by Sara Wolf
“Well. Allow me to show Lilith Pierce the ropes, then.”
It’s her turn to lead me by the hand towards the bonfire. There’s that paralyzing half-second where we walk into the space and everybody turns to look at the intruders, but they go back to their respective business of merrymaking pretty quick. It hits me, then. How loud they are. How close. People are sprawled in each other’s laps and on their sweaters, some screeching with laughter. Clothes messy - covered in dirt and booze and who knows what else. Two boys in the corner are mock-fighting, shadowboxing with one hand and spilling their drinks with the other. There’s shouting, shrieking, swearing. It’s nothing like the polite corporate office-silence of the cafeteria, or the classrooms. There’s life. It’s loud. It’s messy.
This is more like it. More like real life.
Ana leads me over to the keg - not the metal ones I usually see on the backs of trucks heading over the border to party, but a massive wooden thing that looks old as sin. She says something in French to a guy I recognize from my Economics class, and he pours us two red plastic cups (those are universal, at least) of -
“Wine?” I sniff at it. “Isn’t shitty beer like, de facto at these sorts of things?”
“It would be,” Ana agrees around her first sip. “If Silvere didn’t have a sterling collection of vintages. There’s absinthe too, if you want. But that always makes me see weird colors.”
“What?”
“Hallucinate. Just a little, though. Wine’s safer, anyway. I think this is a…” She swirls a sip around in her mouth. “An ’08 Saint Michel?”
Is that it? My brain goes Alistair-mode; has someone been spiking my shit with absinthe this whole time? No. My hallucinations of the red-eyed man started in LA. And that wouldn’t explain why Alistair can see him, too. Finally, I wrinkle my nose.
“You sound like a rich old dude with a mid-life crisis.”
“Shhhh,” She whispers. “Don’t give my secret identity away.”
I scan the crowd. “Didn’t you invite Bianca?”
“Yeah,” She bobs on her feet. “Can you see her?”
“Nope. She wasn’t at breakfast, either.” I pause. “Or Econ, now that I think about it.”
Ana frowns a little, then brightens. “Maybe she’s sick. Or she’ll come later. And if she doesn’t, we’ll try to tempt her out with a first-edition Proust, or something.”
Her playful tone vanishes as she sees something over my shoulder. I spot the glint of a camera - a group of people taking selfies - and Ana’s face goes green at the edges.
“Hey,” I breathe in and touch her wrist. Comfort, like everyone else does. “It’s okay. They’re facing the camera the other way.”
She stares for a second longer, and then exhales mightily. “You’re right.”
“Here,” I carefully tip our cups together and pour my wine into hers. “You drink. I’ll watch.”
“But -”
“No buts. Don’t get drunk enough to show off your butt. Or do. It’s totally up to you. I’m watching and slapping down cameras, and you’re having fun out there, and that’s final.”
Ana knits her lips, and I smile.
“Just for once, okay? One night, and then you can go back to being scared of fucking up all the time.”
“Okay. Yeah. Okay.”
She whirls around and drifts out into the crowd where people are dancing, her mane of braids gleaming in the firelight as she goes.
It’s those beautiful braids that make her easy to spot in the crowd - easy to keep an eye on. She’s only really interested in dancing, and the dancing all happens in a certain corner. A couple people angle selfies in the direction of the dancefloor, and the gabber music wishes it was loud enough to cover up my owl-screech of ‘hold it!’. They’re so stunned at my audacity to walk right up to them and demand the selfie be taken with a different angle they just comply woodenly. I thank them with a bright smile and go back to sentineling. I might seem like a nosy piece of shit for shoving my way into people’s snapchat-insta-whatever-lives, but I’d rather a dozen people hate me than Ana get in trouble with her parents. She’s been great to me since day one. This is my way of making it up to her. For doubting her with my broken brain.
