by Yvonne Woon
“The sacrificial flesh, when burned, should form a triangle,” Genevieve read.
I pinched Eleanor.
“Ow!” she squealed. Genevieve squinted at her.
She passed around a pair of metal scissors, and we each snipped off a lock of hair and held it over the flame of our candle until it ignited. Instantly, the room was filled with the stench of burning hair. Eleanor winced. I coughed and wafted the smoke from away from my face, but Genevieve didn’t flinch. Without asking, she took the top sheet from Charlotte’s bed and laid it on the floor. After all the hair had burned out of her candle, she took it and dripped wax across the sheet so that it formed a large triangle within the circle of candles.
Charlotte gasped.
“Relax,” Genevieve scolded. “It’s just wax; it’ll come off. Now, we all have to concentrate on our ‘object,’ or, in other words, the dead person, which Charlotte and I have decided will be the first headmaster of Gottfried Academy, Bertrand Gottfried.”
Before she continued, Eleanor interrupted. “Why do you get to decide?”
“Because I organized it. And we have to see if it will even work.”
“But I don’t want to talk to him.”
“Do you have a better suggestion?”
Eleanor went silent. “What about a celebrity or something.” She winked at me. “Or how about Benjamin Gal-low?” Now I understood why Eleanor made sure I came. I gave her the beginnings of a smile.
Genevieve rolled her eyes. “What, so you can ask him how he died? We all know how it happened, Eleanor. He had a heart attack.”
There was a long silence as everyone tried to pretend they weren’t paying attention.
“You know, I don’t really want to talk to the headmaster either,” I said. “Can’t we all just pick our own objects?” I gazed around the circle for approval, but everyone avoided eye contact.
Genevieve sighed. “Fine.” Raising the book again, she said, “We each have to think of someone who died. Once you choose the person, you have to concentrate on them as hard as you can. The book says, ‘The object that you choose should be someone you were intimately acquainted with or know a great deal about. In order to conjure it from the dead, you must visualize your object in its entirety. Repeat its name in your head, and then once you hear its voice in your ear, silently speak your question.’”
Genevieve lowered the book and gave us a somber look. “Does everyone understand?”
“What if we can’t hear its voice? How will we know when to ask?” Eleanor said.
“If you do it right, it’ll work,” Genevieve said, dismissing her question. “Okay, now close your eyes and visualize your object.”
I closed my eyes and thought about my parents while Genevieve began to chant in Latin. I tried to imagine my mother sitting in the sunroom with a book in her lap, and my father eating toast while doing a crossword puzzle. But their images kept fading away from me. Sitting in Genevieve’s dorm room surrounded by candles and girls I barely knew, I felt so far away from my parents that it was hard to conjure any sort of tangible memory. It was as if they had ceased to exist in my mind as real people, and instead had become nothing more than the blurry idea of two people I had once met in a dream.
I opened my eyes and looked around the circle. Everyone else had their eyes shut, concentrating on their objects. I shut my eyes again and tried to focus, but the images of my parents kept darkening, becoming overshadowed by the one person who I couldn’t get out of my head since coming to Gottfried Academy. Dante.
I pictured him in the library, the way he’d pulled me through the stacks of books, his legs brushing against mine as we’d waited, hushed, in the dark. I blushed just thinking about it. Where was he right now? Probably in his room in Attica Falls, sleeping, or maybe reading. I wondered if he was thinking of me too.
Then a gust of wind blew through the open windows, rattling the shutters and rustling the papers on Genevieve’s desk. The candles flickered.
A whisper blew around us like an autumn breeze. The low murmur of voices filled the air, though none of us were speaking. My body acted without me, and I leaned toward Genevieve and cupped my hands around her ear as if I were about to tell her a secret. Then my mouth began to move against my own volition, the words coming out jumbled and strange. They were more sounds than words, eerie utterances that spilled out of me faster than I could process them. Even my voice was different—it was deeper, the pitches varying quickly and capriciously, as if coming from a different body. I tried to make it stop, to stop speaking, but I couldn’t control my lips or my tongue.
