“Hey, let me ask you a question. Do you know anything about this thing called the Legacy?” I asked.
Constance snorted derisively and sank down in her seat. 'Yeah. It's pretty much all anyone can talk about. Besides you, of course."
“Right. What is it?” I asked.
“It's some huge party in the city or something,” Constance said. “It's all very hush-?hush. At least from people like us.”
I blinked. “People like us?” Other than our both being sophomores, Constance and I had pretty much zero in common.
“Non-?legacies,” Constance said. “Only people who come from, like, a long line of private-?school people are invited. So not people like us.”
Now it was my turn to sink into my seat. So that was what those girls had meant when they'd said they'd never see me there. “Oh. Really? ”
'Yeah. Sucks, huh?“ Constance said. ”It sounds like it's gonna be incredible. Missy Thurber said that last year every guy who
78
went got a platinum Rolex and every girl got a limited-?edition Harry Winston necklace. I'd kill for a Harry Winston anything. My mom won't let me have any good jewelry until I'm eighteen. She thinks I'll lose it."
“Bummer,” I said, my hopes of seeing Thomas slipping away before my eyes.
“But, hey, you're in Billings now, so maybe you'll get to go anyway.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You know. The Billings Girls get everything,” Constance said, like it was so obvious. “You probably get an automatic invite or something.”
I considered this theory for a moment. It wasn't a bad one, actually. Everyone at Easton knew that the Billings Girls were never left out of anything unless they chose to leave themselves out. Maybe this would be my first chance to exercise my automatic in. And see Thomas. God, I hoped so.
“Omigod! There he is!” Constance said suddenly, grabbing my arm.
My heart completely stopped. I looked out the window. “Thomas?”
“No! Walt Whittaker,” Constance whispered, pulling her desk closer to mine. “I heard he was back from his trip.”
Instantly, every single part of me drooped. Nice tease. I turned around and sure enough, standing in the hallway outside the classroom talking to our trig teacher, was none other than Whit
79
himself. The Twin Cities, London and Vienna, hovered nearby, clutching their books, clearly waiting for him to finish his conversation. Apparently, whatever London was planning on using Whit for, the campaign had begun.
“You know him?” I asked.
“Know him? Our parents are totally old friends,” Constance said, still gripping my arm. “They're the ones who actually suggested I apply here. Omigod, look at him. He is so hot.”
Internal alarm. I sat up a bit straighter. “What?”
“Wow. He's totally lost weight,” Constance said, all starry- eyed. “He must be working out.”
Lost weight? Really? Huh. What had he been tipping the scales at before? Three bills?
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Do you . . . like him?” I asked.
Constance ripped her gaze away from Whit for the first time and looked at me. She might as well have been one of those blissed-?out fans in the front row at some pop concert.
“I've had a crush on him since I was about ten,” she said. “Of course, he barely even knows I exist, but I--”
“What about Clint?” I asked. She did, after all, have a boyfriend back in New York.