Chapter One
Chloe

Thank you for visiting our website, and we hope you find your stay at Creston Island Academy for Exemplary Youth an illuminating and enjoyable one!

Illuminating? I guess so. Enjoyable? We’ll see.

I turned off my laptop and snapped it closed, carefully sliding it into my backpack. I had spent the last forty-five minutes cruising Creston’s official website. Be prepared and all that. Unluckily, the information I downloaded from the site I already knew.

Sticking out of my backpack were several brochures that had come with my acceptance letter. I plucked one and skimmed through it, catching sight of snippets I’d seen on the Creston site.

Founded by multibillionaire Parker Creston in the early 1940s, the Creston Academy was built on the family’s private island, the Isla de Lilia.

Isla de Lilia measures five-hundred square miles, and is located off the coast of San Diego. The school is served by three Bell 206 helicopters and seven luxury ferries, the latter commonly used to convey students and faculty members to the island.

Creston Academy is accredited by the Western Association of Schools and Colleges (WASC), and boasts an excellent faculty, supreme facilities, and an elite student body.

I discreetly glanced around the ferry cabin. The passengers were young and of every size, shape, and color. Typical teenagers. Except for, you know, the designer labels, the expensive gadgets, the prevalent holier-than-thou expressions.

Ah, the scions of the rich and famous.

A year ago, if you’d told me I’d be sitting aboard a luxury ferry, about to begin my senior year at one of the world’s most prestigious private schools, carting a brand-new wardrobe that was worth more than a maid’s salary, I’d have had you committed. No questions asked.

Why, though?

My father, Anthony Brier, a successful business tycoon, owner and CEO of Brier Laboratories, a multibillion dollar pharmaceutical company right up there with Pfizer. He won spots on the Forbes 400, joined exclusive country clubs, threw charity balls; generally the things wealthy men do. I should have been introduced to the world of the spoiled rotten mega-rich kid years ago.

So, again, why?

The answer came in the form of Mercedes Santiago, a Filipino immigrant, who had gone to the States in the early 1970s, a part of the so-called “Filipino Diaspora”. She began a career as a high school teacher in Raleigh, and there she met and fell in love with Anthony Brier, a man supposedly light-years out of her reach. In January of 1990 Mercedes Santiago became Mercedes Brier, and the following year she had a daughter named Chloe Mercedes.

Me.

My mother’s upbringing in the Philippines had been anything but easy, and she never let me forget that fact. Single-handedly she countered the influence of Dad’s wealth on my young, impressionable mind, resulting in an heiress who dressed in discounted clothes and made friends with the hired help.

Dad let Mom have her way with me. He knew what a privileged life could do to the mindset of a child, having seen it first-hand in his friends’ own children.

But as my senior year drew ever closer, Dad began campaigning to have me sent to boarding school. “She will need to prepare for her future, Mercedes,” he argued. “One day she will inherit my empire, and then it will be up to her to see that the family business survives and flourishes. I only want the best, for her and for the company.”

Honestly, sometimes I felt like Brier Laboratories was my sister or something, the way Dad kept talking about us like that.

I tried not to kick up too much of a fuss. I resented being sent away from my hometown, of course, but hey, Creston’s tuition wasn’t exactly cheap, and from what I’d read in the brochures and on the website, it seemed a really nice place, more like a hotel than a school, in fact.

So Mom led the protest, followed by Hannah Grayer and Leila White, the only two friends I’d made at Raleigh Charter High School. Needless to say, Dad put his foot down.

And so there I was.

The ferry docked with minimal commotion, and it was not too long before I stood on the pier, zipped backpack safely on my shoulders, obediently waiting for directions. A portly, red-faced man in uniform with a clipboard hanging from his belt, presumably the ferry captain, took up a bullhorn and began barking out instructions.

“All right, you guys know what to do. Leave your luggage here at the dock. Everything will be brought up to your rooms, so you’d better have properly labeled them. I do not want last year’s underwear fiasco to be repeated. Am I clear, students?”

Amidst the sudden flurry of suppressed snickers, a few managed to choke out, “Yes, sir.”

The tall, pretty blonde standing next to me caught my eye and smiled. “You must be new,” she said, in a lilting British accent.