For a wine-absinthe kegger in the woods, Genevieve’s exam isn’t nearly as snooty as I thought it’d be. I thought it’d be gold-plated and name-brand and pretentious like everything else in Silvere, but I was wrong. Save for the couture sweatshirts and real diamond earrings and vintage wine, it’s a pretty fuckin’ normal party. Or, what I think normal parties look like, anyway. There’s shitty beer someone’s snuck in. There’s the usual cool ranch (they’re called ‘Cool American’ flavor in Europe for some hilarious-ass reason) Doritos and cans of awful energy drinks next to the not-so-usual prosciutto and grapes and gold-foil chocolates. People make out, people argue, people drink too much and pass out under the trees, tangled up in the massive roots and patches of wildflowers. I’m used to seeing them spotless, beautiful, not dribbling vomit and arguing and doodling fake-tattoos on each other’s arms with metallic sharpies.
I spot Chunhua dancing with a guy, her and Ana very clearly avoiding each other’s personal space. I’m still not sure why they don’t like each other. Maybe it’s a fundamental personality thing. Maybe they’re just diametrically opposed on the alignment chart, like me and Prickland. Who knows. Bianca’s nowhere to be seen. I get the feeling she prefers quiet reading over parties, but it’s weird she wasn’t in Econ today. She’d never, ever miss a class. She lives for that shit.
My stomach churns the one sip of wine I took as I boxing-match the paranoia in my brain. She didn’t get drugged by her driver. She didn’t go missing - missing doesn’t happen often. Once every few decades, Chunhua said, and the last one was a few years ago. So, do the math. She’s fine. She’s somewhere on campus, and she’s fine.
The smell of pine is super strong out here, mixed with the woodsy scent of bonfire smoke. It’s not a bad smell; way better than the rotting dumpster whiffs or the hot, dry asphalt reek you get in LA. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the two boys mock-fighting have been invaded by a third; a guy so broad and beefy and clearly drunk he’s like a walking disaster waiting to happen. His crew cut’s low and buzzed on the sides, with a zig-zag above his ear. He swings off-center and guffaws as his fist almost carries right into an onlooker’s face. The sheer amount of muscles, that hearty laugh, that cut - Rafe. Definitely Rafe. Which means -
“New girl.”
“Fucké.” I hiss under my breath. I turn slowly and come face-to-face with Alistair Strickland. He’s in that leather jacket again, plain jeans, and unlike most people here wearing just one accessory - his usual impenetrably long scowl.
“What are you doing here?” He narrows his eyes. I play it cool.
“Running defense. You?”
“Running offense. But the game is slow, tonight.” He looks over my head, and I make a mental note to get good at science and figure out how to shrink-ray him until he’s shorter than me like every other dude. My glares would be so much more effective if I didn’t have to squint up a skyscraper every time.
“I finally heard the news from Ciel,” He says.
My breath in splinters out like ice. “What news?”
“You ran away not long after I left the picnic.” He pauses. “Does he kiss that bad?”
I squeak in the back of my throat. “Here’s the thing; I don’t want to talk about it, actually.”
I brace myself for prying, for sneering, for an ‘I told you so’. But he just exhales.
“Fine. I’ve got bigger knobs to nail to the wall than you, tonight.”
“Uh, ‘knobs’?”
“I believe in the States you call them ‘dicks’.”
“Wow. Brings a whole new mental image to the word doorknob.”
“Truly.”
“Knobby knees,” I add.
“Stop,” He requests, but I swear I see his long frown twitch.
There’s a weird moment of complete silence between us that the party fills with tinny music and boisterous laughter that isn’t ours. Everybody’s happy to see each other but us. The air feels like we’re standing - suspended - in electrically-charged hate jello. The urge to tell him about my drugging lingers on my tongue, like a skateboarder hovering on the pipe’s edge. He’s disciplinary committee. Solving maybe-crimes is his whole shtick.
What’s the point? Until I remember what happened, there is no real point. Nobody can do anything with half-memories. He wouldn’t even believe me, probably, doubly so considering Lionel’s his sort-of friend. He only believed me about the red-eyed man because he saw it, too. I’m actually alone. I can’t forget that.
Can’t forget that I’m alone in this place.
“I can’t believe they let you in here.” I squint up at Alistair. “You’re like, the opposite of a good time.”
