In Some Other Life: A Novel

by Jessica Brody

  The exhilaration of being inside these walls hits me immediately. Of course, I’ve been inside before. Once. In sixth grade when we got to tour the campus before I submitted my application. It hasn’t changed much. The grass is still the most vibrant shade of green. The flower beds are still blooming with color. There are no students milling around in their gray and blue uniforms right now. They must be in class. I check the clock on my dash. It’s two forty p.m. They probably have at least another period before the end of the day.

  I park and wander up the paved walkway to the main entrance. The Windsor Academy has seven total buildings on campus. Royce Hall—the iconic one that’s on the home page of their website—is the colonial-style building that was clearly modeled after the famous Ivy League colleges in New England. I slowly make my way up the grand curving brick staircase to the front entrance.

  It’s immaculately clean and white inside. And it smells so good. Like fresh paint and new carpet. I bet they change the carpets here once a week!

  The receptionist is not at her desk—she’s probably grabbing a fancy coffee drink from that gorgeous student union that looks like a train station—but I remember where the dean’s office is. I remember where everything is. It’s like my visit here in the sixth grade was the one time in my life when I had a photographic memory. My brain just right-clicked and saved forever.

  When I reach the dean’s office, I find the door closed. I reach out to knock but a voice stops me. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  I turn around to see a tall, lanky guy in a Windsor uniform sitting in the small two-chair waiting area.

  “She’s on the phone. Dean Lewis doesn’t like to be disturbed when she’s on the phone.” The way he says this last part, I get the feeling that he’s mocking her.

  “Oh,” I say. “Right. Thanks.”

  I take a seat in the chair next to him and place my backpack on the floor. I can feel the boy’s eyes on me from the moment I sit down. Like he’s sizing me up. He’s probably thinking the same thing I’m thinking.

  What is she doing here? She doesn’t belong here.

  “So, what’s your story?” he asks.

  I turn and look at him closely for the first time, noticing that he doesn’t look like he really belongs here either. I mean, he’s wearing the traditional boy uniform—gray slacks, a white button-down shirt, a silver and blue striped tie, and a navy blazer with the official Windsor Academy crest sewn over the left breast pocket—but there’s something about the way it fits him, or the way he’s choosing to wear it, that just doesn’t work. His blazer is too big on his lanky body, his shirt is wrinkled and untucked and the buttons are misaligned. His tie is hanging loose around his neck, and his pants are covered in what looks like pizza grease stains. Plus, his hair is kind of a mess. It’s dark and longish, curling over the collar of his blazer.

  All of the boys I’ve seen in CoyCoy55’s SnipPic feed look so sharp and put together. Their hair is cut short and always gelled into place. The knots in their ties are always tight and precise. They look like catalog models. This guy looks like he just rolled out of bed after sleeping in yesterday’s uniform.

  He’s staring intently at me and I soon realize that I haven’t answered his question. “Um, I’m here to talk to the dean,” I say vaguely, trying to keep my voice light and conversational.

  He snorts and gestures to the waiting area. “Well, that’s obvious. But why? Normally anyone waiting around here who’s not in uniform is a sixth grader applying for admission.” He leans back in his chair with a dark chuckle. “All of those young innocent hopefuls, so eager to have their hearts blackened by this soul-crushing institution of higher learning.”

  I gape in surprise. Was that supposed to be a joke?

  “I’m not a sixth grader,” I tell him. “I’m a senior.”

  He gives me a once-over. “But you clearly don’t go here.”

  Ouch.

  Okay, that stings.

  I cross my arms over my chest and direct my attention forward, determined to just ignore him. “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, you’re lucky.”

  I turn back to him with a scandalized look. “Are you serious?”

  He doesn’t even blink. “Dead serious. Trust me, you do not want to go here.”

  This guy is starting to grate on my nerves. “And why not?”

  “Because this place sucks out your soul and turns you into a zombie. A very intelligent zombie with excellent future prospects. But still a zombie.”

