February inches past us with teachers handing us back mid-semester exams and the whole senior year celebrating through an endless stream of parties, galas and celebrations. I've been drinking a lot, doing a lot of coke and dancing in clubs. I think our whole crew is on a bender.

Parker says this is just a prerequisite- that the post-exam celebrations is just a warm-up for Spring Break and then later Ultra, which I'm excited for because I've never been to a music festival. It's an over-eighteen event but because we are who we are- with our shiny fake IDs and do you who my daddy is, we manage to swing VIP passes. I spend my weekends planning outfits with Parker.

She takes me to pay a visit to her cousin, Caleb. Caleb is apparently a stylist to the stars and a design student currently enrolled at Parsons. Even though he's still two years into studying fashion design, he already owns a small boutique tucked in an alley on Columbus Circle. While the store lacks visibility like the flagship Chanel and Saks on Fifth Avenue, Caleb Holtz has already built a pretty lucrative clientele and is highly regarded for his custom-made festival pieces by some of the world's most famous influencers and celebrities.

Not to disregard his studied eye for colour and trends, but what Caleb truly offers is absolute discretion. No artists or celebrities want to be mobbed by paparazzi while they're sourcing pieces and neither do they want to be seen cultivating outfit ideas with one of the most sought after stylists in the world, risking getting him pinched out of their grasps. His designs and his boutique is said to be a particular favourite of Rihanna and Lady Gaga, what with his avant-garde pieces being fashioned and paraded at Coachella or Tomorrowland by the rich and famous.

So that's how I end up in a posh all-white space of Calcutta marble and cream walls with distinct silver hooks protruding out of the walls, displaying custom-made neon or bejewelled pieces. One of the items hanging on a metal hook next to the full-length mirrors framed with lightbulbs is an infamous-looking Balmain Nefertiti-inspired bodysuit and cape, all sequined in black and silver gems.

Caleb catches me looking as he pours me a flute of mimosa. "Oh, that Balmain piece is gorgeous, isn't it? One of my favourites Beyonce wore during her Coachella set."

I stare at him in shock. "You worked with Beyonce?"

Caleb throws me a wink as Parker chuckles at me. "Caleb had worked with a bunch of artists and celebs. When it comes to festivals or concerts, Caleb will make sure you look your absolute best."

"You're Orson Calloway's girlfriend, aren't you? Hmm, you're much prettier than you are online. Like a young green-eyed blonder Denise Richards, before all the botox and fillers," Caleb compliments me as he lifts a flute up to his lips.

"Oh...um thanks? How did you-"

"Sweetie, I do a little intel on any clients before they step through my door. And also, even though I graduated two years ago, I still keep up with the private school blogs once in a while. They're awfully fun."

Caleb is decked out in an impeccably tailored pale orange dress shirt from Ede & Ravenscroft with a pair of navy blue chinos and a highly polished pair of monk strap loafers. Flamboyant but fashionable and elegant. Before them is a table with a wondrous selection of desserts and jugs of mimosas. The desserts are steamed with elaborate cakes, soufflés, sweet puddings and pineapple tarts with crunchy pastries. I pop a pineapple tart in my mouth and let the sour-sweet combo explode in my mouth before washing it down with a large gulp of mimosa.

"So girls, what are we thinking about Ultra?"

"We're thinking of doing a Spring Breakers vibe," Parker explains to him excitedly, "You know, a lot of neon, some ski masks and ripped t-shirts."

Caleb nods, jotting down furiously with his pencil and notebook. "Yes, yes- very naked, maybe bejewelled ski masks and matching LV Supreme bikini sets in neon pink and lime green? Ooh and cargo sweatpants or micro denim skirts? Let me think, let me think...."

"The more naked, the better. I rave in only sweat and glitter," Parker professes and I snicker at the statement.

"Fantastic, fantastic. The ski masks will need to be custom-made and pre-ordered but luckily for you, I've got two neon pink and green LV Supreme bikinis lying in my stocks. Would you like to try them on?"

"Yes, of course!" We both agree excitedly. Even though I'm currently stuffing my face with desserts and sugar and alcohol, the drugs from all the parties and events have me whittled about two sizes down- so much so I'm starting to lose the fullness to my cheeks and the muscles I've gained from boxing. My ass has deflated from the lack of nourishment, no longer having that plump effect that comes from leg days. 

