Noelle scoffed, tilting her head back. “Please. You own this place now.”
My cheeks turned pink with pleasure. She was, at least, partly right. I owned the dorm being erected right in front of us, and with the amount of money I’d either donated to or generated for Easton Academy over the past three months, I may as well have held the deed to the place.
I turned my back toward the quad and popped open the champagne. It overflowed, splashing foam near our feet, and we both jumped back, letting out little happy squeals. Noelle held out the glasses and I tipped the bottle over each in turn.
“To old friends and new beginnings,” Noelle offered, holding her glass toward mine.
I lifted an eyebrow. “To you never, ever, ever calling me Glass-Licker ever again,” I replied.
She lifted a mirrored eyebrow, considering. “Done.”
We clinked glasses and sipped. I wondered how long that resolution would actually last.
“So. This is where you’re going to be living next year,” she mused, tilting her head as she looked up at the building’s skeleton. “It’s a tad bare.”
I chuckled, then sighed, shaking my head as I looked down at the grass between our feet, my aged Converse lined up next to her shiny Jimmy Choos.
“Actually, I’ve given it some serious thought, and after everything that’s happened over the past two years, I’ve decided something.”
Noelle took a long sip of her champagne. “Really? What’s that?”
I turned toward her, adopted my most grave expression, and looked her in the eye.
“From now on, I’m going to be homeschooled.”
Noelle’s jaw dropped. She almost fumbled her glass. “What? No! You can’t. Reed, you can’t possibly think that—”
Ever so slowly, my serious frown turned into a shit-eating grin. Noelle’s eyes widened and she gasped.
“You bitch!”
“Gotcha!”
She slapped my arm with her free hand, shaking her head at me in wonder as she drained the dregs of her champagne.
“Nice one, Glass-Licker.”
“Hey!”
“You deserved it! God! You really had me for a second there!”
We turned our steps toward the underclassman dorms and the circle beyond, where trunks snapped closed, hugs were thrown, car doors popped shut. Someone, somewhere, let out a scream, but it was a happy scream. The scream of a girl seeing someone she hadn’t seen in a long time, or freaking out over summer plans. I gave Noelle a hug as the driver loaded my things into the back of the town car. I would be seeing her in a few weeks when Josh and I came to visit her in New York, but for now she was bound for the islands with Dash. Before getting in the car I took one last look up at the windows of Bradwell, the dorm that had been my very first home on campus—ever so briefly—and at Pemberly, where I’d spent the past few tumultuous months, then I sat down on the velvety seat, and the driver slammed the door.
“Need to make any stops on the way, miss?” the driver asked me as he turned onto the drive.
“No thanks,” I replied. “Just to the airport.”
“Can’t wait to get home, eh?” he asked pleasantly.
I angled myself so I could see the stone facades of the Easton campus in the rearview mirror, watching the very top of the Billings frame until we dipped down the hill and it was out of sight.
“Yeah,” I said giddily, imagining how it would look the next time I saw it—all covered in stone with the windows shining and the new cornerstone firmly in place. “I can’t wait.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It’s hard to believe how long I’ve been working on Private. We’re talking two moves, two babies, and a few bests
ellers ago. So many editors, publishers, marketing experts, and agents have been instrumental in making this series as intriguing as it is, and as successful as it is, so I’m taking this opportunity to try to thank them all now. They are, in no particular order . . . Josh Bank, Lanie Davis, Emily Meehan, Sara Shandler, Les Morgenstein, Lynn Weingarten, Katie del Rosario, Kristin Marang, Courtney Bongiolatti, Julia Maguire, Justin Chanda, Paul Crichton, Lucille Rettino, and, of course, Sarah Burnes.