The Well's End Read Free Page B

convention. Usually that means she’s nowhere near our hallway. Unless she throws a party. And a party the night before we travel to a swim meet means no sleep will be had.
    Jo’s not concerned. “Oh, come on, Mia. It’ll be fun.”
    â€œWhat?” I ask, incredulous. “You’re actually trying to convince me to go?”
    She shrugs, her eyes on her phone. “It’s not like you’d sleep through the noise anyway.”
    â€œAnd it’s not like you have to be rested to jump off a board.” I sort of expect to get a rise out of her at that—despite her perfectly choreographed boredom routine, she’s fiercely competitive—but nothing. Her thumbs are moving fast, and she doesn’t look up. When I first became truly close with Jo, it was a late night just like this. I heard her splashing into the water over and over again as I swam laps. When I finally pulled my goggles from my eyes, I saw her climbing the concrete stairs. She was running, hurrying to do another dive, pumping her legs until she made it up the platform. I remember watching her compose herself and balance on her toes, bounce, fall, do it again. I’d seen her around and knew who she was, but never did I expect her to be so dedicated and hardworking. By the next year, we were roomies. She told me, later, that she thought I was cool because I could beat the boys. I thought she was cool ’cause she could get them. Which has me thinking.
    â€œTodd’ll be there?” I ask, tying a shoe and looking up from my crouch.
    She flashes a grin. Jo’s a real friend, so it’s rare that I can get genuinely annoyed with her, even if she’s trying to drag me to a party to be a wingman when she knows I need the sleep.
    â€œMaybe we can get Rob to come,” I venture, my way of relenting.
    â€œAlready texted him,” she replies, and as if on cue, my phone buzzes. I take a look, and it’s Rob, responding to Jo and adding me in.
    Long day?
    Jo and I share a smile. Rob, another townie and friend who lives across the hall, has a way with understatement. He’s probably at his computer, his desk lamp the only light on, plugging away at some code or other—his hobby. Sometimes I wonder if he’s in Lulz Security or Anonymous.
    Absolut,
Jo texts back, which, of course, pops up on my phone too.
    I thought Mia’s idea of unwinding was
Seinfeld
reruns.
    Apparently,
I type,
2nite it means following Jo to Odessaville.
    O fun,
he replies.
I’ll remember to shower. C U soon.
    We pause near the big gym doors, each taking an involuntary breath against the cold. I’m not looking forward to tonight, but the alternative is lying on my bed with a pillow over my head getting more and more annoyed at Odessa’s high-pitched laugh. Maybe Rob’ll cheer me up. He always does.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Westbrook Academy is, as elite private boarding schools go, a relatively new creature. Created in the ’60s by a new breed of wealth, the creators mimicked Groton or Milton or Dalton and bettered. Westbrook’s buildings are state of the art, but look like Gothic castles, like a mini Oxford or Cambridge without the cold drafts. Each student has the option of a single, and rooms are equipped with bathroom, living room and kitchen. The professors were poached from the best universities in the country, the coaches from the big state schools, the students from the czars worldwide.
    Entitlement is a way of life at Westbrook. But, I have to say, there’s nothing easy about the curriculum. Sure, kids smoke pot every night, their doors open, waving the student RA in to take a hit. But my classmates have goals or come from families that demand goals of them. No one would be caught dead with less than a 2250 on the SATs. Without a 4.0. Without an acceptance letter to higher learning, traditionally known as the four-year vacation from Westbrook. Good grades are greatly rewarded,