Ripple

My grandmother smiles triumphantly as she uses the rest of her tiles to spell out ORDAINED. She waves her hand across the board with a flourish. “I win!”

In more ways than one, I think.

The following day, Mrs. Jensen gives us time to work on our projects in class. I wish she wouldn’t. Maybe then I could just e-mail some debate points to Cole, and he could do a few and send them to Sienna, and we could avoid talking until debate day. I still can’t believe an English teacher would let us choose Manhattan Prep at all, but I guess Mrs. Jensen was intrigued by the debate idea.

It’s so hard to be around Sienna and not think about everything we shared growing up. Not think about laughing so hard we spit soda all over her dining room table. Not think about the first time her mom dropped us off at the mall by ourselves and we felt so adult buying our back-to-school clothes without parental guidance.

How can it be two years now since we shared that stuff?

The three of us push our desks together, and Sienna pulls out a dog-eared copy of Manhattan Prep. Cole digs out his own copy and sets it down on the desk. I can tell he bought it recently, because it has the newer cover with the cast from the TV show, instead of the original.

“Please tell me someone saw you buying that,” I say. I attempt to look haughty and snobbish, but I wonder if I’m pulling it off. He doesn’t look at me like everyone else does. I feel stripped bare every time he’s close.

Cole doesn’t take my insult seriously. “Nope. I borrowed it from my sister,” he announces, grinning.

Sienna sets down two piles of note cards, one pink and one yellow. Most of them have her loopy, feminine handwriting all over them. “We can put the pros on one color and cons on the other. Like a point-counterpoint thing.”

“Whatever,” I say. “You guys debate. I’ll be the moderator.”

Sienna shuffles the cards like she’s starting a poker tournament. “No way. We have to contribute equally, and if I”—she pauses and points at herself with one of her perfectly French-manicured nails—“have already done half the planning, then you”—she points at me—“are doing the debate. You and Cole can duke it out on who gets pro Manhattan Prep, who gets anti.”

I want to thunk my head against my desk. It’s like she’s trying to punish me. This stupid debate wasn’t even my idea, and now I have to stand in front of the class and participate.

Instead, I say, “Who died and made you queen?”

Too late, I realize it was the wrong thing to say in every way imaginable and nearly choke, trying to undo it.

Sienna leans forward and stares straight at me, pursing her lips into a thin line and narrowing her eyes. From here, I can see every mascara-clad lash. “You did.”

I stare back at her, those two tiny words ringing over and over again in my head. Because they’re true. I am as good as dead to all these people. Years ago, I was practically royalty to my classmates, but after Steven, Sienna took over the reins, along with Nikki. They’re the ones who decide which clothes are acceptable, which parties matter.

She looks away and stares at her nails, as if she’s bored of this conversation. “Do you know what the government used to do to traitors?”

I just stare back at her, immobile, afraid of where she’s going.

She turns her attention to her perfectly manicured other hand. “They would hang them. Draw and quarter them. Or behead them.” She looks up at me, her eyes narrowing even further until I can barely see her dark blue eyes anymore. “But women, they were burned at the stake.”

Sienna’s voice drips with venom. Somehow, the pain of losing her brother has been channeled into a single mission: destroying me. I don’t know what she’ll do if she ever succeeds.

“Traitors are dishonorable. They’re better off dead.”

My heart climbs into my throat. I can feel Cole’s gaze on me, needling me. There’s so much weight in his look, so much he wants to say, but he merely sits there. Lets her tear into me.

Sienna clears her throat and resumes shuffling the note cards. It’s like she’s flipped a switch, and she’s back to cool, collected, totally detached.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she says, shoving some note cards in front of me. “I’ve decided you should be pro- Manhattan Prep and say it is meant as satire of the upper class. It makes more sense for the guy to think it’s utter drivel.”

I look through the cards. Sienna must have spent hours on these already. I swallow my pride. “Thanks.”

She slaps a hand over her heart. “Was that a nicety?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s what I thought.” She flips through the yellow cards and then pushes them onto Cole’s desk.

I pick up my backpack and shove the book and note cards into it.

“I guess we’re done,” Sienna says.

“Oh, we’re done,” I say.

Chapter Eight

I turn off my car and stare out the windshield at the behemoth of a house in front of me, unable to move. Cole lives in the biggest house on Maple Falls Road, just a few houses down from Sienna.

I’ve been here a few times, but the elegance of it still impresses me. It’s painted a beautiful muted green with gray stone accents along the front and huge rock pillars that soar up to the colossal roofline. The house must be eight thousand square feet or more, and it holds half of our school when he throws a party. I try to remember the last time I’ve heard gossip about his parties, and I can’t seem to think of it. Which can’t be right, because he used to throw parties every other month.

The front door is really two doors, both of them fourteen feet tall with lead-glass inserts. An enormous wing of garage doors stretches out to the left, while the rest of the house sprawls across manicured lawns. A big pond, complete with a waterfall, sits near the lighted front walk.

Reluctantly, I get out of my car and head to the front door to continue work on our English project. Sienna’s shiny blue coupe is parked in front of one of the garage doors, like it hasn’t occurred to her she could be in anyone’s way.

Dread churns in my stomach. I haven’t spent a second with Sienna outside of school since the funeral. The last moments of our friendship occurred just down the street. I step up onto the porch and then stop. I can hear the whisper of the Pacific. This house has a gigantic deck with a beautiful view, the best in Cedar Cove.

Unable to stall any longer, I reach up and hit the doorbell. Pretty, elegant chimes ring out inside.

Cole swings the door open, smiling as if he’s happy to see me. He runs a hand through his tousled brown hair as he motions me to follow him into the house. He’s wearing a thick, emerald green sweater and loose blue jeans. He’s not wearing shoes or even socks, and something about that feels surprisingly intimate.

The entryway is soaring, probably thirty feet tall. A chandelier dripping with crystals hangs high overhead and pristine, polished hardwood floors, inlaid with intricate designs, head in every direction.

I follow Cole around a corner and into an enormous industrialsize kitchen, with dozens of cherry cabinets and granite countertops. Beyond it, floor-to-ceiling windows cover an expanse of at least thirty or forty feet. And then there’s the view. Cole’s house is perched on a knoll overlooking the rolling sand dunes and the living, breathing ocean. It looks so close I could reach out and touch it. The breaking waves are a couple hundred yards away, nothing more.

This is going to be hard. The sun sets in ten minutes. And as soon as it does, the sea may as well be calling my name—screaming it straight into my ear. We’re going to have to get through all of this quickly.

I turn away from the shore and back to the kitchen. Sienna is sitting at one end of the big center island, twisting a strand of hair around her pen.

She looks up and gives me a hard look, as if she’s waiting for me to insult her. But I can’t muster the words. She rolls her eyes when I fail to come up with anything to say and looks back down at her notes.

“Do you want something to drink? A soda or bottle of water or anything?” Cole asks.

I shake my head and sit down on a stool, the furthest one from Sienna. Cole sits between us. I dig my bent