"The dressing room is at the back of the room. I've only got one so do you two mind sharing?"

"It's not a problem," I say blithely as I smile at Parker. We leave our purses on Caleb's chaise lounge and pad across the room as Caleb fetches us the bikinis.

The dressing room is covered with white silk curtains and the minute Parker and I duck around it, I turn around and gesture to the zipper of my sleeveless ice-blue Emilia Wickstead jumpsuit.

"Mind helping me take this off?"

Parker blink. "Um, yeah sure."

I let Parker's cool fingers work their way on my zipper. "Thanks."

I turn back forward and Parker's so close to me inside the dressing room that we're nose to nose. "How have you been?" I ask her, pushing the hair out of her eyes. "You've been kind of distant since Vegas."

Parker blushes and steps away from me like she's scared of me. "Yeah- I've just, I've been busy with stuff."

"Like?"

"Like..."

"Oh come on, you can tell me," I laugh a little, "I'm your best friend, am I?"

"Like school and stuff," Parker mumbles. I revel in the fact that in front of me Parker is a stuttering, nervous wreck in front of me when she's usually confident, composed and the undisputed Queen of Kensington. Her face, so pretty, is walled and hard.

"Like that's any information. Why, do you have a new boy I don't know about?" I purr. Parker raises her head to meet my gaze. And that's when I make my move. I land a light kiss on her lips, like mwah!

Before she can even say anything, Caleb shakes the drapes of the dressing rooms. "Your bikinis!" He sticks his hand through the opening of the curtains with two sets of LV Supreme monogrammed neon bikinis.

"Oh my God, so cute," I gasp, reverting my attention from what I just did as nothing happened. Parker is staring at me, open-mouthed after I kiss her.

"Do you want the pink or the green?" I ask innocently.

"Um- uh, green," Parker swallows uncomfortably. I try not to smile inwardly. This is almost too easy.

-

By the weekend, on Saturday afternoon, we've pulled up to a massive beige sign pointing to a secluded road lined by tall, thick trees. WALDEN BEHAVIORAL RESERVE reads the calligraphy lettering. The driver puts on his blinker and steers up the drive.

"Do you think Carmen would like this or this?" Parker asks me nervously, holding out two cashmere cardigans from an Acne Studios shopping bag.

"Aren't they the same?" frown Aidan, who's nursing an Old Fashioned Orson has poured from the tumbler of whiskey. He's holding a teal satin box of Laduree macarons, flown in from Paris with silk ribbons and a card.

"No, one is eggshell white and the other is pearl," I explain to him, "The pearl one, looks best on her colouring."

"Thanks," Parker says, returning everything back into the shopping bag. She reaches for her gin and tonic and takes two large gulps. While everyone is in a knot of nerves for visiting Carmen the first time since she did, I'm the only one who's practically giddy- my mind is picturing Carmen, ten pounds overweight in hospital scrubs with no makeup and acne building upon her chin.

The closer we get to the hospital, the more anxious the Elites seem to be. As the driver speeds the car up the drive, my phone beeps. It's from Hadley. Have fun at Spring Break!

The hospital is deep inside the Connecticut countryside. The woods press closer and closer until they're nearly brushing up against the car doors. "Did you make the wrong turn?" Parker asks the driver, her face scrunched up in confusion.

"Did you not read the sign outside?" Hanif says impatiently and I can't tell he's unnerved too. "It says-"

"I know," she snaps back, "But it could've still been wrong-"

"We're here," I declare, putting an end to their tension-filled bicker.

Just when it seems like we'll be sucked up into the darkness, all of a sudden the woods stop completely and there's the biggest, most beautiful lawn you can imagine. The hospital is this big white mansion with an impressive Colonial-Era facade that's reminiscent of an England-ruled America. We're all city kids so we stare and gawk at the structure- even me, who's been born and raised in apartment complexes from Queens.

We all pull up to the guard's iron-wrought gate and give our names to a khaki-clad man with a walkie-talkie. We say we're here for a friend, who's a patient here. Orson sticks his head out the window; the minute the guard sees his recognizable face and then the name on his ID, they let us in no problem.

