How We Fall Apart

by Katie Zhao

  My blood boiled with the desire to get to the bottom of it, the bottom of it all. I had nothing to lose. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, the smattering of freckles across my cheeks standing out as starkly as the black of my pupils. “Game on,” I whispered.

  I headed into the living room, where Mama sat at the kitchen table, on her evening off from work. She clutched a book in her hands: my copy of Wuthering Heights. She’d been flipping through it slowly for the past year, teaching herself English.

  We hadn’t spoken much since I’d asked about Baba. I knew I’d crossed a line by bringing up the fact that we hardly ever talked about him, that he was forever a giant, unseen, suffocating force looming in the room.

  I cleared my throat. “Mama?”

  “Hmmm?” My mother didn’t take her eyes off the book.

  “I’m going to prom, and I need a dress. Like, today. Do you have anything I could wear?”

  Mama lifted her gaze to meet mine. “I do have one dress.” Her expression, thoughtful. Her voice quiet, wistful. She stood, her book forgotten on the table. “Follow me.”

  She headed into her bedroom toward the closet. I waited as she flipped past her sparse outfits. She pulled out something floral and red, holding it out in front of me.

  “A qí páo.” I was taken aback by the vibrancy of the dress. It looked like it’d never been worn. Like it belonged to someone with a whole lot more money than us. “Mama, you had this all along?”

  “I brought it from China.” She ran her fingers over the fine silk. “This is the nicest dress I’ve ever owned. I’ve only worn it once before.”

  “What for?”

  Mama closed her eyes. A dreamy smile tugged her lips. “I once sang in a huge concert hall, back in China when I worked as a singer.”

  I suddenly got the feeling that I knew nothing at all about the woman who stood before me. “You . . . ​sang? You were a singer?” At first it seemed unimaginable, but then a fuzzy image sharpened into a scene that unraveled like something out of a movie in my head: a younger Mama, stepping under the stage lights with that fierce red dress on.

  I’d never known Mama to be anyone but a weary, overworked, and underpaid worker. But back in China, once, she’d been a girl with dreams, too. She’d given them up—for this. For a restaurant job that barely paid the bills. For a lonely life far away from family, a life that was so hard.

  “That was many, many years ago,” Mama said with a sigh and a shake of her head. “It’s all in the past. I don’t sing anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “For the same reason your baba gave up photography and came to America to work a steady job. So we could have you, and make a better life together.”

  “But . . . is this really a better life?”

  Mama patted my hand. Didn’t answer the question. “You can have this dress now.” She handed the qí páo to me.

  I took it gently, as though the dress were made of the most precious material in the world. A dress made of dreams.

  There was so much I could have said in that moment.

  I’m sorry you gave up everything.

  I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the world in return.

  I said, “Thank you for this dress.”

  “Bú yòng xiè.” No need to thank me.

  It was one of those rare moments where Mama was really smiling, and I’d never felt prouder to be her daughter, and even if I could never live up to her expectations, and even if we were still poor, and even if Jamie were still gone, this fleeting moment could feel beautiful.

  This fleeting moment was something I would fight to protect. Even if it meant fighting dirty. Even if it meant sacrificing everything.

  CONFESSION TWENTY-TWO

  Can’t wait to see you losers at prom! Keep an eye out for me. I’ll be the one in the mask —Anon

  *****

  Alexander: Hey . . . ​checking in, are you still coming to prom with me?

  Nancy: I’m going alone. Sorry! Nothing against you. I wanna be on my own for a bit

  Alexander: It’s cool, I get it. Why haven’t you been texting Akil and Krystal back tho? They told me they’re really worried

  Nancy: I’ve got a lot going on atm

  Alexander: I get it. We’re meeting at Krystal’s at 5 to head over together if you decide you wanna come with

  Nancy: I’ll see you guys at the school

  Alexander: Are you sure?

  Nancy: Definitely

  I stared at the three little blue dots in iMessages that told me Alexander was composing a reply. But the response never came. I tucked my phone away, out of sight. It didn’t matter. It was better this way. I didn’t need anyone else. Like how my parents had come to the States on their own, I could find and stop the Proctor on my own. I had to. I’d die trying.

