Thorn Abbey

by Ohlin, Nancy

  “You . . . what? Why?”

  He steps back and stares at me—and then at my feet. “Tess. Are you drunk?”

  “Maybe a tiny bit.” I forgot how cute he was.

  “God. This is all my fault.”

  “No, it snot,” I slur. “I mean, it’s not.”

  “Yes, it is. I made you upset. When we met up for coffee at the library.”

  Library, library . . .

  “Listen. I haven’t been totally honest with you about stuff because I was afraid,” he confesses. “I still am.”

  Above us, I see a cloud passing across the moon.

  “Maybe someday I can tell you everything. But right now, I need you to know that I care about you. I want to be with you, Tess. That is, if you still want to be with me.”

  “Oh!”

  A small epiphany sparks to life in the dark, alcohol-soaked recesses of my brain: This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.

  “I want to be with you, too,” I say.

  Max smiles and takes me in his arms again. He kisses me—deeply, hungrily. I can still taste Devon’s cherry gloss on my lips.

  I lean in to his kiss. An owl hoots mournfully.

  I’m in love.

  PART TWO

  30.

  THE LAST TIME I CELEBRATED VALENTINE’S DAY WAS WHEN I was in second grade, and the teacher made us pass out those store-bought cards to everyone in class—the ones that say BE MINE and HAVE A BEARY GOOD VALENTINE’S DAY! and stuff like that. Other than that, it was pretty much just my mom and me, watching romantic old movies on TCM and eating too many Russell Stover chocolates.

  Which is why I can’t wait for Valentine’s Day this year. Thorn Abbey has an annual costume ball, and Max asked me to go with him.

  “Mom, I need some sort of cool dress to wear to the ball,” I tell her on the phone. “Cool but costumey. Something vintage or maybe even historical. Isn’t there something in the attic, like in one of those old trunks?”

  Across the room, Devon, studying-slash-eavesdropping on her bed, makes a gagging motion with her finger. I roll my eyes at her.

  “Honey, those old trunks are full of magazines from the nineties and other crap I haven’t gotten around to throwing away,” my mom is saying. “I can poke around at the consignment shops for you, though. Oh, and the Salvation Army thrift store, too.”

  “Okay, thanks. I checked the stores in town, but I didn’t find anything I liked. Besides, everything’s super-expensive here.”

  “So are you going to this dance with your friends? Or with that boy you told me about at Christmas? How are things going with him?”

  I hesitate. I don’t want to say anything, especially with Devon sitting right there.

  “Things are fine,” I tell my mom quickly. “Listen, I have to run. Tons of homework! I’ll e-mail you, okay? If you find any good dresses, can you text me pictures?”

  “Will do. Love you!”

  “Love you too, Mom.” I hang up.

  Devon glances up from her textbook. “Inverse functions suck,” she mutters. “So you’re dress hunting long distance, huh?”

  “I need something to wear to the costume ball.”

  “What about one of your usual outfits? You could go as a gender-confused hillbilly.”

  “Yeah, or I could borrow one of your usual outfits and go as a hooker,” I banter back.

  Devon grins. “Ha-ha. Hey, speaking of.” She sets aside her textbook and reaches across the bed for her laptop. “What was the name of that website?” she mutters as she types. “I saw something the other day that might work for you. How do you feel about the slutty Victorian barmaid look?”

  “That’s not me.”

  “I know it’s not you. That’s the whole point of a costume ball. You told your mom that you wanted something historical.”

  “I’d prefer something more, you know, elegant.”

  “Well, Victorian barmaids can be elegant. In a slutty sort of way.”

  “You would know.”

  “Bitch!”

  “Bitch!”

  We crack up.

  “Ow!” Devon stops laughing all of a sudden and rubs her temples.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask worriedly.

  She closes her eyes and doesn’t answer.

  “Devon?”

  “Hmm?” She opens her eyes and blinks slowly.

  “Hey, are you all right?”

  “This, uh, headache just hit me.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you want some Advil?”

  “No, thanks.” Devon turns to me with a tired smile. “Listen, I just thought of the perfect costume for you.”

