Private School Playboys novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Roses

Brooks stages a public apology with roses, Roberta hands them to the dishwasher, and Sheridan threatens her scholarship.

I didn't cry in the bathroom.

I cried into Roisin's shoulder for four minutes at one in the morning, and then I made her swear to forget it.

"Done," Roisin said, wiping her own face on her sleeve. "I'm going to remember the punch bowl for the rest of my life, though."

By breakfast, the whole school knew.

I walked into the dining hall at eight and three hundred forks stopped moving.

Somebody whispered, "That's her."

Somebody else said, "Brooks is going to destroy her."

I got in the oatmeal line and kept my chin up.

I was on a full scholarship.

I had never had the luxury of being embarrassed.

"Roberta Whittredge."

The voice came from the middle of the room, booming and polished.

I turned.

Brooks stood on a chair.

He wore a fresh blazer, his hair still damp from the shower, and he held the biggest bouquet of red roses I had ever seen.

Two lacrosse players stood beside him, grinning.

"I was a jerk," Brooks announced. "I was a coward and a jerk, and I'm sorry."

A few girls sighed.

He climbed down and came toward me with the roses held out.

"I made a mistake with Sheridan. It was one time. I was scared about London and I panicked."

"You said it was never serious," I said.

"I said stupid things because I was cornered."

He lowered his voice, but not enough.

"Come back to me, Bobbie. Be my date to the Winter Formal. Let me make it right."

The entire hall waited.

It was a good performance.

If I had not stood in that coat room, I might have believed it.

I looked at the roses.

Then I looked past him, at the dishwasher cart by the kitchen door, where a boy in an apron was scraping plates.

I walked over and handed the dishwasher the bouquet.

"For you," I said. "They're from Brooks."

The dishwasher blinked.

"Uh. Thanks?"

"You're welcome."

I came back and picked up my tray.

Brooks stood there, red from his collar up.

"Bobbie."

"The answer is no," I said, loud enough for the back tables. "I won't be your date. I won't be your anything."

The hall made a long noise.

Brooks's smile never moved, but his eyes went flat.

"You'll change your mind," he said under his breath. "You have five weeks."

I did not know what that meant.

I did not ask.

I ate my oatmeal with Roisin and tried to taste it.

At ten, I went to the second floor bathroom in Marsh Hall to wash my face.

The door clicked behind me.

I looked up into the mirror and found Sheridan Ashworth leaning against the sinks.

She had changed out of the silver dress.

Today she wore a white cashmere sweater and her pearls, and her blond hair fell in a perfect line.

"You've caused a lot of trouble," she said.

"I poured punch on your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend." She smiled. "He's mine. It's different."

She walked closer, and the floor tiles echoed.

"My father chairs the Hollis board," she said. "He signs every scholarship review."

My stomach tightened.

"Everyone thinks the scholarship kids are charity," Sheridan said.

"It's not charity. It's a favor the board can take back."

"You had a perfect file. It would be a shame if it became less perfect."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I'm explaining the way things work."

She took a tissue and dabbed my wet cheek like a mother would.

"Take Brooks back, or at least stay quiet. Be a good girl."

"You'll graduate and go to your little state school."

"And nobody will say anything about your mother."

My hand closed around the edge of the sink.

"What about my mother?"

"Mothers who clean offices," Sheridan said sweetly, "shouldn't have daughters who cause scenes."

She patted my arm, dropped the tissue in the trash, and left.

I stood there until my knuckles hurt.

My mother cleaned five floors of an insurance building in Hartford every night.

She'd taken a second job so I could keep my uniform clean.

She had never once complained.

I washed my face with cold water and dried it on my sleeve.

I was not going to stay quiet.

When I got back to the room, Roisin was sitting on her bed, holding something white.

"This was in your mailbox," she said.

She held it out.

The envelope had the Hollis crest, and under it, in bold print, a single line.

NOTICE OF SCHOLARSHIP REVIEW.

I opened it with shaking fingers.

The first sentence said I was to appear before the board's committee on Monday, December first.

The second sentence said the review concerned my "conduct and fitness to remain a Hollis scholar."

The notice was dated the day after Founders' Night.

They hadn't even waited a weekend.

I read it twice, and then I heard Jude Rafferty's voice in my head.

You'd have to be seen with me.

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