Thorn Abbey

by Ohlin, Nancy

  OUTSIDE, THE AIR IS THICK AND HUMID, LIKE A WET SLICKER that sticks to your skin. My mom always complains about September weather because it can be hot one day and freezing the next. It’s probably going to start raining at any moment now, and I don’t have an umbrella.

  I hurry through the quad, wondering which way I should go. Back to Kerrith? I might run into Devon and the others, and they would force me to go to that party. Over to Lanyon, so I can hang out in the computer center and creep on a dead girl some more?

  I think I’m losing my mind.

  Why did I ever come to Thorn Abbey, anyway?

  I choke back a sob. Great. On top of everything, I’m going to have a PMS meltdown in the middle of campus. I pass a group of seniors walking toward the library. They stare at me, and one of them says, “Yeah, that’s that girl who—”

  “Tess! Wait up!”

  I turn. Max is jogging in my direction. It didn’t occur to me that he might follow me.

  He stops in front of me. He looks worried, or mad, or both. It’s hard to tell. “What’s wrong?” he demands.

  “Nothing!” I say, quickly blinking back tears.

  “You’re lying. What happened while I was in the stacks?”

  “Nothing.”

  Max crosses his arms over his chest. “Seriously, stop lying.”

  I purse my lips together stubbornly. I can’t tell him that I saw Becca’s inscription. Or that it made me insanely jealous. Or that it made me insane, period, because somehow, I imagined that her signature burned my fingers, and they actually throbbed with pain. Isn’t there some mental illness where you hallucinate an injury and your body reacts with real symptoms? That’s me.

  I don’t know why Max almost kissed me on the cliff or why he asked me to hang out with him tonight. Maybe he was just lonely. Or bored. Whatever the reason, I’ve had enough. He’s not the one who needs to move on. I am.

  “Tess.” Max starts to reach for me, then drops his arms to his sides. “I don’t know what to do. Is it just me, or are we always chasing each other across campus?”

  On Monday night, I chased out of the movie after him. On Tuesday morning, I chased after him before he could jump off a cliff. So far, I’m the one who’s done most of the chasing. “So?”

  “Maybe we should stop running away and, well, just stop running.”

  “Why?” I ask skeptically.

  “So we can be friends?”

  “Why would we want to do that?”

  “Because.” He laughs awkwardly. “Why are you making this hard for me?”

  Because I don’t want to be a fool anymore. “Hard for you how?”

  “Look. I don’t have a lot of close friends. I have one, to be exact. Franklin. It’s not easy for me to”—Max stuffs his hands into his pockets—“what would my shrink say? Open up.”

  I melt a little inside. Max is confiding in me. “I can relate to that.”

  “You can?”

  “Definitely. I’d rather eat dirt than talk about myself.”

  He smiles.

  “I’ve never been in therapy. What’s it like?” I ask curiously.

  “You’d hate it. You have to talk about yourself the whole time.”

  I smile. “What’s your therapist like?”

  “I don’t see him anymore. My parents made me go, after—” He hesitates.

  Oh, God. Me and my big mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  Max falls silent. I am such a moron. He finally tells me something personal, and I remind him of Becca and make him clam up.

  I don’t know what to do. What if Max is being sincere? I want him to like me the way I like him. But then I think of Becca’s inscription. I wish I could ask him why he still has that book of love poems. There could be a totally innocent explanation. Like, it was gathering dust on his shelf until he decided to use it for his English paper, and he doesn’t even remember that it was a gift from Becca.

  I tilt my head to the sky. But there are no answers or epiphanies up there. Just rain clouds.

  A couple of girls pass by, chattering about the Corn Roast. “Hey, Max!” they call out in unison. He barely acknowledges them, even though they’re drop-dead gorgeous. He’s watching me intently.

  I meet his gaze. “Why do you want to hang out with me?” I ask him bluntly.

  “What? Where’s this coming from?” he says, sounding surprised.