I smiled. “Is it that obvious?”

“Sure. Who at Creston hasn’t heard of The Great Underwear Debacle? And that’s in capital letters, hon.” She winked.

“‘The Great Underwear Debacle’?” I echoed.

“Uh-huh. See that girl there?” She indicated a petite fair-skinned girl in the midst of a group of girl-cronies by the gangplank. Her face would have been very pretty were it not for her pinched, petulant expression.

“Yeah, sure. The one surrounded by a posse of silicone squeak-toys?”

“Silicone squeak-toys?” A round of disbelieving giggles. “Well, it certainly describes them to a tee,” she admitted. “Anyway, that’s Monica St. James, our resident mega-ho. Last year she had this whole suitcase full of Victoria’s Secret lingerie, as in so-revealing-it’s-more-embarrassing-than-sexy, blackmail-worthy sort of lingerie, and she didn’t put her name on it. So the suitcase winds up in Tristan Thorne’s room by accident!”

I stared blankly. “Umm…who’s Tristan Thorne?”

My new friend—hopefully—laughed. “Oh, sorry. It’s just that, well, Tristan’s so well known around Creston sometimes I forget outsiders have no idea who he is!” she exclaimed. “Tristan Thorne, son of beauty products mogul Eden Thorne—”

“Whoa, whoa, hold up, hold up!” I cried. “Eden Thorne? As in CEO and owner of Rose Inc.? That Eden Thorne?”

“The one and only.”

Daaaaaamn. Rose Inc. is a cosmetics company based in Seattle (and probably provides at least half of the population with employment) that distributes its makeup and perfume products worldwide. The company’s ranked right up there with Avon, and rumor has it that Eden Thorne and Andrea Jung actually knew each other in high school.

‘Elite student body’ didn’t even begin to cover it.

“As I was saying. Son of beauty products magnate Eden Thorne, and Creston’s official heartthrob. The sexiest of the sexy, a player extraordinaire. In my mum’s words—rather dishy!” She laughed. “I’m Bella, by the way. Bella Kingsley.” She held out a hand.

“Chloe Brier,” I replied, shaking her hand.

While Bella and I were talking, the ferry captain went on. “Mr. Donnelly would also like me to remind you all to be on time for the year opening assembly at five o’clock sharp. That means you, Thorne and company!” More snickers.

“Sir?” A small, bespectacled girl shyly raised her hand. “What about the new students? And the freshmen?”

“Ah, yes. Thank you for reminding me, miss. Freshmen, you may explore the campus, but please remember to be on time for the assembly. Your room assignments will be given out then. As for the new students…” He unclipped his keyboard and glanced at it. “Ayers, Bourne, Brier, and Fontaine? You’re to report to the headmaster’s office. Main building, the Raven Wesley Hall, first floor. Be nice to his secretary,” he added darkly.

There were four of us new students going off to meet the headmaster. “See you later,” I called to Bella.

“I’ll save you a seat at dinner!” she called back.

The main building wasn’t too difficult to find, thankfully. Smack dab in the middle of the campus grounds. Plus, you know, the huge bronzed sign at the front that said, ‘Raven Wesley Hall’.

I took the opportunity to observe the environment. Lush gardens and carefully kept sports grounds stretching as far as the eye could see. Cobblestoned paths bordered by lemon myrtles leading to the residence halls and the other buildings. The architecture a blend of Gothic and Renaissance, reminiscent of fairy tale palaces.

And, of course, the beach a stone’s throw away.

All in all, not a bad place to go to school.

The headmaster’s secretary was a tall, bony woman with large wire-rimmed glasses, a tangle of red frizz, and an inordinate amount of dangly jewelry on her stick-thin limbs. She reminded me a bit of the batty Divination professor from the Harry Potter books. I couldn’t remember her name, though.

“…Trelawney.”

Well, that caught my attention. I glanced up, stunned. “Come again?”

She glared at me impatiently. “I said my name is Ramona Trelawney. I’m the headmaster’s secretary. You must be the new students, right?” When nobody answered, she went on. “Mr. Donnelly will give you your class schedules, your room assignments, and basically details that won’t be given out at tonight’s assembly. So, who’s Michelle Ayers?”

