by Eva Chase
I knew I’d been capable of crimes it made me sick to remember. But I didn’t want to lay those out for this girl any more than I could expect her to spill her guts to me. We were practically strangers.
Before I could think of the right thing to say next, Delta breezed into the room. At her arrival, Violet swiveled away from me. Remembering the way the other girl had described her to me—a degenerate—I couldn’t blame her for retreating.
Delta didn’t seem to notice. She nodded at me approvingly with a swing of her smooth hair. “Good. You’re up.” She held out a piece of paper to me. “You missed Literary Analysis. Professor Carmichael gave me your first assignment to pass on.”
I stared at the paper incredulously as I took it from her. A sputter of laughter broke from my throat. “And they’re still giving me homework.”
“They don’t really go for excuses to skip out on the work,” Delta said. Her legs wobbled just for an instant before she sat down on her own bed. I noticed again how emaciated she looked—had her features gotten even sharper, her hands even more skeletal, since I’d first wondered about her health?
How many rounds of Tolerance had she gone through since she’d first “enrolled”?
“Why don’t you just say no?” I had to ask, glancing at Violet to include her in the question. “Refuse to play along? If you don’t give them what they want…” Maybe the people running this place would let them go? Without even finishing the sentence, the optimism turned sour in my mouth. I didn’t really believe it could be that easy.
For good reason, apparently. Delta guffawed. “Right. I’d rather not deal with those consequences, thank you. You should have gotten a pretty good taste of what they’re capable of by now.”
Consequences. It clicked in my head the way it hadn’t quite before—the piercing headaches, right after I’d snooped in the dean’s office and then again when I’d defied the professor. I’d known they were connected but not necessarily a direct cause and effect.
If the school or the staff in it had the power to punish us that way, how much worse could things get if we kept up any sort of defiance? Vomiting a few times every two weeks might not seem so bad in comparison.
We shouldn’t have to make that awful choice in the first place, though. There had to be a way out. I just needed to find it.
I didn’t say that out loud. I’d learned enough to be wary of admitting to any resistance, even if it was blaring in my head.
“Yeah.” I waved the assignment paper in the air. “I guess I should get started on this, then.”
Delta eyed me as I got up, obviously not completely buying my shift in attitude. “Be careful,” she said. “Anything you’re thinking about, someone’s already tried it—and realized trying wasn’t worth it at all.”
Well, the people here were about to find out that Trix Corbyn didn’t give up that easily.
There were too many students—potential witnesses and even informers?—still wandering around in the halls for me to feel comfortable poking into the mystery any further at this exact moment. My stomach grumbled briefly about the dinner I’d missed, but I couldn’t summon any enthusiasm about going down to the cafeteria to pick through whatever was left of what probably hadn’t been an enjoyable meal even when it’d been fresh-cooked and hot. Instead, I headed to the library.
I hadn’t done any work in there before, only explored the expansive room over the weekend and determined it didn’t have any clues I could decipher. As I stepped inside now, I unfolded the paper Delta had given me.
Corbyn was written at the top, followed by a book title and author name, neither of which I recognized. Read chapter twelve and deliver a thematic analysis of at least five minutes next class. Be sure to touch on both plot and character significances that are apparent.
I already didn’t like this professor just from the way they wrote. If I had my way, I wouldn’t be here in another two weeks when my next Literary Analysis class came around, but I might as well check out the reading and see if I could determine how it might be significant to the situation I’d found myself in. Everything the staff asked of us seemed to have some underlying agenda.
It took me a while just to find the damn book. The volumes on the shelves were arranged in alphabetical order by author last name but also grouped into categories that weren’t obvious to me. I had to search through five different spans of Ls before I stumbled on it.
The fabric-coated cover felt gritty under my fingers. I slid the book out, double-checked the title, and looked around for somewhere to sit. Apparently the people who ran this school didn’t think students should be doing their library reading in the actual library, because the only furnishings were the bookshelves themselves.
Down one aisle, I found a footstool to allow the shorter students to reach the higher shelves. I perched on that and flipped through the book to the requested chapter.
It was not a meeting Dolores looked toward without apprehension, the first sentence read on the yellowed page, nor was it one she could dismiss without a great weight on her conscience. Heavy of heart, she trudged up the steps to her family’s townhouse.
Obviously an uplifting piece. I squared my shoulders and forged onward.
Dolores, who appeared to be the heroine of the story, sat down to dinner with her parents in a shabby room. She reflected on her childhood spent in that same room, with her mother barking orders at her and kicking her when she didn’t understand the expected tasks, her father smacking her around when he came home drunk. In the current moment, her mother wheedled her for money and called her a disgrace of a daughter in much more elaborate and vulgar language when she said she had none to spare. Her father hurled his mug at her head and then slammed her face into the tabletop so hard she stumbled out of the apartment with a broken, bleeding nose.
That was the chapter. As I read it, a detached part of my brain made snarky commentary about how maudlin the scene was, how pathetic Dolores’s willingness to spend any time with these people in the first place, and what an over-the-top attempt it was to tug on the readers’ heartstrings. But at the same time, with each passing sentence, fragments from my own past stirred to the surface.
