Preppy Little Liars

Chapter 5

I walked up the gravel driveway in front of Kitty’s McMansion and used the old fashioned knocker on the door. Nervous, I waited on the doorstep, afraid she wouldn’t be home yet and the awkward drive over there was for nothing or that one of her parents would answer and I’d have to come up with some reason for why I was there in the first place. I didn’t exactly belong in this part of town—it was obvious by the Payless shoes I was wearing.

The door swung open. Kitty stood there gaping at me.

“What are you doing here? How’d you know where I lived?”

“I asked one of the office aides,” I lied. “Can I come in?”

She gripped the door and for a second I thought she was going to slam it in my face. But she opened it wide enough for me to come inside and I did. She hurried up the massive black and white marble staircase to the second floor and I followed her to her bedroom.

Kitty closed the door behind us. “What’s this about, you showing up at my house unannounced?”

I took a seat on the edge of her bed without waiting for an invitation to sit. She glared at me, but I wasn’t unnerved. “I need to ask you some questions about Margaret.”

“Questions like what?”

“Where were you today when she got thrown off her horse?”

Kitty took her long blonde ponytail into her hand and twirled the end of it through her fingers. It was such an elegant movement, so feminine and coy, that I realized that’s probably how she got her nickname. And why many boys at our school were in love with her even though she was a complete witch. I wouldn’t have been remotely surprised if she’d gotten to Stephen that way, too. Kitty was the kind of girl who got whatever, or whoever, she wanted. It was annoying.

She pulled out the chair at her vanity and lowered herself gracefully to the white leather. She crossed her legs at her ankles and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

“I was talking to a teacher.”

An outsider would think that Kitty was calm and perfectly in control, but I knew her. Not as well as her friends, obviously, but she and I had been in several classes together since freshman year and I knew all of her little tells. And the fact that she was drumming her French tip manicure along the top of her left hand told me that she was uncomfortable about something.

“What were you talking about?”

“Is that any of your business?”

The drumming of her fingernails quickened and I knew I was getting close to whatever it was she was hiding.

I leveled a stern look at her. “No, but if you had anything to do with Margaret’s accident, then it’ll be Dean Winchester’s business.”

Kitty’s drumming stopped and her mouth fell open. “Have you gone nuts? Meg, what in Christ’s good name are you talking about?”

“Someone did something to Margaret’s horse before the exhibition today, something to freak him out, and that’s why Margaret got bucked off his back.”

“Well it wasn’t me!” Kitty leaped from her chair. I didn’t like that she was so much bigger than me standing so I got up, too.

“Why weren’t you at the course when she was riding? All the other Stallionettes were there. You were even still in your skirt and blazer when I saw you after the accident.”

Kitty studied the fingernails on her right hand. “I told you, I was talking to a teacher. I lost track of time.”

“What teacher?”

She started studying the nails on her left hand like she was studying a frustrating algebraic equation. “It was…my chemistry teacher. She gave me an absolutely unacceptable grade on my last quiz so I had to go and demand she re-evaluate the answers.”

That explanation sounded true enough—it was typical Kitty behavior, going and giving one of our teacher’s hell for doing something she didn’t like. But the problem with this story was that Kitty was on track for being class valedictorian. She didn’t get bad grades. And the fact that she wouldn’t meet my eyes told me my hunch was correct.

I was about to call her on the lie, when a male voice yelled up the stairs.

“Katrina! Dinner in five!”

Kitty’s face blanched and she cursed under her breath. “You’ve got to go. Now. If my dad sees you, he’ll want to invite you to stay for dinner to prove he’s all progressive and I don’t think either one of us could handle that kind of trauma tonight.”

She practically pushed me out of the room and down the stairs. “Thanks for coming,” she said with a fake smile on her lips. “Let’s never do this again.” The front door slammed in my face.

Such a nice girl. It was a wonder I ever thought she was guilty.

That night, after dinner with my mom and finishing my homework, not including my assignment for the Gazette—I hadn’t even started that yet—I logged onto my Twitter account hoping Stephen was online.

SheWhoWrites: @Pimpin’Pimpin’ Hey, still mad at me?

I waited for ten minutes and was about to turn off my laptop when I saw my timeline move.

Pimpin’Pimpin’: @SheWhoWrites I’m over it ;-) What’s good?

SheWhoWrites: @Pimpin’Pimpin’ Spoke to you-know-who tonight. She said she was talking to a teacher and that’s why she wasn’t around when M got hurt.

Pimpin’Pimpin’: @SheWhoWrites You don’t believe her?

SheWhoWrites: @Pimpin’Pimpin’ No. She wouldn’t make eye contact and she kept playing with her nails when she was talking to me. Those are clear signals she was telling me a lie. 

There was no response for a good five minutes. I thought he’d gotten angry again, but relaxed when I refreshed the page and saw I had a private message. For all of my intelligence, and I liked to think I was smart being in the top five percent of our class, it hadn’t occurred to me to  not have this private conversation in a public forum. I doubted Margaret was checking her Twitter page while laid up in the hospital or that Kitty would be obsessively checking my timeline to see what kind of ice cream I’d decided to have for dessert, but there was always the chance that someone we knew at Haverton would stumble on our little back and forth and tell the people we were gossiping about. Discretion would be necessary going forward and I’d have to remember that.

Pimpin’Pimpin’: Remember what I said—unless we get physical, tangible evidence, we can’t prove anything. We can’t prove she lied about the teacher or that she cut Margaret’s saddle.

SheWhoWrites: I’ll talk to her chem teacher tomorrow.

Then I remembered something, or rather, someone— Margaret. In all of my investigative frenzy, I almost forgot the most important piece of the puzzle: the victim. I hadn’t spoken to Margaret yet and if I was going to figure out the reason behind Kitty’s vendetta against her, you know, besides the obvious jealousy angle, I’d need to get to the hospital. 

SheWhoWrites: Hey—you busy after school tomorrow?

Pimpin’Pimpin’: Taking pics for Murphy. You start on your story yet?

SheWhoWrites: Not yet. Can you take me to the hospital after school? When you’re done with your pics, I mean. I need to talk to Margaret.

Pimpin’Pimpin’: You think we should bring flowers or candy or something? 

I smiled. Stephen was a prince. Clueless, but sweet.