by Sara Wolf
But I’m learning there are always exceptions.
On Monday, this one fourth-year guy follows a girl in the hall with his buddies and then stupidly decides to reach out and snap her bra strap beneath her uniformed back. The ‘smack’ resounds, and the girl’s face goes red down to her roots, and the fourth-year guys start to howl with laughter. I’m halfway into revving up my hell-fucking-no-voice when someone else does the honors - by grabbing the offending kid by the back of the neck and shoving his face over a very full trash can. The guy swears vividly in French, but the iron grip of Alistair Strickland doesn’t loosen that easily. He looks down at the flailing kid with flat eyes - two copper-green shards of irritation stabbing out as he speaks, slow and calm. I can’t understand his French, but Maria does me a favor by reiterating in her usual monotone.
“Un gaffe.”
Alistair presses the kid’s head down further. The whole hall’s watching by now, watching the guy’s nose inch ever closer towards a half-molding banana peel. Prickland leans in and for a second I think he’s trying to sniff the banana peel too, but instead he murmurs in the kid’s ear. Can’t hear what it is - the hall’s buzzing with the show - but the effect is instant. The flailing kid goes white, then a little green on the edges, and then he unceremoniously vomits right into the trash can. The entire hall bursts into cheers at it. Alistair leaves him there, hanging on the edge of the can, his friends angling awkwardly around him and trying to figure out what to do. The cheers follow Alistair and Maria and Rafe as they cut through the crowd like a hot knife through I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-butter. Rafe raises his hands and gladly takes the applause. Maria gives little nods here and there, quietly pleased. Alistair’s face never changes. Not once. The girl reaches out for his sleeve as he passes, and she says something in French. Maybe ‘thank you’. Maybe ‘you didn’t have to do that’. Whatever it is, Alistair just gives her a curt nod and a single unsmiling word.
“L’obligation.”
English borrowed that word. I know it. Obligation. An entrusted duty. Duty, period. Always the fucking duty, huh Prickland? First Borbeau, now this girl, and a handful of others I hear about in passing rumor but don’t see happen myself; a guy bullied for his lisp, a girl with an ex who refuses to get the message. Sometimes I get the aftermath, though; Prickland slouched in a fancy chair or sitting on the stairs somewhere - on the warm polished wood inside or the cold stone outside - wrapping his wounds with the first aid shit he carries around. Knuckles scraped raw. Bruises on his forearms. No fuckin’ wonder he has so many little scars.
Does he know?
Does he know his Grandmother maybe runs a gold-mask cult at this fuckin’ school? He has to know. Right?
Ana waves it off later when I ask her what Alistair could’ve possibly said to make the fourth-year vomit.
“It’s blackmail.”
“Blackmail?” I raise a brow. “The kid’s like, fourteen. No way he’s done something serious enough to make him yartz like that.”
“It doesn’t have to be serious,” Ana insists. “To parents who expect perfection, who spend millions of dollars on perfection, the smallest thing is an unforgivable sin.”
“But Strickland -”
“Strickland knows that. And he uses it to its full advantage to keep us in line.” She sighs. “Mikael definitely deserved it, though. He’s been harassing girls like that since initiation day.”
The trash can incident is the day I get it - the day I realize that besides the blood-promise, Alistair and I have maybe-possibly-regrettably one other thing in common; we hate seeing abuses of power. Abuse, period. A power imbalance leveraged, used for someone else’s selfish gain. Neither of us can stand it. The difference is I just yell, and he has the permission to act on it from Von Arx. But something tells me even without that permission he’d still be out here doing the exact same thing he is now - beating the shit outta creepy pedos and tilting assholes into trash cans. And it’s almost - almost - admirable. But you’d have to kill me and resurrect my rotting corpse with black magic before I’d ever admit that out loud.
