Welcome to Bridgeport Academy, an elite boarding school in New York where glamorous rich kids don't let rules get in the way of a good time.
[ Based on the It Girl series by Cecily Von Ziegesar ]
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"Glad to see you could make it," Mr. Jordan greeted Chris. Last night's alcohol binge had left Chris feeling like the gunk he picked out of Credo's feet before a ride. He slumped into a leather office chair and stared blankly at Alex, who was seated across from him in a totally see-through blouse. His new adviser looked about eighteen, a welcome change from his old adviser, Mr. Kelley, who was so ancient he could barely remember his own name and had finally retired last year at the age of about a hundred.
"Hello, Chris," Alex greeted him in an exaggerated authoritative tone, making a few notes in a yellow pad. "Have a good summer?"
"Uh-huh," Chris grunted, staring up at the ceiling. Alex might have thought she was Miss I-have-power-over-you-because-I'm-a-prefect, but Chris wasn't buying it. He and Alex used to be close; they'd had French class together freshman year.
"Christopher Maurice Brown," Mr. Jordan addressed him, eyeing his file carefully. "What do you want to tell me about last night?"
"With her here?" He pointed a thumb at Alex. "I thought these things were confidential."
"I'm his assistant," Alex jumped in quickly, sitting up straighter.
"She's helping me with Disciplinary Committee procedures," Mr. Jordan explained. "I think this qualifies."
Chris looked back and forth between them. Whoa. Mr. Jordan was whipped. By Alexandra Crane of all people.
"It says here that you've had quite a few problems with the rules over the last few years, Chris." Mr. Jordan cleared his throat. "Disciplinary probation three times. Suspension twice. You were nearly kicked out once last year for not showing up to class after spring break. Countless arguments with teachers. Bad attitude." He paused and flipped to a new page of the file. "Disruptive in class. Subpar grades. Almost no extracurricular activities. Caught with alcohol four times. Skipping sports practice. No team spirit..." He turned to another page.
Alex smirked.
"But..." Mr. Jordan held his index finger to the file and raised his eyebrows. He showed the paper to Alex and she cocked her head skeptically. Chris rolled his eyes. No doubt it was those fucking PSAT scores again. So he'd scored nearly perfect in all three sections, big deal. It was the kind of thing his parents salivated over, even though Chris couldn't have cared less. Sneaking out of the dorm to watch shooting stars in the middle of the practice fields at two in the morning or walking barefoot in the creek behind the arts building at dawn—those were the kinds of things he cared about, things that he could remember when he was old and gray. Not some stupid test score. Unfortunately, all the bullshit rules got in the way, when all Chris wanted was more perfect Bridgeport moments like those.
"You're a legacy," Mr. Jordan went on, glancing at his knotted cuff links. "But that shouldn't mean anything. I mean, I'm a Bridgeport legacy too."
"Really?" Alex squealed. "So am I!"
"My dad went here and my grandfather went here. And his brother too." Mr. Jordan turned to Alex. "Basically, the Jordan men were Bridgeport Academy's first graduating class."
