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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Robyn woke up with a headache like a car wreck and her mouth tasting like sawdust. She peeked out from under her cashmere blanket and was greeted by hot, blinding sunlight. What time was it? She had to pee, but any movement sent alarm sirens through her head, and she wasn't sure she wanted to leave her snuggly burrow to face the day.
Her stomach was roiling—how much had she had to drink? She had a vague memory of stealing other people's plastic cups of wine and mugs filled with rum and Cokes. The smell of rum coming from a mug on the floor made her stomach lurch, even though it was empty. She remembered spending a few hours in the bathroom, vomiting up everything in her stomach, which was really just alcohol since she'd skipped the pizza. No wonder her mouth was so dry. She had to get some water or she'd die. What time was it, anyway? Today was Tuesday, right? She was sure she was missing some class, but it hurt her head to try to think of which one.
She kicked off her blanket, revealing an empty, sun-dappled room. Pizza boxes still lay on the floor. She reached for her cell phone and turned it on. Next to it, on her nightstand, stood a water bottle and two Tylenol capsules. Jasmine. Tears came to her eyes. Jasmine never managed to get as drunk as anyone else and always managed to remember the water. An image from last night came back to her—Jasmine holding back her long hair as she knelt over the toilet. Robyn had been a stumbling, swearing, crying, sweaty mess, and Jasmine had sat with her in the bathroom, making her drink water and holding her hair back when she was sick. Jasmine had listened to her wail about Chris for hours, just reassuring her things would be okay and that he'd get what he deserved.
She loved that girl, even if she had stolen Mr. Jordan from Alex. That was totally insane. But none of her business, really. Let Jas and Alex duke it out; it had nothing to do with her.
Robyn cracked open the bottle of water and washed down the Tylenol before collapsing back on her pillow with her phone in hand. 10:29 A.M. She pulled her covers back over her head, shutting out the annoying sunlight. She had seven new text messages. At least one of them could be from Chris, right? Her thumb clicked down through them. Five from Aubrey. Two from Justin—when had she given him her number? Probably when she had her tongue down his throat. What was wrong with her?
Maybe because she only wanted one person and he wasn't interested. Robyn dialed his number anyway, feeling safe beneath her covers. Maybe he'd just needed some time apart? Maybe he missed her? But his phone didn't even ring, just went directly to voicemail: "This is Chris. Leave me a message."
The only thing worse than leaving a hungover message on an ex-boyfriend's voicemail was leaving a drunken one, and she was grateful that Jasmine had taken away her phone last night, otherwise she probably would have tried that too.
She turned her phone off and pressed her face into her pillow. Maybe she could just sleep through this day. Or this year.