Because God loves me, he made it so that Ciel and I don’t have a single class together. But that doesn’t mean I don’t see him at all in the next few weeks, mostly in the hands of other girls - in the form of a magazine. He’s modeling some watch, dressed in a perfectly tailored navy suit, his blonde hair gleaming like real gold. He’s laying on these really uncomfortable-looking geometric blocks because ~fashion~, but he makes it look like the comfiest couch in the world. His legs are long, his fingers longer. The makeup, the clothes, the lighting - it catches his perfect angles. Which is every angle. Fine. You win this time, capitalism. Hell yeah I wanna buy whatever stupid overpriced watch he’s selling. No questions asked. Except one, which is; how can a human being look that good? They can’t. The girls squeal about it, the guys marvel at it, the same magazine repeating itself in nearly every class I have. It’s always accompanied by that weird disconnect between reality and celebrity - hazing a thin, translucent layer over the idea of Ciel.
He doesn’t feel real, not the same way everyone else does. He feels larger than the mundane, the domestic shit of eating and sleeping and, well, shitting. He feels bigger than life, somehow. When the bell rings there’s always a knot in the foot traffic wherever he is, a slow-down of the whole world. You’d think everyone would get used to him, bored of him after years of him being at Silvere, but no - everyone’s still hyped, even after all this time, even in a school filled with Saudi princesses and prime ministers’ sons. He’s the Biggest Deal in a sea of Big Deals.
I start to get it. I get why everyone’s dying to talk to him, why he can’t leave a room or walk to class without getting mobbed and giggled on. They’ve got trust funds and status, but he’s got je ne sais quoi, and that’s something you can’t buy. I get why he’s number one on Chunhua’s ranking. Sure, it’s his looks. But it’s the idea of him, too. He has a sway like the wind over a forest of trees - a tide, like an ocean perpetually at full moon. He has his own powerful gravity. Powerful enough to have the whole school buying the magazine he’s in without a second thought.
But the difference is we get to see him in real life, too.
Ciel’s always passing by after I leave Economics, but I can’t even pack slow to try and avoid him - I’ve got a class across the building to get to. So I just keep my eyes glued to the floor, squeezing past the chittering ring of people around him until I’m firmly settled in my next class’s chair, but even that doesn’t help - sometimes I spot immaculate brown-leather shoes near me, pause, and then stride past me. Wordlessly. If I was as brave as I pretend to be, I’d just look him in the eye and say sorry. Sorry for running away, sorry for being childish. If I was braver, I’d apologize for acting like a fuckin’ weirdo. I wanna act normal around him, like a regular-ass girl. Less shouting. Less swearing. Less inappropriate jokes.
I want him to like me.
That’s gonna be my downfall, isn’t it? Usually is, in books and movies. Girl falls for the wrong guy, girl tries to make him like her, girl fails and learns she has to be herself. I know how this goes. I’m young, not an idiot. Of course I want to be myself. I don’t wanna be fake with anyone. I want him to like me as I am. But.
But.
This is my one in a million chance.
Everyone else is hard. Everyone else is the same. Except him. I can’t fuck this up. But I did. Every day I don’t talk to Ciel, the gap between us yawns wider. A gap I’ll never be able to cross. I pretended, that night cutting my palm - I pretended to be brave. That’s all it was. Make-believe. I’m not getting better. I’m just staying the same.
It’s a Thursday when Ciel talks to me again.
I’m sitting outside fourth period a little early. Too early, because I hoofed it from Economics so I wouldn’t have to see him. Even the professor isn’t here yet. The hall is practically empty, the coming student storm still miles away. I sit, and I think badly. All the chateau halls look pretty m
uch the same. Big windows, big ceilings. And that’s when it gets me, hooks me like a fishing worm -if the deer was real in the hall that night, how did it get up the stairs? Regular stairs I could buy, but the only stairs leading up to the dorm level are spiral. Not easy. Not even for me, a human. So how the fuck would a deer get up all those?
It wouldn’t.
For the twelfth time this week I pull out the lipbalm case, opening it in my lap and staring at the white tuft of fur. It’s coming apart from the strand I first twirled it into. I pick it up and re-twirl it, holding its fraying end up into the sun. Gold on white.
