Honor Code Read online

  Prefects do rounds every night. If your light’s on after eleven, you get a door knock. We’re not in trouble—they just want to know what we’re up to.

  Gracie raises her face from her keyboard while I scramble to my feet. She’s been sleeping there for a while and has red squares engraved in the side of her face. I tell her to get to bed, and answer the door. Instead, she lays her head back down on the computer. When I open the door, Hayden, Scully, and another prefect from Ernest House, who I think is named Francis, are standing outside. Scully’s eyes twinkle and the hair stands up on my arms.

  “What can I help you with tonight, officers?” I ask. Hayden narrows her eyes.

  “Hey, Scully,” Francis says. “It’s your girl from the Mixer. What’s going on tonight, ladies?” Francis peers into our room and sees Gracie snoozing at her keyboard and chuckles. “Working too much?”

  “I’ve got a big assignment due for Trig,” I say. “I’m struggling when it comes to using the formulas.”

  “Formulas are the worst,” says Scully. “Need some help?”

  Hayden eyeballs him. “You’re on prefect duty tonight,” she says. “You can’t just bounce out before finishing the rounds. That’s the gig.”

  “Yeah, and?” he asks. “I’m Sam’s tutor. It’s my job.”

  “It’s your other job. Doing rounds with me is your job right now.”

  Francis chuckles. “I think two of us can handle the rest of Isabel House, Supreme Ruler Hayden,” he says, elbowing Scully. She gives both of them a look like this nickname isn’t even remotely funny. “The Isabel girls are the tamest of the lot. We can handle it.”

  And he’s right. When I peer into the hall, all the other doors are closed, no lights shining from underneath them.

  “She’s just a fucking Firstie,” Hayden says, trying to be quiet, but still managing to sound shrill. She won’t look at me, even though she’s talking about me. Even though I’m standing right here. “Every Firstie has some long nights. That’s how it goes! You can’t swoop in like Superman every time.”

  Francis puts up his hands and backs away, like he wants nothing to do with this argument. But Scully isn’t fazed.

  “Hey,” he says, putting a hand on Hayden’s shoulder. She leans ever so slightly into his touch. “You two have got this. I’m just going to duck in here for a minute and help out. Remember how much it sucked back then, too? You got help as a Firstie, remember?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Scully steps into my room, leaving the door open.

  “You’re gonna get in so much trouble,” Hayden hisses at him.

  Scully glances over at Gracie, who’s emitting cute little snores on her laptop.

  “Don’t worry so much,” he says with a grin, batting a hand at her. “We have a chaperone here to make sure nothing improper happens.”

  “Fine,” Hayden says. “Don’t blame me if you get caught.” With one last searing scowl in my direction, she and Francis leave.

  I wonder if Gracie’s going to snap awake and freak out, but she hasn’t budged. I let out a breath of relief.

  “I get the basic concepts,” I say to Scully, heading back to my chair. “But once the equations get complicated, I’m lost.”

  Scully plops down onto the bed behind me. This really is inappropriate. Our House Mom would flip out. It sends a sharp tingle of thrill up my neck.

  Scully leans over the back of my chair and scans the textbook. His big polo arms stretch the sleeves of his shirt. “Oh, sine and cosine, my old frenemies.” He takes the book without asking and sets it on his lap. “Let’s start at the beginning. So sine is . . .”

  I want to say again that I already understand the basic concepts—I’m just having trouble implementing them. But I don’t want to interrupt.

  “Does that make sense?” he asks after a while.

  Yes, I understood all that two units ago. But I’m so grateful he’s taking the time to help me. “I think I get it now,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

  “No problem.” He grins a wide grin. “So now, where this fits into the formula . . .”

  “This is the formula I’ve been struggling with,” I say, pointing to the one on my computer screen. “It’s so complicated that I don’t even know where to start with the order of operations.”

  “Well, actually,” he says, still looking at the textbook and not at my screen, “if we start here on this old unit, I bet we can figure it out.”

