The Academy of Secrets

“Don’t you dare roll down that window.”

I already had my finger on the button. “Why not?”

“Because you’ll mess up your hair, and first impressions are everything, Harper. Everything."

I rolled down the window anyway. The air that rushed in smelled like pine and something else, something sweet and green that I couldn’t name. My mom made this sound in the back of her throat, the one that meant she was frustrated but trying not to show it. I’d heard that sound approximately four thousand times in the past week, ever since the acceptance letter came and she decided my entire future depended on whether I smiled correctly at the welcome reception.

“You’re impossible,” she said.

“I know.”

The thing is, I wasn’t trying to be difficult. Not really. But the closer we got to Bellweather Academy, the more my stomach felt like it was full of angry bees. This was a mistake. This whole thing was a mistake. I didn’t belong here. I’d known it from the moment the letter arrived, thick cream paper with gold embossing, like they were inviting me to join a secret society instead of a high school.

The scholarship was the only reason I was here. Well, the scholarship and my mom’s insistence that I was “wasting my potential” at my old school. Whatever that meant. I’d been fine at my old school. More than fine. I had friends. I had a life. I had a boyfriend who wasn’t really a boyfriend but was close enough that it hurt when he started dating someone else two weeks before I left.

Not that I was thinking about that. At all. Ever.

“Look,” my mom said, pointing. “Look at that architecture. Isn’t it beautiful?”

I looked. She was right, I guess. The main building was this massive stone thing with towers and arched windows and ivy crawling up the sides like it had been doing it for centuries. Which it probably had. Bellweather Academy was old. Like, old old. Founded in 1782 or something like that. The brochure had been very proud of that fact, listing it three times in the first paragraph alone.

“It looks like a castle,” I said.

“A castle that got a Pinterest makeover,” my mom agreed.

I snorted. “Did you just make a Pinterest joke? Who are you?”

“I’m a woman of many talents. Now roll up the window before you ruin your hair.”

I rolled up the window.

The driveway was long and winding, cutting through perfectly manicured lawns and gardens that looked like they’d been arranged by someone with a ruler and a grudge. Every hedge was the same height. Every flowerbed was the same shape. It was beautiful, but it was also kind of creepy. Like someone had taken a picture of the ideal school and then brought it to life, but in the process, they’d accidentally erased anything that made it feel real.

My mom parked the car in a lot that was already half-full of vehicles that cost more than our house. I’m not exaggerating. There was a Mercedes. Two BMWs. Something that looked like it might be a Tesla but I wasn’t sure because I’d only ever seen one in pictures.

“Okay,” my mom said, gripping the steering wheel like she was bracing for impact. “We’re here.”

“We’re here,” I repeated.

“Are you ready?”

“No.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

The first thing I noticed was the uniforms.

Of course there were uniforms. I knew there would be uniforms. The brochure had made that very clear. But seeing them in person was different. Seeing them on actual human beings, all of them moving in sync like they’d been choreographed, was different. The girls wore navy blue blazers with crests on the pockets and plaid skirts that hit exactly mid-thigh. The boys wore navy blue blazers with crests on the pockets and gray slacks. Everyone looked like they’d stepped out of a catalog. Everyone looked like they belonged.

I looked down at my Target jeans and my faded t-shirt and felt something cold settle in my chest.

The dormitory was called “Everly Hall,” which was the kind of name that made me want to roll my eyes, but I kept them still because my mom was watching me and I could tell she was nervous. Not for me. For me. Like if I didn’t like this place, if I didn’t fit in, it would somehow be her fault. Which was ridiculous, but also kind of sweet, and I didn’t want to make it worse by being my usual sarcastic self.

The inside of Everly Hall was even fancier than the outside. Marble floors. Chandeliers. Paintings that were probably real and probably worth more than everything we owned. There was a reception desk where a woman with a tight bun and a tighter smile gave us a key and a map and a schedule and about fifteen other pieces of paper that I immediately dropped.

