Beware That Girl
Also by Teresa Toten
The Unlikely Hero of Room 13B
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2016 by Teresa Toten
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. Published simultaneously in hardcover by Doubleday Canada, an imprint of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto, in 2016.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Toten, Teresa, author.
Title: Beware that girl / Teresa Toten.
Description: New York : Delacorte Press, [2016] | Summary: When a scholarship girl and a wealthy classmate become friends, their bond is tested when a handsome young teacher separately influences the girls in order to further his less-than-admirable interests.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015028074 | ISBN 978-0-553-50790-4 | ISBN 978-0-553-50791-1 (glb) | ISBN 978-0-553-50792-8 (ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Friendship—Fiction. | Secrets—Fiction. | Mental Illness—Fiction. | Psychopaths—Fiction. | Teacher-student relationships—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.T6458 Be 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015028074
ISBN 9781524700324 (intl. tr. pbk.)
eBook ISBN 9780553507928
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
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Contents
Cover
Also by Teresa Toten
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Tuesday, March 22: Kate and Olivia
Thursday, September 17: Kate
Friday, September 18: Olivia
Monday, September 21: Kate
Tuesday, September 22: Kate
Monday, September 28: Olivia
Friday, October 2: Kate
Sunday, October 4: Olivia
Sunday, October 4: Kate
Tuesday, October 6: Kate
Thursday, October 8: Kate and Olivia
Saturday, October 10: Olivia
Monday, October 12: Kate
Thursday, October 15: Olivia
Saturday, October 24: Kate
Saturday, October 24: Olivia
Monday, October 26: Kate
Friday, October 30: Olivia
Saturday, October 31: Kate
Monday, November 2: Olivia
Wednesday, November 4: Kate
Sunday, November 8: Olivia
Wednesday, November 11: Kate
Saturday, November 14: Olivia
Tuesday, November 17: Kate
Friday, November 20: Olivia
Saturday, November 21: Kate
Tuesday, November 24: Olivia
Monday, November 30: Kate
Thursday, December 3: Olivia
Sunday, December 6: Kate
Sunday, December 13: Olivia
Wednesday, December 16: Kate
Sunday, December 20: Olivia
Thursday, December 24: Kate
Saturday, January 2: Olivia
Wednesday, January 6: Kate
Saturday, January 9: Kate
Sunday, January 10: Olivia
Thursday, January 14: Kate
Saturday, January 30: Olivia
Thursday, February 4: Kate
Thursday, February 4: Olivia
Thursday, February 4: Kate
Sunday, February 7: Olivia
Sunday, February 14: Kate
Monday, February 15: Olivia
Wednesday, February 17: Kate
Sunday, February 21: Olivia
Tuesday, February 23: Kate
Saturday, February 27: Olivia
Tuesday, March 1: Kate
Sunday, March 6: Olivia
Monday, March 7: Kate
Tuesday, March 8: Olivia
Wednesday, March 9: Kate
Thursday, March 10: Olivia
Thursday, March 10: Kate
Friday, March 11: Olivia
Friday, March 11: Kate
Sunday, March 13: Olivia
Sunday, March 13: Olivia
Sunday, March 13: Olivia
Wednesday, March 16: Kate
Thursday, March 17: Olivia
Saturday, March 19: Kate
Saturday, March 19: Olivia
Saturday, March 19: Kate
Sunday, March 20: Kate
Sunday, March 20: Kate
Sunday, March 20: Kate and Olivia
Tuesday, March 22: Kate and Olivia
Tuesday, March 22: Olivia
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For Ken, again and always
“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly.
—MARY HOWITT
Neither girl moved. The young blonde on the bed didn’t move because she couldn’t, and the blonde in the chair didn’t because, well, it seemed that she couldn’t either.
Two doctors, a nurse and an orderly barged in, disturbing their silence. They lifted the body in the bed using a sheet, changed the bedding, checked her pulse and heart rate, tapped, touched and shone lights into unseeing eyes. This time they removed the long cylindrical tube that had been taped to the girl’s mouth. The withdrawal of the tube was ugly.
The body seized, arced and then spasmed.
When they left, the girl in the chair resumed her vigil numbed by the reek of ammonia and latex. The doctors never told her anything, so she’d stopped asking. The bedridden girl was attached to a tangled mess of tubes and wires. They led from her battered body to several monitors and a single pole that branched out like a steel tree blooming with bags of IV fluid. Things beeped and hummed on a random timetable that neither girl heard. In the forty-eight hours since their arrival, the girl in the chair rarely broke her vigil to stretch, sleep or go to the bathroom. Her normally perfect blond hair clung to her scalp, greased darker now with sweat, mud and dried blood.
She sat spellbound by the monitors, by the ever-changing colored dots, the indecipherable graphs and especially the wavy green line. The green line was important. She didn’t waver, not in all those hours—not until Detective Akimoto cleared his throat in the doorway. She struggled to meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to need you to step outside for a moment.”