  I let out a sharp gasp. “It does not.”

  I think back to all those photos on CoyCoy55’s SnipPic feed. She definitely didn’t look like a zombie. She looked amazing. Like she was having the time of her life every single day.

  What is this guy’s problem? Does he not realize how fortunate he is to go here? Does he not understand what a gift he has? I take in his slothful, slacker appearance once again and feel a trace of resentment rise up in my throat. If he hates it here so much, why doesn’t he just drop out? I would gladly take his spot.

  “It certainly does,” he counters. “I’ve been here since the seventh grade. I’ve seen it happen. The spirit-crushing. The mind control. The destruction of dreams. It’s pretty gross.”

  “But,” I argue, flustered, “this is one of the top ten private schools in the country.”

  He drops his head back and lets out a mocking laugh that sends prickles of agitation down my arms. “So you read that list too, huh?” Then he leans forward and stares at me with his dark, intense eyes. “Did you ever stop to wonder who’s actually creating those lists? Maybe they’re zombies, too.”

  I shake my head and angle my body away from him. I’m not listening to this nonsense anymore. He’s clearly deranged. He’s probably on drugs. I mean, look at him. He looks like he walked through a car wash with his clothes on.

  “So, what’s your name?” he asks in a totally normal voice, as if he wasn’t just likening this school to a bad horror movie.

  I blow out a huff. “Like I’d tell you.”

  He seems to find this amusing. I can hear the smile in his voice. “Ah, I get it.”

  Against my better judgment, I face him again. “You get what?”

  “You’re a zombie wannabe.” He tilts his head to the side, thinking. “Hey, that’s actually a really great band name.”

  I feel my face getting hot. “I’m not a zombie wannabe,” I snap. “Just because I want to better myself and go to a great school doesn’t mean—”

  “So you do want to go here?” he says, like he’s just solved the cold case of the century. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re hoping there’s an open spot. Well, I’ll tell you right now. There’s not. Zombies rarely ever leave. That would require independent thought and that’s not a zombie’s strong suit.”

  I press my lips together hard. I want to scream at this guy. But I know that won’t do any good. So I go back to ignoring him.

  He’s quiet for a moment. I hope that means he’s decided to ignore me, too. But then he says, “So where do you go to school now?”

  I don’t respond. I can feel him watching me again.

  “Let me guess. Southwest High.”

  I grit my teeth. I will not give him the satisfaction of engaging. I will not.

  My silence causes him to laugh again, and out of the corner of my eye I see him swivel and face forward, leaning back in his chair and kicking his feet out in front of him. I steal a peek at his shoes. They’re caked in dirt.

  “Trust me,” he says quietly. “You’re better off.”

  Right then, the office door swings open and we’re greeted by Dean Lewis. I recognize her from her picture on the school website. She’s a pleasant-looking woman with shoulder-length blond hair, a slender face, and reading glasses hanging around her neck by a bejeweled cord.

  She looks like everything else in this place: lovely and wonderful and perfect.

  Dean Lewis glances between me and the obnoxious gu
y. “Who was first?” she asks kindly.

  “She was,” the guy says, and I brave another look at him. This time in surprise. “You’re in much more of a hurry to get in there than I am,” he explains.

  Well, I’m certainly not going to argue with that.

  Despite how agitated this boy has made me, I force a breezy smile onto my face, grab my backpack, stand up, and follow Dean Lewis back into her bright and spacious office, which, I immediately remark, smells like daisies.

  If I Don’t Fit In

  I take a seat at the large mahogany desk in the center of the office as Dean Lewis sits across from me. She closes her navy blue laptop and gives me her undivided attention.

  “So,” she says warmly. “What can I do for you, Ms.…”

  “Rhodes,” I say, trying to infuse my voice with a confidence that doesn’t exist. “And I would very much like my space.”

  She tilts her head. “I’m sorry?”

  “I was admitted here. I have an acceptance letter. And I want to go. I can start tomorrow. I just need a uniform.”

