The Screaming Season

by Nancy Holder

  “What did she do?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Telling off Jane. I couldn’t imagine doing it. It would be like standing in front of a tiger and telling it to shoo.

  “She laughed and said he was lying because she wouldn’t have sex with him anymore.”

  “ What?” I wiped my eyes. Julie gave me a questioning look and I waved my hand to let her know it wasn’t more bad news. I wasn’t sure what kind of news it was.

  “Well, you know they’re all pretty free about admitting they’re doing the deed. She started talking about how bad he was at it. I think she convinced a few people. You know Jane. A total actress.”

  “What did Riley do?”

  “Walked away.”

  “Well,” I managed, “good for him.”

  “The point is, Lindsay, that I think he did it because he still has feelings for you. I think he’s been sorry ever since it happened. And then you had the breakdown, and you left. But when you came home for Christmas and he saw you again, you flipped out again. So I’m thinking he blames himself that you keep going crazy.”

  “Wouldn’t that make you want to run if you were a guy?” I asked, thinking of Troy.

  “Not if you really cared,” she replied firmly. “It might make a nice guy feel guilty. He really did like you.”

  “I thought,” I began, and then I faltered. I had never told anyone what I thought. I lowered my voice. This was one of my deep dark secrets.

  “I thought maybe Jane ordered him to hang out with me. Like, give the nerd a thrill. Or maybe to test his loyalty or something.”

  “Oh, my God, you have no self-esteem.”

  “This is news ?” I asked. She was Heather. She had known me best. She’d understood when I started being so horrible. She’d known I’d been driven by the crazy promise of acceptance by Jane and her golden elite. Driven, and driven crazy. If she could see me now, in my jeans and my hair, surrounded by Teen Vogue models and bona fide, professional actresses, she’d know how hard I was fighting to prove that I was over and done with all that nonsense.

  Troy. No more walks, or photography sessions, or meeting at my house for Monopoly and movies. Ever. Troy.

  “Heather,” I said, “this guy I really liked up here ? He just broke up with me. I mean, we hung up and then you called.”

  Heather was quiet for a moment.

  “That is entirely freaky, fea,” she said. “But maybe it’s fate. Maybe you’re supposed to end up with Riley.”

  “A cheater.”

  “He made a bad mistake. But I think he regrets it, Linz.”

  Julie came forward and pulled out her cell, tapping the faceplate and frowning. Rose zoomed up and darted around her and swung her pocket watch back and forth, back and forth. Julie mouthed, Going to be late. I nodded at her.

  “Maybe you’ll come home now ?” Heather asked me.

  “Maybe,” I said. If Celia was gone and Mandy—or someone else—had staged that accident . . . maybe I could just leave. Maybe the nightmare was finally over.

  ELEVEN

  THE GIRLS AND I walked into the commons for breakfast, and I made a concerted effort not to look in the direction of Mandy’s table. Jessel sat together: Mandy, Lara, Alis, and Sangeeta. There had been five, with Kiyoko. Five of the possessed girls:

  Belle Johnson

  Lydia Jenkins

  Anna Gomez

  Martha St. Pierre

  Henrietta Fortescu

  First Kiyoko, and then Julie, and then Rose had been possessed by number six, Pearl Magnusen, the nicest of the batch. I didn’t know where she was now. Neither Julie nor Rose remembered anything about it. And Kiyoko was dead.

  I heard Mandy laugh, and Julie said under her breath, “She’s pretending everything is fine.”

  “She’s trying to retain some dignity, no?” Marica said, which was fairly close to defending Mandy. But Marica was a perpetual defender of class under pressure. Mandy was retaining her dignity.

  “Everybody stay close to Lindsay,” Julie ordered. “Mandy might not know . . . the circumstances.”

  “You mean that they’re mutual dumpees,” Rose said. “Might blame Lindsay for the breakup and challenge her to a topless whip duel.” She flounced in her skirt.

  Julie frowned and started to say something, but Rose jetted off for the serving lines. We sat down at our table and I could feel my head—and my heart—spinning.