He folds his arms over his chest. “Rules and regulations. Von Arx only lets this party happen so long as I’m here. Everyone knows that.”
“And what do you do here, other than take a hot dump on everyone’s fun?”
“Mental inventory. Make sure things don’t get too crazy. People tend to do every drug under the sun at these little get-togethers.”
“Uh…like, weed?”
“Weed, and coke,” He leads. “MDMA. General low-risk hallucinogens. Those are the traditional ones. Grandmother draws the line at anything harder.”
“Isn’t she worried people will OD?”
“You -” He shoots me a patronizing sneer. “You really have no idea what you’re talking about, do you?”
“I know some things,” I scowl. He shakes his head and motions around at the crowd.
“Look at these people. Every last one of them is loaded to the gills -”
“You included,” I snipe.
“- and they get the best stuff money can buy.” He ignores me. “The best stuff is rarely tainted with something dangerous. They know how to use this shit. They’ve watched their parents do it.”
I wince. “Christ.”
“The point is, there’s no stopping them from doing it,” He continues. “Grandmother knows that. If they don’t do it at Genevieve’s exam, they’ll do it somewhere else. And she’d rather have it here, where she can keep an eye on it.”
“But? There’s gotta be a but, or you wouldn’t be skulking around.”
“But,” He presses. “That doesn’t stop the occasional worm from trying to roofie a girl’s cup. Last year it was Percy Hauss. The year before that it was the Allegro twins.”
“So you’re -”
“I’m here to flush the hard stuff if it shows up, and flush whatever idiot tries something next. Because there’s always some idiot who simultaneously thinks they’re too clever for the rest of us and overtly entitled to a girl’s body.”
His words get me thinking. Lionel wouldn’t - he didn’t. I was fine. I woke up fine. Nothing hurt, especially in the crotch region. I hate doubting him, and I’m not because he wouldn’t. He regretted doing it, I could tell. He’s not that kind of person.
So if it wasn’t for that, why did he drug me? I don’t remember. Any of it. And it’s starting to piss me off.
It hurts my brain to think. So instead, I watch Alistair’s profile lit by the firelight. Always the wild hair, always the double-dagger eyes. He puts on a facade of tiredness but underneath it he’s always watching, like a gargoyle built into a church steeple. He’s vigilant like a sleepy dog, a still cyborg, taught to always be on alert. Where did he learn it? Because I know you sure as hell ain’t born with it. I had to work for my own vigilance, my own mind-maze. And here I am, talking to the only person who’s ever dared to stand at the entrance of it.
Would he believe me, about Lionel?
“Why are you like this?” I frown.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” He drawls.
“Overprotective,” I say. “Of the school. Of everyone. People can protect themselves, you know.”
He’s quiet, and I’m quiet. He shifts from one foot to the other. Off-balance. Alistair Prickland, uncomfortable? Thrown-off? No way. Not in a million fuckin’ years. This is his element. His school. His people.
“No,” He finally says. “They can’t. Not without help.”
The shadows of the trees carve around his throat, into the collar of his shirt and the tendrils of scar tissue there. He learned all this vigilance from his family. His mom.
“Did…” I swallow. “Did anybody help you?”
There’s a half-second of music and the smell of wine and pine. There’s a half-second as the world tilts and the stars gleam and the universe expands, and then he scoffs, his spine melting back into comfortable. Back to center.
“That’s really none of your business.”
“Doesn’t she give you days off from guard-dogging?” I press. “Your grandma.”
“It’s called summer break,” He says.
“But you’re human. You need breaks in-between that, too.”
“Silvere is a breeding ground for entitlement. Entitled people don’t take breaks from doing terrible things. So why should I?”
I laugh. “You’re the most entitled one of them all.”
His mouth flattens. “My entitlement comes with a price.”
I motion around at the crowd. “And theirs doesn’t?”
“Not as much of one.”
“Oh yeah,” I agree. “There can only be one tragic hero, after all. Everybody else in the world is just background fodder.”
“You talk an awful lot about things you don’t know,” His voice lashes, but it’s a quiet lash, the sort that infects and festers weeks later.
