My invitation to join the Lilies Society never arrived. More accurately, it was never sent. It wasn’t the first sign that I was not wanted at Archwell, but it was somehow the most noticeable. Following my grandma’s conditions, I kept wearing the Lilies ring but . . . I can’t say it has had any of the protective qualities she promised.

  The first bell sounds. It’s time for class. I stash my phone, pack up my tarot cards, throw on my Archwell blazer, and head for the stairs to the main atrium. As I pass the circulation desk, I see Ms. Katz—she’s the librarian on duty on Mondays and Fridays, and the only teacher at Archwell that ever uses the right pronouns for me. She has a dog named Mort. Sometimes she shows me pictures of him and her family, including Scout. “My favorite nibling,” she says. “They’re just a couple years younger than you, Drew.”

  Today, Ms. Katz looks a little worn. Her eyes are missing their usual brightness. Maybe she had trouble sleeping this weekend. If so, she wasn’t the only one.

  “Drew, I was keeping my eyes peeled for you, dear.” Her voice is heavy and strange. Something cold and stony is pushing its way into her words. Something is worrying her. “The chancellor would like to see you in her office this morning. She told me to write you a pass to excuse you from first period.”

  “Oh . . . um . . . okay.” Death reappears in my mind. The skeleton from the tarot deck scowls at me. The same scowl that Charlotte had on her face the last time I saw her in person. “Am I . . . like . . . in trouble or something?” I ask.

  “I doubt it, honey, but she didn’t say. She just mentioned it was a ‘roommate situation.’”

  My stomach fills with acid. Breath leaves my body. The chancellor knows something. Something about Charlotte. Maybe she knows about what happened the last time we saw each other. The twitch worms its way back into my left eye. My vision blurs.

  You’re trying to ignore me. It won’t work, Death breathes.

  “Are you okay, Drew?” Ms. Katz asks. I nod and snatch the pass from her outstretched hand as I hustle out of the library. But Death follows me.

  I know what you did.

  2

  Rory

  When I wake up, the taste of Caitlin Callahan’s strawberry lip gloss has gone stale. I run my tongue along the slick of it at the edge of my mouth. It’s a bit crusty and gross. Completely unlike the smooth, tangy taste of Caitlin’s lips. I use the heel of my hand to rub away the traces of last night’s hookup. There’s not much I can do about my bad breath until I drag myself out of bed.

  I suppose this is what I get for taking Xan on a school night. When Caitlin asked for a double dose, I happily obliged. Maybe some girls wouldn’t have—taking two Xanax late at night would definitely crush her chances of making it to our first-period exam. But, let’s face it, I don’t really care about Caitlin Callahan. And, at this point, I don’t really have much to lose. If she misses the AP Bio midterm, that’s one less girl in the running for valedictorian—the only other real contender is Blythe and I already have made moves to address that. So why wouldn’t I give Caitlin the pills she asked for and better my odds at snagging the top academic spot at the same time? Even when I’m high, the logic is obvious.

  I wriggle out of bed and switch on my desk lamp. The light burns my pupils—a sure sign that I need an Anny to start my day. The jewelry box on my desk is one of my favorite hiding spots. I dig through the necklaces, grab my stash, put two of the little blue pills on my tongue, and wash them down with some flat seltzer water that Caitlin must’ve forgotten about. I usually don’t take speed within twelve hours of taking Xan, but I needed the downers to help me sleep after what happened this weekend . . .

  My hands hover over the bottom drawer of my jewelry box.

  I let my fingers scrabble into its very back corner until they find my little crystal bottle. I pull it out and uncork the thing, gazing down at the sparkly powder inside.

  Most girls try this kind of hallucinogen only once. It doesn’t go well. I like to inhale a tiny bump of the stuff every now and then just to keep things interesting. I consider taking some now . . . but, then again, no. Sand is not a performance enhancer and it’s been messing with my sleep since Friday night, the last time I took some.