“Careful,” the woman said, her smile not moving.

“Sorry,” I said, kneeling to pick everything up.

My mom was already talking to her, asking questions about meal plans and laundry services and a bunch of other things that I couldn’t focus on because I was too busy trying to memorize the map so I wouldn’t get lost. The map was complicated. There were buildings I hadn’t seen on the tour, buildings I hadn’t even known existed. Miller’s Lake. Bellweather Street. The names were bolded, like they were important, but I didn’t know why.

“Harper.” My mom’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Ready to see your room?”

“Sure,” I said, standing up with my arms full of papers. “Let’s do this.”

Room 217 was at the end of a long hallway on the second floor. The door was wooden and heavy and had a small plaque that read “H. MERCER / J. HARRINGTON” in gold lettering.

“Harrington?” I said.

“Your roommate,” my mom said, like she’d known that all along, which she probably had because she’d read every piece of information the school had sent us about fifteen times.

“Right. Jules Harrington. I remember.”

“You two emailed, didn’t you?”

“We texted. A little.”

“What did you think of her?”

I shrugged. “She seemed... nice.”

That was true. Jules had seemed nice. But she’d also seemed like a lot. Her texts were long, full of exclamation points and emojis and questions about my favorite colors and foods and music. She’d asked if I was a morning person or a night person. She’d asked if I snored. She’d asked if I had any allergies, dietary restrictions, or “things that just, like, really bother you, you know?”

I hadn’t known how to answer that last one.

“Nice is good,” my mom said. “Nice is great. You need nice.”

“Mom—”

“I’m just saying. It’s a fresh start. A new chapter. All those clichés.”

“I know.”

“Okay.” She squeezed my hand. “Okay. Let’s go.”

She pushed open the door.

The room was... huge. There was no other word for it. My old bedroom could have fit inside this room three times over. Two beds, each against opposite walls. Two desks. Two closets. A window that looked out over the quad, where students were milling around in their perfect uniforms, laughing and talking and generally looking like they’d been there their whole lives.

And there, in the middle of it all, was a girl.

She was tall. Blonde. Stunning in a way that made me instantly aware of every flaw on my face. She was unpacking a suitcase that I recognized as Louis Vuitton, not because I cared about fashion but because I’d seen it in a magazine once and the price had made me choke on my coffee.

She looked up when we walked in. Her face split into a smile that was genuinely warm, which caught me off guard.

“Harper!” She crossed the room in three steps and pulled me into a hug. “Oh my god, I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been waiting for hours. Hours. The orientation stuff was so boring. I mean, I’ve been here since I was twelve, so I know the drill, but still. Boring.”

I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t a hugger. But Jules was hugging me, and she smelled like vanilla and something expensive, and her hair was soft and perfect, and I just stood there like an idiot until she pulled back.

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “I’m a hugger. You’ll get used to it. Or you won’t. Either way.”

“I—okay.”

“This is my mom.” I gestured vaguely in my mom’s direction. “Mom, this is Jules.”

“Mrs. Mercer,” Jules said, extending her hand like she was at a business meeting. “It’s wonderful to meet you. Harper and I are going to be great friends, I can tell.”

My mom shook her hand, looking slightly dazed. “Call me Sarah. Please.”

“Sarah. Got it.” Jules nodded. “So, Harper, your side is the one by the window. I already claimed the other side. I hope that’s okay. I need the wall for my art. I’m an artist. Or I want to be. My parents think it’s a phase, but they’re wrong.”

“Oh. That’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Great. Perfect.” Jules turned to my mom. “Sarah, do you want to help her unpack? I can show you where the storage is. There’s a lot of closet space. It’s honestly excessive.”

“That would be helpful,” my mom said.

“Perfect. Follow me.”

And just like that, Jules took charge. She led my mom to the closet, pointing out shelves and hooks and some kind of shoe rack that looked like it belonged in a boutique. My mom kept nodding and saying “wow” and “that’s nice” and generally looking overwhelmed, which was exactly how I felt.