  I felt disoriented for the rest of the day, as if I were the new girl all over again—the irony being that we were all new. Marlwood had reopened after a century of serving as a retreat for the descendants of Edwin Marlwood. I wondered who they were and where they lived. If they minded that their school was back in session.

  If I wasn’t the only new girl, I was the newest. I had arrived later than everyone else, wait-listed until someone else decided not to stay. I had arrived academically behind everyone, and now, because of my time in the infirmary, I was desperately behind.

  I lost track during discussions about all the academic camps and summer enrichment courses my fellow students were already enrolled in, both because they were so unattainable and because I was unfocused and dizzy. I didn’t respond to the glossy gossip that Jilly Maguire, the actress who was in my biology class, was having some major plastic surgery done during break. I didn’t even blink when someone mentioned that Lourdes Caprio had gotten a Porsche Boxter for her sweet sixteen.

  All this was their version of normal. It was like watching a movie; I felt strangely detached. I grinned to myself when I thought of Riley calling Jane out. And then I found myself aching and heartsick when I remembered that Troy’s message was still on my phone and that I should erase it.

  But I couldn’t—not yet.

  ONE WEEK TO the night since the accident and the breakup, I was studying in the library. Rose was due to help me with math. We were doing probability theory, which I did not understand at all.

  She darted over to my study carrel and leaned over me. I showed her the problems I was working on and she said, “Hmm, hmm,” like a doctor examining my tonsils. “Okay, good. Keep going.”

  “Thanks.” Most of our tutoring sessions were like that.

  “Guess who wants to see me,” she said in a low voice.

  Troy? I almost blurted. But I just raised my eyebrows.

  “Dr. Morehouse.” She made a face. “Is this because you went loony on Valentine’s, do you think?”

  Of course she knew what had happened in the operating room even though she hadn’t been there. Rose was a first-class observer and spy.

  “It probably is,” I told her. “Or else he wants to know if you still believe you’re the lost princess of Atlantis.”

  “Or a virgin,” she said, snickering. “Whoops, sorry, you’ve still got the white hat, huh. Troy didn’t—”

  “Rose, please, let’s not talk about it.” I picked up my pen. “I’m sure Dr. Morehouse just wants to make sure everything’s okay.”

  She scrunched up her face. “You can’t like Dr. Freud, Lindsay. He sounds like a Norwegian. And he’s so weird.”

  “You think so ? I do kind of like him,” I ventured, waiting to see her reaction. I was surprised that she thought he was weird. He seemed nice, even though he was a therapist.

  “Eww.” She made a show of shivering. “He’s got you fooled, baby. Didn’t you notice his eyes? Dead.” She made her face go slack, and a chill ran down my spine. She did look dead.

  “Well, anyway, don’t worry. I won’t say a word.” She mimicked zipping her mouth shut and throwing away the key.

  “A word about . . . ?” I looked up at her, and she blinked as if I were being deliberately clueless.

  “Like, how, well, let’s call it all the pure and total dysfunction.” Mine or everybody’s?

  Rose ticked her gaze from me down to my hands. I was clenching the ends of the pen in my fists, as if I were going to snap it in two. My knuckles were white.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “Like I said, I’ll cov
er for you.”

  “But you don’t need to cover for me,” I insisted.

  “Okay.” She patted the top of my head. “It’s all good.”

  She turned to go.

  “Rose,” I said, and she turned back. “When’s your appointment? I have to see him too. Maybe we’ll run into each other there.”

  She sneered. “Tomorrow during free period. Does that not suck? I have to see him on my own time.”

  “That sucks,” I affirmed. “Suckily.”

  “They’re probably charging the parents. Not us, of course. But if money is involved, those super-rich moms and dads are going to want to see results.” She made claws of her hands. “No more wackadoo, baby.”

  “Thank God we’re poor. We can still be wackadoo,” I replied.

  I made a point of going back to my studying. She danced away, disappearing among the stacks. The library was busy, filled with other girls studying and whispering, catching up on e-mail on the library’s computers. Even their after-school clothes were beautiful—cashmere sweats and hoodies, Italian silk scarves draped around their necks, diamond bangle bracelets and perfect, perfect nails.