  “You did? What is it?”

  “Don’t ask questions. Follow me.” She stands up and holds her hand out to me. She looks a little pale.

  I’m confused. But pleased. Devon wants to help me. “What about your headache? Are you sure you’re up for—”

  “Yes! Don’t ask questions. Come on, before I change my mind.”

  “Okay.”

  I smile eagerly. This is going to be the best Valentine’s Day ever.

  It’s been almost four months since Killian’s party, when I kind of lost myself. From what I can remember, anyway. Since then, Max and I have been together and drama free. More or less.

  After that party, I made a big decision. I decided to stop obsessing about Becca. I didn’t like the jealous, crazy girl I’d turned into. I wanted to be the girl I used to be, before Thorn Abbey, but better. Braver. More confident.

  I haven’t looked inside Devon’s silver box since I peeked in Becca’s diary, ages ago. I’ve stopped cyber-stalking Becca—and Max and Killian, too. When Devon or the girls or anyone mention Becca, I tune it out and think about other stuff.

  It’s better this way. My mom read this book once that said your thoughts become your reality. It’s hokey, I guess, but I have to admit that it’s sort of true. I don’t let Becca occupy space in my brain, so her memory no longer has power over me.

  I also told Killian that I couldn’t hang out with him anymore. He tried to talk me out of it until I explained that I couldn’t keep our friendship from Max any longer. When I said that, Killian’s expression got all weird and inscrutable. He promised he would “be a gentleman” and keep his distance from me.

  Not sure what that was about. But I’m glad Killian backed off so easily.

  Another major change is Devon. She’s been way less intense lately. I think it has to do with this guy she’s been dating, Leo. Plus, I came across some new medications on her dresser a while back, prescribed by a Dr. Caitlin Brennan. I looked them up online, and they’re for sleep disorders, anxiety, and depression. They must be working, because she’s definitely not as bitchy and bossy as she used to be. And she doesn’t have her sleep-talking spells anymore, either. Thank God.

  There haven’t been any scary noises, unexplained temperature changes, fireballs, glowing seagulls, or other “paranormal activity,” as Kayleigh would say, not that I believe in ghosts. Still, I’m glad everything’s as normal as it can be at Thorn Abbey.

  With one exception. After the Christmas holiday, we all returned to find that someone had trashed the Kerrith third-floor lounge. One of the couches had been slashed. Shattered glass from the broken poster frames covered the floors. Graffiti defaced the walls. There was a single recognizable word in the chaos of spray paint:

  OBEY

  They haven’t caught who did it yet. Devon was devastated, especially since the lounge renovation had been her idea. The entire third floor chipped in to help clean up.

  After midterms in March, Devon, Yoonie, Elinor, Priscilla, and I are going shopping together for a replacement couch. I’m one of the girls now. Kind of a fifth wheel, but still. It’s nice to know that I’m finally, truly starting to fit in.

  Devon and I head down a long corridor in the east wing of Lanyon Hall. It’s completely deserted except for a janitor swishing a mop across the wooden floor. He scowls at the clumps of snow we tracked i
n with our boots.

  Dozens of large portraits, all in ornate gold frames, line the ruby-colored walls.

  “I didn’t even know this place existed,” I whisper.

  “I know, right? It’s all offices back here, no classrooms. So normally, it’s just Headmaster Henle and the other tedious grown-ups. And why are you whispering?”

  “Sorry!” I raise my voice. “I feel like I’m in a museum or something. What’s up with these paintings?”

  “They’re historical figures connected to Thorn Abbey. Or whatever. The point is, I remember one of them wearing this awesome dress. If you like it, we could try to find one that’s similar.”

  “Oh! Great idea.”

  “I told you.”

  We continue down the corridor, checking out the portraits. There’s Lucy Mosier, the first female student at Thorn Abbey, which apparently started as an all-boys school. There’s Theodosia Dodd, the first headmistress. There are a bunch of well-known alumni—or is it alumna?—that is, women who went to the school ages ago and then became famous.

  “It’s this one.” Devon points to a portrait at the end of the corridor.