  It was chilly, abnormally chilly for a May evening. Low sixties, and dropping into the fifties later in the night. I’d forgotten my jacket in my rush to head out the door, and sitting in Mama’s qí páo on the train, I regretted it.

  Luckily, the inside of the school was warm, and I followed the crowd of prom-goers as they headed all the way to the back of the school, to the Sinclair Prep ballroom. The ballroom was especially toasty, and I warmed up soon after arriving. The room was packed with masked juniors and seniors checking in for the event. Loud music blared from inside, and everywhere I looked, there were girls in high heels and dresses, boys in tuxes and dress shoes.

  My dress, so unlike the Louis Vuitton or Jovani designer wear that dominated the event, drew some stares. But I wasn’t the only girl wearing a qí páo. A couple of the Chinese international students donned multicolored qí páo. We smiled when our eyes met, as though we were sharing our own little secret.

  Focus, Nancy. I was here to catch the Proctor once and for all. The culprit had left only that one cryptic message:

  To an old friend: will you be my prom date?

  If yes—meet me where the beginning foreshadows the end. Prom night. 9 PM on the dot.

  If no—enjoy the finale I have planned.

  Hope I’ll see you then.

  —The Proctor

  The “old friend” referred to me. I was sure of it. Who else could it be but me, the one whose Diss Diary had been stolen, who was set up to take the fall for Jamie’s death? And “the finale” was no doubt the Proctor’s grand reveal of my name on the cover of my Diss Diary, making me out to be the culprit behind Jamie’s death.

  The rest of the note still stumped me, but there were a few clues I could go on to try to figure out who here was the Proctor.

  This last game was between the Proctor and me. I wasn’t going to get my friends involved, or put them in danger. I had to do this on my own.

  According to the boy at Green Bottle Coffee and the store manager at Meryl’s Boutique, the Proctor was associated with a tall, well-dressed brown-haired man with sunglasses.

  My gaze swept over the attendees, searching for someone who matched that description. The odds were slim, but maybe, just maybe—­

  And then, there. A tall figure wearing designer sunglasses caught my eye. I pushed past Parker Xiao and Lindsey Kerrigan, who were posing for pictures and gave me disgruntled shouts. But before I could get any farther, a hand clapped down my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks.

  “Nancy!”

  It was then that I realized I’d made a mistake: I hadn’t put on my mask yet. Sighing, I turned around and found myself facing a girl with shoulder-length black hair, wearing a black sparkly mask. She wore a long black coat that covered her dress. I couldn’t tell who it was under that mask. “Um, who are you?”

  “It’s me. Louisa,” the girl said. “You look amazing. I freaking love your dress.” Louisa was with her date, a masked guy.

  Beside Louisa, a girl who could only be Kiara wore a white mask, along with a white dress that popped against her brown skin. Her black hair had been done up in an elegant bun. She held hands with a masked boy. Even now, even while I was
intent on tracking the Proctor, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pain for Akil and his long-running crush.

  “I love your hair, Nancy,” Kiara said, her voice a little too sweet to be genuine.

  “Thanks. You girls look great, too.” I didn’t know why Louisa and Kiara were being so friendly. We’d barely spoken a word since the Proctor trashed the newspaper room. Plus, they knew about my secret relationship with Peter. Like everyone else, they should’ve been avoiding me.

  I looked over the girls’ heads, but the person who might’ve been the Proctor’s right-hand man had already vanished from sight.

  Louisa stepped in closer, as though confiding a secret. “Listen, I was hoping you’d be willing to talk to Sinclair Unveiled about you and Peter. I mean, um, Mr. Shui. We’ve heard his side of the story. Now we want to hear yours.”

  I really didn’t want to talk about Peter right now. Especially because he was sitting at the sign-in table not twenty feet in front of me, helping students check in for prom. “Can we talk about this later?” I brushed past Louisa and secured my glittery black mask over my face.

  “Nancy!” huffed Louisa.

