He looked up at her and smiled expectantly. Ariana placed her hand on the doorknob and squeezed. When she was at Easton Academy, she had been excused from the team sport requirement thanks to a doctor's note, written by a close friend of her mother's. Sports had never been Ariana's thing, and the woman had been more than happy to help her avoid the requirement. But she no longer had that option. She was just going to have to suffer through and deal with
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all the athletic spirit and competitive trash-talking and . . . sweat. Disgusting.
"Your entrance essay about your equestrian experience was quite inspiring," Mr. Pitt said, pulling out a few stapled pages. Ariana stared at them, imagining Briana Leigh at her computer, typing away about horses and jumper competitions, getting the essay over with so she could get back to the country club pool and her all-important tan. For a moment, a smile twitched at Ariana's lips at the thought, but then the happy picture of Briana Leigh was suddenly replaced by a mental image of the girl's face as Ariana shoved her underwater. Her wide, terrified eyes as she was held down. As she flailed and struggled for life. Ariana closed her eyes and gripped the doorknob tighter.
Breathe. Just breathe.In, one. . . two. . . three. . .
Out, one. . . two. . . three. . .
"Are you all right? You look pale," Mr. Pitt said.
Ariana's eyes wrenched open. She was back in the counselor's office. Back in the now. Everything was fine. Briana Leigh was in the past. The horrible, awful past. There was nothing Ariana could do for her now.
"Fine. I'm fine," she said.
"Good. So shall I put you down for the equestrian team?" he asked, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. "They're quite accomplished, actually. I--"
"No!" Ariana blurted, as the Briana Leigh images threatened to resurface. "No. I'm over horses."
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Mr. Pitt blinked. "Over horses?"
"Tennis," Ariana said and forced a smile. "I'd like to be on the tennis team."
Mr. Pitt shrugged and typed it in. "All right then. Tennis it is." He hit a button and locked it in.
As Ariana thanked her counselor and strolled out the door, she felt a twinge of uncertainty. If Briana Leigh had been so into riding that she had written about it in her essay, it must look kind of odd that now, just a few months later, she was so avidly disinterested. Would it make Mr. Pitt suspect something? But when she looked back at Mr. Pitt, he had already busied himself with something on the computer. He had no reason to suspect her. She was just a kid to him, and kids changed their minds all the time.
I am Briana Leigh Covington now, Ariana reminded herself. The world is just going to have to get used to the new me.
And anyone who didn't like the new her . . . well, she had ways of dealing with them.
48
OF COURSE
It wasn't until Ariana was back out on the quad that the panic set in. She had been in prison for almost two years. Two years since she had studied history or French or science or anything other than the novels housed in the Brenda T.'s library. If she was going to pass these exams, she was going to have to study.A pair of guys rushed by, trying to tackle each other for a Frisbee, and came close enough to nearly crush Ariana's feet.
"Sorry!" one of them called out, lifting his hand as he was slammed into the ground.
Ariana took a deep breath, told herself not to strangle them, and turned around. At the back of the school store was a whole section filled with laptops and desktops and printers. She noticed a sign for textbooks behind it, with a big arrow pointing down a set of stairs. She was about to rack up one hell of a credit card bill for Grandma Covington. But it was the start of the school year.
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She needed a uniform and supplies. The old woman would have to understand.
"So, did you get my text?"
Ariana's heart jumped into her throat as she almost strode full force into Palmer Liriano. He had appeared out of nowhere and was now walking backward in front of her so he could look at her while he talked. Somehow, as distracted as she was by his sudden appearance, Ariana managed not to miss a step.
"What text?" she asked, the handles on the heavy plastic bags cutting into her suddenly sweaty palms. She took a deep breath and tried to stay cool, calm. Why did sweat exist? It was so unattractive.
"I texted everyone on gold to let them know about the first team meeting," he said, still ever-so-confidently walking in reverse. "Three o'clock. Gymnasium. You didn't get it?"
"My phone's turned off," Ariana said, recalling Hudson's earlier text. "How do you have the numbers of everyone on your team? Wouldn't that be more than a hundred people?"