Chapter 1 1
September 6, 2016

Hannah Miller was having a truly forgettable morning. Which is to say, she wished she could forget it. First, the 6 was running express, bypassing her stop and spitting her out a full ten blocks north of her new high school. Then, her little sister Ami spent the entire walk talking her ear off about some anonymous gossip account she’d discovered over the weekend. To hear Ami tell it, the poster was definitely a Prescott Academy senior, and they knew absolutely everything about their soon-to-be classmates.

Hannah pressed her lips together and made a vow right then and there to fly beneath the radar. Her scholarship was contingent upon maintaining a B+ average and staying out of trouble. And she had goals that exceeded the requirements of her financial aid: getting into UPenn’s prestigious communications program, with a focus on journalism. She’d worn her Annenberg Scholar sweatshirt—a prized possession since she was thirteen—nearly to threads. Her best friend Grace had her heart set on UPenn, too, premed, and a year from now, they’d be roommates. Starting their next chapter together. Prescott Academy was a means to an end, a single year of her life to be spent among the offspring of New York’s socialites and business tycoons while her parents saved for her college education and she built up the academic résumé practically required for admission to the Ivies without legacy status or a big, fat gift. The kind her parents could never afford.

Hannah’s stepmom, Yoko, was an immigrant rights attorney; her job had brought them to New York at the end of the summer. Her dad, Brian, was the newly minted director of development for a fine arts museum downtown. They made enough to cover the Millers’ not-insignificant rent on a three-bedroom in Soho, but far from what it would take to enroll two daughters at Prescott at full sticker price.

Yoko had become sold on Prescott for the girls, and among the many preparatory academies in the city, it was one of the few that offered scholarships based on a combination of aid and merit to students at any point in their academic career.

“This girl’s family”—Ami jabbed a finger at her phone screen—“owns five yachts. Five. And this kid”—she scrolled to a new post and pointed again—“graduated last May. He’s a freshman at Princeton now, and he’s only fifteen.”

Hannah tore her eyes away from Ami’s Instagram, stomach tossing in protest. If their scholarships hadn’t panned out, they would have enrolled in public school downtown—which maybe would have been for the best. But here they were, walking briskly down the Park Avenue sidewalk, her new flats pinching her toes and sweat collecting beneath the armpits of her blouse and too-warm blazer. She was tall, her body a collection of long lines and sharp angles offset by the brown curls that billowed behind her in feral waves. Standing out in a crowd—both literally and figuratively—rarely bothered her, but right now, she’d far prefer to blend in.

“It’s called the Upper Edge.” Ami was still chattering about the Instagram account. “Whoever runs it is basically the Prescott whisperer. I’ve been catching up on all the old posts. It’s pure gossip gold—and kind of mean. But, like, in a fun way.”

“Which is exactly why I plan to stay off my phone today.” They were two blocks from the Prescott gates. “And you should too.”

Ami threw her an exaggerated scowl. She was Japanese American on her mom’s side, and like Yoko, she was petite with glossy jet-black hair. The siblings didn’t look a lot alike, but the expression was pure Miller.

Hannah returned her sister’s glare and picked up her pace. Express train be damned, she did not plan to show up late on her first day.

As Hannah arrived at the front gates, Prescott Academy’s hierarchy revealed itself like a flower in bloom. Freshmen tucked away, already inside. Sophomores and juniors on the sidewalk or slouched against the gates. And seniors—the queen bees and their kings, anyway—at the fountain, an enormous, circular thing swallowing the entire front courtyard.

Four minutes remained before the first bell. She paused and leaned against the cool stone lip. You’ve got this. Just breathe.

Ami was a block behind, straggling, probably still on her phone. Hannah inhaled deeply and took in her new classmates. Among the mostly white faces were a handful of Black, Latino, and Asian kids. Everyone wore a version of the Prescott Academy uniform, but their accessories whispered old money: heirloom pearl studs, gray cashmere scarves, and aged leather backpacks from Goyard and Smythson.

She swallowed, hard.

“Hey, you. Curls.” Standing just within view, in the shadow of the fountain, was the most stunning girl Hannah had ever seen. She had delicate shoulders and wrists, very long legs, and wavy red hair spilling halfway down her back. Her wide-set eyes sparkled, a warm cinnamon brown. Instead of the Prescott Academy plaid skirt, she had paired her blazer with charcoal-gray cigarette pants and four-inch heels. A kind smile lit up her face, and she motioned to Hannah with long, pale fingers.

Hannah raised her hand to her chest. Me?

The girl laughed and nodded.

Hannah glanced over her shoulder to see Ami arrive at the gates. She should go back, make sure she got through the doors, but… her little sister was social, an optimist, fearless. Ami would be fine.

Hannah gritted her teeth and walked toward the redhead instead, returning her smile.

“Madison DuPont,” she said, extending a slender hand. Her rose-gold manicure was flawless. “Welcome to Prescott.”

Immediately, Hannah was enveloped in Madison’s golden glow. She took Madison’s hand in hers. “Hannah Miller.”

“I know who you are. I’ll be your new student liaison.”