  “Whatever,” I heard Kiara say. “She’ll come crawling to us when she realizes she has literally no one else to talk to.”

  I turned in my ticket at the table, not sparing Peter so much as a glance. I headed into a huge room filled with round tables decorated with fancy scented candles and “champagne,” which was really sparkling juice. Students stood in groups, talking and laughing with a carefree happiness that rarely graced the halls of Sinclair Prep.

  I observed my classmates from a corner, grateful for my mask. Nobody came up to talk to me. Nobody could tell who I was. For the first time in weeks, I was out of the spotlight at Sinclair. Everyone else was too busy having fun to pay attention to Nancy Luo, cheater, seducer, terrible friend, target of the Proctor. I would cherish the feeling of anonymity as long as I could, but it wouldn’t be long. It was already eight thirty, so time was running out.

  Meet me where the beginning foreshadows the end.

  Where the beginning foreshadows the end.

  The room, fading around me. The thrum of the music, growing more and more muffled. I closed my eyes.

  On a night, two years ago.

  Two years ago, the five of us—­

  No. That wasn’t right.

  Two years ago, there had been six of us.

  Fragments of memories, swimming before my eyelids.

  A statue. Always that statue, of Richard Sinclair, holding that book, pointing into the distance.

  A fire in her eyes. A sickening crack.

  Bloodcurdling screams. Her bloodcurdling screams.

  Dark blood. Her dark blood.

  Jamie. Jamie’s screams, Jamie’s blood. But no—that was impossible. Jamie was dead. I’d attended her funeral. How could a dead girl be torturing us?

  The students whispering, always whispering about the ghosts that walked these halls. Phantoms trapped here, phantoms that couldn’t leave even in death. Maybe it was true. Maybe Jamie was one of them.

  My phone vibrated in my hand, shocking me so much I nearly dropped it.

  Alexander: Hey, we got to the ballroom. Wya?

  Nancy: Don’t come looking for me.

  Alexander: What? I thought we were meeting you here

  Nancy: It’s fine. Go on without me

  Alexander must have relayed my message. Not even a second later, my phone blew up with texts from the group chat.

  Krystal: There’s only 15 minutes left before 9 PM and we still haven’t figured out that clue! Nancy, why are you ignoring us???

  Akil: Are you hiding something? Why won’t you talk to us?

  I didn’t bother texting back. My friends would understand, after. That I was protecting them. That I was there at the beginning, when the Proctor took my journal, took my vengeful promise at Junior Honors Night. That I had to be there at the end.

  No matter what happened. No matter what it cost.

  8:46 P.M.—FOURTEEN MINUTES REMAINING

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, students of the Richard Sinclair Preparatory School.” Principal Bates stood in a navy blue tuxedo on the stage. His bald head glistened with sweat, although at this point, I was pretty sure his head was never not glistening with sweat. “This is a special night for which you have all worked tirelessly. I know the last thing you want to do is listen to the rambling words of this cranky old man.”

  “I want a refund!” yelled Jack Kimball, causing the room to erupt into laughter.

  I did my best to multitask, listening to Bates’s speech, as well as searching for anyone suspicious, any kind of clue. Everyone was here, packed in this ballroom. The Proctor had to be here. Waiting for me, where “the beginning foreshadows the end.”

  Moving around without feeling, as though in a dream. Pushing past sweaty students. My feet carrying me slowly, as though in a nightmare.

  Principal Bates chuckled. “While this hasn’t been an easy year by any means, your achievements are still to be celebrated. So, have fun, students. But not too much fun. Remember the values and prestige of the Richard Sinclair Preparatory School. You must strive to uphold and embody them no matter where you are, no matter what you are doing. And as always, remember the words of our founder, Richard Sinclair—”

  “In inceptum finis est,” the students finished with Bates.

  “In inceptum finis est,” I said with them.

  Like a chant. Like a vow.

  8:51 P.M.—NINE MINUTES REMAINING

  “In inceptum finis est,” Bates repeated solemnly. Then he motioned toward the DJ, and the beat of a Charlie Puth song thrummed throughout the dance floor.

