Davi hops out of the back seat wearing enormous sunglasses, white low-rise flared jeans, and a crocheted off-the-shoulder crop top.
Her bare midriff is a glaring violation of the Tiffin dress code (forbidden: page 8 of *The Bridle*, Tiffin's Rules of Conduct), but Audre is too shocked by Davi's transformation to comment on the top—or the lack thereof.
Davi has cut off most of her shiny dark hair, which used to reach past her hips. It's been replaced by a sharp bob.
She gives Audre a tight hug. "Ms. Robbie," she murmurs. Davi is the only student in six years brave enough to give Audre a nickname, and Audre has to admit, she's fond of it. "Thank god I'm back."
This, Audre thinks, is why she loves her job.
Davi Banerjee, whose parents founded the fashion label OOO (Out of Office), is an international influencer. She has 1.3 million devoted Instagram and TikTok followers across twenty-seven countries and more than thirty corporate sponsors. She lives in London with her parents, though Audre knows from scrolling Davi's social media that she spent most of her summer at her family home in Tuscany, followed by a quick trip to Ibiza with her glamorous European friends.
Audre likes to believe that Davi is universally loved at Tiffin, though the more accurate term might be "revered." Davi rules the social landscape mostly benevolently, though Audre is aware that the other girls spend a lot of precious energy currying favor with her; there's fierce competition to be included in her inner circle.
The one person exempt from all this was Cinnamon Peters, Davi's best friend since day one at Tiffin.
In the aftermath of Cinnamon's death, Davi organized a candlelight vigil, directed donations to a reliable mental health organization, and then went dark on social media. There were times in the days following Cinnamon's death when Audre thought the school might have fallen apart were it not for Davi.
"Welcome back," Audre says. "You'll need to change your top before All-School Meeting."
"Yes, I know, I know," Davi says. Her English accent always makes Audre think of chintz and clotted cream. "I promised I'd post myself wearing it… This is the style Akoia Swim named for me."
Davi holds her phone up over her head, wraps an arm around Audre's shoulders, and snaps a photo of the two of them with the mullioned windows of Classic South behind them.
Will 1.3 million people now see Audre in her mom jeans? No, she thinks. She isn't cool enough for Davi's Instagram, and for this, she is grateful.
"Has the new girl arrived yet?" Davi asks.
There are a number of "new" girls this year—thirty third-formers (freshmen), seven fourth-formers (sophomores)—but they're not who Davi is asking about. Davi is asking about the only new student entering as a fifth-former (junior): Charlotte Hicks from Towson, Maryland, the girl who will be living in 111 South, formerly Cinnamon Peters's room.
"Not yet," Audre says.
She heads to the back of the Escalade, where Davi's driver is unloading plastic bins labeled by designer. Audre reaches for the Hatch alarm clock, new in its box. She feels maternal about Davi. The poor girl flew from London by herself and will be moved into 103 South by a complete stranger. As far as Audre knows, there's only one other student arriving without a parent.
But Audre needn't worry about Davi. Within seconds, she's surrounded by her squad, all of them exclaiming about her hair, her top. *You look so cute!* Phones are brandished, selfies snapped.
This is as good a time as any, Audre thinks, to step away.
Growing up in New Orleans, Audre had heard of "intuitive" women who were rumored to practice voodoo and have connections to the supernatural. Audre, the daughter of two Tulane professors, viewed this as just another part of New Orleans culture, like jazz and jambalaya.
However, Audre herself experiences a fingernails-down-the-proverbial-chalkboard chill from time to time. This "Feeling" has turned out to be prescient: It's a warning that a threat to Audre's peace of mind is imminent.
She has the Feeling now. It could be due to the impending news of the rankings, but on a hunch, Audre decides to check the Back Lot.
The Back Lot is where the staff parks, where deliveries are dropped off—and where Mr. James sneaks slugs from his flask of whiskey in his garage office.
As Audre stands at the top of the stairs that lead down to the lot, she sees a black GMC pickup pulling in. Audre hears strains of "Many Men" by 50 Cent pumping out the window; it's so loud she feels it in her tooth fillings.