The girl turned to her friend, whose mouth was red and angry from where the tape had been ripped away.
The detective flipped open a small black notepad.
He clicked his pen several times.
“Now, please.”
Other men were outside, milling about the corridor. Cops.
“We have a few questions about your friend, and also about a…Mr. Marcus Redkin.”
Mark.
She rose slowly. The room swayed in the effort. “Yes, sir.” She stole one more glance at the wavy green line.
The girl on the bed was no longer inert, not entirely. But no one saw. Words fell out of her mouth, silently slipping off the sheets and onto the ground.
But no one heard.
I’m not a pathological liar and I don’t lie for fun. I only lie because I have to. Thing is, I’ve always l
ied, because I’ve always had to. I’m comfortable with the weight of my lies. So I’m good. That’s all there is to it. Well, that and I want a better life. Wait, that’s a lie. I want a big life.
And another thing—dogs and little kids love me, so there goes that lame old saying. Demented rich girls love me too. I am that friend, the how-did-I-live-without-you friend. The you-are-such-a-riot friend. The friend with the shoulders that are soggy from your tears. I am the lifeline friend, and lifelines come with a price. But I digress. Love that word, digress. It’s snotty and not as easy to work into a sentence as you’d think.
I’d been watching her for days.
The first few days were all about the hunt, about not walking into walls. There was that familiar head-spinning hell of where to go, who was who, don’t make an ass of yourself at the new school, etc., etc. But I can focus like nobody else. A handful of girls were examined and dismissed. Too regular, too normal, too together or (the true kiss of death) not genuinely loaded, even though they seemed to have all the trappings. I know the difference. Before coming here, I spent most of high school out west in the very best private girls’ schools. I was the scholarship kid, the boarder. The girl you convinced your parents to bring home for weekends, for holidays. I’ve had plenty of practice.
See, I know how whack these girls are behind their armor of Range Rovers and Louboutins. There had to be someone. My meal ticket was in this senior class somewhere.
And then, at the beginning of week two, there she was—all born blonde and rich and just messed up enough. Beautiful, no cliques and reeking of Lexapro or Paxil or something. Mind you, that could apply to half the school. But this girl was like an extra. There was definitely something. Olivia Michelle Sumner: if that doesn’t spell money, I don’t know what does. She was head-to-toe Barneys and Bloomies, preppy with a price. The rest of the girls gave her a wide berth even as they squealed, “Welcome back, Olivia!” “You’re back!” “Great to see you! Hey, wow!” But they weren’t her people. That was clear. Olivia kind of glided around on remote control. There was a story there. Excellent. Olivia Sumner and I shared only one class, AP English, but that’s all it takes.
Watch me now.
Pay close attention.
Survival of the fittest, baby.
Olivia cradled the phone, shaking her head. “No, Dad, it was fine. More than fine, really. Just like you said.” She paced the length of the sunken living room. When that was no longer calming, she stepped up into the dining room, circling the stainless steel table, then veered through the library and eventually invaded all four bedrooms one by one. Olivia stayed out of the kitchen. Anka was throwing pots around and cursing the Cuisinart. “The whole week was a nonevent, just like we thought. It was the right decision not to transfer out.”
She found herself back in the living room. “No, the teachers didn’t make an obvious fuss, but they let me know they were there for me in the very best Waverly fashion.” Olivia hovered over more than sat on the mohair chaise before getting up and pacing again.
“Well, as I suspected, AP English is going to be intense because I got Ms. Hornbeck again. Thank God I’ve already read the Albee play and the Cormac McCarthy. But I may need a tutor to keep me in solid merit-scholar range, okay?” Where was that Cormac McCarthy book? She drifted to her room, forgot why she went there and drifted out again.
“No, I can sleepwalk through math and physics, you know that.” Now she was in her father’s bedroom. Sleek burled oaks and flannels in varying hues of gray and taupe embraced her. She let them. Olivia loved his room. The soft buttery gold of the LED art lights glowed against the Modigliani and Caravaggio sketches. The art rested quietly against walls covered with charcoal fabric that warmed the room, making it feel safe, making it feel like her father. “No, nowhere. I’m buried in work already. It’ll take me all weekend to dig myself out. Yeah.” She nodded. “Just a little rusty.”
The rest of the penthouse featured impenetrable modern Brazilian art juxtaposed with ancient Chinese sculptures. It looked as if it was curated, which of course it was. Wife number two. But here, in his haven, was the closest her father came to the traditional, and to himself.
“No, just every other Wednesday now. I told you that yesterday.” She stifled a groan. “Yeah, still five fifteen. Look, it was Dr. Tamblyn’s suggestion. He’s super positive.” Olivia glimpsed herself in his mirror and turned away. “Of course I am. Check with Dr. Tamblyn whenever you want. I won’t ever go off the meds again. Lesson learned, big-time.” She gripped the phone so tightly that it dug a groove in the palm of her hand. “I promise, never. Can we stop? I’m good, we’re good. Besides, Anka is here and she’s a hawk. Hey, you just tie up all those big international deals so that we can keep the lights on in this place.” She was smiling, but Olivia could feel the weight of his worry pressing against her.
