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Authors: Kara Taylor
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too.
Unfortunately, we have to be ready by seven on Friday morning for an excursion to the Wheatley annex. According to the packet, it’s a plot of land a fifteen-minute bus ride away dedicated to “team and leadership building activities.” Remy says we’ll basically be going zip-lining and picnicking.
Her group and mine are assigned to the same bus, so we head to the front gate together. It looks like all of our group members are there. I do a mental head count.
“Where’s Farrah?” As soon as I ask, I see her by the curb on a cell phone, talking hurriedly in another language.
“The terrorist has been on the phone for the last ten minutes,” Banks says around a yawn. “I bet the school is about to blow up.”
I’m on him, the collar of his T-shirt in my grip before anyone can stop me.
“Anne.” Brent pushes Bingham and Oliver aside. “Put him down.”
“You heard what he said.”
“He’s an asshole. But he’s not worth getting expelled over.”
Banks smiles at me. The little shit weasel actually smiles. I stalk off, hoping my blood pressure will go down. Brent follows me.
“I would not be pulling crap like that if I were you,” he says.
“He shouldn’t get away with saying those things.”
“I know. But he will, because he’s an entitled little twat, and his father is on the school board. He could make your life very miserable.”
“I’m not afraid of a stupid school board,” I say, even though I know I sound like a whining little kid who wants to watch an R-rated movie instead of going to bed.
“Maybe you should be, since they’re the ones who let you come back.” Brent’s eyes are pleading now. “Don’t leave. You just got here.”
I sigh and follow him back to the group. Banks is wearing a self-satisfied smirk, until Brent grabs him by his collar. Banks’s feet dangle off the ground.
“Make another comment like that, you’ll be shitting the rubber from my shoes for a week,” he says, his voice pleasant.
Brent drops Banks, whose cheeks are flaming red. I scowl at Brent. “Why are you allowed to do that?”
“I believe what you meant is ‘thank you.’ Come on, the buses are here.”
The annex is an hour outside of Wheatley. The space between buildings gets wider the farther north we go, and eventually there’s nothing around but trees. It seems like autumn comes earlier in Massachusetts—some of the leaves are already tinged with red and gold. I think of everything about my favorite season—getting hot cider from the Union Square farmer’s market, picking out a Halloween costume for Abby—and have to swallow away a lump in my throat.
I was expecting the annex to be a plot of dirt, but this is the Wheatley School, so I should have known better. We’re greeted by an enormous sign with gold lettering welcoming us to the Wheatley annex, founded in 2005 by Headmaster Benedict Goddard.
In small letters at the bottom are the words T HE W ILLIAM H. G ODDARD S ANCTUARY .
“This place isn’t that old,” I say aloud.
“It took years to build. And millions of dollars.” Artie’s voice comes from behind me. “It was Goddard’s legacy project.”
“This sign says there were two Goddards.”
“One wasn’t headmaster. William Goddard is Benedict Goddard’s father. He was a student at Wheatley a long time ago.” Artie shrugs.
I look into his face. I have to do a double take—he’s not wearing his glasses.
“New look?” I say.
“Nah. Contacts. My mom will kill me if I break another pair of glasses.”
There’s snickering to our left. I look over to see the three dipshits gathered together. Bingham is making a rabbit face—probably imitating Artie’s slightly large front teeth. I scowl at him, and the boys turn away.
“Anyway, I figure there’s a decent chance of glasses breakage,” Artie says, ignoring them. “Since we had to sign that waiver and everything.”
“Waiver?”
“That paper with our emergency contact forms. The one
Unfortunately, we have to be ready by seven on Friday morning for an excursion to the Wheatley annex. According to the packet, it’s a plot of land a fifteen-minute bus ride away dedicated to “team and leadership building activities.” Remy says we’ll basically be going zip-lining and picnicking.
Her group and mine are assigned to the same bus, so we head to the front gate together. It looks like all of our group members are there. I do a mental head count.
“Where’s Farrah?” As soon as I ask, I see her by the curb on a cell phone, talking hurriedly in another language.
“The terrorist has been on the phone for the last ten minutes,” Banks says around a yawn. “I bet the school is about to blow up.”
I’m on him, the collar of his T-shirt in my grip before anyone can stop me.
“Anne.” Brent pushes Bingham and Oliver aside. “Put him down.”
“You heard what he said.”
“He’s an asshole. But he’s not worth getting expelled over.”
Banks smiles at me. The little shit weasel actually smiles. I stalk off, hoping my blood pressure will go down. Brent follows me.
“I would not be pulling crap like that if I were you,” he says.
“He shouldn’t get away with saying those things.”
“I know. But he will, because he’s an entitled little twat, and his father is on the school board. He could make your life very miserable.”
“I’m not afraid of a stupid school board,” I say, even though I know I sound like a whining little kid who wants to watch an R-rated movie instead of going to bed.
“Maybe you should be, since they’re the ones who let you come back.” Brent’s eyes are pleading now. “Don’t leave. You just got here.”
I sigh and follow him back to the group. Banks is wearing a self-satisfied smirk, until Brent grabs him by his collar. Banks’s feet dangle off the ground.
“Make another comment like that, you’ll be shitting the rubber from my shoes for a week,” he says, his voice pleasant.
Brent drops Banks, whose cheeks are flaming red. I scowl at Brent. “Why are you allowed to do that?”
“I believe what you meant is ‘thank you.’ Come on, the buses are here.”
The annex is an hour outside of Wheatley. The space between buildings gets wider the farther north we go, and eventually there’s nothing around but trees. It seems like autumn comes earlier in Massachusetts—some of the leaves are already tinged with red and gold. I think of everything about my favorite season—getting hot cider from the Union Square farmer’s market, picking out a Halloween costume for Abby—and have to swallow away a lump in my throat.
I was expecting the annex to be a plot of dirt, but this is the Wheatley School, so I should have known better. We’re greeted by an enormous sign with gold lettering welcoming us to the Wheatley annex, founded in 2005 by Headmaster Benedict Goddard.
In small letters at the bottom are the words T HE W ILLIAM H. G ODDARD S ANCTUARY .
“This place isn’t that old,” I say aloud.
“It took years to build. And millions of dollars.” Artie’s voice comes from behind me. “It was Goddard’s legacy project.”
“This sign says there were two Goddards.”
“One wasn’t headmaster. William Goddard is Benedict Goddard’s father. He was a student at Wheatley a long time ago.” Artie shrugs.
I look into his face. I have to do a double take—he’s not wearing his glasses.
“New look?” I say.
“Nah. Contacts. My mom will kill me if I break another pair of glasses.”
There’s snickering to our left. I look over to see the three dipshits gathered together. Bingham is making a rabbit face—probably imitating Artie’s slightly large front teeth. I scowl at him, and the boys turn away.
“Anyway, I figure there’s a decent chance of glasses breakage,” Artie says, ignoring them. “Since we had to sign that waiver and everything.”
“Waiver?”
“That paper with our emergency contact forms. The one
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