I stood by the window and looked out at the quad. The students were still there, still laughing, still perfect. A group of boys was sitting on a low wall, all of them in uniform, all of them impossibly good-looking. One of them looked up. Dark hair. Green eyes. He was too far away to really see, but I got the sense that he was looking at me. Or maybe at the building. Or maybe at nothing at all.

I turned away.

When I looked back, he was gone.

It took about two hours to unpack. I didn’t have that much stuff—two suitcases, a backpack, and a box of books that I’d insisted on bringing even though the school had a library that was apparently “world-class” and “extensive” and “one of the best in the country.” But I’d left my mom and Jules to talk while I arranged and rearranged my things, trying to make my side of the room look like it belonged in the same universe as Jules’s side.

It didn’t. My stuff was thrifted and faded and slightly broken. Her stuff was new and expensive and perfect. Even her notebooks looked like they’d been bought from a museum gift shop. Mine had a coffee stain on the cover and a torn page in the middle.

But Jules didn’t seem to notice. Or care. She kept up a steady stream of conversation while we worked, telling me about the teachers and the classes and the weird traditions that apparently every student had to participate in. It was exhausting. Also kind of nice. She didn’t expect me to respond much, which was good because I couldn’t. My brain was too busy trying to process everything.

“Oh!” Jules said suddenly, stopping in the middle of folding a cashmere sweater. “I almost forgot. Hold on.”

She crossed to her desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a piece of paper. It was folded in half. Creased. Like it had been folded and unfolded a hundred times.

“What’s that?” my mom asked.

“Something you need to read,” Jules said, handing it to me. “Everyone gets one. It’s a tradition. You don’t have to follow all of them, but you should know what they are.”

I unfolded the paper.

It was a list. Typed. No title. Just a numbered list of rules, seventeen of them, in a font that looked almost like handwriting but wasn’t. I started reading.

1. Never swim in Miller’s Lake after sunset.

2. Never answer the red telephone.

3. Never eat the apples from the north orchard.

4. Never walk the eastern path alone after dark.

5. Never go into the chapel basement.

6. Never touch the portrait of Eliza Bellweather.

7. Never stay in the observatory past midnight.

8. Never ask about the fire of 1897.

9. Never play the piano in the music hall after hours.

10. Never take the stairs behind the library.

11. Never look into the mirror in the west corridor.

12. Never follow the sound of crying.

13. Never accept a gift from a Bellweather.

14. Never trust a Miller with your secrets.

15. Never go to the garden maze at night.

16. Never speak the name Annabelle after dark.

17. Never date someone from Bellweather Street.

I read it twice. Then a third time. Then I looked up at Jules.

“What is this?”

“It’s the list,” she said, like that explained everything.

“What list?”

“The list.” She shrugged. “Every student gets one when they arrive. It’s like... an orientation thing. But also not. It’s hard to explain.”

“Are these real rules? Like, will I get in trouble if I break them?”

Jules didn’t answer right away. She looked at my mom, then back at me. “Most people don’t break them,” she said finally. “At least, not the big ones.”

“Which ones are the big ones?”

“The ones that matter.”

That was not an answer. I looked down at the paper again. Rule seventeen. Never date someone from Bellweather Street. What did that even mean? Was Bellweather Street a real place? The map had said something about it, I thought. A street name. A location. I couldn’t remember.

“This is weird,” I said.

“It’s tradition,” Jules said.

“That’s not the same thing as not weird.”

She laughed. It was a real laugh. Warm. “No,” she said. “I guess it’s not.”

My mom took the paper from me. She read it, her eyebrows drawing together. “Is this a joke?”

“I don’t think so,” Jules said. “But no one really knows where it comes from. It’s just been around forever. My mom got one when she went here. Her mom got one too.”

“Your family went here?” I asked.

“My grandmother, my mother, my older sister. It’s kind of a thing.” Jules smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Legacy student. They let me in even though my grades are average.”