  I glance at it. The woman in the portrait looks strangely familiar. She’s beautiful, with golden hair cascading in soft waves to her waist.

  “It’s Aurora Thorn. She and her husband—” Devon starts to say.

  “Augustus founded Thorn Abbey,” I interrupt breathlessly. “That’s where Max first kissed me! At the ‘Eternal Spirit’ statue!’ ” I clamp my hand over my mouth. “I didn’t mean to tell you . . . . I mean, it was kind of a private thing between Max and me, and . . .”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Tess. Don’t worry. Your boring G-rated secret is safe with me.” Devon peers closely at the portrait. “So what do you think of the dress? It’s pretty, right?”

  The dress is pearly gray with a long, flowy skirt. It’s incredibly romantic. “I’ve already decided. I’m definitely wearing this to the ball!”

  “Are you sure? There’s also that black dress over there—the one on the headmistress lady. It’s kind of got a dominatrix vibe, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m one hundred percent sure.”

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and snap a couple of pictures of Aurora Thorn’s portrait. “Now I just have to find a dress like this somewhere.”

  “I can help you look. I need to find a dress for me, too. Maybe we can try online.”

  “Really? Thanks! I love you!” I give Devon an impulsive hug.

  “Don’t thank me yet. And you should definitely have a backup. You know, in case this style isn’t flattering and you end up looking like a pregnant elephant.”

  Okay, so maybe the declaration of love was a bit premature.

  31.

  “WHY WON’T YOU TELL ME WHAT YOU’RE WEARING TONIGHT?” Max asks me on the phone.

  “Because it’s supposed to be a surprise.” I giggle.

  I wedge my cell between my ear and my shoulder as I gaze at myself in the mirror. I look exactly like Aurora Thorn—well, maybe not exactly like her, but close enough.

  Devon got me a dress that’s basically identical to the one in the painting. She found it at a vintage clothes store in Boston last weekend when she was at home for a wedding. I had to shorten it a little and use some safety pins here and there to give me some breathing room, but otherwise, it’s perfect. I borrowed Priscilla’s curling iron to make my hair wavy like Aurora’s. I also bought a white silk rose at a craft shop, cut off the plastic stem, and fastened it to my hair with a bobby pin to look like the statue. For shoes, I splurged on some silver ballet flats at H&M.

  “Well, I can tell you what I’m wearing,” Max says. “A tux and cowboy boots.”

  “What are you supposed to be?”

  “A guy in a tux and cowboy boots, obviously.”

  I laugh. “I’m sure you look really cute.”

  “I would prefer ‘hot,’ but yeah, okay.”

  We talk for a few more minutes before saying good-bye. We’ve agreed to meet at the dance, which is in Bolton Gym. I’m secretly planning to arrive a few minutes late. That way, I can make my grand entrance as “Aurora Thorn” with other people around. I can’t wait for Max’s reaction when he sees me. It’s totally going to remind him of the first time we kissed. So romantic.

  It’s already seven fifteen p.m. I have about fifteen minutes to put on my makeup: mascara, blush, and peach lipstick. Devon already left about an hour ago, wearing her pink fairy princess costume, which is so not her, but which she somehow pulled off. She said something about hitting a preparty with Yoonie, Priscilla, and Elinor before meeting up with Leo at the dance.

  I glance at Devon’s bed, at the red heart-shaped pillow with the word “LOVE” embroidered in hot pink. It was an early Valentine’s Day present from Leo. Devon hates it, though. She called it “cheesy” and complained bitterly because he didn’t buy her jewelry instead.

  I start to apply mascara, angling the bristly little brush the way Devon taught me to do. My eyes look a little tired. Devon’s sleep-talking spells started up again a few days ago. One night, she was actually crying and saying “no, please don’t make me!” over and over. I was so freaked out that I got up and tried to wake her. She hissed at me like an angry cat and immediately passed out. It was the weirdest thing.

  I tried to talk to her about it the next day, but she said she didn’t want to discuss it and changed the subject.

  I wonder if she needs to switch her medications?