  About two minutes later, Mandy walked out of the same area of the library where Rose had gone. I ducked my head, avoiding contact, but I watched her. Mandy bore watching, always.

  She was dressed in ghostly, foggy gray—gray sweats, gray turtleneck, gray hoodie lined with what I hoped was faux fur. Her hair hung like a platinum veil, concealing her profile, and she was walking stiffly, like someone who had been bedridden—like me this past week, like Memmy was before we knew what was wrong with her. Everything about her snapped into hypersharp focus. My heart pounded, and I shivered. I was afraid that if Mandy pulled back her hair, I would see Belle’s face—white and dead, like Celia’s.

  She sailed past, unaware of my presence.

  That’s not Mandy, I thought, my stomach pulling at my backbone. And whoever it is, she’s done something to Rose.

  I stood. Mandy’s back was to me, with her perfectly straight, shiny, silky hair. If she turns around, I’ll scream, I thought.

  She walked away.

  My face tingled with cold, then heat, and I felt my forehead to see if I had a fever. My skin was cool.

  I hurried to the row where I’d seen Rose disappear. There she was, at the other end. She was standing still, a mirror of Mandy, with her back to me. There was nothing unnatural about it, nothing scary, but I was uneasy, and I tiptoed away before she could see me.

  Everything is fine, I told myself, sitting down. But how could that be? We were at Marlwood.

  THE NEXT DAY, Rose dressed in what I had come to refer to as her “catering clothes”—white blouse, black skirt, black stockings. and black flats—her attempt to look, as she called it, “mundane.” She paraded around at breakfast, talking fast. She was nervous. I knew she didn’t like being summoned to the admin building for any reason. Rose wasn’t exactly poor, but her family had significantly less money since her father’s company had fallen apart during the recession. Besides me, Rose was the only other scholarship student that she and I knew about. She was positive they were itching to boot her because she had no looks, no clothes, and although she had a framed Cirque du Soleil poster in her room, her favorite group was the Dresden Dolls. One look at their website, she figured, and Dr. Ehrlenbach would boot her. Ehrlenbach was not a fan of people without money.

  As Rose passed by our table, she gave me a little conspiratorial wink. It made me as nervous as she was.

  At free period, I joined my dorm mates in the newly renovated “conservatory,” which was a gift from Sangheeta Shankar’s family. The conservatory was a Victorian structure made of glass, hunter green wood, and iron, though mostly of glass—lots and lots of small panes—and the interior was brimming with palm trees in black urns, trellises of ivy, and large, overstuffed furniture upholstered in thick green brocade that didn’t quite match. There was also a fireplace with a white wood mantel.

  The conservatory had opened while I was living in the infirmary, and each dorm was going to get use of it one day a month. Today was our day, and I was looking forward to the novelty. At ten-thirty, the beginning of free period, it began to rain, and we whooped and laughed as we trundled inside the glass jewel box. There was a fire crackling in the brick fireplace and we’d all brought cups of hot chocolate.

  “Sangeeta, this is so cool,” Julie said. “Your parents are angels.”

  Sangeeta smiled at Julie, flushed and proud. She sat in a chair with a flourish and sipped her chocolate. Then she gazed up toward the glass ceiling, at the rain.

  “It rains as much here as in India,” she said, “only it’s much colder.”

  “Lindsay?” a voice said at the doorway. It was the new parttime clerical person who was helping the school secretary, Ms. Shelley, in the admin building. I couldn’t remember her name. “Ms. Shelley needs to see you. Something about a form for you to sign.”

  Everyone groaned for me. I was going to miss our conservatory time.

  “Okay.” I picked up my chocolate, jumping a little as thunder rolled around the glass building. Before she’d left, Dr. Ehrlenbach had decreed that I needed an extracurricular, even though my scholarship didn’t cover it. She was trying to make me more college-worthy.

  The woman turned on her heel and left. Marica handed me her umbrella. It was beige, navy, and red plaid. Burberry, maybe.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll bring it back.”

  I left, darting beneath a stand of pine trees. As I looked over my shoulder, Julie waved; then she flopped into one of the chairs and stretched out her arms, as if she were embracing the whole world.