The girl who’d addressed the ferry captain raised her hand. “That’s me, Ms. Trelawney.”

“Well, don’t just stand there, stupid little chit! Get!”

Jeez, I can see why the ferry captain warned us to make nice.

A short wait later Michelle Ayers left the headmaster’s office, clutching a folder, studiously staring at the floor so as to avoid Ms. Trelawney’s gaze. As it turned out, there was no need. Ms. Trelawney had gone right back to work, typing furiously at her keyboard and crossly muttering ‘bah!’ several times.

Soon enough, it was my turn. The girl who’d gone before me, Lydia Bourne, wrinkled her nose as I passed by her. Now I know I showered this morning, so what’s with the nose-wrinkling? Huh. Must’ve been the lack of expensive designer labels on my person. Who knew?

Headmaster Donnelly’s office was a spacious corner type, the windows on both walls letting in copious amounts of sunlight. The furniture was mostly white and blond oak, and the wall-to-wall carpeting a warm beige color.

Mr. Donnelly himself was a tall, well-dressed man who retained the good looks he had when he was younger, vaguely resembling Mark Harmon, of NCIS fame. He wore a crisp dark gray tailored suit, kept his hair trimmed, and smelled faintly of tobacco.

“Ah, Ms. Brier, is it? Chloe Brier, yes? Please, have a seat,” said the headmaster amicably, indicating the chairs before his desk. “I’m Jonathan Donnelly, the headmaster of Creston, as you might already know. By any chance, any relation to Anthony Brier?” he added.

“Yes, Mr. Donnelly, Anthony Brier is my father,” I replied, pleasantly enough.

“I knew your parents, actually,” said Mr. Donnelly. “Came to my wedding, years ago. Mercedes was one of Gillian’s bridesmaids, incidentally. How are they, by the way?”

“Just fine, sir.”

“All right then, back to business,” said Mr. Donnelly, rearranging a sheaf of paper on his desk. “Now, as I’ve already informed Ms. Ayers and Ms. Bourne, the residence halls are co-ed. No one residence hall is reserved for a specific gender. Rather, dorm assignments are based on year level.”

“I see.”

“Ms. Deborah Harris is in charge of the residence hall for the seniors. Your room is on the third floor, number seventy-five. Now, here are the keys to your room—there’s a spare too—and a map of the seniors’ residence hall.” He placed a set of keys on the desk in front of me, along with a sheet of laminated paper.

“You also get a map of the entire campus, and maps of the other buildings.” Several more sheets of laminated paper appeared on the desk. “You may want to spend some time memorizing those maps before the opening assembly tonight. And, of course, here are your class schedules.” Two sheets of plain white paper landed on top of the maps.

“I must confess, Ms. Briars, I am very impressed. You managed to make it into almost all of our AP classes.” Mr. Donnelly beamed proudly as he carefully slid the maps and schedules inside a folder labeled neatly with my name. “Creston Academy will definitely benefit from a student of such excellent caliber such as yourself.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now, vacation time, break hours, and rules will be given at tonight’s assembly, so you don’t need to worry about that for now. Any other questions?”

“No, sir.”

“All right then. I’m sure you’ll want to unpack, examine your schedules, memorize your map, or mingle with the other students. If you could please have Ms. Trelawney send in Mr. Fontaine, you may go.”

I stood and left; keys in one hand, folder that contained my maps and schedules in the other. Ms. Trelawney didn’t need my reminder, apparently, because as soon as I set foot out of the headmaster’s office, she barked out, “Fontaine, in!” The boy with the weedy face (and a frail physique to match) flinched and timidly got up, inching carefully around the secretary’s desk as if it were a fire-breathing dragon.

I left the main building and wandered around until I found the pathway that led to the seniors’ residence hall. I climbed up the stairs to the third floor, checking the doors left and right, until I finally found one marked seventy-five.

Feeling rather pleased with myself, I dug my keys out of my pocket and unlocked the door. As the ferry captain had promised, my things were already inside, by the beds. They were grouped together with another set of bags, presumably my roommate’s.

