A Study in Charlotte by Brittany Cavallaro

Author:Brittany Cavallaro
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2016-01-20T16:00:00+00:00

eight

I PACED OUTSIDE OF MICHENER HALL, BLOWING ON MY hands to keep them warm. By the time I banged through the front door, I was mostly in control of myself again. Mrs. Dunham was manning the front desk—did she ever go home?—but I walked straight past her without a word, not wanting to test my hard-won composure.

Usually, my room was empty the hour before dinner, but that day Tom was watching a video on his computer, eating a chocolate bar. On the screen, a girl performed a burlesque routine to a song sung in French. I recognized a few of the words: leave it, leave it all. Biting her lip, she lowered one strap, the other.

“Are you okay?” Tom asked, hitting Pause. The girl in the video froze obediently.

“Fine,” I said. “Bad day.”

“You don’t seem to have a lot of good ones,” he observed. There was a smear of chocolate on his argyle sweater-vest, and I realized the wrapper on his desk was from the Flake bar Holmes had given me. It shouldn’t have been a big deal—Tom and I had standing permission to raid each other’s food stashes, within reason—but I took it like a blow to the gut.

“I don’t see why that’s shocking, considering,” I said, and willed him to go away.

Ever since I’d come to Sherringford, I’d existed in a state of constant loneliness without ever actually being alone. Privacy was an illusion at boarding school. There was always another body in the room, and if there wasn’t, one could enter at any moment. Being Holmes’s friend might have taken the edge off that loneliness, but it didn’t dissipate entirely. At best, our friendship made me feel as though I was a part of something larger, something grander; that, with her, I’d been given access to a world whose unseen currents ran parallel to ours. But at our friendship’s worst, I wasn’t sure I was her friend at all. Maybe some human echo chamber or a conductor for her brilliant light.

I hadn’t realized I was thinking out loud until Tom cleared his throat.

“I had a friend like that once,” he said.

“Oh?” I said, uninterested. But Tom had a thoughtful expression on, and I didn’t want to be cruel.

“Andrew,” he said. “He was the only person I really kept in touch with after I left for Sherringford, and last summer, we hung out all the time. He’s this all-state football star, and he always gets perfect grades, and I swear he could get away with murder because of it. Because ninety percent of the time, he was so good, he could stay out all night downtown, partying, and he’d come in at dawn and his parents would just buy that he was out late studying. I felt . . . invincible when I was around him.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Cops caught us drinking down by the lake, and he pinned the whole thing on me.” Tom flashed a self-deprecating smile. “His family is like a big deal—they have all this money, and we don’t, not anymore—so they got the charges dropped.

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