Page 10 of Depraved Boys

“So? One Friday night won’t kill your grades. You excel at everything academic.”

“I can’t coast along doing the bare minimum with that kind of requirement.”

Her face dropped. “I agreed to leave Bones and every single friend I ever had to join a school where everyone cares more about work than they do about making friends. Agreed because you wanted us to stay together. You’ve got your own group: Cormac and the scholars, but I’m completely isolated.”

“Maybe things will change tomorrow.” I gripped the back of my desk chair. “It’s only your first—”

“Maybe I can make some friends at this party.” She batted her wide, hazel eyes. Eyes the same color as mine and Mom’s.

I blew out a weary breath. Ashley had uprooted herself from Carlisle so we would be together. The least I could do was help her make friends. She’d probably shut me down if I invited her to the scholars’ common room, as those Mrs. Benazir paid to attend the school were probably just as bookish as me.

“Okay, let’s go to the party.”

She shot out of bed and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Thank you! I know how much you hate these things, but I’ll make sure you have a good time.”

I hugged back, enjoying a rare closeness we hadn’t shared since our London days. Maybe balancing an academic and social life wouldn’t be so bad if it meant spending time with my twin. But I still wasn’t quite sure that Leopold had invited us to the party at Hessington Hall.

CHAPTER THREE

The last few days of the week were a blur of all-day lectures and reading through an impossible list of books. Neither Ashley nor I had slept well since Mom and Dad had died, and the academy’s spring mattresses and feather comforters did nothing to alleviate our grief-induced insomnia.

Being in the middle of nowhere proved beneficial for Ashley, as for the first time since we moved to Carlisle, she cracked open her books and studied. While she kept up with her three subjects, I felt like I was falling behind on my six.

Miss Claymore agreed to waive the first few weeks of swimming practice so I could catch up with the requirements of the new curriculum. We caught glimpses of Leopold and Prakash in the dining room, but Ashley was too exhausted to even consider walking over to flirt. Instead, we sat together with some of the students from my scholars’ classes and ate in silence.

By Friday night, every nerve in my body screamed at me to sleep and not go to the party in Hessington Hall, but a light shone in Ashley’s eyes that I hadn’t seen since Mom and Dad had died. She needed this party, and I wouldn’t let my exhaustion get in her way. I wore my little black dress and brushed out my mahogany hair, so it hung loosely over my shoulders.

“What the fuck do you think you’re wearing?” Ashley’s gaze traveled down my body and lingered on my belly.

Curling my shoulders, I folded my arms over my middle. “What’s wrong with this dress?”

“You look like a virgin.”

“So?”

“You heard what Cormac said? The boys here would charm your legs open and post pictures of you splayed out like a beached whale. They’d humiliate you in front of the whole school.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Do you have to be so crass?”

“Sometimes, it’s the only way to get through your thick head. Squeeze yourself into a pair of jeans and a tank top. You’ll look more up to date.”

My nostrils flared, and my skin tightened with irritation. We’d had this conversation several times over the years. Ashley would berate me on having gained weight since puberty, and I would snipe that I didn’t spend my every waking hour starving myself or at the gym. Then Ashley would win the argument by pointing out my rounded belly, thick thighs, and fat ass.

After a grueling week of classes, I wasn’t sure how I would react to her dissection of my flaws. “I’m wearing this dress.”

“It makes you look even dumpier than you actually are.” She pointed at the arms crossed around my middle. “That fabric shows off your gut, and those sleeves accentuate your flabby arms. I can’t see a single bone or muscle.”

I narrowed my eyes at the unsolicited critique. “Thankfully, we’re going to a party and not a convention of cannibalistic butchers. People will be too busy having fun to obsess over how I look in a dress.”

She shrugged. “Don’t cry when they pour a vat of blood over your head.”

“You’ve been reading too much Stephen King. And it was a bucket.”

“Huh?”

“Carrie.”

“The movie?” She smirked.