He’s about to answer me when the entire dining hall falls silent. Dr. Melville walks in, moving to the front of the room with a stiff-legged sense of purpose. I’ve already been here long enough to know that he doesn’t often appear in the dining hall among the students. Right away, I start wondering if this might have something to do with Gatsby and me sneaking into the rare books room over the weekend. What if somebody saw us coming out? I look around the room to see if other authority figures are here, but I don’t spot any. Off in the corner, Andrea is cuddled up on Brandt’s lap, the two of them watching the proceedings with sleepy-eyed amusement. If Gatsby’s here, I don’t see her.

Dr. Melville ascends to the lectern at the front of the dining hall and holds up his hands, which doesn’t seem to be necessary since the whole room is still noiseless. “Some weather we’re having,” he says. This statement brings a mystifying burst of cheers and applause. Everybody’s watching the head of the school now, and Phil leans over to me and whispers, “If he puts his hat on, it means classes are canceled for the day.”

“Why?”

“First snowfall of the year is always Tray Day.”

“What’s Tray Day?”

“Now, I’d heard we were supposed to get some early flurries . . .” Dr. Melville is saying, and the crowd goes quiet again. “But I was still quite surprised when I went out this morning with my yardstick”—he holds it up and everybody draws in a breath—“and it looks like I’ll need to wear this.”

He reaches down beneath the podium and pulls out a big fur-lined, Mad Bomber–style hat, then places it on his head. The entire dining hall explodes with laughter and more cheers. People jump out of their seats, hooting and whistling, and a chant starts going up from the back of the dining hall: “Tray Day, Tray Day, Tray Day . . .”

“What’s Tray Day?” I shout at Phil.

“Head out to Monument Hill,” he shouts back. “You’ll find out.”

Monument Hill occupies the northernmost part of campus, an alpine slope covered in white, and by the time I get out there, half the school is already here. Even the faculty has joined in—I see Mr. Bodkins and Dr. Melville and my French instructor, Mademoiselle Lafitte, standing off to the side in ski parkas and mittens, sipping from steaming thermoses and watching the snowball fights, near collisions, and wipeouts. Collie Morgenstern is here snapping pictures for the school’s newspaper, The Connaughton Call. The snow is more than sufficient for sledding, and I’m at the top of the hill when my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s a text from Uncle Roy, and I can practically hear him growling the words:

Flight east canceled due to blizzard in Boston.

Arriving tomorrow, weather permitting.

When are you moving back to civilization, kid??

“Hey, Will.” I look up and see Andrea walking over with her lunch tray. She drops it, takes a seat, and pats the open spot in front of her. “Want to ride down with me?”

“A little snug for two, isn’t it?”

“Not if we sit close.”

“I’ll pass.”

She sticks out her tongue, catches a snowflake on it, and licks her lips. “You know, Will,” she says, “just because we’re competing with each other doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun along the way.”

“Yeah, well, I’m heading back to the dorm. I’m way behind in U.S. Diplomacy, and—”

“Blah blah blah,” she says. “Come on, tough guy. Go big or go home.” She nods at my tray, which is still tucked under my arm. “I’ll race you. First one to the bottom wins. Unless you’re scared.”

I look down the hill. It’s a long way to the bottom, and the incline is so steep that half the kids are wiping out before they make it to the halfway point.

I’m still deciding when I hear a scream—not a scream of excitement, but one of pain, followed by an eruption of laughter. When I look toward the sound, I see Brandt literally standing on top of a younger kid, most likely a freshman. The kid is face-down and Brandt is jumping on his back with his snowboard, pounding him into the snow. Brandt’s pals are gathered around, yukking it up. Everybody else is just standing there with the blank-eyed gaze of bystanders at a car crash.

I act without thinking.

The snowball is in my hand before I even realize I’ve scooped it up. After packing it tight, I cock my arm and throw it as hard as I can. Usually my aim isn’t great, but for some reason this particular throw is perfect, and it drills Brandt so hard in the back of the skull that it knocks him over.

I grab my tray and take a flying leap down the hill.

The lunch tray doesn’t handle at all like an actual sled, so I can’t steer, and I’m already going way too fast, careening down among kids climbing up the hillside. The sound of snow is hissing in my ear, and wet, cold flakes are flying into my nose and sticking to my eyelashes. Somebody’s built a ramp, and I go shooting off into space, airborne for long enough that I hear a voice shout, “Whoa!” Then I come crashing back down to earth with a rib-shattering slam, landing at the bottom of the hill in a pile of tangled arms and legs.

A flash goes off in my face as somebody takes my picture, and then the pain follows, gallons of it, trickling in slowly at first, and then faster. I groan and lift my head in time to see a crowd gathered around me. People are laughing. A gloved hand reaches down and yanks me to my feet.

“Careful, Shea,” somebody’s voice says, slap-brushing snow from my face. “Wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you, now, would you?”

“I think I broke my leg,” I mutter.

“Walk it off,” the voice says, chuckling. “You’ll be fine.”

I’m not so sure, but I start limping up the hill anyway. I pass Andrea, standing off to the side with a couple girls I don’t recognize. She gives me a wave.

“Looks like you beat me, Shea.” She smiles. “Too bad we didn’t decide on the stakes, huh?”

“Too bad,” I say, nodding.

And I keep walking.

By dinnertime, the flurries have turned to splattery rain, washing away whatever snow had accumulated. I’m on my way out of the dining hall when a kid I’ve never seen before comes up to me with the school paper.

“Hot off the press,” he says, slapping it across my chest and walking away without breaking stride. I look down at the front page.

“King of Tray Day,” the headline reads, above a picture of me lying spread-eagle in the snow, my limbs bent and twisted in several unlikely directions.

Then I realize there’s something handwritten underneath the photo, two words in all capitals.

CHAPEL. MIDNIGHT.

And underneath it, a single stylized letter S.

Seventeen

WHEN I SLIP OUT OF MY DORM AND ARRIVE AT THE chapel at midnight, there’s nobody there. I stand outside the main entrance with my hands in my pockets, holding my breath and listening to the sound of melted ice dripping off the pine boughs in the dark, already feeling vaguely foolish. I have no idea what to expect, or how long I’m going to be kept waiting here, or if this is all just an elaborate practical joke at my expense. With every passing minute, the last option seems more and more likely.

I’m getting ready to head back to my room when a voice says, “Wait.”

Two figures step out in front of me, both wearing ski masks. I hear a crunch of boots on snow, and when I turn around, three more people are standing there. A half-dozen more appear out of the shadows, and I realize I’m surrounded.

“What’s this about?” I ask.

“Follow me.” Without another word, one of the masked figures turns and starts making his way toward the cathedral, with the others shadowing him. I get in line to trail the pack. We walk past the arched wooden doors, heading around toward the back, where it’s so dark that I can barely see the person walking in front of me. Somebody up ahead flicks a flashlight onto the stone wall, revealing a smaller wooden door with an iron ringbolt on it. The leader takes out a key and unlocks the door, then sets it swinging open. I can see a flight of steps leading underneath the building, and the group makes its way down, single file, into a large bare room.