  My eyes bored into the young male DJ, at the sound system around him. In inceptum finis est, inscribed on a podium next to the DJ booth.

  Maybe it was the DJ? If he commanded the sound system, he could have the ability to disrupt it, use it for his own ends, for “the finale.” But no, that theory didn’t make sense. I’d never seen this DJ before, and doubted he had any connection to the school and its people. Doubted he had any connection to Jamie, to us, to me.

  Sweat trickled down my back, down my arms. The heat of all these students packed here, suffocating me. Burning me up.

  In inceptum finis est. Blood, dark and red and thick, staining the floor, my feet.

  “Ouch! You stepped on my foot,” snapped a girl, jarring me back to the present.

  In inceptum finis est, on the colorful balloons that decorated the walls. In inceptum finis est, embedded in the students’ tongues.

  Something, here. Ghosts, here, where the walls had eyes, eyes that were always watching. In the beginning, and at the end.

  8:55 P.M.—FIVE MINUTES REMAINING

  In inceptum finis est. In inceptum finis est. In inceptum finis est.

  In inceptum finis est—there, the words at his feet.

  Her, dead, at his feet.

  The Proctor wasn’t here. Not in this packed room. I knew that, knew it with sudden, shocking clarity, knew it in my bones.

  The answer, hidden inside me all along. The answer, with me in the beginning, and at the end.

  Blood, seeping through the walls and onto the floor, painting my path forward. I followed it, slipping through the crowd and out the ballroom door. It shut behind me, cutting off the loud music abruptly, as though the speaker had been turned off.

  In inceptum finis est. In the beginning, is the end.

  Where the beginning foreshadows the end.

  That was where we went, Jamie and I. We went there to teach her a lesson. Teach Em a lesson.

  There, at the foot of the statue. In inceptum finis est. There, where the statue of Richard Sinclair witnessed it all. Witnessed everything when it went wrong.

  Em’s screaming. A crack. More screaming, our screaming.

  And the blood. The blood that dripped from her head. The blood that dripped from Richard Sinclair’s hands. His hands,
our hands. Her blood, seeping, into the grass. Into the statue, into the walls of the school.

  In inceptum finis est.

  There, at the beginning, at the end.

  There, where we had killed.

  8:57 P.M.—THREE MINUTES REMAINING

  “Nancy.” Someone grabbed my arm. Jerked me out of the nightmare, out of the reality. No—this, here, was the reality. Prom night. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

  I whirled around. It was Peter, face ashen with concern. Peter, holding me back. “Let go!” But he held on, so I wrenched my arm out of his grasp. “I told you to stay away from me. How did you even recognize me under the mask?”

  “Of course I’d know it’s you,” Peter said, his voice cracking with some emotion that I didn’t want to unpack. Then he added, “Where are you going?”

  Of course I’d know it’s you. I hated that Peter was the only one who’d recognized me under my mask. Hated that even now, with three minutes left until nine, he was still holding on.

  Peter had won our game of back-and-forth. Defeated me soundly. Now, he needed to go. I needed to go. I snarled, “That’s none of your business.”

  “Yes, it is my business. I’m monitoring prom. Students aren’t supposed to leave the—Nancy!”

  I pulled away from Peter and sprinted down the hall, glad I was wearing flats and not heels.

  He didn’t pursue me. Good.

  My feet carried me on a familiar path down halls I’d walked so many times before. Now, the halls were dark and empty. But I could still hear them. The whispers.

  Whispers, following me as I raced through the doorway. Following me as I sprinted down the steps. Across the perfectly trimmed grass. The night black but for the glow of streetlights and the moon.

  On a night, as dark as this.

  There was no one here. No sign of movement. A pungent, sweet odor entered my nostrils.

  “H-Hello?” I called, treading carefully on the slippery, damp grass. Stepping toward the statue of Richard Sinclair. Shivering against a breeze.

  On a night, as cold as this.

  Then my phone rang, the sound nearly giving me a heart attack. Alexander’s name and the time, the time, flashed across the screen.