  “I’m nothing like B”—I catch myself—“like the other girls at Thorn Abbey. I’m not beautiful and rich and sophisticated. I grew up in a town full of meth labs and cheap nail salons. I didn’t know what a Burberry was. I had to look it up.”

  “Tess—”

  “You don’t need to feel sorry for me because I’m the new girl,” I rush on, trying to mask the hurt in my voice. “I’m not a charity case. You don’t need to feel like you owe me because of what happened on the cliff. We’re not in a Star Trek: Voyager episode, where it’s like, ‘oh, you saved my life, so now I’m obligated to follow you across the Delta Quadrant and be your personal servant forever,’ blah, blah, blah.”

  Max grins. “Tess!” he repeats loudly.

  “What?”

  He cradles my face with his hand. “Listen. I like you because you’re not like the other girls here. Most of them only care about clothes, money, stupid shit like that. You’re nice, and you’re real. You say what’s on your mind. You don’t worry about what other people think of you.”

  “Well, actually, I do worry.” But it’s hard to get the words out, or articulate anything at all, because his hand is still touching my face, and his incredible brown eyes are staring into mine. Plus I’m frantically trying to process everything he’s said to me.

  “You shouldn’t care about other people,” Max says fiercely. “Most of them are idiots. And fakes. They pretend to be something they’re not just to get what they want, and—”

  “Well, hello, you two!”

  Startled, I glance past Max. Oh, God. Devon is strolling toward us with a big, mean smile on her face.

  This is not good.

  “Tess. Max. Fancy running into you here,” Devon says sweetly. She is wearing a crazy-short red dress and ridiculously high heels. Why is she wearing a Las Vegas call girl outfit? Then I remember that party at Chapin.

  Max pulls away from me, as though we’re strangers suddenly. “Devon. I was just heading back to my dorm.”

  “Oh, please don’t leave on my account! You lovebirds looked so cozy!” she trills.

  Max doesn’t reply, just glares at her. He is a different person from a moment ago: ice cold, hostile. Why is he acting like this? I thought he and Devon were friends.

  “I didn’t know you knew each other,” he says to me in a low, tense voice.

  What is going on? I open my mouth to speak, wondering how I’m going to explain. But as always, Devon beats me to the punch. “Oh, Tess didn’t tell you? We’re roommates.”

  Max’s jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

  “Yup, we’re practically BFFs. Aren’t we, Tess? And you know me, Max. I’ve already got her on a crash course to shed those extra pounds and trailer-park habits. Pretty soon, she’ll be the queen of Kerrith Hall. Right, Tess?”

  My face grows hot. I’m so uncomfortable and embarrassed, I can’t even respond. Why is Devon being so mean?

  “Did you finish that paper you were telling me about? We can walk over to Killian’s party together. We’ll be fashionably late. Max, join us?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so,” Max replies tersely.

  “Suit yourself. Come on, Tess.”

  “Go on without me. I’ll catch up with you,” I say quickly.

  Devon raises an eyebrow. I can tell she’s pissed. But her scarlet-red mouth curves into an indulgent smile, indicating otherwise. Or maybe it’s her way of telling me that she’ll deal with me later.

  “Alrighty, then. Have fun! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Max, a pleasure as always.”

&
nbsp; She blows a kiss and takes off. She disappears down the path, somehow managing to strut like a runway model in her pointy four-inch heels.

  Silence.

  “Max—”

  “So you know, obviously, that Devon and Becca were roommates,” Max cuts in.

  I nod meekly.

  “Is that why you didn’t mention Devon before?”

  “I thought it might be awkward. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings or bring back bad memories or anything like that.”

  “Bad memories?” he says incredulously. “So is that how you knew about me and Becca? Because Devon told you?”

  “Y-yes.”

  He laughs bitterly. “Yeah, that’s great.”

  “Max, I’m really sorry if I—”

  He holds up his hands and starts walking away. “No, don’t be sorry. Enjoy your party. Good-bye, Tess.”

  “I’m not—”

  But he was already gone.

  14.