My birth mother, shoving me to the side into a hot radiator and not even glancing over at my shriek while she’d been intent on upending the apartment in search of that hit she was sure she still had. My first foster father, making me stand naked in front of him every morning before I got dressed so he could “inspect” me—never touching, but his eyes crawling over my skin like worms. My second foster mother, ramming my head into a sink of hot, soapy water and holding it there until I nearly blacked out, because she didn’t think I was washing the dishes thoroughly enough. When I was four, then five, then eight.
I pushed the memories aside like I’d learned to do so long ago it’d become instinctive. The past was past. It couldn’t hurt me now. I hoped those fuckers rotted in hell, and that was all the thought they were worth. But by the time I’d finished the chapter, more fragments were clamoring to the surface so quickly I couldn’t fend them all off. Raised hands, harsh voices, shards of pain. More and more, until they drowned out the words on the page.
I dropped the book on the floor and stomped my foot on the cover as if the memories were coming from inside it, as if I could hold them back that way. My breath came out shaky. I hugged myself, blinking away flashes of images.
Think of the good things instead. Think of Cade’s smile that first day when he’d welcomed me. Think of the “fort” we’d staked out as ours between the leaning maple and the old backyard shed. Think of the flowers I’d coaxed into blooming outside the Monroes’ house. Think of—
Another girl’s giggle rose up from the depths of my mind, severing those moments. The remembered sound set my teeth on edge in an instant. A flick of dyed black hair and a glimpse of kohl-lined eyes. A sniffle and a sob.
Fuck, no. I pressed my hands to my eyes so hard the heels dug in. The stinging right there in the present dul
led the memories a little. I added the jiggling of my feet against the ground, the press of my teeth into my lip until a thread of blood seeped over my tongue.
When the barrage finally faded, I felt as wrung out as if I’d been running for my life. I picked up the book gingerly and marched it back to its spot. The uneasiness lingered even if the images weren’t hitting me so forcefully now.
I had to do something else, something now, something real.
On my way to the library door, the electric lights snapped off. I froze in the sudden darkness. It took a moment for understanding to sink in. I must have been in the room for longer than I’d realized. At eleven o’clock each night, the lights in all the common areas shut off as if on a timer.
Perfect timing for me to get a little investigating in.
I slipped out into the hall and down to the first floor, but this time I walked right past the dean’s office, as well as the row of paintings. I’d been meaning to figure out what Professor Hubert might have been up to in the basement earlier today. Maybe I’d find some bigger answers down there.
As I descended the steps into the cooler air, I used my phone for light. The concrete walls looked eerie in the thin glow. My shoes scraped the rough floor with each step.
The laundry room stood right at the base of the stairs. Beyond that I found a furnace room, a supply room full of old desks and chairs, and… the hall ended there.
I turned on my heel, frowning, searching the walls as if I might have missed an entire doorway on my first pass. This space couldn’t have filled more than a third of the total area of the building. What kind of place only had a fraction of a basement?
A place that had a second section of basement that could only be accessed somewhere else?
I’d already explored this side of the first floor pretty thoroughly. A cursory check confirmed that there were no staircases or doors I’d missed. But then, if we were talking about a whole different side to the basement, its entrance would probably be on the other side of the building, right?
I’d only walked through the staff hallway once to check that it was all professors’ offices—and, I supposed, their accommodations. It was possible I’d missed something there.
I slunk down that hallway, setting my feet carefully on the thick rug. The light from my phone glanced off the name plaques on the doors: Wainhouse, Marsden, Hubert, Carmichael, Filch, and a few others.
As the light passed over the door at the farthest end of the hall, I paused. In daylight, I’d taken the plaques to be pretty identical. The deeper shadows and the tone of the light brought out something different in that one. It had a tarnish to it the others didn’t, and the edges of the letters were slightly worn down, as if the others had all been replaced more recently but no one had bothered with this one.
Bushfell, it said. I definitely hadn’t heard anyone mention that name.
It could still be a professor whose class I wasn’t scheduled for. Maybe the mysterious counselor? I could get in deep shit pushing farther. But how cautious could I afford to be when the teachers were literally poisoning us?
I leaned close to the door to listen for any sounds of activity on the other side. Then I fished the reward card I’d been carrying since last night out of my pocket and jammed it beside the door to jimmy the lock.
Thank the Lord for this aged building. The card did the trick on my first try. I eased the door open, ready to retreat the second I saw any sign that the room on the other side was occupied—
It wasn’t a room. Beyond the doorway, a flight of stairs led down to a small landing.
My heart skipped a beat. I’d been right.
Breath sharp in my throat, I treaded down the concrete steps. The narrow walls closed around me. My phone’s light quivered and seemed to dim slightly.
All that waited at the bottom of the steps in the pool of still, chilly air was another door. This one, my card didn’t stand a chance against. The left side of the frame was bare, with the hinges presumably facing the other way, and the right side had a broad hasp-and-staple clasp with a heavy padlock holding it in place. From the patina on the lock, it’d been securing this entrance for a long time.
