And Then Everything Unraveled Read online

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, though mostly it was terrifying.

  “I’m also the aunt whose attorney just assured her that your mother’s will definitively gives me final say over your education.”

  “But—” began Charley.

  Patience spoke over Charley like she wasn’t even there. “Me, and not my crackpot sister. So you can imagine my surprise when the registrar at Prescott informed me that said crackpot sister had made other arrangements—not to mention the inconvenience I’ve already endured this morning undoing those other arrangements. If you can call this”—she looked with distaste at the brochure—“this place an arrangement.”

  “But—” began Charley again.

  Patience ignored her again. “Now, we’re already behind schedule, and if you think that what you’re wearing is appropriate, Cordelia, then you have been recklessly misled. Please hurry and put this on.” And with that she unzipped the garment bag and yanked out a neatly pressed school uniform.

  Charley gasped in horror, like there was a rattlesnake or cobra dangling from the hanger. Gingerly, she reached out a finger to touch the navy blazer. “It hasn’t changed a bit,” she said. “And it’s still that same awful material. I tried to burn mine after I graduated but it only melted. You’d think for such a fancy place they’d insist on natural fibers.”

  “Prescott is the finest private day school in Manhattan, and it is an honor to wear its colors,” said Patience sternly, thrusting the uniform in my direction. “Cordelia, I’ll wait for you in the other room while you change. And please don’t dawdle—the clock is ticking.”

  The door slammed shut behind her, and Charley immediately reached for the phone to get her own lawyer involved. But I stopped her before she could start dialing.

  I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but I thought I might as well go somewhere halfway decent while I was in New York so that I wouldn’t be completely behind when I got back to my old school. And I had to admit, I’d had doubts about the Center for Academic and Spiritual Growth, too. After all, the brochure began with “Greetings, Voyagers!” and that was pretty out there, even for a Californian. I was starting to see why my mother had put certain decisions in Patience’s hands—she was definitely scary—but she might be useful to have around in situations like this.

  It took some convincing, though I think that was mostly because Charley objected automatically to anything Patience wanted. She only yielded after I promised I’d let her know immediately if I had second thoughts about Prescott. She also insisted on drawing me a map of her favorite escape routes from when she was a student. “You never know when this might come in handy,” she said, zipping it into a pocket of my book bag.

  “Maybe I should have some garlic and a wooden stake, too,” I said. “Or do you have one of those revolvers that shoot silver bullets?”

  “You won’t be thinking that’s so funny when you see what you’ve signed yourself up for,” she warned, just as we heard a long scraping noise from the other room, followed by the squeal of something heavy and metal being dragged across the floor.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Charley in amazement. “Is she really rearranging the furniture?”

  As if to answer her question there was another scraping noise, and then a thud and the sound of shattering glass.

  “Patty, you better not be doing what I think you’re doing,” Charley yelled in a tone that made her sound as scary as Patience. She was already halfway through the door.

  I had the feeling that it might be dangerous to leave my aunts alone together, so I hurried to change into the navy-and-red plaid kilt and the blazer with its gold Prescott Day School crest. After the jeans and top we’d chosen so carefully, it all felt itchy and strange and weirdly formal. Even the Louboutins seemed a lot more appealing now that I’d seen the lace-up saddle shoes that went with the uniform.

  There was more scraping and another thud from the other room, and also the clipped tones people use to argue when they’re trying to argue and still keep their voices down. I knew I should probably get out there before things got any worse, but I paused in front of the mirror.

  My reflection looked like it belonged to a totally different girl than the one who’d been surfing Ross’s Cove just a few short days ago. For a moment, I wondered what my dad would think, and what T.K. would think, too, if either of them could see me now.

  Then I went to join my aunts.

  Six

  It was probably a good thing I got there when I did. Charley and Patience were eyeing each other like feral cats stalking the same prey, and I was pretty sure my presence was the only thing standing between them and physical violence.