We circle the driveway and pass the obsessively manicured topiaries and the glassy-eyed patients on the lawn. While the clinic specialises in healing those with eating disorders, the clinic also treats those with anxiety disorders and "behavioural" problems- whatever that's supposed to mean. Nonetheless, whatever problem you have, it doesn't matter- it's a mental health and treatment facility for the rich and famous. Nothing says "progress" quite like slapping a hundred thousand dollar fee on recovery.

The driver drops us off by the visitor entrance and says he'll come back within the hour to pick us all up. As we walk on the gravel towards the entrance, stones crunching underneath our red-bottom stilettos and brand new Jimmy Choos, I notice all the plaques of old patients who have passed on that have been mounted beside the trees and benches. I have done quick research on the institution Carmen's parents have had her committed to after her downfall on the big stage at her ballet recital. Apparently, Walden has had a worryingly high suicide rate. People must have thought death is a better option than being trapped here.

The lobby at Walden has marble floors, a big fountain in the centre, and modern white couches. After giving our names to a lab coat–wearing receptionist, we are buzzed into the patient ward, which is slightly shabbier and older than the lobby or the outside. We enter a room, which is big and bright with several large windows, threadbare couches pushed against the walls, and an old, blinking TV playing a movie I didn't recognize. The room smells of antiseptic cleaner and lavender essential oils. A nurse listening to headphones sits behind a window in the corner. A woman I'm positive is a psychiatrist talking to a despondent girl with white-blond hair by a bookcase full of board games. 

Then, the door opens, and a familiar girl walks into the room.

I suck in my breath. Carmen's dark brown hair is greasy and dry, pulled into a tall ponytail. I tried not to smile at the fact that used-to-be pea-shoot thin Carmen has her hips pushing out past her waistline, her cheeks fuller than it was before. The lines of her body have transformed and she is at least fifteen pounds heavier than three months before. Just before her ballet recital, in her white feather costume, she was airy and audacious, slender and slim with all the hydroxy-hot and activ-8 and boom blasters and South African hoodia-with-green-coffee-extract she consumed to suppress her appetite. Now she has ballooned to the size of a regular girl- there are even hints of a double chin folding up by her jaw. In oversized, baggy, hospital clothes, Carmen Calloway does not look like Carmen Calloway.

Carmen brightens. "You guys came!" she chirps pleasantly, pecking Parker on the cheek- even though they weren't on good terms when she left- and squeezing her brother's arm. When she turns to me, she embraces me in a hug.

"You look so good," she compliments me, "Did you cut your hair?"

I nod, "Yeah, I went to the salon on 57th, the one you told me about."

We all sit down by the plaid couches nearby the TV. The nurse by the corner approaches us with a tray of orange juices in little plastic cups. "Juice?" she offers. Her gaze zeroes in at Carmen expectantly, as if indicating her to accept the calorie-laden drink.

"I'll have one," Carmen volunteers, a note of bitterness in her tone.

The nurse turns to the rest of our group. "How about you guys? Would you like some juice?"

"No thanks," Parker and I say in sync and Hanif, Aidan and Orson also shake their heads.

"I only drink juice when it's mixed with tequila," Hanif jokes awkwardly, breaking down the tension.

"So how's everything?" Carmen asks, "Fill me in on everything I should know, catch me up."

And so we did- well, mostly Parker did and I or the boys chime in occasionally with details she forgot. Like Georgina Carlton's return, her birthday and then eventually, her death and that whole fiasco.

Carmen's jaw drops when we tell her how Georgina got run over by a car. "Just like that?"

Parker is pulling on a loose string on the upholstered couch we are sitting on so vigorously a whole row of stitches unravelled in her hands. "Just like that. It was crazy. We saw her right before too- she was so drunk, it was insane. I've never seen her be that drunk before."

Carmen frowns. "Okay, I'm not like besties with Georgina but even I know she's not like a massive drinker. How the fuck did she get that drunk?"

Aidan shrugs. "We have no idea. She wasn't with us the whole night."

"Yeah, she got kicked out of the club and...I think she was trying to call an Uber by the side of the street," I inputted, "She must have tripped or stumbled out or something."

"Whoa," is all Carmen could say. She sips her orange juice tentatively.

After a while, a nurse taps Carmen on the shoulder to say that her group session will begin soon. Everyone hugs one last time, I hide my smirk as I wrap my arms around Carmen's shoulders.