There’s a shuffle of footsteps, too quick for me to avoid. Brown dress shoes. I swallow frayed nerves.
“Hi Lilith,” Ciel starts, smiling and standing right in front of me like it’s the easiest thing in the world for him. “What is that?”
His silver eyes fixate on the fur in my fingers. I shuffle it away into the lipbalm case quickly, his gaze following it the whole time before he flickers up to me.
“You look sick. Is something wrong?”
“Yes? No.” I pause. “Were you, uh, watching me?”
“I just happened to spot you,” He assures me. “I guess I should apologize for our picnic before we start talking again, shouldn’t I?”
“N-No,” I blurt. “I mean, apologize for what? I goofed, not you. It wasn’t your fault.”
He laughs uneasily. “I said some pretty cruel things.”
“It was the truth,” I insist, the sunlight slanting in from the window doing nothing to cool my glowing face. “The truth is cruel, usually.”
“Still,” He frowns. “I’m sorry if it hurt you.”
If it hurt me? A tiny part of me screams ‘no ifs, it obviously hurt me!’. Something in me slices open again, a wound on top of a wound, but I ignore it (this is him, the one in a million) and grin.
“And I’m sorry for ruining a perfectly good picnic. I left you alone with a ton of cheese, huh?”
“And I will be cutting none of it,” Ciel makes a little smirk, and there’s a beat before we both snicker. I watch his profile - embossed in the sunlight his sleek hair looks like molten gold, his silver eyes two full moons, two gleaming coins as they stare down at me with a light-hearted ease. And I feel a little bit more at ease. Things aren’t great right now, but they can’t stay bad forever.
A misunderstanding. That’s all it was.
“I saw your magazine ad,” I say.
“Did you.”
“Yeah. It was really sick. You’re a…model? Is that the right term?”
“Right enough.” He nods. “But it’s not something to be proud of.”
“Oh. Um. Why not?”
The silver coins of his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, and I backtrack.
“W-We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t -”
“My parents,” Ciel sighs explosively up into the ceiling. “The world’s most famous photographers. Rock stars, pop stars, media stars - every famous name you can think of, my parents have probably shot.”
“That’s -”
“Amazing? Impressive? I know. And it’s the only reason I enjoy any success in my career.”
“That’s - that’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? Yes, I might have nice hair. But there are a hundred guys out there with nice hair. My parents just have the connections. They’re friends with every photographer, every designer, every runway. They already have their fingers in everyone I want to prove myself to. The compliments, the praise, my accomplishments - I never know if any of it is real…” He aims his smile right at me. “Sorry. I must sound like such a killjoy.”
“No, you’re not, seriously! If you want, I can listen - ”
“Let’s change the subject,” He cuts in smoothly, and points at my lap. “Was I seeing incorrectly, or was that thing in your hand fur?”
“White fur,” I nod, opening the lipbalm case again. “I found it off this deer.”
Ciel goes still. “A deer?”
“Apparently there’s this white deer on campus -”
“Where did you see it?”
“Uh, the hallways. Outside my room. But I’m not even sure if it was a dream or -”
“Inside? When?”
Why is his voice so sharp? I’ve never heard it like this before. Not with anyone. Not even when he seems his most exasperated, surrounded by dozens of people all chiming his name. He’s always light, smiling, but his expression right now - it’s the darkest I’ve ever seen. He looks hungry. No. Starving.
“Last, uh, Wednesday. Wednesday night - well, I guess this morning.”
“And it was just outside your room? Standing there?”
“No, it was like, walking down the hall. Totally unbothered.” I laugh nervously. “Kinda weird, huh? Someone must’ve left a door open, and I guess it just wandered in.”
“Can I -” Ciel’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, eyes still on the tuft. “Can I have it?”
I look down at it in my hands. Why would he want this thing? It was a deer. A freaky deer, but still just a deer. I try a laugh.
“Do you resort to collecting dust bunnies all the time, or just on the really boring days?”
His hungry look collapses, mouth crinkling into a wry smile. “I like interesting things. And this seems pretty interesting. Would you mind?”