“Liaison?”

Madison’s smile turned serious. She took Hannah by the shoulders and spun her to face the school’s broad front doors. “Prescott isn’t just any high school. It’s the top private academy in New York, and without the right social standing, your academic achievements will be meaningless. Anyone can graduate with straight A’s if they put their mind to it. It’s who you know that will get you places. And lucky for you, I’m here to make sure you meet the right people.”

Hannah nodded doubtfully, taking it all in. She would be in New York City for a short twelve months before returning to Pennsylvania for college. Making friends wasn’t at the top of her priority list, nor was social climbing to whatever rarified places Madison had in mind… but it might get boring fast to not know a single overprivileged soul at Prescott.

“Come on.” Madison motioned to her friends, who were fixing Hannah with curious stares from their station at the shadiest part of the fountain. “I’ll introduce you, then we need to get inside.” She wrinkled her nose. “Mr. Harris has a real stick up his ass about punctuality.”

Madison’s equally beautiful—and surely equally rich—friends threw Hannah little waves. Maybe her first day of senior year wouldn’t be so forgettable after all.

Stepping inside the Kingsley Room felt less like walking into a high school auditorium and more like entering a Harvard lecture hall. The walls were paneled in honeyed oak, the windows high, arched, and hung with heavy drapes. Amphitheater-style seats were upholstered in rich burgundy velvet. Toto, we’re not in Pittsburgh anymore.

The senior boys had accessorized their Oxford shirts with sterling silver cuff links, engraved with Prescott’s PA in loping script. Their loafers were Italian leather, their haircuts expensive. The girls wore delicate diamond bracelets and monogrammed cashmere cardigans. Hermès scarves from Grandmummy’s closet were tied around the handles of vintage Celine totes.

Hannah looped her fingers through the straps of her backpack, a sturdy canvas thing from Target, and glanced down to her plain black flats. On the way out the door this morning, her stepmom had assured her daughters that uniforms were the best thing about private school.

“The kids may be rich, but you’ll all be dressed the same.” Obviously, things had changed since Ms. Hiroto-Miller had attended private school in the eighties.

“After today, we’ll be split into our seminar groups for first period,” Madison explained, placing four fingertips on Hannah’s unadorned wrist and snapping her from her thoughts. “But the first morning back, they herd us together, the flock returning to the master.”

With her chin, Madison motioned to the front of the hall, where a teacher stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He looked too young to be the master of anything.

“That’s Mr. Harris, AP English and head counselor for the senior class,” said a girl with unblemished light-brown skin and relaxed brown hair pulled into a high, glossy ponytail. She stepped between Hannah and Madison. Hannah had met Elle Harrington briefly outside, at the fountain, but the introductions had been a bit of a blur. For the first time, she really took Elle in. She wore her pleated skirt at regulation length—two inches above the knee. Her blouse was pressed, and she wore a grosgrain ribbon tie at the collar. Her high ponytail had been neatly pinned in place with two gold clasps. Whereas Madison’s beauty was ethereal, effortless, Elle’s was polished to perfection—not a single hair or pleat out of place.

Madison gestured to the teacher, Mr. Harris. “Some of the girls think he’s cute, but don’t let his boyish looks fool you. He’s a real stickler for the rules, and he does not hand out A’s. If you ask me, he’s a bore.”

Elle giggled. “Besides, he’s short. And needs a shave.”

“He can’t shave.” Sebastian Beaumont, who everyone called Bash, apparently, was beside them now, adjusting a vintage Rolex around his thick wrist. “Otherwise Ms. Caldwell—our head of school—might mistake him for one of the students.” His lips curled into a sneer.

Bash, to the contrary, looked older than his years—toned, athletic, and ready to take Wall Street by storm. His nearly black hair was cropped short, and his shoes were shiny as mirror glass. A burgundy pocket square peeked from his blazer. Frequent sessions with a private trainer had sculpted chiseled abs and pecs beneath his shirt, and biceps the envy of high school boys everywhere strained the sleeves.

His dark eyes locked with hers. “You’re beautiful, but a bit rough around the edges.” His eyes trailed up and down Hannah’s body, sending a shiver up her spine. Ew. “I imagine Prescott will polish you up in no time.”

Hannah swallowed. Bash Beaumont was undeniably stylish, fit, and darkly handsome, but he gave her the ick.

“Bash, Bash, Bash.” Theodore Fitzgerald, known to all of Prescott as Theo and as Teddie to Elle alone, placed a heavy hand on his best friend’s shoulder. “Hannah just got here. Call off your dogs before you scare her away.”

Madison snorted, a surprisingly ungraceful sound for such a lovely girl. She could behave absolutely any way she pleased, and it would only make the others envy her more. “Bash is the dog, dear Theo. Woof!”

Elle linked her arm through Theo’s. He was tall and classically handsome; if you saw him on the street, you might mistake him for a movie star. White-blond hair dusted his pale brows; his cheekbones were high, his lashes long. Delicate freckles dotted the bridge of his nose, and he wore a timeless pair of Oliver Peoples frames that made him look more distinguished than any seventeen-year-old had the right to be. Hannah bit back a smile. He was gorgeous, but also very taken. There was no mistake: Elle and Theo were the queen and king of Prescott Academy. Which made Theo squarely off-limits.