  I wasn’t all that good with an umbrella; it hardly ever rained in San Diego, and we all had cars, so we never carried umbrellas around. I ran to avoid getting soaked to the skin, darting up the hill toward the admin building. It stood dark and stark against the clouds. I thought of Miles and wondered what he was doing.

  I slogged along the wet path and through the front door. Steamy warm air greeted me as I neared Ms. Shelley’s empty desk. There was a folder on the dark green blotter with a white Post-It on it. FOR LINDSAY CAVANAUGH was written on it.

  I hesitated. Did she mean for me to take it?

  Then I heard muffled voices coming from the hall. I listened. Rose and Dr. Morehouse. I wondered what they were saying.

  I opened the file. There was another Post-It.

  Lindsay, I had to step out. Please fill out the form and photocopy it. Copier is in the storage room.

  I glanced down at the form. Ms. Shelley had filled in my name, birth date, and some other basic facts. Then I had to initial a form about when I entered the infirmary, who had “attended” to me,” etc.

  A little miffed that I had had to miss our time in the conservatory to spend thirty seconds filling out a silly form, I nevertheless took it with me and looked for the storage room, where the copier was located. Dr. Morehouse and Rose’s voices grew louder as I tiptoed down the hall. I thought Rose might be crying.

  What if she was telling him about some of the conversations she and I had about the wrongness of things here? Or if she confessed that we had broken into Mandy’s room during Thanksgiving break?

  Down the hall past the glaring statue of Edwin Marlwood was a door marked No Admittance. It was locked. There were no other doors to try.

  I went out the front door, onto the porch, and walked it around to the left, where I recalled seeing a door during my first trip to the admin building, in October. I stepped off the porch, and saw that a door was hanging open. A sign below an old-fashioned brass knocker read Storage.

  I reached the door and cautiously peered around it. There was a small room, clean, lined with wooden shelves that reached from floor to ceiling. Reams of photocopy paper and plastic bins with neatly typed labels filled the shelves. At eye level, there were some framed photographs separated by clear bubble wrap. The top picture was a head shot of Dr. Melton smili
ng at the camera. Out with the old, in with the new.

  There was a large photocopy machine pushed against the far wall. And beside it, a tiny elevator, in a shaft about as wide as my shoulders, with a wooden base and top, and nothing else but the rope and pulley system that would be used to raise it. I wondered if it was operational. Like the rest of the room, it was very clean.

  Out of curiosity, I set my papers on the photocopy machine and leaned in to examine the dumbwaiter. A glint of light caught my eye, and I leaned in farther. There was a crack in the wall, at least two inches wide.

  “Rose,” said a muffled voice. “I’m here to help you.” Dr. Morehouse.

  Rose was crying. I remained stock-still. I knew I should go; I shouldn’t intrude on her privacy, but I had secrets I needed to pry out of Marlwood. What if she knew something, said something that would help me ? If it could put an end to the madness, I should hear it.

  Guiltily, I edged back to the door and pulled it shut. Against the contrasting darkness, light streamed in from the crack and shadows splayed across my body.

  I put my hand on the wooden floor of the dumbwaiter. It didn’t move. I placed my other hand beside it and pushed down experimentally. It remained in place.

  Rose said something that I couldn’t hear. I bent forward and planted my hands. Amazed that I was being so reckless—or else, more interested in what Rose might say than afraid of plunging down the shaft—I crawled into the tight space. Arching my back, I pressed my face against the crack in the wall. I could see a pair of men’s hands, resting on the polished wood surface of Dr. Ehrlenbach’s desk.

  “You know I’m here for you, Rose,” he said. “You don’t need to carry such a burden alone.”

  “I don’t know,” Rose said, so quietly I could barely hear her. “It’s just so . . . hard.”

  “You have to trust me, Rose. When it’s your time, I’ll let you know.”

  His cadence was calm and soothing, the vocal equivalent of a fish tank. I had no idea what he was talking about. Rose’s time?

  She whispered something. His hands moved on the desk, flattening against the wood. A shadow fell over the backs of hands. The backs of his hands . . . the backs . . .