  Every time I’ve managed to drift off since then, I find myself in the same dream over and over. I’m in my green Lilies robe, standing in the initiation circle. Blythe is to my right. She catches my eye from under the hood of her cloak and smiles. The basement’s low candlelight illuminates her dark brown skin. She whispers the Lilies vow to me. Ut sacram memoriam. Then she turns away. Someone else, face hidden by the hood of her cloak, taps me on the shoulder. Her voice is high and seems to come from far away, even though she’s right there. Bury the secrets, she says. Remember the sisterhood. We protect our true sisters. Then another, sharper voice comes to me. I know what you did! it shouts.

  This is usually when I wake up, sheets sweaty. Eventually, when I fall back asleep, the dream cycles through again, except the shadows grow longer and the crystal pill bottle in my hand feels colder and heavier. Last night I knocked myself out instead of subjecting myself to the nightmare all over again.

  So now it’s time to face reality, or at least my version of it. I slip into my fitted sweater dress and top it with my Archwell uniform blazer and a plum-red lip. It’s all dress code appropriate, of course, but I like to add a pinch of my own style. I look like myself again, even if I don’t quite feel that way. It’s almost time for morning check-in so I grab my backpack and head out. My room this year is in Dalton House, right on the central courtyard.

  Being the chancellor’s daughter, I get first pick on dorm rooms every year, even though I have to pretend I get assigned through the lottery like everyone else.

  As soon as I’m out in the crisp fall air, I feel the Annys hit my bloodstream. The courtyard and surrounding buildings come into focus. The vines on the walls slither, animated by the breeze. Across the empty quad, I see a lone student walking up the path from the eastern side of campus. I start to wave, expecting to see one of the underclass presidents on their way to meet me and my mother at morning check-in. As president of the senior class, and the great-granddaughter of Archwell Academy’s founder, I try to go out of my way to be friendly to the “littles.” The student doesn’t wave back at me.

  Then I notice a flash of red atop their head and, for a second, I think it’s her . . . Charlotte. But that’s impossible. She’s . . . Well, she’s just gone.

  No girl has ever just up and disappeared from Archwell. Certainly, no member of the Lilies Society. Everyone knows we’re insulated from that kind of thing. The Lilies are special. Immune to all kinds of dangers that usually plague teen girls.

  At least, I thought we were.

  I suppose whatever happened to Charlotte could’ve been something unrelated to the Lilies or Archwell. I think I heard some of the littles talking about Charlotte having a shitty boyfriend over in College Park. Maybe her disappearance had something to do with him.

  But at the same time, I know what I saw and what I didn’t see last Friday. At least Blythe knows to keep quiet. If she does, my original plans just might work out after all.

  The student crosses the courtyard and comes into focus. I finally recognize their dark red beanie, their long blue overcoat, and their rumpled dress shirt and uniform blazer. It’s the new kid, Drew. I watch as they trot up the steps to the library and disappear behind the heavy lacquered doors. My mother says Drew is a legacy student—that’s why they’re here . . . and why they are allowed to stay. I figured as much when I saw them wearing that ring. It’s the same as the one I wear, the one I inherited from my grandmother. I can only assume that Drew inherited their ring too, although I’m pretty sure they don’t know what it means to wear it. Seeing them wear a vintage Lilies ring is a little like seeing a tourist wearing a Harvard sweatshirt when you can tell they didn’t go to college.

  I know that sounds bad, but our society is secret. The rings are supposed to be for members only. Drew is definitely not a real Lily. They’re just not . . . the type.

  As usual, I’m the first class president to arrive at morning check-in. My mother is sitting in her office, behind her desk, eyes glued to the computer monitor. In the lenses of her glasses, I can see the reflection of Chassity Cantrell, host of DC Daily’s The Real Story. The computer speakers are cranked up all the way. The talking-head chatter is especially sharp this morning. I wish I had taken an extra pill. Maybe the sound wouldn’t be so harsh.

  “We’ll now hear from the Coalition of Women for Women to shed some light on the impact of this most recent attack.”

  My mother doesn’t greet me. She doesn’t acknowledge that I’m early and therefore, by her standards, on time. She just asks, “Did you see the news from Sunday?”