Who went to this much work to fortify a door that was already behind another locked—and disguised—door?
Someone who had something important beyond that entrance, something they really didn’t want anyone discovering. But short of finding and stealing the key, I didn’t see any way I’d ever get through to see what was on the other side.
Chapter Eleven
Elias
Today’s lunch offering was the kind of thing my grandfather would have dumped in the trash rather than even attempt to eat—but then, I could have said that for most of the dishes we were served at the college. Burnt spots blackened the edges of the grilled cheese sandwich, but somehow the cheese in the center wasn’t melted. The banana I’d been served with it looked like it’d just come out of a fistfight—a fight it hadn’t won.
But food was food, and I didn’t have a gourmet chef I could turn to who’d whip up something better for me. I’d choked down a quarter of the alternately dry yet sticky sandwich when I noticed Trix making a beeline for my table. Her gaze was definitely fixed on me.
Shit. I should have been paying more attention. Thankfully, I’d picked a spot close to the door, like usual. It wasn’t even that abnormal for me to scoop my lunch into a napkin and walk off to eat it elsewhere. The restless chatter of the cafeteria set my nerves on edge on the best of days.
Figuring that if she came after me, she’d be more likely to search inside the school than outside, I ducked out the front door. That turned out to be a bad call. Crossing the lawn, there was nowhere nearby to hustle to for cover when the door’s hinges squeaked behind me several seconds later.
I had enough pride that I wasn’t going to outright run away. I slowed my pace a little, accepting the inevitable, and took another grudging bite of my sandwich as if I’d simply wanted to take a stroll with my food for reasons that had nothing to do with the young woman striding over to me.
“Hey!” Trix’s brashly clear voice rang out behind me. “Hey… Elias?”
I turned slowly, schooling my face into a quizzical expression. “That’s my name.”
She came to a stop in front of me, her arms crossed over her faded cotton blouse and her orange hair flicking at her cheeks with the breeze. “I wasn’t totally sure what you wanted to go by, since I’ve been in your class twice, and you still haven’t bothered to introduce yourself.”
“Ah,” I said neutrally. “I apologize for the oversight. If you just wanted to clarify, I prefer ‘Elias,’ but ‘Mr. DeLeon’ is also acceptable.”
I moved as if to continue on my way, and Trix sidestepped to cut me off. “Okay. Elias. You want to explain why you’ve been dodging me like I’ve got some kind of plague you’ll catch just by looking at me?”
My stomach sank, but I didn’t let my discomfort show. Never allow an opponent to see a weakness. No matter what you’re feeling or how badly a deal is going, you put on a front of total confidence.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I said.
She let out a derisive guffaw, which was about the response that answer deserved. “Oh, come on. You totally ignore me in class unless I’m practically screaming for you to acknowledge me. Every time I try to talk to you one-on-one, you vanish the second you see me coming. You just ran out of the cafeteria to get away from me.”
“I didn’t run,” I felt the need to say. “And I take walks all the time. It has nothing to do with you.”
“You just enjoy this gorgeous weather so much, do you?” She looked up at the clouded sky, her nose wrinkling.
The skepticism in her voice made my mouth twitch toward a smile for an instant before I caught it. She wore her defiance of authority so well, like she had from the moment she’d walked onto campus. As much as part of me enjoyed it, even wanted to revel in it, that attitude was dangerous too.
“Was there something else you wanted to ask me about?” I said in my best teacher’s voice, as if I had important business to attend to over in the woods I’d been walking toward and she was keeping me from it.
She frowned at me. “I just want to know why you’re avoiding me. All the other professors are getting me involved in the lessons without any hesitation.”
The words spilled out automatically. “I’m not a professor.” As hopelessly frustrating as the damned math classes were, being associated with them was even worse.
“No?” Trix eyed me. “You stay in the student dorms, don’t you? What is your deal, anyway?”
“I don’t think that’s really any of your business.”
“But it’s my business if you have some huge problem with me that means I can’t keep up with class.”
No one can keep up with that class, not even me, I wanted to say. That’s the whole point. But the college came with rules, and one of those locked an explanation that blunt beneath my throat. I swallowed thickly.
This conversation had dragged out long enough. There was an honest answer I could give her, even if it wasn’t as specific as she’d have liked.
“I don’t have a problem with you,” I said. “I just know that there’s nothing I can do for you. I’m not going to pretend there is.”
Trix kept studying me for a long moment. Then she exhaled roughly. “Of course there’s nothing you can do for me,” she said. “Because you can’t even be bothered to find out what I’ve meant to talk to you about or what I might want. You can’t because you won’t try.”
The remark stung deeper than I’d expected. “Beatrix, there really isn’t—”
She jabbed a finger at me. “You know things I don’t. You’ve got to have a better idea how things work here than just about anyone, even if you’re not officially a professor. But all you care about is looking after yourself, I guess. Fine. I’ll keep figuring things out on my own, and you can keep watching them torture us while you sit on your hands like they’re tied.”