“I’m sure your grades are fine.”

“They’re really not. But thanks.”

My mom handed the paper back to me. She looked concerned. “Should we be worried about this?”

Jules shook her head. “No. Like I said, most people don’t break them. And the ones who do... well, nothing really happens. It’s more about the principle of the thing. Respecting tradition. That kind of stuff.”

“Respecting tradition,” I repeated.

“Exactly.”

I folded the paper and put it on my desk. I didn’t know what to do with it. Throw it away? Keep it? Frame it? It felt important, somehow. Like it meant something. But I didn’t know what.

“Anyway,” Jules said, clapping her hands together. “Enough about the list. Are you hungry? The dining hall opens in an hour. The food is actually good. They have this pasta bar on Fridays that’s amazing.”

“It’s Monday,” I said.

“I know. But I like to plan ahead.”

My mom left around five o’clock. She hugged me for a long time, longer than usual, and when she pulled back, her eyes were wet.

“Be good,” she said.

“I will.”

“Make friends.”

“I will.”

“Call me. Every day.”

“Every day,” I agreed, even though we both knew I wouldn’t.

She kissed my forehead, which was embarrassing but also kind of nice, and then she was gone. I watched her car disappear down the long driveway, and then I went back inside, and then I sat on my bed and stared at the wall and tried not to cry.

“You okay?”

Jules was standing in the doorway. She’d been in the bathroom, doing something with her hair that involved a curling iron and a lot of patience.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to be fine. It’s okay to not be fine.”

I looked at her. She looked back at me. And then, without really meaning to, I started talking.

“I don’t belong here,” I said. “I’m here on a scholarship. My family doesn’t have money. I’ve never been to a boarding school before. I don’t know any of the rules—the real rules, not the ones on that stupid list. I don’t know how to dress or how to talk or how to be. I’m going to mess up. I’m going to mess up so badly, and everyone’s going to know, and—”

“Harper.”

I stopped.

“Breathe.”

I breathed.

“Good. Now listen to me.” Jules sat down on the bed next to me. She took my hand. Her fingers were cold from the bathroom, but her grip was warm. “Half the people here are on scholarship. Maybe more. The money thing? Nobody cares. And the rules? The real rules? Nobody knows them. Not really. Everyone is just pretending. Everyone is just figuring it out as they go. You’re not the only one.”

“I’m not?”

“You’re not.” She squeezed my hand. “Also, your Target jeans are cute. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

I laughed. It was a small laugh, a little watery, but it was real.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Don’t mention it.” She stood up. “Now come on. I’m starving. And there’s this boy in my art class who I need to tell you about. His name is Ethan, and he’s either really into me or really into my friend Priya, and I need a second opinion.”

“A second opinion?”

“You’re my second opinion.”

“But I’ve been here for like four hours.”

“Exactly. You’re unbiased. Let’s go.”

She pulled me off the bed and out the door, and I let her. Because what else was I going to do? Sit in my room and feel sorry for myself? That could wait. That could wait until tomorrow, at least.

The dining hall was chaos.

Not bad chaos. Just... a lot. There were students everywhere, all of them in their perfect uniforms, all of them talking and laughing and moving like they’d been doing this their whole lives. Which they probably had. I felt like I was standing in the middle of a movie I hadn’t been cast in.

Jules grabbed my arm and steered me toward the food. It was a buffet, which was apparently a thing here. There were stations for pasta, stir-fry, sandwiches, salads, and something that looked like it might be sushi but I wasn’t sure because it was behind a glass case and the sign was in French.

“This is excessive,” I said.

“Wait until you see the dessert bar.”

I looked. There was a dessert bar. It was the size of my old kitchen.

“I’m going to gain fifty pounds,” I said.

“We all do. It’s a tradition.”

I grabbed a plate and filled it with pasta. Jules did the same, though her plate was much more carefully arranged than mine. She led me to a table near the window, where a girl with dark skin and bright pink hair was already sitting.