The truck pulls into its usual spot, the music cuts, and the driver gets out.
He grew a couple of inches over the summer, Audre notes, and his dark hair flops over his aviator sunglasses like he's a character from *Top Gun*. He's wearing Oliver Cabell sneakers, athletic shorts, and a vintage baseball jersey.
When he spies Audre, he lifts a hand in greeting.
"Welcome back, Andrew," Audre whispers to herself.
She's the only person at Tiffin who calls him by his given name; everyone else calls him East. Andrew Eastman, son of Jesse Eastman, is the only student who's allowed a car, the only student who's allowed to use the service entrance, the only student granted the freedom to do a lot of things.
Audre sometimes thinks the question isn't *if* East will get kicked out of Tiffin, but *when*—though bringing any kind of disciplinary action against East would be an existential threat to the school.
If East goes, the money goes—and the bright, prosperous future of Tiffin goes.
For this reason, Audre has turned a blind eye to his vaping (forbidden: page 2 of *The Bridle*) as well as his barely passing (and by "barely passing," Audre means failing) grades in English and history.
As Audre waves back, she sends East a silent message: *Don't do anything this year I can't forgive. Please.*
Stationed in front of Classic North is Rhode Rivera, the person Audre hired to replace Doc Bellamy, the fossilized English teacher who rarely gave a grade above B and never smiled (he'd retired in the spring after forty-two years, hallelujah).
Audre had desperately wanted to hire a woman, preferably a woman of color, but Rhode interviewed well and said many promising things. He'd been a student at Tiffin himself twenty-some years ago. Doc Bellamy had been his English teacher, "both inspiring… and intimidating." Indeed, a check of Rhode's transcripts showed that he'd received one of the rare A's Bellamy had granted during his tenure.
Rhode went on to college at Wesleyan and pursued an MFA at the University of Michigan. He'd also published two novels. (Audre hadn't heard of them but had looked up reviews of both books: not bad.)
What had sealed the deal for Rhode's hiring was his plan to overhaul the English curriculum. He would revamp the reading list, making sure it was current and inclusive.
Before being hired, Rhode had been living in Astoria, working as an adjunct professor at Queens College. It was an urban life, he said, and he was ready for a change.
He looks chipper in his green polo shirt (school-issued, with a racehorse embroidered on the chest) and khaki shorts. (He's wearing Skechers and white ankle socks; the kids will be merciless.) Most teachers loathe Move-In Day—they consider it glorified manual labor—so it's no surprise that the only two faculty members Audre could corral are new: Rhode and one of the history teachers, Simone Bergeron, a recent graduate of McGill in Montreal.
Rhode and Simone seem to have developed a rapport.
Rhode is regaling Simone with the high jinks of his own boarding school days, something about a ferret one of his floormates in Classic North was keeping in a cage under his desk, very much in violation of school rules (forbidden: page 3 of *The Bridle*, "pets," listed just below "firearms").
"Our prefect noticed the smell," Rhode says. "But he thought it was Townie's socks."
Simone's laugh is like a bell. She gathers her braids into a bun on top of her head and ties a silk scarf around it in a way that seems very elegant and French. "You had a classmate named *Townie*?"
"Nickname," Rhode says. "Because he grew up in Haydensboro, the closest town to campus. His parents owned a bar called the Alibi."
"Is it still there?" Simone asks. "I was wondering if there were any fun places around."
"If by 'fun,' you mean gritty and depressing, then yes," Rhode says. "I'll take you there sometime."
"I'd love that!"
Internally, Audre groans. She encourages camaraderie among the faculty, but she has never had two new single teachers before and would have no idea what to say or do if a… romance were to blossom. Will she have to worry about this?
Furthermore, Audre likes to pop into the Alibi herself from time to time.
It's gritty but not necessarily depressing—a string of colored Christmas lights hangs over the bar year-round, and the jukebox features songs ranging from Motown to One Direction. Jefferson the bartender keeps a bottle of Finlandia vodka in the freezer expressly for Audre.
One or two icy shots followed by a glass of cheap chardonnay, and Audre can forget all about Tiffin for a while.
The last thing she wants to do is bump into a couple of teachers on a field trip.