  Dean Lewis squints at me from across her desk, obviously trying to make sense of me. “What’s your first name?” she finally asks.

  “Kennedy, like the president.”

  She reopens her laptop and begins typing. After a second, she frowns at the screen. “Yes. My records show that you were accepted three years ago but you never responded to the letter.”

  “I know. I’m sorry about that. I, um…” I search for a good excuse. “I did actually respond, but my letter got lost in the mail.”

  She doesn’t believe me for a second.

  “The point is,” I go on, “I made a mistake. A huge one. Probably the biggest mistake of my life.”

  Dean Lewis opens her mouth to speak but I don’t let her get a word out. “You don’t understand. I’m supposed to go here. I know it. I chose the wrong life. And now I need to fix it. I have to fix it. That’s why I’m here. If I can just enroll, if I can just be a Windsor Academy student, I know everything will be better.”

  Dean Lewis clasps her hands together on her desk and gives me a pitying look. I know what she’s about to say before she even says it.

  “I’m sorry”—she glances at her screen—“Ms. Rhodes. But we filled that slot three years ago.”

  “Please,” I try again, my voice breaking. “There has to be another spot. You have to make room. I’ll do anything. I’ll sit on the floor of the classrooms. I won’t cause any trouble. Please.”

  She grimaces. “I’m afraid we can’t just make room. The Windsor Academy class size is one hundred students. And we have one hundred students enrolled in each grade.”

  My shoulders slouch in defeat and I feel the tears well up in my eyes again. I blink furiously, trying to shoo them away, but they’re relentless, and soon everything in this office—Dean Lewis included—is under water.

  She makes a sympathetic clucking sound. “Oh. Sweetie. I really am sorry. I wish—”

  “You wish there was something you could do,” I interrupt. “I know.” With a shudder and a sniffle, I stand up, turn around, and walk out the door. But not before adding, “Me too.”

  When I leave the office, the boy with the dirty uniform gives me a salute. I keep walking. I shuffle down the hallway, past the receptionist—who has returned from her coffee break—and out the front doors. I stand atop the grand brick staircase and look out over the grounds of the school.

  This beautiful, magnificent school. From my vantage point, I can see the ultramodern Bellum Hall where the science classes are taught and the Sanderson-Ruiz Library, built in the regal Georgian architecture style. The Fineman Arts Center where all studio art and dance classes are held, and the student union where everyone studies and eats lunch. I can even see all the way to Waldorf Pond, with its glittering geyser fountain in the center.

  I can’t believe I gave this up.

  And for what? I have absolutely nothing to show for it now. I’ve lost everything I care about in the past twenty-four hours.

  My boyfriend.

  My best friend.

  My shot at Columbia.

  My future.

  I take one last look at the campus and start down the stairs. Back to my crummy life in my crummy school. But before I reach the bottom, I hear a soothing melodic chime that pulls me to a stop.

  Is that the bell?

  The doors behind me burst open and a horde of uniformed students come flooding out of Royce Hall and down the steps. They’re all talking and laughing and making jokes.

  See, I think with a flash of annoyance. They’re not zombies.

  They look so happy.

  And for just a flicker of a moment, I feel happy, too. I can almost imagine myself as one of them. Rushing to my next class, prattling eagerly about something inspiring a teacher said today. I feel like I’m part of something. A community of people who care about their education and their future.

  Then I glance down at my outfit and remember who I really am.

  I’m an outsider. I don’t belong here. I’m not part of this club.

  I let out a defeated sigh and continue down the stairs. But a second later, something catches my eye. A girl with pale skin and bright auburn hair coming up the steps. She adjusts her schoolbag as she chats animatedly with another student.

  My whole body freezes.

  I can’t believe it. It’s really her.

  CoyCoy55 in the flesh!

  And she’s coming right toward me!

  I hold my breath, feeling a wave of dizziness pass through me as she gets closer. As she passes right by me. As her navy blue blazer brushes against my arm.

