CODY

SAT Prep, Prom Dresses, and Bodyguard Duties

9) The word “disingenuous” (line 26) most nearly means

A. Corrupt

B. Frank

C. Guileless

D. Corrosive

E. Desdemona Black

Choice E was actually “Deceitful,” the correct answer. The unknown author of this unknown passage was criticizing the literary character Becky Sharp for being devious in obtaining a higher social position. I read Vanity Fair last year in Honors English, and while I didn’t exactly root for Becky, I definitely didn’t judge her. That’d make me a major hypocrite. I, Desdemona Black, am the biggest and best liar in the school. Sometimes I was proud of the fact. Most of the time, I don’t think about it.

I filled in the bubble on my answer sheet.

Two seats in front of me, Cody was cheating off Emma Stegner. She wasn’t being discreet about it either—no one was going to tell on Cody. Emma, who has the class valedictorian spot locked down, was letting her cheat because she wanted an invite to Cody’s annual Christmas party. Cody always threw it right before the school hosted event. Everyone went to the Winter Frolic, too, but it was usually so they could have a chance to recap Cody’s party. Every year, Cody stockpiled gossip and secrets. Then at her Christmas party, she served up a scandal for her guests’ entertainment by divulging the best (or worst, depending on how you looked at it) one. It says a lot about us that everyone worships the girl who does this.

Cody is Emory Jennifer Cashmore, but to me, she was always Cody. Trask vetoed my codename suggestion, Princess Bitch. I like to think he came down with the veto because it’s too obvious. (If it yaps like one, flounces around like one, and sniffs like one…)

Cody is...that girl. The girl everyone--boys and girls--want to be with. She has the “it girl” factor, the potent element X, that mysterious component that seems to make her the embodiment of everything other girls want to be. It’s not her allowance, and not even her looks. It’s the presence of the whole package: her long hair, her cool, sleepy sloe-eyed glance, the easy smiles she dishes out, her quicksilver moods, and the way her clothes hang off her.

I know Emory Jennifer Cashmore better than anyone. I know her better than her parents do, better than her boyfriend, better than her best friend(s) Ashley McNamara and Colleen Landon (they alternated on a weekly basis). I probably know her better than I know myself. I know her schedule, habits, and her personality. Basically, I know what she plans to do before she does it. It’s my job to know.

Cody and I are juniors at the Evington School. The Evington School is one of the best prep schools on the east coast, and the most private and exclusive in the Virginia-Maryland-D.C. area. My SAT class alone has the kids of one Senator, two Congressmen, and the Secretary of Treasury. School security is top-notch at Evington. No bodyguards are allowed on campus—the Evington administration want to give “children a place to be normal children.” The janitorial staff is the most highly paid in the country because they come with combat training listed on their résumés. Your chances of sneaking onto campus uninvited are about on par with your chances of sneaking into the Rose Garden.

The proctor stood up at the front of the room. “Pencils down.”

Ahead of me, Cody slid Emma’s test back with a sunny smile, the smile that, without words, tells you that she, Emory Jennifer Cashmore, is SO grateful for you. Emma’s smile was hopeful, but Cody had already looked away, twisting in her seat to give a thumbs up to her friends.

This year, Monday mornings at The Evington School have been made worse by the introduction of an obligatory SAT prep class. We were all planning to take it in next spring, at the end of our junior year. May was months away, and no one was taking it seriously yet. The SAT score won’t matter for most of these kids anyway.

Our tests were gathered and stacked, and we spilled out into the hallway, where we congregated around Cody’s locker so she could put her books away.

“Desi.” Cody snapped her fingers. “When was the last time you checked Facebook?”

That was my cue. I dutifully checked Facebook on my phone. Cody had created a new Facebook group that all the Evington girls were required to join. Once we found our prom dresses, we had to upload pictures, to make sure no one wore the same dress as another girl. Cody had me checking Don’t You DARE Steal My Dress!!! on breaks between classes. That’s me. Desi Black: bodyguard, operative-in-training, Facebook dress group stalker.

“Someone posted a new dress,” I announced. This instantly diverted their attention.

“Who?”

“Melissa Dalton. She’s wearing a blue Marc Jacobs dress,” I read from the caption, “From the Winter 2009 collection.”

“Didn’t someone wear that last year, Em?” Colleen asked, the skin between her brows puckered.

Cody pursed her lips. “Yeah, but I think she was someone’s guest.”

The conversation bounced back and forth over the implications of wearing the last-year dress of a non-Evington student. I tuned out, going through the motions, still listening alertly but not processing immediately. My cell phone buzzed with an incoming text. Trask, reminding me I had evasive driving after school. This turned out to be the only good thing about my day, and it kept me fulfilling my Facebook stalking duty without envisioning all the ways I could murder Cody and get away with it.

Cody’s party was in a week. Next year was in two weeks. I would be turning sixteen. Everyone said sixteen was a sweet age to be. No one ever said that my life and all its lies would be blown apart.