Kathy Reichs - Code

My thoughts were already leaping ahead. “When is the ball?”

“Friday after next.” Whitney giggled excitedly. “We’ll need to hustle, and you have some important decisions to make.”

Uh-oh . “Such as?”

Whitney gave me an indulgent look. “Your marshals and ushers, Tory. You’ll need to select escorts to the ball.”

Call it avoidance. Call it willful blindness. Call it whatever you like.

I can honestly say this hadn’t crossed my mind until that moment.

“What? Who? How many?”

“One of each, usually, but you can include more if you want. But you must have a marshal for your debut.”

I gaped. Who in the world could I drag to this disaster? Why would anyone want to go?

Whitney, as usual, misread me completely.

“I agree it’s a very significant decision. So take some time to think. But I need your choices soon, sweetheart. The invitations will be late, as is, and the boys need to rent tuxedos if they don’t already own them.”

Whitney pushed from the table and began stacking dishes. I mumbled thanks and retreated upstairs to my room. Flopping onto my bed, I couldn’t shake that single, nagging question.

Who?

Whitney’s delusions aside, I didn’t view this as a prime dating opportunity. I didn’t even want to go. Like most cotillion events, I’d probably spend the ball avoiding crowds and trying not to embarrass myself. My goal was to survive these things, not make a love connection.

Small confession: I’d never had a quote-unquote boyfriend. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a convent case or anything—I used to kiss Sammy Branson behind the Dunkin’ Donuts back in Westborough, even though Mom thought he was a total slacker. But I’d never dated anyone seriously. Or even officially.

When could I have? Mom and I had bounced around central Massachusetts for most of my childhood, never staying too long in one place. She’d been my only constant. I was only thirteen when the car accident happened, Mom died, and I was shipped down south to live with Kit.

My first year in Charleston hadn’t been designed for romance. At Bolton Prep I’d been an outcast from day one—a geeky freshman transfer, on scholarship, a year younger than everyone else. How many strikes was that?

I’d had nothing in common with my classmates. My father wasn’t a member of seven country clubs, or on the board of a local hospital. Most of the attention I’d received hadn’t been the pleasant kind.

Outside of school, my world consisted of remote islands, Kit, and my packmates. No prospects there. While Hi, Shelton, and I were as close as friends can be, the idea of any brewing romance would’ve sent us into hysterics. Not gonna happen.

Ben, though. Ben was … different. I could admit it to myself, if not to anyone else. He was older, more worldly, and undeniably handsome. The only potential swimmer in Morris Island’s microscopic dating pool. I’d even had a slight crush on him when I’d first moved down here.

But ever since the sickness, and the emergence of our abilities, we’d become a pack. To me, pack was family.

It was better that way. Cleaner. Safer.

“Blargh.”

I stared at my notes, no closer to answering Whitney’s question.

I needed a date.

But who?

CHAPTER 6

THE LOCKER BESIDE mine banged shut.

“Why do we have calculus first thing?” Hi was fiddling with his tie. “Doesn’t the faculty understand you have to ease into a school day?”

Monday morning. Bolton Preparatory Academy. 7:26 a.m.

First bell was minutes from sounding.

I was back in uniform: blue tartan-plaid tie with matching pleated skirt, white blouse, black knee socks, and simple black shoes. I wasn’t a fan, but the uniform policy kept the richer girls from morphing Bolton’s hallways into daily episodes of Project Runway . I was grateful for the trade-off.

“Better to get it done early.” I shut my door and spun the combination lock. “Besides, I like math—there are no tricks, you just have to learn the rules.”

“The rules are tricks.” Ben sported the standard male uniform—navy blazer with griffin crest, white button-down shirt, maroon tie, tan slacks, and loafers. “When the problems dropped the equals sign, math stopped making any sense.”

“There’s Shelton,” Hi said, blazer was in his trademark style: inside out, with the silk lining exposed. The teachers had given up trying to make him wear it properly. “He had enough time after all.”

“Got it!” Shelton was puffing hard, a calculus book tucked under one arm, his uniform a disheveled mess. “Sprinting back to the docks takes longer than I thought. Next time I’ll just borrow a text and get mine from your dad later.”

“Told you,” Ben said. His father, Tom Blue, shuttled us to and from downtown on school days. “You’re lucky Hugo was still there. My dad’s usually on his second run to Loggerhead by now.”

As a perk for parents living way out where ours did, LIRI provided tuition for their children to attend Bolton Prep, Charleston’s most prestigious private school. Shelton, Hi, and I were two months into our sophomore year, while Ben was beginning his junior campaign. Since driving to campus would take an hour each way, LIRI also provided daily boat service. Not a bad deal.

If we fit in. Which we didn’t.

Most Bolton students were scions of the city’s wealthiest families. My crew stuck out like hookers at church. We weren’t part of their pampered, privileged world, and many of our classmates were quick to remind us of that fact. Taunting the “boat kids” was practically a varsity sport.

Thankfully, this year Shelton, Hi, and I had identical schedules, and Ben was in half our classes. We’d be able to watch each other’s backs.

For a group of science geeks, Bolton was a minefield of potential disasters. Double that for me, since I was also the youngest in my class. Impressed by my lower-school brilliance, Mom had decided I should skip the sixth grade. Fast-forward four long years—I was Bolton’s only fourteen-year-old sophomore.

The mocking had started from day one. And when my classmates discovered that “the little girl” was actually setting the academic bar, the sniping grew even nastier.

Freshman year had been rough. I’d hated it.

But lately, things were … different.

My first year, other students had openly sneered at me. Whispered behind their hands. Called me “loser,” or “island refugee,” even “peasant.” High school bullies can be brutal, and I’d caught both barrels.

The constant ridicule had forced me to step lightly. Drop my guard, even for a nanosecond, and the local Mean Girls would pounce to “put me in my place.”

But that was all before the summer.

Before I’d finally had enough, and decided to fight back.

Before I’d lost my cool.

As if cued by my thoughts, my nemeses appeared two doors down.

Madison Dunkle sauntered into the hall, flanked by her sycophant floozies. She practically glowed with well-groomed excess, from sculpted hair—brunette this semester, with smoky blonde tendrils—to stylish, five-figure jewelry.

Courtney Holt was on her left. Blonde, blue-eyed, and curvy, she radiated a cluelessness that was impossible to emulate. She’d been chosen as the captain of the cheerleader squad. I was amazed she’d avoided flunking out.

On Madison’s opposite side strolled Ashley Bodford, a pit viper in her own right. Night to Courtney’s day, Ashley had glossy black hair, mechanically tanned skin, and a cruel streak a mile long. Her favorite activity was preying on the insecurities of others with cutting, whispered digs.

The Tripod of Skank.