one of her photos, she’s glaring as if it would physically pain her to smile.
This should be fun.
During lunch, I google Caroline to see what she’s up to now. Apparently she works at the Massachusetts Republican Assembly in Weston, Massachusetts. Even more fun.
There’s no contact information for Caroline on the MRA’s website. But I know where I can find out where she was living fifteen years ago. The tunnel system beneath the schools leads to the basement, where all of the school’s old records are kept, including student files.
I plan to head straight for the tunnels after orientation breaks for the day, but I need my laundry basket so I don’t raise any suspicions about going into the basement empty-handed. But as it turns out, Brent is sitting outside my room, his back against the door.
“April let me in, but Remy’s not here,” he says.
“I’m sure she’s on the quad with everyone else.”
“I didn’t come here to see Remy.”
I lower myself until I’m sitting cross-legged next to him. I’d invite him in, but my clothes are all over my bed. Besides, I don’t need people spreading rumors about me leading Brent into my room.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I’ve been here less than forty-eight hours. My mom’s called four times to make sure I have all my meds, Cole talked about Princeton until two in the morning, and Remy already has my whole weekend planned out.” He turns to me and tilts his head against the wall. “Be my friend again? I’m starting to think you’re the only normal person here.”
I hope not, since I’m the one who spent her morning at the police station trying to convince a detective that a missing woman using a stolen identity is the key to solving a murder. “That’s not true.”
“Well, my kind of normal,” he says.
I breathe him in—the familiar scent of his grapefruit-smelling Ralph Lauren cologne. He only wears it because his sister gave it to him as a Christmas gift.
It takes me a couple seconds to settle on what I want to say. There’s a lot I wish I could say, but these moments never last as long as they do in my head. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming back.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I wouldn’t be bursting to see me either, after the way I treated you.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t girlfriend of the year, either.” I bump my shoulder into his. He gives a hollow laugh, and I wish he’d smile because I miss the way it looks on him: a little crooked and self-conscious. It balances out how cookie-cutter cute the rest of him is.
I look away from him, realizing I’m staring.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, just anxious, I guess,” I lie. “I have a ton of ass-kissing to do to fix up my transcript. Definitely not getting into Princeton, that’s for sure.”
“I don’t think the Ivy League is for you anyway.” He pokes my side. “You like … fun too much.”
I poke him back. “Okay, Mr. Straight and Narrow, where are you applying?”
He shrugs. “No idea. My mom’s been hassling me to look at Notre Dame. My dad thinks I can do better.”
“I asked what you wanted.”
“I’m not … really sure yet.”
His words come out slow. Deliberate. Brent hates talking about himself, as if he’ll somehow say the wrong thing and mess up how he wants you to see him. He’s the guy who shamelessly admits to nonessential things, like having a One
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