“Priya!” Jules said. “This is Harper. My roommate. I told you about her.”

Priya looked up. Her eyes were sharp, assessing. She reminded me of a bird, one of those small ones that always look like they know something you don’t.

“Nice to meet you,” she said. Her voice was quieter than I expected. “Jules said you’re from the city.”

“Uh. Yeah. Sort of.”

“Cool. I’m from the city too. Chicago.”

“Ohio, actually. Cleveland.”

“Nice. Cleveland’s cool. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is there, right?”

“Yeah. I’ve been like three times.”

“Lucky. I’ve always wanted to go.”

And just like that, we were talking. It was easy. Easier than I expected. Priya was funny—dry funny, not obvious funny—and she didn’t seem to care that I was new or that I didn’t know the rules or that my jeans were from Target.

So I was actually starting to relax when someone sat down next to me.

I turned.

It was a boy. Dark hair, green eyes, the kind of jawline that should be illegal. He was wearing the same uniform as everyone else, but he made it look different. Better. He was holding a tray of food, but he wasn’t eating. He was looking at me.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I said.

“You’re new.”

“I am.”

“Harper, right?”

I blinked. “How did you know that?”

“Jules told everyone. She’s excited.” He smiled. It was a small smile, but it was there. “I’m Alex.”

“Alex,” I repeated.

“Alex Bellweather.”

The name hit me like a slap. Bellweather. Bellweather Street. Rule seventeen. Never date someone from Bellweather Street.

I looked at Jules. She was staring at Alex with an expression I couldn’t read. Priya was suddenly very interested in her pasta.

“Bellweather,” I said. “Like the street?”

“Like the street,” Alex said. “Like a lot of things.”

He was still looking at me. His eyes were green like the lake behind the school, green like the ivy on the walls, green like something I couldn’t name.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said.

“Nice to meet you too.”

He held my gaze for a moment longer than necessary. And then he picked up his tray and walked away, disappearing into the crowd like he’d never been there at all.

Jules exhaled. It was a loud exhale. A loud exhale.

“Okay,” she said. “That was weird.”

“What was weird?”

“He doesn’t talk to people. Not new people. Not anyone.”

Priya nodded. “It’s true. He’s like a ghost. A hot ghost.”

“A hot ghost,” I repeated.

“Don’t judge me. I’m sleep-deprived.”

I looked down at my pasta. It had gone cold. I hadn’t even taken a bite.

Rule seventeen. Never date someone from Bellweather Street.

I thought about the list. About all those rules. About the way Jules had looked at the paper like it was a living thing. About the way Alex had looked at me, like he knew something I didn’t.

I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know what any of it meant. But I knew one thing.

This was not going to be a normal school year.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

The bed was too soft. The room was too quiet. Jules was breathing steadily in the bed across from me, and I was staring at the ceiling, replaying the day over and over in my head.

The drive. The list. The dining hall. Alex.

Alex Bellweather.

I pulled out my phone and searched for him. It was dumb. I knew it was dumb. But I couldn’t help myself.

There he was. Instagram. Public profile. Not many pictures. Most of them were of the school—the quad, the lake, the chapel, the woods. There was one of him with a group of boys, all of them laughing. There was one of a dog. There was one of a sky full of stars.

No selfies. No parties. No evidence that he was a real person who did normal things.

I scrolled down. There was a caption on one of the photos—the one of the lake. It said: Some things are better left alone.

I closed the app.

I put my phone on the nightstand.

I closed my eyes.

And I thought about the list. About rule seventeen. About the way it had been sitting there, waiting for me, like it knew.

Like it had been written just for me.

I didn’t know what I was getting into. I didn’t know what any of it meant. But I knew one thing, with a certainty that was almost scary.

I was going to break that rule.

I didn’t know how. I didn’t know when. But I knew I was going to do it.

And I knew, somehow, that it was going to change everything.

The ceiling stared back at me. The night was quiet. And somewhere, out there, I could have sworn I heard the sound of a telephone ringing.