  Patience seemed a bit miffed that not only did I fit into her daughter’s castoffs, everything was a little loose, but she wasted no time shuttling me out of the loft and into the elevator. Charley was calling after me even as the elevator doors closed, reminding me to phone if I needed anything, or wanted her to come get me, or craved anything special for dinner, or just wanted to talk.

  Downstairs, a driver was waiting to whisk us away in a big German car. Patience (“Do not—not—call me Patty,” she informed me briskly as the car pulled away from the curb) spent the entire ride uptown extolling the virtues of Prescott, pausing only long enough to occasionally mutter under her breath about her crackpot sister and Chia Pets. On the bright side, at least I didn’t have to work too hard to keep up my end of the conversation.

  Prescott occupied two adjoining stone-and-brick town houses on a leafy side street in the East 80s, not far from Central Park. Patience insisted on accompanying me to the headmaster’s office, and she strode through the front door like she owned the place. I got the sense that she thought I’d try to make a break for it if her attention lapsed for even a second. I was quickly learning that my aunt took her responsibilities very, very seriously, and it was more than a little unnerving to find out that I was one of them.

  Prescott had marble floors and dark wood paneling where my school at home had Mexican tile and Mission-style stucco, but otherwise it felt the same, with metal lockers lining the hallway and bulletin boards and posters on the walls. Even the headmaster, a staid-looking older man named Mr. Seton, reminded me of Mr. Olivaro, the principal at West Palo Alto, though Mr. Seton wore a suit and tie where Mr. Olivaro always wore khakis and a button-down shirt.

  Mr. Seton only convinced Patience to leave after assuring her that he’d personally supervise my registration, and he seemed nearly as relieved as I was when she finally took off, though he probably had a better poker face. On the way to the registrar’s office, he told me he’d been at Prescott for more than thirty years, which meant he’d known my mother and her sisters when they were students. “All so different, and with such unique personalities,” he said, though the way he said “unique” made it sound like a euphemism for something less diplomatic.

  T.K. had graduated while Patience was still in the Middle School and Charley in the Lower School, but they’d all left their marks. I saw T.K.’s name on a plaque listing the class valedictorian for each year on one wall, and on another wall there was a photograph of a teenage Patience posing with a trophy she’d won in a debate tournament. Mr. Seton even showed me a side door that he said was Charley’s favorite escape route for cutting class. I knew from Charley herself that her favorite was actually a window on the opposite end of the building, but it didn’t seem wise to correct him.

  He deposited me with the registrar, and if the uniform hadn’t already clued me in, the schedule she handed me made it clear that Prescott was going to be a lot more challenging than the Center for Academic and Spiritual Growth was likely to have been. My classes were nearly identical to what they’d be at home, with only one exception: Instead of computer science, at Prescott I’d been enrolled in drama.

  “I’m sorry, dear,” the registrar said when I asked, but she sounded more surprised than sorry. “That’s the only elective that would fit with the rest of your schedule
. Most of the students love drama, you know. Mr. Dudley, the instructor, is a favorite around here.”

  I had to admit to being a tiny bit curious about drama. But I could also hear T.K.’s voice in my ear, telling me that Mr. Dudley might be a favorite, but drama didn’t help much on the SATs. At least it wouldn’t start until the following week, since he was wrapping up a one-man show in summer stock, whatever that was. By then, maybe everything would be back to normal or, at the very least, I’d have figured out a way to change my schedule.

  “Do you want directions to the science lab?” the registrar asked. “Your advanced physics class has already started, but I’m sure Dr. Penske will excuse your tardiness this one time—oh—” she said as my phone rang in my bag. “We don’t allow our students to use their cell phones in the building. You’ll have to turn that off, dear.”

  I quickly silenced the ringing and listened politely while she told me how I could find the lab. But as soon as I was in the hallway, and since I was already late anyhow, I ducked into the nearest stairwell to see who’d phoned.