  THAT NIGHT, I LIE IN BED, TRYING TO RE-CREATE THAT PERFECT minute and a half when Max was touching my face and gazing soulfully into my eyes. For those ninety seconds, he liked me. For those ninety seconds, we were almost more than friends.

  Why does something always come between us?

  Devon isn’t home yet. She must still be at that party. Outside, a steady rain drums against the window. The room feels damp and smells faintly of perfume, although it’s not the musky one Devon usually wears. It’s sweet, floral, and feminine. It must be her perfume for special occasions.

  I like you because you’re not like the other girls here.

  Why did Max like Becca? Not just like her, but love her? I wish I could find out more about her so I could understand him better. Maybe someday, he will trust me enough to tell me about their relationship. If he ever talks to me again, that is.

  Better yet, maybe I will come to my senses and fall for a boy who isn’t haunted by the memory of his ex-girlfriend. Why can’t I be attracted to a nice, available boy like, say, Franklin? I could be wrong, but I think he likes me.

  Above my head, something taps and scrapes against the other side of the ceiling. I burrow under my comforter.

  Tap . . . tap tap tap.

  Tap . . . tap tap tap.

  The noise gets louder. I poke my head out.

  Tap . . . tap tap tap.

  Tap . . . tap tap tap.

  I hold my breath and listen intently. It’s as though someone—or something—is trying to break through the ceiling.

  And then I remember.

  There is no fourth floor in Kerrith.

  The noise grows louder, then softer, then louder again. It must be the rain on the roof, I tell myself nervously.

  My heart racing, I hug my pillow to my chest and burrow under the comforter again. “Monday September second, Monday September ninth, Monday September sixteenth,” I whisper under my breath.

  I startle awake in the middle of the night to find Devon beside me, stroking my hair.

  “You poor baby,” she whispers.

  I try to sit up. But she puts her hand on my chest, just firmly enough so that I can’t move. Her makeup is smeared, and her lips are puffy and bare. Her red minidress is wrinkled and reeks of beer. What in the hell is going on? Is she drunk, or is she having one of her sleep-talking spells again?

  She has turned on my yellow smiley-face lamp, and I feel, eerily, as though I am in an interrogation room.

  “You poor, poor baby. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?” Devon croons. “Do you know who the De Villierses are?”

  I blink. “What?”

  “I didn’t think so. They’re one of the richest, most powerful families in New York City.”

  “They are?” I rub my eyes, trying to comprehend what she is saying.

  “Mm-hm. Mr. De Villiers runs ten different corporations, and Mrs. De Villier’s father is a US senator. They sit on all the most important boards; they’re invited to absolutely every social event that matters. They’re royalty, basically.”

  I sort of guessed that Max came from a wealthy family, but I didn’t realize they were like the Kennedys. Still, why is Devon telling me this at two a.m.? And why is she acting like a crazy person? She’s seriously freaking me out.

  “Max is the heir to the throne,” she says in a faraway voice, her hand still pressing against my chest. “I’ve met Mr. and Mrs. De Villiers, and they can be a bit . . . intimidating. They’re not going to be happy when they find out their son is hooking up with you.”

  “But we aren’t—”

  “Can’t you see that he’s using you to get over his grief? That you’re just a distraction? All the other girls know to keep their distance after what happened. He’s an emotional train wreck, and he needs time. Friends. Not some love-starved loner throwing herself at him.”

  “But I’m not—”

  “Becca told me that he tries to put on this act, like he’s so cool and above it all. But deep down, he’s really vulnerable. Romantic. Do you know that he proposed to her?” she sneers.

  “E-excuse me?” I’m not just freaked out anymore. I just feel sick to my stomach.

  “I don’t mean he gave her a ring or anything like that. But he told her that he wanted to marry her someday.” Devon smiles wistfully as if she’s reliving a memory. “Becca was so excited. We even looked at wedding dress websites together, for fun. She picked out this amazing gown. She was so gorgeous, she could get married in sweats and get away with it. You saw her picture, so you know what I’m talking about, right?” She gives my chest a little shove and pulls away.

