grandmothers had always talked about the Holiday Dinner and how fabulous it was. I was
surprised my classmates could get so excited about a dinner in the cafeteria.
"The dinner will be held next Friday night. Dress will be formal," the headmaster continued. "Also,
each student will be receiving a special note in his or her mailbox this afternoon. This note will
contain the name of another Easton student. You are to select a gift for this student and bring it,
wrapped in holiday paper, to the dinner, to be placed under the Easton tree."
"Yay! Presents!" Lorna said, clapping her hands. "I hope someone good gets me."
Now the talking was at an all-time high. Headmaster Cromwell raised his large hands and called for
silence. Instantly, the chapel went quiet. We were all used to following his demands by now.
"Finally," he said, "the Holiday Dinner also includes a toasting hour, one of my favorite traditions.
During this hour any student who wishes to do so will have the opportunity to stand up and toast
another member of the Easton community, whether it be for their service to
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the school or their academic achievement or their steadfast friendship. It is an honor to be singled
out during toasting hour, so if you intend to speak for someone, please prepare your toast in
advance. Your speeches should be eloquent and from the heart. Anyone giving an inappropriate
speech will, of course, be dealt with accordingly. That is all."
"Leave it to Cromwell to end on a sour note," Lorna said under her breath.
Still, everyone around me was chatting happily, and smiles abounded. I couldn't help thinking that,
for once, the Crom had gotten it right. This dinner was exactly what Easton needed. Something to
look forward to. Something to get our minds off Cheyenne's murder investigation.
As soon as we were dismissed, I jumped up and exited the chapel as fast as I could. Outside, the
bright sun bounced off the white blanket of snow covering the quad, nearly blinding me. I had to
close my eyes for a split second, and my foot came down on someone else's. Blinking, I could just
make out the purple-y shadow of Amberly Carmichael, freshman and heir to the Coffee Carma
empire. I was just opening my mouth to apologize when she cut me off.
"Watch it," she snapped, yanking a white wool cap over her wavy blond hair. "I don't want to be
your next victim."
Her two sidekicks, who always hovered behind her, laughed before they all sauntered off. For a
second, I didn't move. I was too stunned. Since when did Amberly talk to me that way? Since when