  I’d texted the previous day with both Justin and Erin, but it was still pretty early in the morning on the West Coast for one of them to be trying me, and I had a funny feeling about this call that I couldn’t quite explain.

  The log on the caller ID just said “Out of Area” so I knew it couldn’t be anyone whose number was already programmed into my phone. There was a single voice mail waiting, and my fingers felt strangely stiff as I punched in my password. I tried to tell myself it would only be Thad, calling to nag about my executive training or something like that, but somehow I knew that wasn’t it.

  And it wasn’t. At least, if it was, there was no way to tell. Because all I could hear was static. I played the message over again, and then I played it a third time. But each time I heard the same thing: sixteen seconds of static.

  I’d been so proud of how I hadn’t cried once since that moment when Nora sat me down at our kitchen table, but now I felt a prickling in my eyes. I stared at the wall, willing the prickling to stop. Had I really thought it would be a message from my mother? The sudden shiver of doubt that swept through me was even worse than the threat of tears.

  “Didn’t anyone tell you that cell phones during school hours are strictly verboten?” asked a teasing male voice.

  I started and spun around, but I didn’t see anyone.

  “Up here,” he said.

  A single figure was on the landing above. He was tall, with thick, sand-colored hair, and he leaned against the windowsill with casual ease. The sun poured through the glass behind him, gilding his outline, but even when he’d stepped out of the pool of light he still looked like a god.

  Seven

  My brain seemed to stop working, which meant I couldn’t come up with a witty reply, or even a reply that would prove I was capable of doing anything other than standing frozen in place with my mouth gaping open. But I did manage to memorize the details, especially his eyes, which were the same gray-green as the Pacific on a cloudy morning.

  Then he was gone, disappearing up and around the turn of the stairs. I could hear his footsteps above and the stairwell door swinging shut behind him.

  I don’t know how long I stood there before my brain started working again, but it was definitely longer than I’d care to admit. And once I’d recovered, I almost wished I hadn’t, because that’s when the embarrassment kicked in.

  The good news, I guessed, was that I’d forgotten about crying, and also about that chilling shiver of doubt. And it’s not like my tongue had been hanging out of my open mouth or I’d drooled or anything. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t mortified by my utter lack of cool.

  I didn’t have tons of experience on the romantic front—in fact, it would be a stretch to say I had any experience—but that had mostly been by choice. After all, I’d known nearly all of the guys at home since Palo Alto Montessori, so even the ones who weren’t completely obsessed with hacking into top secret computer networks or becoming the next Mark Zuckerberg were hard to cast as romantic leads. Still, I’d always considered myself to be at least semicompetent socially.

  But I’d just found out how pathetically wrong I was about that.

  I was still a bit dazed as I returned the phone to my bag and went to find the science lab. I followed the registrar’s directions up one corridor and down another, and I eventually reached the right door.

  The teacher must have been expecting me, because as soon as he caught a glimpse of my face through the door’s glass window he waved me in with an eagerness that was sort of alarming. He had thinning brown hair and there was chalk dust on his tie and sports coat.

  “You must be Cordelia!” he boomed.

  “Actually, it’s Delia,” I said. “Just Delia.”

  “Well, Just Delia—ha ha ha—I’m Dr. Penske. And I must say, this is a real honor. Class, do you know who our new student is?” He didn’t wait for anyone to answer. “Delia is the daughter of T.K. Truesdale, who was not only a Prescott alumna but the genius behind TrueTech. I’m sure you’ve all heard of TrueTech.”

  Rows of blue-blazer-wearing students looked back at him, mostly with indifference. He was undaunted by the lack of response, nor did it seem to occur to him that T.K. might be a sensitive topic just now.

  “If Delia has even half of her mother’s talent, she’ll be the star of our class,” Dr. Penske blundered on. “Now, let’s see. Who still needs a lab partner?”

  “I do,” volunteered a red-haired girl sitting at a table right up front.