  In fact, I’m so distracted watching her disappear into the building that I don’t even notice the guy barreling toward me from the top of the stairs. He shoves up against me, trying to get past and my foot slips. I grasp the handrail to keep from toppling over, but it only seems to throw me further off balance. My left foot skids against the edge of the step and then my entire leg shoots out from under me. I lose my grip on the handrail and feel myself falling backward. I grapple for something to hold on to, but my hands only paddle the air. I hear a gasp from someone nearby as I bump down multiple brick steps, my butt bouncing painfully against each one. Humiliation trickles over me. I can’t believe I’m falling down the grand staircase of the Windsor Academy! In front of everyone!

  This is exactly the kind of thing that gets turned into an animated GIF and ends up on a Buzzfeed list.

  Just when I think my impromptu butt slide is finally coming to an end, the last step hits me hard, flinging my upper body back. I feel something in that exact moment. Like a gust of air. A comforting warm breeze. Except it’s not blowing over me. It feels like it’s blowing through me. Then I hear a loud thump as my head smacks into brick, and everything around me fades to black.

  If I’m Not Fine

  God, my head hurts. It feels like someone put my brain in a juicer. And my legs are cold. Why are my legs so cold?

  I try to open my eyes, but it’s as though my lids are weighed down with boulders. I’m only able to open them a sliver before a beam of light sends a thunderbolt of pain through me.

  Ugh.

  I’m so not doing that again.

  “Look, she’s opening her eyes!” says a girl’s voice I don’t recognize. She sounds impatient. “I told you she was fine. Just give her an aspirin and let her go.”

  “For the last time, Sequoia,” says another female voice. It sounds much older than the first. “She’s not going to class.”

  “You don’t understand,” the girl argues. “Our PEs are due by the end of today. Mr. Fitz doesn’t accept late work.”

  Mr. Fitz?

  PEs?

  What’s a PE?

  I try to open my eyes again, but all I can manage is an eyelash flutter.

  “I’m sure Mr. Fitz will make an exception this time,” the older woman says.

  The girl huffs. “You clearly don’t know Mr. Fitz.”<
br />
  What is going on? Where am I? Who are these people?

  “Miss Farris,” the woman says in a take-charge kind of tone. “Go to class.”

  “But—” the girl protests.

  “Nuh-uh. I’m keeping Ms. Rhodes under observation for at least another hour.”

  Ms. Rhodes?

  This woman knows me. How does she know me?

  I hear loud footsteps, then the sound of a door opening and closing. I rack my throbbing brain, trying to remember where I am and how I got here, but I come up with nothing. I try once again to open my eyes, this time making significantly more progress, but the light is still blinding.

  Is that sunlight? Am I outside? Am I lying on the ground?

  That can’t be right. The surface beneath me feels soft and squishy. Like a bed.

  Why are my legs so cold?

  I blink a few times, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light. It’s not the sun. It’s coming from a fluorescent panel in the ceiling. My head is still hammering but my surroundings finally come into focus. I’m inside a white room with various medical instruments hanging on the wall. A hospital room?

  No.

  A nurse’s office?

  Suddenly a face comes into view. A woman hovering above me. She has kind eyes and wrinkles around her red-painted lips.

  “Hello there. How do you feel?” She smiles wide.

  I try to sit up. Not a good idea. The room wobbles and I quickly lie back down.

  “Oh no,” the woman says, “don’t try to get up. Just lie there. You took quite a tumble down those stairs. You kids are always in such a hurry around here.”

  Stairs!

  Yes, of course. I remember now. Brick stairs. Hard stairs. I saw CoyCoy55 and I got distracted. Then someone pushed past me and I fell.

  I hit my head.

  On the grand staircase of the Windsor Academy!

  In front of everyone!

  The humiliation plows into me and shame prickles my cheeks. How many people saw? How many people took a video? Will this be my claim to fame? Kennedy Rhodes. She didn’t get into Columbia but she sure falls down stairs like a boss.