  “I have my alerts turned off,” I say.

  “There was a shooter at the Women’s March on the mall. The bastard fired into the crowd.”

  A familiar, heavy feeling returns to my chest. It’s the feeling I get every time I hear about another mass shooting. But this particular bit of news begins to crackle against my rib cage. The Women’s March took place on the national mall in DC, less than thirty minutes away. Close to home. Too close. The snap of pain fades into a deep, fearful ache. Tension mounts in my forehead, knitting my eyebrows together. I’m used to the feeling, but it doesn’t change the fact that I hate it with every ounce of my being.

  Some people would call this chronic anxiety. But I don’t have time for all of that. I stay on top of the feeling with my own special remedies, hand-selected each day from my jewelry box stash. They keep my head above water. An Archwell woman is the master of her own mind. For us, therapy is a crutch.

  The news anchor continues to squawk, and I feel sweat gathering at the nape of my neck. Some sand wouldn’t be the worst thing right now, but I guess that wouldn’t mix well with what I’ve already taken.

  Instead of acknowledging my silence, my mother continues to list the facts. “Two dead. Eleven in intensive care. It just makes me sick.” She mutes the speakers and sends the computer screen into sleep mode. “I could see the anchor’s eyes moving. Clearly reading the prompter verbatim. Seems so insensitive given the circumstances.” She shakes her head. “Remember, Rory, people will take underpreparedness as a sign of weakness.”

  I nod. She’s not wrong. She might be tough, but my mother is never wrong. That’s why people look up to her. She is the one and only Chancellor Eleanor Archwell, prep school president and feminist political commentator of cable news fame. By all accounts, the embodiment of excellence.

  I know from experience: when your mother is someone like Eleanor Archwell, you will do anything—lie, steal, cheat, and kill—to be just like her.

  She motions for me to sit down in one of the office’s tufted armchairs as she continues. “It was a good thing I had to turn down that speaking gig. If I’d been at that march . . . I hate to think what might have—” She shudders. “They’re having me on the show this afternoon to talk about women’s responsibility to ensure the protection of girls.”

  “That old song?” I ask. “I thought you used those talking points last month when you went on Good Morning, DC.”

  “No. I used them in the profile Dayline did of me,” she answers. “And it doesn’t matter. After this tragedy, my points are more relevant than ever. Women are the most vulnerable members of this society. It’s up to us to change that.”

  “I just wonder if the topic feels a little stale?” I say. My mother recycles this speech about feminism all the time. It’s harmless, I guess, but sometimes I feel like she oversimplifies things.

  I sit up straighter in my chair. “I mean, it’s a little more complicated than ‘men hate women,’ right?”

  “Rory.” My mother takes her glasses off. She only does this when she’s dead serious. I like seeing the little flecks of blue in her green eyes. “There are many people in this world who don’t respect the real struggles of real women: people that will stop at nothing to take women down a peg; people who are predators. If you let them, they will try to destroy you. Especially if you appear weak. So, at the risk of repeating myself—” She puts her glasses back on and turns off the desk lamp. Morning sunshine has flooded the room at last. “—preparedness is strength. Real Archwell women stay a step ahead of the game.”

  When my mother says real Archwell women I know she’s not talking about the girls who attend the academy. She’s talking about the women of the Archwell family: me, herself, and Grandmother Adeline—former school chancellor and a cofounder of the Lilies Society, may she rest in peace. I glance down at my Lilies ring and run my thumb along the smooth side of the gold band.

  “I don’t like that lip color on you,” my mother says. She stands, then rounds the desk and hands me a loose tissue. “It’s too purple. Makes you look ill.”

  I accept the tissue and dab the color away lightly, even though I completely disagree with her. This is my lucky lipstick. The shade is called Paramour. I’ve worn it every exam day since Blythe gave it to me last Valentine’s Day. It was her last gift to me before we ended things—before I had to start pulling strings to make sure she didn’t outshine me.

  “I got in touch with Mrs. Masters,” my mother pivots. “I told her you would be missing your biology midterm today.” My gut seizes for a millisecond. I was afraid of this.