  His hand moves across the back of my chair while he helps me. Fifteen minutes later, it rests on my shoulder. The point of contact between us is electrified, on pure fire.

  I press the wrong key, and suddenly my computer makes a loud bonk! sound. Gracie shoots up from her chair. She stares at us like she’s not sure if Scully Chapman sitting in her room at midnight is a dream or reality. I can’t help the guilt that spreads across my face, but Scully says with complete nonchalance, “Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty.”

  “Uh, thanks,” Gracie murmurs, rubbing the reddened side of her face. Or is she blushing?

  “Guess I should move along,” says Scully, getting up with a stretch. “The others should be done with rounds by now.”

  Gracie’s eyes follow him like a wary animal as Scully makes his way to the open door, draping one hand across the doorknob.

  “Thanks again for the help,” I say, standing up, too. “I think it’ll be ready to turn in tomorrow.”

  “Awesome. Glad I could help.” I follow him to the door so I can close it behind him, but he takes my hand and pulls me into the dark hall. He shuts the door so we’re out here alone.

  I’m breathless as his hand returns to the same spot on my shoulder as before. The live-wire connection is plugged in again.

  “Hey,” he says, voice husky. “Want to go on a date sometime?”

  A date.

  Not like the Mixer. But a real fucking date.

  I feel like all of my nerves are firing at once. I manage to say, “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

  He grins.

  “Sunday after Thanksgiving break? At the Roast?”

  I nod. “Sounds great,” I say, even though what I want to scream is, Holy fucking awesome, Batman!

  “Great,” he says, grinning, and releases my shoulder. “Can’t wait, Sammy.”

  Sammy?

  With that, he walks off down the hall, and I lean back against the door to my room.

  I have a date with Scully Chapman, and I didn’t even have to ask.

  Gracie is staring at me as I come back inside and quietly close the door.

  I don’t know why I tell her.

  “He asked me on a date,” I say, getting back in my chair to finish up the assignment.

  “Good for you,” she says, but her voice has no color, no flavor. Neither of us speaks as she gets out of her chair and changes into pajamas, then goes to bed.

  Fine. She can steam if she wants—she can’t bring me down. People like Francis are starting to know who I am. And now I have a date with the hottest guy in the universe.

  I’m finally “getting it.”

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  http://privateschoolnewb.tumblr.com

  Nov. 19, 2017

  He was in my room last night.

  Right here, where I sleep. Where I get undressed, where I strip down to being completely naked . . .

  I can’t stop thinking about that. I wish my roommate didn’t have to be there—she’s killing my buzz.

  Well, not just her. Midterms are kicking my ass so hard I’ve had to track down a few study groups. She’s in one of them, too. We can’t seem to escape each other.

  Want to know a dirty truth about private school?

  Everyone’s faking it. Faking holding it together, faking how easy the work is, faking how much time they spend studying and writing. People have bags under their eyes at study sessions and try to cover it up with makeup.

  I brought it up one time when my physics group had secured a private room in the library.


  “How do you guys find time?”

  Everyone looked at me like I’d asked about the frequency of their sexual activity. There were some awkward coughs and everyone brushed it off like it was no big deal.

  Fakers. I know I’m not the only one staying up all night, falling asleep in class, turning in half-assed assignments.

  But then, after one group yesterday, a girl came up to me in the library and asked if I was doing okay.

  “Hanging in there, I guess,” I said, hoping that would get her off my back.

  But she was relentless. She told me about a tutoring center behind the Conservatory, where you just put your name down at a time that works and someone will help you.

  That was pretty nice, her telling me that privately. And I remember He tutors. Maybe there is hope for this place.

  I decided to check it out. And there, on the corkboard of sign-up sheets, was His name.

  If I sign up and He sees me there . . . what will He think? I don’t want to look desperate to spend time with Him. And I don’t want Him to know how badly I’m doing in school.