One by one, each of us leaned toward the girl to our left, perched against her ear like we were playing a game of telephone.
And then I felt something tickle my ear. Before I could turn to see what it was, a voice began whispering to me. It was Eleanor, but it wasn’t. Her voice was low and deep and sounded like it belonged to a man. My dad. I was so shocked that I completely forgot I was simultaneously whispering to Genevieve. The only thing I wanted to do was listen. All at once, a million questions crowded my head. I chose the most important one and concentrated on it.
How did you die?
The voices stopped. All I could hear was Eleanor’s breath, deep and husky, on the back of my neck. And then a sound rolled off her tongue, which turned into another sound that folded into another. The words spilled into my ear like a flood. They were nothing but strange sounds that started as words but transformed into an echo of a place, a smell, a feeling, a taste that I once knew.
The ocean. I felt its sticky air clinging to my skin. I smelled the rain as it pounded against the asphalt and evaporated into steam. I heard the seagulls crying as they circled above the marina, the tide lapping to shore, and then a splash.
The image of a person thrashing in the ocean appeared in my mind. He was in the deeper side of the marina, past where the boats were docked. He was being pulled under by something, and was reaching out into the air, grabbing at nothing while the waves pushed him under. I thought it was my dad, but I couldn’t understand why he was drowning and where my mother was. But just as quickly as the image had entered my head, it vanished.
My mind was racing. Where are you?
All of sudden an image flashed through my mind. It was of an ancient tree with long sweeping branches. It seemed familiar. I focused on the image, trying to place where I had seen it. Somewhere in California, maybe, in the redwood forest, or at a friend’s house. For the first time in months I thought about places that I had taught myself to forget, but none of them matched the tree in the image.
Finally, Eleanor stopped talking.
At the same time, my mouth slowed until the sounds stopped. I regained control over my hands and pried them free from Genevieve’s ear. I tried to move my tongue, and to my relief I could move that too. Once separated, the other girls seemed to be experiencing the same disbelief I was. For a moment none of us moved as we pondered what had just happened.
Slowly, everyone began talking.
Bonnie heard from her grandmother, who had died four years ago. Charlotte had spoken to Kurt Cobain, and looked like she was about to faint from the shock of it. Greta was visited by her old tennis coach, and Maggie by Audrey Hepburn. I wanted to ask them questions, but I was still in shock over the fact that I had actually conjured my father from the dead. A few of them asked about my encounter, but I barely answered. I was still trying to figure out what had happened and what it meant—the marina, the drowning, the tree.
Lost in my thoughts, I gazed out the window. It looked out on the lake, which was surrounded by giant oak and spruce trees. And then it clicked. Amazed at how obvious it was, I stood up.
Eleanor approached me just as I was about to leave, and pulled me aside. “We have to talk,” she said in a tone that was so serious I couldn’t believe it was Eleanor.
I pushed my hair out of my face. “Can it wait till later?”
“Not really,” she said, studying me. “What’s wro
ng?”
“How can I get outside?” I asked, my knees brushing against each other as I shifted my weight and scoped out the room.
She gave me a strange look. “You climb down the chimney to the basement,” she said slowly. “Why?”
“It...it worked. It actually worked. I talked to my father. And I...well, I just have to go. I’ll explain it all later.”
“Do you know how to get back? Want me to go with you?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out. I’ll meet you back in the room. Okay?” I bit my lip.
“Sure,” she said, though I knew she was skeptical. “If you walk past the furnace, there’s a fire escape. It leads to the back of the dorm. The alarm won’t sound; it stopped working years ago.”
I smiled in gratitude. “Thanks.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?”
I nodded and grabbed my things. “I’ll see you later.”