  Missing my exam wasn’t a part of my plan. But after what happened Friday night, I anticipated some form of wrath from the merciless Eleanor Archwell.

  And I suppose I deserve it, even though it wasn’t my fault.

  Ugh, this day is already a mess. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was supposed to arrive early to first period, nail the exam, and knock Blythe out of the running for the top academic spot once and for all. Then Charlotte ruined everything.

  “What do you mean?” I ask my mother. “I can’t miss that test. It’s twenty percent of my grade.”

  “Look at that ring on your hand, Rory. Grandmother Adeline’s Lilies ring. I gave that to you as a deposit on your future. I trusted you’d grow into the responsibilities of being an Archwell. But you and I both know you’re not up for it. Not yet.”

  She pauses, waiting for my response. She’s gauging whether I already know what she has up her sleeve. She’s trying to outplay me. Sometimes, Eleanor Archwell can be a real asshole.

  I finally give in to her silence with a question. “What are you saying?”

  “You think I’m going to overlook your little pill habit after what happened Friday? Certainly not.”

  Shit. It is just like her to start the conversation off one way and make a hard left into the exact topic I don’t want to touch. I’d managed to put everything that happened on Founder’s Night out of my mind. Well, my conscious mind, anyway.

  My flash of panic is quickly deadened by the memory of my dream looping around me: Blythe in her green Lilies robe, the circle of initiates, a body on the floor, and then the door into . . . No. I can’t go back there. I can’t think about it. I pry myself out of the jaws of my own mind. The only way to protect myself from the memory is to block it out.

  “You’re cracking under the pressure,” my mother continues. “You’re starting to abuse your prescriptions. You’re faltering with your responsibilities. You need help. So, I put in another call to Northbridge Recovery. You’re signed up for their three-week program.”

  “Well, I’m not going!” I raise my voice, unable to stifle my anger.

  She grabs my chin between her thumb and forefinger, a bit rough. Then she meets my eyes with a cold stare. “You will go. Because from what I can see, you are high right now.”

  She releases me. I can feel my face flush red. Emotion wells up in me and strangles my vocal cords. “No. Let me explain.” My voice shakes, a sign of weakness in my mother’s book. I can’t help but feel I’ve already lost this argument.

  Her voice is a bulldozer. “A van will be here for you within the hour.”

  I grip the armchair, sinking my manicure into the leather. I was worried she would do this. She’s threatened before, of course. But I never thought she’d send me to rehab during the school year. It’s so obvious. So imperfect. So conspicuous. I didn’t think she’d actually go through with it, but here we are. It’s her way of reminding me how badly I messed up, how greatly I dishonored Grandmother Adeline’s memory on Founder’s Night, and how I put the secrets of the Lilies in jeopardy.

  She continues, “Of course I didn’t tell your teachers why you’ll be missing your midterms. I would appreciate it if you kept that to yourself as well.”

  So there it is.

  She doesn’t want anyone to know about this. It wouldn’t be a good look for her or the academy if people knew that Rory Archwell is shipping out to rehab.

  That means I still have a card to play.

  My eyes slide down to my saddle shoes. Yes, I messed up, but my mother doesn’t know what I’m capable of. She doesn’t know how far I’m willing to go or how far I’ve already gone.

  The conversation is over, but she hasn’t won. Not yet.

  3

  Blythe

  I don’t hack her phone because I’m still in love with her.

  No, that would be pathetic.

  I hack her phone because I know she’s slick. We’re alike that way.

  The Lilies like to get into other peoples’ business while keeping our own secrets under wraps. The saying goes, We protect our sisterhood, our secrets, and our lives. It’s meant to be interpreted as a message of solidarity, a promise of safety for members of our society. But I know what it really means: every girl for herself. Rory and I both understood that even before we became “bigs.” Maybe that’s why we fell for each other at first.

  I’ll admit, I was hacking her phone even before we broke up. When I was home for fall break, Salim caught me going through her emails. Hers and a couple of other Archwell girls’. And maybe some teachers’ too.