The Ivies - Alexa Donne Page 0,28

in those grades on time. Especially now.” Her mouth freezes in an imitation of a smile, eyes flashing tightly at her daughter. Especially now that Avery has failed to get into Harvard.

“Thanks, Mom,” Avery says. We all grumble our own thanks, even though we are anything but grateful that now we’ll have to take our finals over the weekend. And again, so soon after our friend’s murder. Have they forgotten about the murder?

“Tyler, dear, don’t cry.” Katherine lays a comforting hand on Tyler’s shoulder. He sobs around a mouthful from his flask. His stepmother doesn’t even comment on the alcohol.

“I’m sorry, Mom. This is all simply so much.”

Avery’s jaw clenches tight. I caught it, too. Mom. They’ve only been a family for, what? A year? I wonder if Tyler’s doing it to piss off Avery. They always had an academic rivalry, then fought for Emma’s time, and now they wrestle for Katherine’s scant attentions.

“Now, Avery, I’ve called Megan back in, so you’ll need to start on your essays right away. Don’t forget to write about Hillary for the Wellesley 100.”

I stifle a snort. Like Avery could forget to mention her family connections to the Clintons. And, god, Megan. She’s Avery’s twenty-grand-a-year private college admissions counselor. She told Avery shit I could have imparted gratis, like how writing about her trip to build a school in Haiti was a terrible essay topic. I nearly choked on a laugh when she pitched it to me. Poverty tourism, with a side of white savior narrative. Rich white people are the worst. Most of the students here have their own Megan. I use Reddit, which is free.

“Olivia,” Ms. Montfort says, like a belated greeting, but it’s really an admonishment. I didn’t hide my giggle very well. “And Margot, Sierra. So lovely to see you, as always.” And then she swans off to speak with a member of the board.

“God, give me strength,” Avery says through gritted teeth.

Tyler shoots Avery a cutting look and pushes back his chair with undue aggression. His voice warbles as he says, “I need some air.”

My stomach gurgles. “And I need food, apparently. Anyone want anything?” The girls give terse headshakes. I bob and weave through the crowd, passing Rebecca, whose not-quite-whisper to Autumn Hollander I catch:

“Thank god I applied to Stanford ED instead, or that ruthless bitch would have killed me.”

Autumn barks a laugh. “Instead, they just fucked you over, literally.”

Their laughter fades behind me as I find the snacks table, but the implication sticks to me like slime. Guess I’m not the only one who suspects Avery Montfort. But by “they,” did Autumn mean the Ivies?

At the heaping cheese platter, I reach for a gooey block of Brie at the same time that the man next to me does. Our hands brush while going for the cheese knife, and I rush to apologize.

“I’m sorry I—” My head snaps up to his face. “Oh, hi, Mr. Tipton.” The Claflin college counselor blinks back at me. I don’t tell him he has crumbs in his beard, though really it’s more of a scruff on his chin, like he can’t quite manage a fuller growth.

“Hey, Olive, what’s up?” His smile is just a bit wobbly, and he indicates I can go for the cheese. I smear a half-inch-thick slice onto a cracker, hand him the knife for his turn.

“Olivia,” I correct him, taking a bite of my cracker.

“Right, of course. How are you holding up?” The Tipton I’m used to is confident, like a frat president on pledge night. He’s that adult who tries a little too hard to be your friend. Now he’s soft and awkward, and his juvenile act tugs at him like an ill-fitting suit.

I fall into my good-mourner script, well practiced by now. “It’s hard, but I’ll get through it. How are you?” The question tumbles out because that is what you do in situations like this. Mutual status checking. But Tipton appears shocked. Has no one asked him that question yet?

“I—” His eyes are cast downward, and he mumbles, “It’s pretty hard. I’ve never known anyone who died.”

“Yeah, me neither. Not really, I mean. One of my uncles died when I was young, but I wasn’t, like, there or anything.”

Tipton hums under his breath. “And you found her.”

My throat goes tight, constricts around my words as the image pushes forward in my mind. The one I’ve had to force myself not to think about so many times in the past twenty-four hours. “She was