  I’m not ready to be that transparent.

  Boarding school looks like:

  A girl crying in the library. It’s not over a breakup. She clutches her textbook and some crumpled paper in her arms as she sobs in one of the big, comfy chairs, her river of tears filling the creases in the fabric.

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  Midterms finally end in a flurry of falling red-gold leaves, and it’s like a marvelous show that Edwards puts on just for us.

  The Saturday before we all get to go home for Thanksgiving break, it’s cloudy and cold out, so one of the Isabel House prefects starts a fire in the fireplace in the first-floor lounge. We all cuddle up around it with our favorite throw blankets, while our House Mom makes hot cocoa with tiny marshmallows.

  I know a few of the other Isabel House girls now through tennis, so I’m not always alone without Gracie. We giggle together while we go over our assignments for break.

  I finally have a place. And it’s here, with these girls, in front of the fire, getting marshmallows stuck between our front teeth.

  I’m leaving home when I leave Edwards for break.

  Getting in the station wagon is like moving from one planet in a space shuttle and arriving on a completely different one at our house.

  The whole week I can’t wait to get back to Edwards for my date with Scully.

  Which is fine, because by the time Thanksgiving break’s over, my parents and I have gone through all the stages of excitement and joy at having “quality family time” and have returned to mutual annoyance.

  This is good, I think. Healthy-normal.

  But it’s impossible to focus on my homework when I get back, because all I can think about is going out with Scully tonight. I check my email, agonize over what I’m going to wear, meet the girls in Hamilton Hall for dinner.

  Should I even tell them about my date? It would be so humiliating if Scully put me in the friend zone again.

  But I can’t contain it, even with Gracie sitting at the table.

  “Don’t look,” I say during a lull in conversation, “but Scully Chapman asked me to go to that coffee shop on campus with him tonight.”

  Of course they all immediately turn their heads toward where he’s sitting.

  “I said don’t look!”

  “Sorry,” Lilian says, shriveling a little. “I’m so jealous! First the Mixer, now an actual date to the Roast?”

  Gracie just keeps on eating her food. The tennis girls have noticed we don’t talk much anymore, but they’re not big into prying.

  “Our little Firstie is on fire,” Bex says, putting an arm around my shoulders and squeezing me. “Soon you’re gonna be boyfriend and girlfriend, and then we won’t get to hang out with you at all!”

  I laugh along with them as if something like that would never happen. But this could be the first of many times Scully and I go together to the Roast.

  And after that, prom. In blue, this time, maybe. By then, everyone at school will know my name. Scully will call out to me at sports assemblies: “I dedicate this next game to my awesome girlfriend,” he’ll say into the mic, while everyone cheers.

  I’m trekking up a very tall mountain, and I’ve just stopped at base camp.

  But I will reach the peak, I know it.

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  I run home from dinner, get changed into my second-favorite outfit: a cream shirt with a swooping, lacy collar and a pair of new jeans. I’m saving my favorite one for our second date—I hope I’m not jinxing it. Then I slap on a coat of lipstick, and I’m off.

  I’m buzzing like a hummingbird as I check out and find Scully waiting in the courtyard, glazed in white lamplight. The perfect scoop of his nose, the way his flannel sweater hugs his big chest, how his gray slacks hang off his hips . . . is he even real?

  “H-hi,” I say.

  “Good evening.” Scully takes my hand and gently presses his lips to the back. “Shall we?”

  Nobody has ever kissed my hand before.

  I nod shakily, give him my most radiant smile, and we head off together toward the Roast. Other people are out on evening walks, coming home from activities, or going to their friends’ dorms to socialize. I feel like every single person stares at us as we go by together, not holding hands but definitely walking close enough that our arms touch. My blood is pumping so fast that I don’t even feel the autumn chill.

  “Did Gracie get her project done?” Scully asks. I assume he’s referring to how she was passed out on her keyboard last week.

