Sweet Nothing(6)
His fingers move easily, expertly, along the fret board. He massages the strings, coaxing rich notes into the room. His music is soothing, drowning out the mindless chatter behind me. Working its way deep inside me, massaging the tension from the back of my neck, my shoulders, and my throbbing skull. I fix my gaze on his hands. They’re tan; strong. And he clearly knows how to use them to get what he wants.
“Is that not the strangest thing you’ve ever seen?” Waverly’s drawl in my ear makes me gasp.
“Huh? What?” I’m sure she can see the color flooding my cheeks.
“The painting, obviously.” She swipes my martini glass and tosses it on the mantle. Next to the priceless masterpiece. “Come on. Dr. Goodwin’s about to make his opening remarks on the patio.”
“You know that’s a Klimt, right?” I say, disbelieving, as she nudges me toward the door.
“What’s that, Russian for uglier than sin?” Waverly giggles to herself.
As we step into the hall, I turn to see if Luke heard her. He catches me looking at him. Maybe it’s the booze, but I don’t look away. Instead, I raise an eyebrow, like, Seriously?
And I swear I see a smile play across his lips.
chapter three
Elle,
Fall in New York won’t be the same without you here. I know it’s kind of geeky, but fall always felt like a new start to me—new notebooks and pens and lockers and a chance to be the kind of person I always wanted to be.
Are you getting a fresh start there, or do people ask you about Dad all the time? My friends don’t say anything about him anymore. But I know they’re thinking about it constantly. I can tell.
Maybe none of us gets a real fresh start. Maybe we have to do the best we can with what we have.
Love you for infinity,
A
When I wake the next morning, my head is pulsing. It feels like my skull isn’t big enough to contain everything inside it: the details of my new identity. My nearly naked pre-party run-in with Gregory. Dr. Goodwin’s assurances that my secrets were safe with him. The notes flowing from Luke’s guitar. All shrouded in a boozy fog.
I groan and roll onto my side, angling the digital clock on the bedside table in my direction. 7:08. A grand total of about three hours of sleep. Last night I’d followed Waverly back to campus after the reception ended, only to realize that we were housemates. She’d helped me unpack a few essentials before declaring that with any less than five hours of sleep, she’d turn into a total “bi-yotch”. Then she’d disappeared for the night.
I’d stayed up late, putting some of my clothes away and strategically moving my possessions around the room like chess pieces. Writing a quick Email to Aria.
Sitting up, I rub my temples and yawn. My new room is nothing like the lavish suite I called mine in New York. The home I didn’t deserve. This room is small and ultra-modern, with stark white walls and dark, shiny hardwood floors. There’s not much furniture: a platform bed, low dresser and matching bedside table, and a full-length mirror in the corner. Next to the bed sits an Allford Academy itinerary for the next few days, printed on creamy stationary with two gold scripted A’s intertwined at the top. My open suitcases are scattered around the room, spewing buttery leather flats, tailored jackets, and flowing maxi-skirts. Even my wardrobe doesn’t have an identity.
I collapse back onto my pillow and stare up at the ceiling, not ready to face the day. And if I can’t face the day, how can I face a whole new life? Sure, there’s something really freeing about getting what Aria called a fresh start. But what if I screw up my second chance? What if someone recognizes me, or if I slip up and use my real name? My heart throbs in triple-time. I can’t afford that kind of mistake.
“Elle? Knock knock!” A voice singsongs on the other side of the door.
Before I have the chance to answer, Waverly hip-bumps her way inside, dressed in perfectly tailored white skinny jeans and a blousy, electric peach tunic. She carries two plastic grocery bags. A girl I’ve never seen before trails in behind her.
“Um, come in?” I croak, running a hand through my tangles.
“We brought you a little welcome breakfast!” Waverly chirps. “Oh. This is Gwen.”
“Hey. Gwen Markley. English Lit,” Gwen yawns. “And I help with the school paper.”
“Elle. Econ.” I like Gwen instantly. She’s tall, almost lanky, but moves with an easy kind of confidence. Her long brunette waves are piled in a messy nest on top of her head. She wears no makeup, and the tiny diamond stud in her right nostril is her only piece of jewelry. She’s dressed in ripped jean shorts and a t-shirt that says something about commas saving lives.