He holds out his long hand just above mine. Above the white fur. He’s so close now I can see each of his blonde eyelashes, each strand of silver thread woven in his pale irises. My heart thunders, drums beating in my ears, my chest. But not out of fear. There’s no fear. For once in the last couple weeks, the fear melts away. It’s just a warm humming. He leans in more, even more, mint and gold and silver, his hand snaking over mine and if I so much as breathe too deep our lips will -
“N-No,” I pull away, clutching the lipbalm case close. “Sorry. I kinda need it.”
Ciel looks half-surprised, but keeps his smile. “For what?”
“Just…things.”
“I can pay you for it,” He offers, reaching into his bag. The corner of a thick-ass wad of francs peeks out from between his fingers.
“No - ” I hold out my hand. “No money.”
He chuckles. “You need it, right? Your step-dad probably hasn’t given you any real spending money to play with.”
I freeze. “How did you -”
“Being friends with Alistair has its surly downsides. But there are perks, too. Like access to his freakish brain that keeps everyone’s records, more or less. Your mom married your step-dad recently, right? Cunningham, in a pre-nup. What if he divorces her?” Ciel’s smile never slips, as he taps the wad of money with one long, milk-white finger idly. “You’ll wish you’d’ve taken this while you could.”
I fight back sick in my throat. He’s not doing it on purpose. He’s not toying with one of my biggest fear on purpose. He couldn’t know he’s talking about Mom’s utter emotional destruction. My biggest fear. He wouldn’t.
“I’m really sorry.” I make a cracked smile. “Seriously. Je suis, uh, desole. But I need it around. It’s hard to explain.”
There’s a beat, the breath both of us share still so close. So close my brain should be screaming red alert like it does with everyone else. But there’s only silence, soft and sweet and lingering. Is this - is he trying to…his silver eyes flicker over my face, down to my lips, and then he finally pulls away.
“You’ll tell me if you change your mind?”
“Y-Yeah.” I start. “Sure.”
His grin grows, bright enough to have me holding my breath. “See you later then, Lilith.”
I spend fourth period thinking less about math and more about why in the fuckin’ world Ciel Lautrec - the most popular guy in our school, a popular model in the real world, handsome and smart and kind, a guy who has everything - would want a tiny bit of fur from a deer so bad. Bad enough to pay.
My fingers skim over my lips.
Bad enough to try to kiss m
e.
29
The Pool (Or, How the pain will always be ready for you to come home)
When I look up from my Calc-homework-induced headache, two whole weeks have gone by. I get used to the rhythm of things at Silvere the way a frog gets used to swimming in boiling water. There’s a pattern as the school breathes around us - the flow of footsteps, the mouth-watering sauce smells coming from the kitchen, the sigh of the old wood of the chateaus at night, the chocolate breaks we get halfway through second period. They serve it before lunch - Swiss tradition, Ana explains. The bittersweet taste follows me everywhere - in my nose, my throat, my hair. Can’t even wash my bras and get rid of it.
And then Saturday comes around again.
“You sure you don’t wanna come, Lilith?” Ana motions to her sleek car puttering hot air into the cold. “There’s room for one more.”
The backseat’s crowded with waiting girls - a flurry of French and perfume and long stares from under hundred-dollar mascara. I shake my head and smile.
“It’s okay. You have fun.”
“I’ll try,” She grins. “But without you there, it’ll be hard.”
My laugh follows her as she minces down the steps in pink sneakers and piles into the back with her friends. She waves out the window until the trees framing the long driveway threaten her arm, and I wave until I get cold. And embarrassed. Which takes all of four seconds.
It’s wild how Silvere empties out on Saturday. A good chunk of the professors and staff take off, too, heading down to the lakes or taking their own cars into Geneva for the day. Sans private drivers, of course. Sunday…not so much. Even in uber-rich European boarding school territory, Sunday’s still the day to get all the homework you’ve been putting off done. Sure, Socrates - math’s a universal language. But so is procrastination.