“It’s my specialty,” I say lightly.
The brewing argument sits heavy on our chests and we stand there, watching the firelight flash over the dancers, the fighters, the making-outers, the whisperers and laughers and shriekers and vomiters. Everything in orange and black. The kids getting to be kids, finally.
Except for the two kids leaning against a tree on the edges of the party, talking about things too big for them.
“Have you seen Trevino today?” He finally breaks the quiet with his all-business tone.
“Nope.” A seed of concern sprouts, pushing away the ticked-off dirt. “Why? Did something happen?”
Alistair heaves a sigh. “I’m getting reports from the staff that they haven’t seen her all day. Anywhere.”
“What about the nurse’s? She could be -”
“She’s not sick.”
I scroll through my snapchat. Nothing from Bianca. Still. She’s sent one everyday, a snap of whatever book she’s finished or whatever documentary she’s watching. And Ana and I are the only ones she sends it to.
“She could be, um. Hiding?” I offer.
“She’s got the top marks in the most selective boarding school in Europe,” He deadpans. “I sincerely doubt she’s suddenly decided hide-and-seek is more important than going to class.”
“I know, but - ” My gut starts twisting. “Will she be - do you need my -”
“She’s probably gone into the village. They do that, sometimes. The stress of being the best at Silvere can be crushing, and it’s the only real place to get away.”
I gnaw my lip. “But -”
“The faculty’s already searching for her. And so is the disciplinary committee.” He cuts me off. “You don’t need to get involved.”
“But, people,” I lean in. Not close. “People disappear at Silvere.”
He glowers straight ahead. “Not on my watch. Not in the three years I’ve been here.”
I can’t shake the feeling something’s gone wrong. The fear grips me, tight and high, and I try to breathe out. This is a party, Lilith. Your first party ever. Try not to be a paranoid mess, okay? My eyes flicker around, catching other eyes that flicker away. Are people…staring at us? Nah, can’t be. Too dark for that. Not important enough for that.
“Ignor
e them,” Alistair says suddenly.
“Ignore who?”
“Come on, new girl,” He sighs. “You noticed it just like I did.”
“I notice a lot of things. About everyone. All the time.” I point at the riotous trio. “Rafe’s having a good time, at least.”
“He always has a good time, no matter where he goes.” Alistair snorts. The sound is derisive, but the way his gaze softens when he finds Rafe’s enormous bulk in the crowd says something entirely different.
“Is Maria here too?” I swivel my head around.
“Present.” The single word jumps me out of my converse as Maria appears from the shadowy trees behind us, dressed in a practical gray sweatpants/sweatshirt combo.
“H-Holy -” I look to Alistair. “How does she do that?”
“Not entirely sure,” Alistair drawls without looking at her, eyes still lazily slicing around the crowd. “I’ve settled on teleporters, recently.”
“Training.” Maria defends herself monosyllabically. I gape at her.
“For what? Assassinations?”
“Now that you mention it, her family does military contracts occasionally,” Alistair says thoughtfully. Without elaborating in the slightest. I inch away from Maria’s approximate location. There’s a longer quiet, this time, my curiosity quietly burning a hole through it.
“Remember when you said friendship is pointless and all that other inspiring stuff?” I start.
“I try not to,” Alistair deadpans.
“Well, you’re wrong. You have a friend. Ciel. You’ve known each other since you were little. You hang out. He looks happy around you.”
Nothing. Alistair’s long mouth just rests in that dour frown. I pick up a stick off the ground and poke him in the arm with it.
“Hey, buddy - that’s friendship.”
“Hardly.” He swats the stick away. “It’s more of a waiting game.”
“Waiting for what?”
“The moment he finally takes what he wants from me and leaves.”
That sorry-feeling again. Not for him. Anybody but him, brain.
I glance back at Maria ever-so-slightly over my shoulder, and I’m surprised to see her usual icy demeanor gone. Her severe bob frames a downcast face, but when she catches me staring she quickly rearranges her features opaque again. She feels sorry for him. She cares about him. These rich kids are hiding behind ten walls they don’t need to.