  “Don’t know,” I say, shrugging. “She doesn’t tell me stuff anymore.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Not really.”

  “Aw,” Scully says, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “I’m sorry you two fought.”

  He’s so perfect it makes me want to die.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “She’ll get over it.”

  But that’s a lie. The elephant in the room will only get bigger, louder, uglier. Especially after tonight. What should I have done? Turned down this amazing opportunity for myself just because Gracie is jealous?

  The green and white striped awning of the Roast appears. During the day it’s a regular coffee shop, but in the evenings they serve non-alcoholic drinks like daiquiris, margaritas, you name it—all minus the booze.

  I order an iced chocolate martini with extra whipped cream, and Scully gets a piña colada.

  When the barista asks, “Together?” Scully pulls out his card. I think he’s going to pay for both of us when he says, “Separate, please.”

  Separate? He was the one who asked me to go out with him. His dad works on Wall Street and I only have so much money on my meal card. That’s why I never come to the Roast normally—because a single drink costs as much as a meal.

  But Scully must be a feminist—of course—since he believes in each of us paying for ourselves. He’s always full of wonderful surprises. Even if this one’s a hit to my credit balance.

  While we wait for our drinks, Scully says, “How’s tennis going?”

  I didn’t know he paid that much attention to me or my activities.

  “It’s good. I’m not that great a player, but they still let me onto the JV team, which was nice of them.”

  “I saw you made friends with Rebecca and crew,” he says. “They’re great. I bet you’ll be on the varsity team by Third Year.”

  “Hope so,” I say. “Then maybe I can qualify for a scholarship. Only way I can afford Harvard.”

  As soon as it comes out, I want to stuff it back in. I’ve never told anyone but Gracie that I’m a scholarship student.

  “You know, Sammy,” Scully says, the scholarship remark disappearing as quickly as it was spoken, “I see great things for you at Edwards.” I cringe slightly at this nickname, but I know he means it to be cute. “This semester has been tough, but the first one always is. You just have to—”


  The door to the Roast flies open, sending the overhead bells into a cacophony. Waldo Wilson strolls in.

  Scully lifts his drink menu to hide his face. I do the same. We peer at each other around the other side.

  “What’s the deal with you and that guy?” I ask.

  Scully’s face screws up. “Ugh. Our dads were, like, best friends in high school.” He shakes his head. “Waldo and I were best friends, too. Back in middle school.”

  Waldo walks to the counter and starts loudly placing—no, demanding—an order.

  “What happened?” I ask. I know it’s rude to pry, but Waldo is the only person I’ve ever seen who can ruffle Scully’s iron feathers. What gives him that kind of power?

  Scully looks pensive for a moment. “You know our dads own a hedge fund together?”

  I do, because Gracie told me. But it seems like a rather personal thing to know about someone, and I don’t want him to think I’m weird, so I shake my head.

  “My dad, Mike, and Waldo’s dad, Ron, started their company, Blue Crescent, together when we were little. Our families used to be real close—we even lived down the block from each other in Long Island. But then it was like . . . Ron snapped. Like maybe the money got to him. He started throwing huge parties, rolling around in limos, picking up pretty women—I’m pretty sure there were drugs involved. Definitely lots of drinking.” He shrugs. “I felt bad for Wally, having this going on around him. But then he became a jerk, too, as soon as middle school was over. We haven’t actually hung out since we were Firsties.”

  Waldo has seen us but is pretending that he hasn’t. He waits for his espresso drink by the counter. When it arrives, he takes it and strides out the door.

  We put down our menus.

  “My dad’s worried that Ron is destroying the firm.” Scully turns his head away, like he’s ashamed of even saying it. “He makes bad decisions, doesn’t call people back, loses his temper. We’re trying to buy him out before he runs it into the ground, and that has really pissed off Waldo.”

  We both go silent. He’s shared so much with me that I don’t know how to respond. This is so much more intimate than I expected. I’m flattered, but surprised, too.