Very Bad Things (Briarwood Academy 1)

The white-gloved waiter pulled out my chair for me, and I sat as fluidly as I could, thinking of myself as a flowing waterfall. If there’d been any posture judges in the place, I would have gotten a ten out of ten.

She’d already ordered me the usual glass of ice water and lime. I took a sip and waited.

She sat her menu down and arched her brow. “You’re ten minutes late which means we’ll have to rush this, Nora.”

I sighed. “Sorry, Mother.”

“I already ordered for you, of course. Chicken Caesar salad, dressing on the side,” she said.

I swallowed, thinking about lasagna, spaghetti bolognaise, and fried eggplant. Well, at least the salad came with parmesan cheese. “Sounds wonderful.”

She smiled. “So, how was your time at Portia’s?”

“Perfectly boring,” I replied, staring her straight in the face. Eye contact is a must when telling a lie.

She nodded. “Good. But, when school starts, you’ll have to stay at the house with Mona. Can’t have you slacking on homework and piano.”

“Of course,” I said as the waiter came and sat down our naked salads.

I looked down at my plate and then back at her. “Style of eating?”

She pursed her lips. “Let’s do American today. I believe we did European last time,” she said, picking up her knife and fork.

She watched me as I cut into my grilled chicken and romaine lettuce with my knife in my right hand and the fork on my left. Once I had a piece ready to eat, I carefully sat my knife down horizontally in the twelve o’clock position on the bowl, then switched my fork to my right hand and took a bite, elbows close to the table. Perfection.

She smiled. “Did Lina pick out your dress?”

I looked down at my Tory Burch green maxi dress. It was a bit more risqué than I usually wore. “Yes, she emailed me a list of new outfits to get for school. Mila and I picked this one up at Nordstrom’s.” I rubbed the jersey knit. “Lina said you’d approved the list. Is . . . is it okay?”

“It’s tasteful although more low-cut than I like. Either way, it’s much better than that horrible yellow thing you wore to registration, but we aren’t going to talk about that.” She delicately wiped her mouth.

“Of course.” I took a sip of water.

We spent the next few minutes in silence with our only sounds being our utensils as they scraped against the fine china. I knew she was finished when she sat down her silverware in the 10:20 position. I did the same.

She took a deep breath. “Now, about Princeton. Your application needs to be mailed by October first. I hope you’ve started your essays?”

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Your father scheduled your admissions interview the first week of November, so you’ll need to clear your schedule of commitments two weeks before so you can practice. Lina will be arranging for a coach to come to the house to help.”

I nodded. With only 7.9% of applicants being accepted each fall, even with my exemplary SAT scores, I’d need an edge. That’s where she came in, pulling strings to get me an unheard of interview. It didn’t hurt that my father had attended Princeton as well.

Mother said, “I’ll be staying downtown this weekend but once the new station director gets settled in, I’ll be home more.” She smiled. “Mona will be there, and Lina will pop in to check on you this weekend.”

I sighed. A housekeeper and a personal assistant. “What about Dad?”

“No, he’s busy,” she said, not elaborating.

The smell of a fried cannoli drifted across to us as a waiter walked by. I inhaled deeply.

“Mother, may we have dessert?” I asked, thinking it was a special occasion. Did she even remember?

She tsked and tapped her manicured nails on the table. “Absolutely not. That is a very bad idea. I hope you’re following your diet at Portia’s.” She shook her head. “That’s another reason you need to stay at the house. Portia is all about the sweets. She’ll have you as big as a house before long.”

“She runs a pastry shop. It’s her job,” I said curtly, not able to stop the words. There it was. My cracks rising to the surface.

“And she’s obese,” Mother added smugly. “Terrible really . . . probably why she never got married.”

I prayed for the check to arrive soon.

She cleared her throat. “At least Finn will be moving back soon. He’ll help keep you in line.”

I flinched and looked down at my barely eaten salad, counting the specs of pepper and bits of parmesan cheese, refusing to look at her.

Instead, I thought about how Mother still hadn’t said one word about my birthday. I felt a sharp ache, right in the center of my head, almost like a migraine. I pressed my fingers to my head, hoping to ease the throbbing, but it didn’t. Anger, that’s what it was, building and bubbling like a volcano and ready to spew out profanity and commit reckless acts. A small whimper escaped me, and I winced in dread, hoping she hadn’t heard. She hadn’t. She was occupied with her phone.

I heard familiar laughter and looked up, my eyes focusing on the outdoor eating area across the restaurant where two floor-to-ceiling French doors were pushed open, letting me see the lush greenery and pretty flowers that decorated the perimeter.

I could also see Leo.

He was sitting with three other guys having lunch and maybe a business meeting, judging by the notebooks on the table. He didn’t see me, so my eyes ate him up. He wore dark jeans, a blue button-up shirt and a navy sport coat that fit tight across his broad shoulders. Relaxed suited him, I thought, as my eyes ran over his tousled blond hair and scruffy jaw. He tossed his head back and laughed again, making my breath hitch. When would I stop wanting him?