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Kate Brian is the author of the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling Private series and its spin-off series Privilege. She has also written many other books for teens including Sweet 16 and Megan Meade’s Guide to the McGowan Boys.

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Simon Pulse

"Ugh! I just cannot take this sweater one more second," London Simmons said, pulling a creamy white cashmere sweater over her head and tossing it at her silver garbage can. Her dark brown hair grazed her bare back, falling into perfect waves.

"London! You cannot just throw away cashmere," her roommate, Vienna Clark, replied.

London and Vienna, or "the Twin Cities," as the rest of Billings called them, were two very buxom, very big-haired socialites who had apparently been friends forever. They had summoned me to their room the moment I had gotten back from dinner because they needed some help "feng shui-ing," as London had put it, which actually meant they wanted me to organize their shoes by color, then by heel height. At the moment, I was on the floor, doing exactly that.

"At least donate it or something," Vienna suggested.

London, who was admiring her double-D's in the mirror, turned to look at me.

"Sorry," she said, plucking the sweater out of the can. "Did you want this?"

Her brown eyes were completely innocent. She blinked, waiting for my excited reply.

"Uh, no thanks," I said flatly.

"Not to her! To the needy!" Vienna said, rolling her eyes as she picked up her nail file and walked over. "Don't mind her, Glass-licker," she told me, pulling the sweater out of London's fingers. "The skinnier she gets, the dumber she gets."

I smirked.

"Omigosh! You're just jealous!" London said, swiping at Vienna.

They both settled back on their beds again to continue their primping rituals. I yanked another pair of red shoes out of the back of the closet and lined them up with all the other red shoes, comparing heel heights. I was almost done. Then I could finally, finally get back to my room and shower.

"I saw Walt Whittaker on campus today," London said casually.

Instantly, all the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Somehow I had managed to avoid Whit all day. Every time he saw me he blushed and looked away. Apparently he was just as embarrassed by our encounter as I was. He'd spent most of our mealtimes chatting with professors over at their tables, something I'd never seen a single student do before, and outside the caf I hadn't seen him at all. But did the Twin Cities know that we had hooked up?

"V, I am so going to make him mine."

Apparently not.

Vienna snorted a laugh. "Please. Every other girl on this campus is gonna be after Whittaker in the next couple of weeks."

Wha-huh? Why?

"So? You don't think I can get him?" London asked incredulously.

"You've got as good a shot as anyone else," Vienna replied. "But no one knows what goes on inside that thick head. Personally, I've always thought he was gay."

I stifled a laugh and shoved the last pair of red shoes into place. If he was gay it would certainly account for his lack of skills in the feeling-up department.

"Just because he's gay doesn't mean I can't use him," London said.

Then they both laughed. I pushed myself up and slapped my hands on my apron. Part of me was dying to know what London wanted to use Whit for. Money? Doubtful. Everyone around here had more than they knew what to do with. But an even bigger part of me was dying to get the hell out of there. Plus I had a feeling they wouldn't tell me anyway.

"All done," I said.

"You're excused," London said dismissively.

I shot her a look of death that she didn't even notice, then turned and walked out. I practically ran down the dimly lit hall to my room, blowing by all the black-and-white framed photos of Billings "Through the Ages." At some point I had appreciated the beautiful touches of Billings, the gleaming woodwork, the thick carpeting, the bronze wall sconces, the French windows at either end of each hallway. But now all I saw was more stuff to clean, more to scrub, more to wax. I couldn't get back to my room and away from it all fast enough. My hand was on the doorknob when I heard someone enter the hall behind me.

"Miss Brennan."

I stopped and closed my eyes. So close.

Mrs. Lattimer, the middle-aged house mother of Billings House, approached me at a broken pace, her stride hindered by her skinny pencil skirt. Her dark hair was pulled back in a bun and her white shirt was, as always, buttoned all the way up, with three strands of pearls sitting on top. Mrs. Lattimer was skinny and pointy; her skin was rough as leather. She was never seen without a thick layer of eyeliner and mascara, as if she thought drawing attention to her watery eyes would cause the average person to miss the rather large birthmark on her chin. I had met her on my first night at Billings and she had looked me over as if confused by my very existence. I had avoided her ever since.

"Miss Brennan, I understand that you made all the beds this morning," she said, her craggly hands clasped in front of her.

Wait a minute. She knew about that?

"You somehow, however, overlooked my own," she said, lifting her chin. "I would appreciate it if you afforded me the same courtesy you have the other women of this dorm."

She was kidding. She had to be kidding. Not only did she know about this hazing ritual, but she condoned it? She wanted in on it?

"Do I make myself clear?" she asked.

"Uh...sure," I said.

"Good," she said with a nod. We both stood there for a long moment. "Well. Go about your business," she said, shooing me with her hand.

"Right. Okay."

I shoved the door open, closed it behind me, and leaned back against it, wishing there was a lock. A bolt. Some kind of alarm system that could alert me to approaching heiresses. I couldn't believe our house mother was in on this. As if I didn't have enough to do already, enough to worry about.

Taking a deep breath, I sank down a bit, unable to move another muscle. My nerves were fried. All day I had been waiting for my classroom doors to open, waiting to be called to Hell Hall to talk to the police. I was completely unable to concentrate and had managed to shred no fewer than ten sheets of loose-leaf into tiny squares. But nothing had happened. The day had ended without a single interruption and now a rumor was floating around that the police were starting with the senior class and working their way down, that they might not even get to us lowly sophomores until late in the week.

Personally, I wanted to get it over with. I felt like my blood had been replaced with pure caffeine. Why didn't they at least come get me? Hadn't the crack investigators found out yet that Thomas had a girlfriend?

I pushed away from the door and dropped down on my bed, looking blankly around my new room. My new room. In all the insanity I'd had yet to have the time to fully appreciate the space. It was at least three times bigger than my old room in Bradwell, with a huge arched window overlooking the quad. My desk was immense, with a built-in bulletin board and study lamp, and the double dresser near the wall actually dwarfed the smallish bed. It was also only half full and completely devoid of pictures, jewelry boxes, and knickknacks, unlike every other dresser in this place -- which, by the way, were that much more difficult to dust and polish.

Yes, my side of the room was pathetically bare compared to Natasha's, which was replete with posters hung at exact right angles, perfectly organized books and papers, a clear plastic tackle-style box keeping each piece of her incredibly expensive jewelry separate from all the others. But it was home. My home in Billings. I had to remember that. I was here. And all the chores they could...