I shimmied down the chimney chute until I got to the basement. Squeezing my way through the fireplace, I lowered my feet to the ground. Steam hissed from the pipes lining the ceiling, filling the room with the soggy smell of laundry and mildew. I hid behind a large beam and surveyed the room to make sure Mrs. Lynch wasn’t lurking in the hall. To my left was the furnace room, to my right the laundry machines. In front of me was a long cement corridor. Everything seemed to be made of corrugated metal. There were rusty pipes everywhere, leaking a viscous liquid that left yellow stains on the floor. Otherwise the room was empty. I counted to three and ran down the hall, dodging the drips until I spotted an eroded metal staircase that led to a fire escape.
In the cold night air, my body tightened. Goose bumps prickled across my skin, and I remembered that I was barely wearing any clothes. Immediately, I felt self-conscious, even though I knew no one was there to see me. Stupid Renée. Now I might freeze to death before I even made it to the green, and if Eleanor ever conjured me up in a séance, all she would see was me tiptoeing around campus like an idiot in my shorts.
But what else could I do? If my father was out there, I had to find him. I walked across campus, past the lake and through the trees, until I was standing in eyesight of the great oak. Its gnarled trunk looked thicker without its normal shroud of leaves, and its bare branches extended over the lawn like a system of roots. It was the exact same tree as the one that had flashed through my mind during the séance.
And then in the distance, two figures materialized out of the darkness by the Ursa Major statue. I squinted. It looked like a man and woman. It had to be my parents. Without thinking, I ran toward them. They seemed to be heading in the direction of the girls’ dorm. Maybe they were coming to meet me. A gust of wind carried the sound of the voices across the path, and I wrapped my arms around myself in the cold.
“Mom?” I called out as I approached. “Dad?”
At the sound of my voice they froze, then spun around. I realized, to my horror, that they weren’t my parents at all. Instead, I was face-to-face with Gideon and Vivian. “I ... I’m sorry,” I said, and backed away. “I thought you were someone else.”
Vivian looked wildly around her, as if caught in the midst of a crime. When she was sure I was alone, she whispered something to Gideon, and they both looked at me. Why were they out here at night in their antique suits, and what were they talking about, and why did they always look so angry?
It’s okay, I told myself. They’re just students. What could they do to me?
Gideon said something to Vivian in Latin, and she nodded and approached me. The sky rumbled with thunder, and I began to back away from them, when I felt someone directly behind me. A hand clamped over my wrist and pulled me aside. I recognized his touch immediately.
“Dante.” My voice was barely audible in the night wind.
“Stay behind me,” he said, stepping in front of me, his voice low and authoritative.
“Friends,” he said, looking between Gideon and Vivian, “what are you doing out past curfew on a night like tonight?”
Vivian narrowed her eyes. “I could ask you the same.” It was the first time I had heard her speak English; it sounded clumsy and unpleasant.
Gideon came up behind her, his hand on the small of her back, and said something to Dante in Latin. Dante paused and then responded.
What had he said? Even though my eyes were trained on Gideon and Vivian, the only person I was aware of was Dante. He loomed in front of me, gripping my wrist as he spoke, my arm tingling as it grew cold, now a familiar sensation, and one that I was slowly growing fond of. It was uncomfortable, unexplainable, unsettling. The woodsy smell of his body tickled my nose, his shirt brushing against my back with every breath that he took. I shifted my weight until our legs were almost touching.
Suddenly he turned to me. “Let’s go,” he said, giving a sidelong glance to his old friends, who were walking away.
“What did you say to them?” I asked as we headed toward the girls’ dorm.
“Nothing. Just that you were here to meet me.”
But I wasn’t. “Why are you here?”
But Dante’s eyes were focused on something in the distance. “Someone’s coming.”
The front door to the girls’ dorm opened, and Mrs. Lynch stepped outside. She must have heard us talking, because she peered into the darkness.
We backed away to the safety of the trees, but a burst of lightning illuminated the campus. In a flash, Mrs. Lynch’s eyes met mine in a furious, gleaming glare.