"You guys should come back again soon. I'm getting better really quickly and soon I'll be allowed to have visitors all the time," Carmen says. "Luciana sometimes visits me on the weekends."

"How is she?" I ask brightly, trying to hide the cruel lilt in my tone. "Does she like boarding school?"

Carmen shrugs wordlessly. "She thinks it's ok. It's no Kensington."

"Carmen, I got your stuff with me," Orson pats a spare suitcase of Carmen's belongings.

"Oh thank God," Carmen says, hugging her brother, "I'm so sick of these hospital clothes."

Parker cracks a smile, "It sucks that you're here but at least you won't be separated from Balenciaga and Chanel."

"You want me to put this in your room?" Orson offers. Carmen nods.

"I'll show you."

"We'll wait for you at the entrance," Aidan says to Orson. As Orson follows Carmen into the dorms of the patients, Parker, Hanif and I start to head over to the exit of the hospital. Halfway through, I excuse myself to the bathroom when in reality, I duck into the hallway of the dorms. I hide behind a door as I watch Orson and Carmen disappear into a room and then surreptitiously, sneak over to the room and crane my ears to listen to their conversation.

"Carmen, Georgina knew about Carlotta."

Instantly, there's a furious, urgent note in Carmen's voice. "What? How?"

Orson sighs. "I had no idea. I- I was looking through her phone after she passed away and I saw that she was the one behind these text messages that was threatening to go public with the whole Carlotta thing."

"Why were you looking through her phone?"

"Because...I found it in Amory's belongings just two weeks ago and-"

"What?"

"Will you let me finish?"

I can practically picture Carmen setting her lips shut, jaw clenching. Carmen might be smaller than Orson but she's eye-level with Orson and the only person who can go toe to toe.

"I found her going through Georgina's things after her funeral at her wake. So when she left her bag at my place, I just went through it and saw that she had Georgina's phone. So I looked through Georgina's phone-"

"And that's when you found out she's been sending you texts about Carlotta," Carmen summarises. "What the fuck."

"It makes sense now," Orson admits. "The texts started the minute she came back to Kensington and ended when she died. And also she thought the perfect moment to strike was-"

"When I'm not at Kensington anymore," Carmen finishes bitterly. "I always hated that fake bitch. Never understood what you saw in her."

"Yeah, yeah, you say that about every girlfriend I had."

Carmen harrumphs. "And was I wrong? Remember how I warned you about Carlotta, how she'll try to trap you."

"Yes, we get it. You're right, I'm wrong," says Orson impatiently.

"And what about Amory? Why was she looking through Georgina's shit?"

"Well, Amory and Georgina had it out for each other since Day One. You should've seen the way Amory ran her out of Kensington," There's a proud, cruel intonation to how he says it and I feel a flush of pride that I've managed to inspire him to say that about me- to Carmen especially, "And I think Amory was trying to pry secrets out of Georgina, even after the bitch was dead. Besides, Amory was a big help in figuring it out-"

"Wait," Carmen breathes sharply, "Does Amory know about the Carlotta thing?

Orson doesn't answer. There is a long moment and I can almost feel something black open inside Carmen's head. "Orson," she hisses, "What the fuck? Did you tell her?"

"I had to! It was her bag in which that I found Georgina-"

"I don't fucking care, you could've just kept it to yourself the minute you found out! Look, I think she's a good friend and all but we barely knew her for less than a year and you don't tell shit like that to people so new in the circle!"

"Look, I had my doubts before but I think I can trust her," Orson says earnestly, "I trust her. So trust me."

Carmen stops for a moment. I hear a few steps. "Oh my God, you like her."

"What? No, I don't."

"You like her. Oh my God, you're completely in love with her."

"No, I'm not," Orson counters furiously, "Look, all I'm saying is Amory was the one who found out why Georgina's behind all this- it's because the Carltons are bankrupt, they're being evicted from their townhouse and everything. And I checked with my hedge fund investor- it's true; the Carltons are selling all of their hotels off."

"No way. So Georgina blackmailed you...for money?"

"Yeah, and she got hit by a car before she could come for me with the money."

"Jesus Christ," Carmen says after a long pause. I can tell she's in disbelief. Like she couldn't believe it. Like she wouldn't believe it.