I dragged my things over to the bed by the window. The room was gorgeous. It almost seemed a crime to call it a dorm room. Hotel room, maybe. The walls were a cream color, and there was wall-to-wall beige carpeting like in the headmaster’s office. A bay window the length of an entire wall afforded a view of the residence hall’s flourishing backyard gardens. The beds were queen-sized dark oak, and made up with pristine gold-and-white sheets. There were two separate wardrobes, two mahogany desks, a little blond oak bookshelf, and two easy chairs by the window. Besides an adjoining spacious bathroom, there was also a fully-stocked kitchenette. Against the wall before the two beds was a big flat-screen TV.

Well.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. All in all, not a bad place to go to school.

I decided to unpack after the opening assembly and went for a shower instead. The bathroom, all marble and gold light fixtures, came fully equipped with one of those shower stalls with frosted glass and a tub. Bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and bubble bath lined the sink, and a gold rack held fluffy white towels and terrycloth robes.

The hot water was tremendously relaxing, and I was loathe to leave the sanctuary of the bathroom. Still, thirty minutes later, I was wrapped in one of the fluffy bathrobes, my wet hair tumbling over my shoulders, perched on the edge of my bed and reading my schedule.

Overall, I was taking seventeen classes, sixteen of them being AP courses.

Oh well. My parents always did say I was an overachiever anyway.

Suddenly remembering, I leapt up and grabbed one of my bags, carefully easing a framed photo out of it. It was of Mom and Dad on their wedding day. It was one of the very few pictures of them where I did not see a business tycoon and his wife, but a man and the woman he loved.

I carefully propped up the picture on the little table by my bed, arranging it neatly underneath the lampshade. Then I remembered. I’d promised I’d call Mom right after I got settled in. I grabbed my cell phone from my backpack and threw myself into one of the easy chairs, pressing the speed dial for Mom’s cell as I did so.

A couple rings later, and: “Hello? Chloe?”

“Mom!” I cried happily. If a person could really be tickled pink, well, I was tickled pink at hearing her voice.

“Well? How goes it? Details, sweetheart , details! What’s the place look like? A total swank fest, I’m sure,” said my mother excitedly.

“Swank fest would have to be the biggest understatement of the year, Mom,” I admitted. I babbled on, describing every aspect of the school. The ferry ride, the paradise-on-earth style beach, the gorgeous architecture, my class schedules, my room. I even told her of Ms. Trelawney the secretary, and told her that Mr. Donnelly remembered her and Dad from his wedding. (“Really now? Wow, I haven’t talked to Gillian in ages. I’ll call her later.”)

After I finished talking, Mom began regaling with me tales of the new year at her own school. She worked as a teacher at Ravenscroft School, a private high school back in Raleigh.

“Let me put it to you this way, sweetheart. You’d have totally spearheaded a revolution against the headhunter—no, oops, headmaster—by now,” she said. “It’d mean my job, you know,” she added teasingly. “So I’m so glad you’re not going here.”

“You and me both, Mom,” I laughed. “Like I’d want to go to a school where my mom was my teacher.”

“True, true,” she laughed. “All right, sweetheart, I’ve got to go. These test papers won’t grade themselves. Hugs and kisses now. Remember to call your dad later. I love you. And I want an e-mail every week!”

“Without a doubt,” I assured her. “Love you too, Mom. Bye.” I pressed the END CALL button on my phone and sighed, already missing my home and my family.

“No use dwelling on it,” I convinced myself. “Time to get dressed.” I sat down on my bed and grabbed one of my bags to search for clothes. I’d e-mail Hannah and Leila later, I decided, and I’d call Dad after dinner. The downside of being a mega-mogul? You never got as much free time as you wanted.

That’s when I saw him.

And in the most condescending, haughtiest, sexiest voice I had ever heard, he said:

“Is it my birthday?”

Author’s Notes:

So, welcome to my new story! Just my take on the boarding school plot so prevalent here at FP. :3

I’ve created a blog devoted entirely to my literary efforts. As soon as it’s up and running, I’ll post the link on my profile. Keep checking The Mad Thoughts of a Writer for news and updates on Thorns and Briars.

I live for your reviews, so, you know what to do!