  I blink into a white tissue to remove the excess mascara. I finish with the blush and lipstick and take one last look in the mirror. Perfect. I grab my coat, purse, and flats and waltz out the door.

  As I leave, a faint, pleasant fragrance wafts around me. Is it coming from my dress? Devon said she had it dry-cleaned when she bought it. The scent is lovely and floral and somehow familiar. I hurry down the stairs, humming happily to myself.

  Tonight will be unforgettable.

  Bolton Gym is already crowded when I arrive. There are kings, queens, mermaids, superheroes, and an assortment of other characters. One boy is dressed as Mr. Bagley and is carrying around a copy of The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Several girls from Kerrith are dressed as Mrs. Frith. Shimmery red and pink heart decorations hang from the ceiling and on the walls. On the stage, a DJ is spinning “Slow Ride,” which I recognize from Guitar Hero, and a bunch of students are gyrating under a silver disco ball. Headmaster Henle must have picked out the music again.

  I stuff my parka into the jam-packed coatrack, pull off my boots, and slip into my flats. I look around for Max but don’t see him anywhere. I don’t see Devon or Leo or the girls, either.

  “Tess? Is that you?”

  I turn just as a musketeer greets me with a sweeping bow. The brim of his massive hat obscures his face.

  Is it Franklin? It sounded like him. “Um, hi! Are you Athos, Porthos, Aramis, or D’Artagnan?” I ask cheerfully.

  He removes his hat. It is Franklin, smiling at me.

  Then he looks me up and down, and his smile disappears. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” he demands.

  Where did that come from?

  “I’m waiting for Max. And making pretentious Alexandre Dumas references. What are you doing?”

  “You have to go change. Now,” he hisses.

  “What? Why?” I glance down worriedly. “I haven’t spilled anything on my dress,” I add.

  That’s when I spot Max coming up from behind Franklin. He looks stunning in his suave black tuxedo and silly cowboy boots.

  His face lights up when he sees me . . .

  . . . then turns deathly pale. He stares at my dress with unmasked horror.

  What is happening?

  I grab his arm. “Max, what’s wrong?”

  His jaw clenches and unclenches. He doesn’t say a word.

  “I’m her!” I remind him with a desperate smile. “Aurora Thorn! Remember the ‘Eternal Spirit’ statue? Where we f
irst kissed?”

  Max dips his head toward my neck. At first I think he’s going to whisper something in my ear. But he breathes deeply, and I realize he’s smelling me.

  “Her dress and her perfume? Tess, how could you?” he cries out furiously. “I have no idea what kind of sick joke this is, but—I’m out of here. We’re through. Do you understand me?”

  “Max!” I shout.

  He takes off. I start to run after him, but Franklin catches my hand. “Tess, let him go.”

  I burst into tears. “Franklin, what did I do?” I wail.

  “Are you serious? This is the exact same dress that Becca wore to the ball last year. With Max.”

  I’m so stunned I can’t find my voice.

  “Of all the costumes you could have picked, why this one?” Franklin says angrily. “Didn’t you know how it would make him feel? How did you even know what Becca wore last year?”

  “But I didn’t—”

  Devon. It was all Devon’s idea. She totally set me up.

  But why? The whole thing is insane.

  I head toward the exit. “Where are you going?” Franklin calls after me.

  “Just leave me alone!” I yell.

  People are staring at me.

  I don’t care.

  Max and I are so over.

  My life is so over.

  32.

  WHITWATER BEACH. I HAVEN’T BEEN HERE SINCE SEPTEMBER, when I found Max standing on the edge of the cliff.

  I don’t know why I came back here. It’s like some mysterious force propelled me across the snowy quad, through the woods, and back to this awful, desolate place. Maybe a part of me thought I would find some peace. Or maybe I thought I would find Max.

  But no. There’s nothing here but the full moon and icy wind. And the ominous sight of waves crashing and pounding against the rocks a hundred feet below.

  I stand on the cliff, gazing numbly down at the beach. I’m usually afraid of heights, but I don’t feel any fear right now—just despair. In the distance, to the south, I can just make out the marina and the trail leading down to it.