“Well, you know”—she sat on and then got up off the manicured bed—“they were fine.” What time was it? Her stomach began to foam. No longer soothed by the Modigliani and all that gray flannel, Olivia was on the move again. Back to the living room, back to the floor-to-ceiling windows stretching the length of the penthouse. She became mesmerized by the art outside the windows, the whole expanse of Central Park and the beckoning lights from the Dakota. Having New York at her feet cushioned her soul.
“I don’t really know the girls, Dad. Remember, they were juniors last year, a full year younger, and last year, well, was last year. But they’ve been fine.” Have they? There must be gossip. Did it matter? “Come on, it’s Waverly, Dad. Anyone who’s anyone has their shrink on speed dial.” The sky had slipped out of its silky purple dress into a basic black. “I’m sure I’ll find a friend. And if not, it’s only a year, right?”
She liked the inky-black sky best, always had. It was soothing. “No, I didn’t mean that. Of course I’ll find friends. Hey, do you have to stay in Chicago before you head out to Singapore?” She had to stay focused. “On Sunday? That’s great, Dad! Does Anka know? Okay, I’ll tell her. No, I’d rather just go to our bistro. I’ll call.”
Olivia walked back to the chaise. “Is seven thirty okay?” The foam in her stomach bubbled. She had once described the foam as a pink thing, a mixture of warm blood and spit. “Yes. No, that’ll be great, Dad. Can’t wait.” Dr. Tamblyn had said the medication would eventually take care of that too. He’d also said that she had to be religious about taking it exactly on time.
“Sure. Stop—you know I’ll be fine. I love you too.” Olivia put the phone down. She sat on the chaise with her full weight this time.
And waited.
“Olivia? You off za phone wit Mr. Sumner?” Anka strode in, wiping her hands on her apron. The housekeeper had a formidable collection of aprons. “Is not your time for za medications tablet? Is six thirty o’clock. Should be at six o’clock, no? You want me to get your waters? Olivia?”
She was going to have to talk to Anka about backing off. Olivia knew the schedule.
Instead, she nodded, sighed and then waited to feel something. Anything.
I pretty much live in a sewer.
Making the leap from sewer to the prize of Yale is starting to shake my focus, and believe me, that’s saying something.
I deserve better. Way better.
I’m this year’s Waverly Scholar, and that baby comes with a decent stipend. I also put in mornings at the school admin office and I’m working my ass off at the market with two ten-hour shifts every weekend—and still this rathole is the best I can do. My home for the past few months has been a converted storage room in the basement of Chen’s Chinese Market and Apothecary. I’m broke. Grooming costs are a killer, even in Chinatown; hair, makeup, nails—it adds up. Don’t get me started on accessories. Thank God for uniforms.
Waverly, of course, doesn’t know about Chen’s. They think I’m living with my nonexistent aunt. I was a boarder at all the other private schools, but Waverly doesn’t have boarders. What it does have is the best record in the country o
f getting its students into their first-choice college picks. Thing is, they had to be assured that my accommodation was locked down before I got the package. I needed an address. Hence the sewer. Like I said, I only lie when I have to, and I have to a lot.
I haven’t unpacked. I won’t. This is temporary. Besides, I’m freaked that the slime that’s weeping down the walls will marry up with the stink of the decaying cabbage and infect my brand-new secondhand uniforms. I’ve got an iron bed topped with shredded Spider-Man bedding, a small round table, one aluminum chair, a decent mirror, a TV tray that I use as a night table, a sink scarred by rust and a floor cabinet with a Coleman-like stove propped on it. I’ve lived in worse, like those times in between foster nightmares and boarding, but it’s harder now. I know what’s out there and I want some.
Alarmingly, Mrs. Chen does not appear to like me. I don’t like not being liked. It makes me nervous. Being liked is the biggest arrow in my quiver. Exhibit A in the “not liked” column is that despite the fact I am strictly “front of the house” material, Mrs. Chen usually has me in the alley unloading the bok choy and mango shipments. My charm offensive landed with a thud on Mrs. Chen’s tiny slippered feet, and Mr. Chen seems to live in fear of her. So I take my cues from him and stick to hauling boxes, prepping and pricing the veg, and staying invisible. I know I’m not the first student to partake of the Chens’ indentured-dungeon opportunity, but it’s a sure bet that I’m their first Waverly student and their first white chick—or gweilo, as I’ve heard them call me. I think it means “ghost girl” or “foreigner” or something. Either is perfect. On the bright side, I eat really well, although it’s mainly vegetables and fruit. I’ve become pretty handy with a wok, and my skin has never looked better.