This one's for all the readers who have e-mailed me with their encouraging words, keen questions, and even keener insight. It's in-
credible to know that this series has such dedicated and intelligent fans. Keep it coming! I sat in the front row of folding chairs in the
Great Room of Mitchell Hall and stared at the gray, unfeeling faces that hovered over the long table before me. The gray faces that
would decide my fate. Our fate. The fate of Billings House.
They were all against us. I could feel it, right in the pit of my gut-- this torturous sensation like some large rodent was kicking in
my stomach, gnawing greedily at my heart and lungs. And as if the vociferous organ-muncher wasn't enough, I was also in pain. Real
pain. My lungs were raw from inhaling tons of smoke in the underground tunnel outside Gwendolyn Hall, the remnants of the charred
building still billowing plumes into the air at the edge of Easton Academy's campus. My face hurt as if it had been repeatedly and mer-
cilessly slapped. My head was being intermittently pierced by an invisible ice pick. My eyes were so dry that every time I blinked, my
lids stuck to them for one brief, excruciating moment before popping wide open again. I tried not to close them, but that just made
them drier. This was my punishment, my penance for last night. For sneaking out and going to the Legacy instead of staying home
with Josh. For downing all those frothy pink drinks. For hooking up with my best friend's boyfriend. For breaking the heart of the guy
I loved. The only guy I had ever truly loved.
Josh was behind me somewhere in the expectant crowd. The whole school had gathered to hear what would become of Billings.
The anticipation in the air was so thick I could feel its warmth on my neck. Or maybe that was just Constance Talbot's panicked
breathing. Either way, my heart started to pound as Headmaster Cromwell finished listing the grievances against Billings. I had al-
ready lost Josh. I couldn't lose Billings. Not now. Billings House was my home. I needed my home. "These infractions are grievous,"
Headmaster Cromwell said. His white hair was perfectly coiffed, his square jaw as imperious as ever, but under the harsh fluorescents
I could see every crag in his face, every wrinkle. He lifted a page of stark white paper and read from it. "Hazing, initiation ceremonies,
fighting, ignoring curfew on several occasions--"
"But that wasn't us. That was all Cheyenne," London Simmons complained under her breath, as if she and most of the rest of my
friends hadn't gone right along with all of it. London sat a few seats to my left, next to Vienna Clark, to whom she was always at-
tached at the hip. They wore matching black suits as if they were attending a funeral. Although no decent person would ever show that
much cleavage at a funeral.
"Ignoring my strict mandate to remain on campus the night of Sunday, October thirty-first," Cromwell continued. "And, most egre-
gious, destruction of school property." He laid the paper down and laced his fingers together on top of it. "Destruction of one of the
oldest buildings on this campus," he reiterated, looking me dead in the eye. Me. Of course me. President of Billings. Two days ago,
most people in this room would have said that as president of the most sought- after dorm on campus, I was the most blessed of the