  “Perfect,” said Dr. Penske. “Delia, Natalie’s one of our best students, but I’m sure she’ll have plenty to learn from you.”

  I doubted that I’d be able to teach her much of anything, especially not without T.K. around to tutor me, and I wasn’t thrilled about the front-and-center placement, but I did my best to match Natalie’s eager smile and slid into the empty seat beside her.

  Dr. Penske resumed his lecture, and I even took out a notebook and pen. But I had a hard time concentrating in science under the most ideal circumstances—there was no way I could possibly focus at a time like this.

  I mean, it wasn’t like my mind hadn’t already been crowded. Between worrying about T.K. and processing the move and everything that came with it, I’d had plenty to occupy my thoughts.

  And now, just in case things hadn’t been bad enough, the Stairwell God had taken up residence, too. My head would probably explode if I added anything else to the mix.

  So what was left of the class period slipped away with me mostly staring into space—even doodling was beyond me at that point. Meanwhile, Natalie took page after page of notes. As far as I could tell, she was writing down what Dr. Penske said verbatim, including the articles and prepositions, and pressing down with such force that the words were practically carved into the paper.

  By the time the bell rang, she’d already used up one pen and was well on her way through the ink in a second. My notebook, on the other hand, was as pristine as if it was still on the shelf at Staples.

  “What do you have next, Delia?” asked Natalie as we packed up our things. “Lunch?”

  “I think so,” I said, checking my schedule.

  “Me, too. We can go together if you want.”

  “Sure,” I said. “That would be great.” No matter how little a person cares about making new friends—and I fully intended to be back lunching with Erin and Justin in the not-so-distant future—nobody wants to brave a foreign cafeteria alone.

  At West Palo Alto High, the cafeteria was in its own wing of the school, and when the weather was good, which was almost always, we’d take our trays out to the picnic tables in the adjacent courtyard. In Manhattan, space was scarce, which meant that the Prescott cafeteria was crammed into the school’s basement. Windows set high in the walls offered the occasional glimpse of feet walking by on the sidewalk above.

  Natalie and I collected our food—there was sushi and lamb ragout and beet risotto but
we both got grilled cheese—and found places at one of the long wooden tables. Based on the way she’d been sitting alone in class and Dr. Penske raving about what a good student she was, I’d assumed Natalie was the shy, bookish type.

  But it turned out that Natalie was about as shy and bookish as an untrained puppy. And it also turned out that her interest in me was more than basic kindness or the need for a lab partner—she was fascinated by T.K. and pretty much anything else that had to do with Silicon Valley, and she questioned me with the same fierce intensity she’d used to take notes in class.

  “Is it true your mom started TrueTech out of her dorm room in college?” she asked. “I’m dying to go to Stanford. MIT’s my backup. What do people think of MIT on the West Coast? I heard the venture capitalists like Stanford grads better. The Google guys went to Stanford, didn’t they? Do you know them? Have you been on their plane?”

  On the drive uptown and without a hint of sarcasm, Patience had informed me that Prescott was the “preparatory institution of choice for the offspring of New York’s power and social elite.” So I’d expected kids at Prescott to be more into things like politics and fashion—or at least sneaking into clubs.

  But sitting with Natalie was exactly like hanging out at home, though Erin and Justin already knew how many other things I’d rather talk about than the Google guys and their plane. Natalie even started telling me her start-up ideas and asking about how to attract investors.

  “Are there a lot of people here who are interested in that sort of thing?” I asked.

  “What sort of thing?”

  “Start-ups and technology and stuff like that.”

  “I wish,” she said mournfully. “Most of the kids here couldn’t care less about accomplishing something. In fact, most of the kids here couldn’t care less about anything. There’s the drama crowd, and the jocks, and the stoners, like at any other school, but the popular kids or the in crowd, or whatever you want to call them, don’t think it’s cool to be into anything, except maybe acting bored and spending their parents’ money.” She lowered her voice. “I have my own name for them.”