Stage One
Observation
One
Dear Monica,
Summer wasn’t the same without you. Instead of us bingeing on gelato at Scoops’n’Treets or you finally making a move on that cute lifeguard, I was inside my house wishing you were here. I’m still so angry you aren’t. But I know that anger shouldn’t be aimed at you. I know that now.
That’s why I’ve devised a plan. One that might make things right.
Hope you’re happier than I am.
Love, Chloe
THE FIRST TIME I wore this shade of lipstick, I was eleven. Monica had pulled at my chin to pop open my mouth, painting my lips with the brightest cherry red, her amber eyes following her movements carefully—an artist examining her work.
“Done,” she’d announced, flipping her auburn hair over a shoulder and tilting her head to the side, her blue-shadowed gaze taking in my appearance with satisfaction.
I’d swiveled in my chair to see my reflection in her mirror, contorting my face. “I look like a clown.”
Monica paused, looking serious before snorting with laughter. “A beautiful clown.”
Since then, my freckled face had lost the baby fat and my lips didn’t look so corny lined with red. Now they were almost menacing, especially when I pulled them into the confident smirk I’d been perfecting over the summer. Exactly the look I was going for. I gave one final glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror before putting my Audi into reverse and pulling out of the driveway.
Today was the first day of senior year, the first school morning that I wouldn’t see my best friend in the parking lot. It was usually routine that we met before class, ever since we’d started at Arlington Preparatory, the glamorous private school reserved for the children of Wandemore Valley’s elite, from company heirs to celebrity love children. Nestled in the canyon just north of Beverly Hills, the suburb was a haven for the most influential families of Los Angeles.
This semester I had a lot of work to do. Not academically. No, grades had always come easy for me. This work came in the form of a list. A list of people who were going to pay.
Arlington had a system. It wasn’t exactly a monarchy or a pyramid. No, it was much more complex than that. Monica and I had figured out that everyone could be sorted into one of five different groups, or levels as we called them.
Level Five was freshmen and social pariahs. It wasn’t somewhere anyone wanted to be. It was open hunting grounds, and those who resided at Level Five suffered everything from disgusted looks to being shoved around in the hallways.
Level Four was for anyone “uncool.” The harmless who didn’t quite fit in. In sophomore year, Monica and I had upgraded from five to four, where we sat at a table of outcasts in the lunch hall.
And then there was three. My safe zone. The level where you were too high to be targeted by bullies and low enough to be safe from a fall. Level Three was invisible. I was invisible, safe with only a handful of friends and far away from the drama. The only problem was that Monica wanted to be higher.
Level Two, the loudest level, was for the people who wanted to be Level One. They were the people who worshipped the ground people like Lola Davenport walked on, and they were willing to do whatever it took to impress the people on top. Halfway through junior year, Monica decided she wanted to upgrade.
Level One was as high as it got. The popular clique. If the whole school was a television series, the people on Level One were the main characters. The stars. They were the beautiful, the rich, and the mean.
The thing that made the Level Ones so powerful extended much deeper than their fortunes. They were charming, with dazzling smiles that made your heart stop. They looked like their clothes came right off the runways in Paris, holidayed in tropical paradises, and always seemed to be having more fun than everyone else.
It was practically impossible to break into their group, perhaps because each member of their clique served a purpose. Sophie was law enforcement, with a sneer that would bring anyone to their knees. Francis, her brother, had a much more deceptive evil—all charisma and clever remarks. William was his best friend, good looks and talent. As the captain of the lacrosse team, he gave them the power of the jocks. I hypothesized that he was the rational one, the one who noticed things Francis overlooked. That’s what Monica said, anyway.
Maddy was the daughter of a pop star, granting Level One the privileges that came with fame: limousines, and red carpets. Zach monitored all the gossip in Arlington, keeping Level One ahead of the game. And Lola oversaw them all. The six of them were, until now, unbreakable.
But I was determined to break them.
I wasn’t like Monica. Monica always wanted to be them. She wanted the spotlight, and she wanted the adoration that came with being on top. But to them, Monica was like a newborn foal trying to stand. She was cute, but she could be easily knocked over. And when they knew of someone’s vulnerabilities, the games began.
No, I didn’t want to be them. I wanted to destroy them. To expose them for what they were, to make them feel as humiliated as their victims, to make them pay for what they did to Monica. I wanted to show everyone what they did, no matter how hard they tried to cover it up.
Observe, blackmail, initiate, infiltrate, intelligence, collect, and expose. I had it all planned out. An undercover exposé, one Monica would be proud of. One that would make things right.
“Chloe Whittaker. That is not you.”
I couldn’t prevent myself from jumping as a figure slid into my peripheral vision. I’d chosen a table upon the mezzanine overlooking the cafeteria, hoping it’d be the best place to observe the Level One clique eating lunch without being noticed. But clearly I hadn’t hidden myself well enough.
“Jack,” I said through gritted teeth, my shoulders relaxing slightly and the corners of my lips raising in a small smile at the familiar face.
Jack Thomas’s dark eyes zigzagged as he assessed my appearance. “Makeup? Since when?”
I let my mouth curl further into a smile. “Do you like it?”
He snorted. “It’s quite an improvement.”
“Thanks,” I responded with a tight smile as he greeted me with a hug.
Jack was sweet and unbearably awkward. He’d somehow managed to remain acquainted with me throughout high school, despite how little effort I’d put into hanging out with anyone but Monica.
“So, what are you doing up here? Spying on Level One?”
“Don’t say that,” I grumbled. The Level designations belonged to Monica and me. “I’m just enjoying the quiet.”
“Right . . .” he said, his voice trailing off a little. “It must be really hard coming back without her here.”
I didn’t respond, avoiding his gaze and letting my attention drift back toward the cafeteria.
It was enormous, with a high ceiling and large tables spread neatly around the hall. Today it was filled with conversation of adventurous summers and laughter as groups of friends reunited. As if by some unspoken law, Level Ones sat at the table in the center.
The table was occupied by Arlington’s six elite, each member’s name printed onto my list. Almost fully occupied. The seventh seat, which had housed their past experiments, was empty today. At one point in time, it had belonged to Monica.