  “R-right.” This is a nightmare. Literally a nightmare. I’m going to wake up any second now.

  Devon trails her fingers across my bed. “You know, she used to beg me to let her have the room Saturday nights so they could be alone,” she says dreamily. “She had all kinds of creative ways of sneaking him in here.”

  In here. Wait. Was she saying . . .

  “You mean, this room was your old room . . . with Becca?” I whisper.

  “Of course. They insisted on giving me a different one, because of the circumstances. But I didn’t want it. This was Becca’s favorite room in Kerrith, and mine, too. It’s the biggest, and it has the best view. Besides, I feel closer to her here.”

  Oh, God. Now I really feel sick. I’m living in Becca’s old room. And probably even sleeping in Becca’s old bed.

  The bed where she and Max used to . . .

  Devon bends down. “I’m not going to tell you to stop hanging out with Max,” she murmurs in my ear, her black hair splaying across my face like a million fine needles. “But you shouldn’t let him use you like this. You’re a real catch, and you deserve soooo much better.”

  The next morning, I wake up to my phone. I must have a voice mail or a text message. It keeps beeping, beeping.

  I hoist myself on my elbows, groggily fighting the nasty cobwebs in my head. I wonder if this is what a hangover feels like. Not that I would know, since the only alcohol I’ve ever had is communion wine at church and the two sips of Budweiser that Kayleigh forced me to try once.

  Across the room, Devon is lying facedown on her bed, wearing only her panties. Her red dress lies crumpled on the floor.

  Her silver box sits on the pillow next to her head. The one containing Becca’s photo.

  You poor, poor baby. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?

  My chest tightens. I reach for my stupid phone. There is a text message—no, two text messages.

  They are both from Max.

  I frown. What could he possibly want from me? His good-bye seemed so final.

  He’s an emotional train wreck, and he needs time. Friends. Not some love-starved loner throwing herself at him.

  Surely, Devon was wasted. Surely, she didn’t know what she was saying.

  I take a deep breath and open the first message.

  Sorry about last night.

  A tentative smile spreads across my
face. So Max and I aren’t through.

  Heart racing, I open the second message.

  Do you want to go to the Corn Roast with me next Saturday?

  I read the message again. And again. Is he asking me out on a date?

  Can’t you see that he’s using you to get over his grief? That you’re just a distraction?

  My smile vanishes. I chew on my thumbnail.

  She used to beg me to let her have the room Saturday nights so they could be alone.

  I curl up in a ball, clutching my phone. An image of Becca and Max flashes in my mind, their naked bodies intertwined.

  “Stop it,” I whisper miserably. “Stop it stop it stop it.”

  I lift the phone to my face and type a response to Max, then hit send before I can change my mind.

  Yes.

  15.

  ON THE NIGHT OF THE CORN ROAST, I TAKE FOREVER TO GET ready for my date with Max. I try on six tops before I finally settle on a baby-blue sweater Kayleigh picked out for me at the mall. She said it made me look “a tiny bit slutty,” which I’m not so sure is a good thing. But Devon isn’t here to give me a second opinion, and I don’t want to be late.

  Heading out the door, I’m nervous and excited. Besides English, I haven’t seen much of Max in the last week and a half. He walked me to Latin a few times, and we talked about easy, neutral things like homework and student elections. Becca’s name didn’t come up, not even once. Neither did Devon’s. He told me about a project he had to do for chemistry, plus a couple of big soccer games. I guess that was his way of saying he didn’t have time to hang out.

  Which makes it even more special that we’re together tonight. Special and anxiety producing. On the one hand, I like him and I want him to like me. On the other hand, I hope I didn’t make a mistake, agreeing to this date. Is he truly over Becca?

  You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.

  I still can’t get that creepy conversation with Devon out of my head.

  Devon was like a crazy possessed person that night. Then the next morning she acted like nothing had happened. I’m actually a little worried about her. Her sleep-talking spells have become more frequent and intense. Last Saturday, I woke up to find her having an angry conversation with the ceiling. It lasted an entire hour.