Hannah wrenched her gaze back to Madison. She was in her own category altogether. A golden goddess, immortal.

Elle turned to Bash. “Speaking of dogs, how many of our lovely classmates did you take to bed this summer?”

A sly grin spread across his face. “A gentleman never tells.”

Madison scoffed, and his grin widened.

“Fortunately for you, I am not a gentleman. While Elle and Theo summered in Paris and Madison was the envy of Nice, it was a summer of pleasure for Sebastian Beaumont right here on the Upper East Side. As of last night, the tally has reached fourteen. That’s only the women of Prescott, of course.”

“Disgusting.” Elle’s grip tightened around Theo’s arm, and something flickered across Bash’s face.

Then the grin reappeared as if it had never left. Across the Kingsley Room, leaning against an aisle seat near the back, was a petite, curvy girl with a blond pixie cut. Layers of Van Cleef Alhambra pendants and chains hung from her neck and spilled into her cleavage. Her skirt was rolled at the waist, displaying several inches of smooth, tanned leg between the tops of her knee socks and the hem of her skirt. She raised her hand and gave Bash a four-fingered wave.

“Gemma Phipps. Really, Bash?” Elle sneered.

Bash chuckled and returned Gemma’s wave. “Not yet,” he said. “But the year is young, and I’m on the market for lucky number fifteen.”

Bile rose in Hannah’s throat. She was overcome by a wave of protectiveness for this girl she didn’t know—Gemma Phipps. Sure, she was dressed to call attention to her curves, but Bash struck her as the worst kind of playboy. Surely Gemma deserved better than that.

“Seats!” At the front of the hall, Mr. Harris stepped behind a large mahogany podium and clapped his hands together, three tight raps.

“The class czar has spoken,” Theo quipped. “Better get in line.”

Hannah turned to follow her new classmates—calling them friends seemed premature—to an empty row of seats near the front of the hall. But before she could sit, a hand brushed the small of her back, and she spun around.

“Hannah Miller!” a bright voice exclaimed. “I thought that was you.”

“Oliver?” Hannah grinned, overwhelmed by the relief of seeing a familiar face in this strange new world. Before she’d received her acceptance to Prescott, Oliver Morgan had been her classmate at a summer pre-college program in Pittsburgh. He’d mentioned attending a prep school in New York, but the city had private schools aplenty, and if he had said it was Prescott—the best of the best—she’d forgotten.

“Seats!” Mr. Harris boomed again. He removed a pair of thin tortoiseshell frames and placed them on the podium, peering out at the crowd of seniors.

“Here.” Oliver motioned to a pair of empty chairs several rows back. “Sit with me.”

She gave Madison, Elle, Theo, and Bash a small wave and turned to follow Oliver down the aisle.

“Oliver Morgan,” Bash called out before they’d gone far. “Don’t believe I saw you at the club this summer. Guess your membership was denied yet again.”

Uh-oh. Oliver’s back stiffened, but before she could ask what he’d done to offend the royalty of Prescott, he guided her to their seats.

“Ignore them.” His voice was tight, his cheeks flushed red.

She opened her mouth to ask, then thought better of it.

“I heard a rumor you might be joining us this year,” Oliver said, a deliberate bid to change the subject. “The comments have been popping.”

“Comments?”

“On the latest post. The Upper Edge?”

Her eyebrows arched.

Oliver continued. “It’s a gossip account run by someone at Prescott. People send DMs, the Upper Edge spreads the stories. The whole school is a bit obsessed. You’ll see.”

Right. The Instagram account Ami had been drooling over this morning. Guilt flooded Hannah’s chest. She’d barely given her little sister a second glance after they’d arrived at the gates.

Resolving to check on her after first period, she took her seat and turned to Oliver. “Comments about me?”

Oliver nodded, curly blond hair bobbing and boyish dimples creasing his cheeks. The latest model iPhone, in a custom CASETiFY mirror case, rested on his knee. He switched on the screen and opened Instagram. Below a post displaying the Prescott fountain was a series of comments speculating about the identity of the two newest transplants to the Upper East Side—scholarship students Hannah and Ami Miller.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered. Truly, who cared?

Mr. Harris tapped the mic, and the room fell silent. Oliver flipped his phone face down. For the next ten minutes, they listened to an oration on new policies for the new year, brief introductions to each senior seminar teacher, and a discussion of the kinds of topics that would land you a place at Harvard or Yale—and those that would send you to community college. As Mr. Harris rattled off the room assignments for each seminar group, a flurry of low whispers rippled across the Kingsley Room. Were her fellow students really that invested in their classroom locations?

Hannah looked up from her lap, where she’d been studying her nails. They needed a trim. All around her, phones were out, heads were bent low, and students were murmuring.

What’s happening? she mouthed to Oliver.

“New year, new drama.” He tilted his screen toward her.