“She saw me,” I whispered.
Thunder shook the ground below us, the sky cracked open, and it began to rain.
“Come on,” Dante said. I trembled as he took my hand, my fingers chilling as they curled around his.
We ran across the green, the rain pouring down on us as we splashed through mud and puddles until we reached Horace Hall. The double doors were locked, and as Dante bent over them, I squinted into the rain, waiting for Mrs. Lynch’s stocky figure to appear. “She’s probably on her way. What do we do?” I said, water dripping down my nose. But just as I finished speaking, the doors clicked and Dante pushed them open.
“After you,” he said, and we slipped inside, the doors locking behind us.
Horace Hall was different at night. Without students, it was so quiet I could hear the water dripping from my hair as Dante led me upstairs and into the darkened classroom where I normally had Latin.
“What just happened?” I asked, my lips quivering. “And why were you out there tonight?”
“I was following them.”
Dante glanced out the window to make sure Mrs. Lynch wasn’t coming, then turned to me. I must have looked surprised at finally getting a real answer from him, because he smiled.
“I figured you wouldn’t stop asking until I told you, so there it is. I was following them. And you,” he said. “Once I realized you were there.”
“Why?”
“I think they’re up to something. And no, I don’t know what. I’m just getting used to your questioning routine, so please take it easy on me.”
He was still wearing his clothes from school, his blue oxford shirt now soaked through and matted against his chest. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking the water from it.
His eyes traveled across my body, and a slow smile spread across his face, reminding me that I was in my pajamas. I pulled at my T-shirt, which was now transparent and clinging to my body.
“What?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
He let out a laugh. “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “You seem to be out of dress code.”
“I didn’t realize we were going to class.”
“Well, as your teacher, I should make you write lines.”
I gave him a challenging look. “What do you want me to write?”
He took a step toward me. “Cupido,” he uttered. His voice was full and rich, as if he weren’t uttering just a word, but a command.
I picked up a piece of chalk. “How do you spell it?” I as
ked, my voice shaking.
Dante wrapped his fingers around mine, guiding my hand. A prickling sensation climbed up my arm, and I shivered. “What does it mean?”
When he spoke, he was right behind me.
“The thing about Latin is that you can say so much more than in any other language. The words, the tenses. They’re different, they evolve—it makes it easier to explain what you’re thinking. Do you ever feel like you want to say something, but you don’t know how to say it?”
I nodded. Mostly when I was with him.
“Can I try something?” he whispered.
He turned me toward him, brushing his hand across my cheek, and played with the loose wisps of hair around my neck. His fingers tickled my skin, and suddenly I lost all of my words. I swallowed and nodded.
My heart began to beat faster, and everything inside of me began to tremble like the leaves of a tree rustled by an autumn breeze.
My legs moved without me, and I stepped closer to him until our legs were tangled. He grazed his fingers down my thigh, and with a sudden, almost uncontrollable force, pressed me against the blackboard, the slate cool against my skin. Lacing his fingers through mine, he pulled me toward him until our lips were barely touching. His eyes were ravenous as they crawled over me; something about him felt raw and dangerous; even if I’d wanted to push him away, I knew I couldn’t. I closed my eyes, waiting for the kiss, but it never came. His grip softened, and he ran his hand gently through my hair as he kissed my neck, my shoulders, my arms. I closed my eyes, my breath growing shallow as I felt his mouth against my skin, his hand on the small of my back, sending shivers up my spine.
“Renée,” he sounded out, as if he were learning my name for the first time.
I wanted to say something back, but I didn’t have the words to describe what I was feeling. I thought I knew what it meant to kiss, to touch, to embrace, but this was something that I’d never felt before.
I closed my eyes and raised my hand to his face, passing it over his nose, his eyes, his lips, memorizing the way they felt. He pulled me toward him, and without thinking, I leaned into his kiss.
