Something washed over me right then, a feeling of sickness and powerlessness. I was Christina in Andrew Wyeth’s Christina’s World: stranded in a field, helpless and alone. Faceless. And Malcolm was the house: safe, secure, poised on top of the hill. I knew it had all been too good to be true, that there was something wrong with him, there had to be.
Gabe saw my face. “Don’t tell me you like him.” He said like as if it were the most disgusting verb in the dictionary.
I paused for too long.
“I thought you were different,” he snapped. “Otherwise, I never would’ve told you.”
“I am different. He’s different, too, I swear—”
“He’s not different. He is them. In fact, he’s worse than they are because he pretends to be something else.” Gabe turned and started to walk away.
“You can’t say that! You’re just pissed because I don’t believe you!”
He stopped and turned back to me, fierce. “Believe this: There is something evil here, and they’re all part of it.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
He opened his mouth, but closed it. His eyes widened. His face went pale. He shook his head. “Lydia’s coming,” he whispered as he backed away, then turned and ran down the hall, leaving me alone.
I remained because I didn’t believe in ghosts. There was nothing to be afraid of. And part of me kept thinking that this might be some elaborate prank on Gabe or by Gabe. I checked my watch. Our shift was not done, so I started to pack up the computer to go after him. As I zipped up the travel case, I felt it again—that chill. I hurried toward the steps.
When I arrived at the top of the spiral staircase, I saw Malcolm immediately. He was hanging out with Kent in “their” area, the cluster of leather chairs that looked ideal for pipe smoking. Kent was always smiling. He was the polar opposite of his twin, Abigail. I guess he got all the fun genes when their chromosomes split, if that’s even what happens.
Malcolm’s back was to me. And Kent, on his other side, was too busy listening to his own voice to notice me. I wanted to talk to Malcolm, but approaching him when he was with Kent felt too awkward. Also, I needed to find Gabe. Insanity aside, we had work to finish. We were both now on “warning.” So I kept walking.
As I passed, Malcolm turned and saw me. “Liv!” he called.
I gave a little wave and rushed along. But he jumped up and followed.
I paused and looked down. I felt naked talking to him in front of his friends. “Hey, sorry. It’s just I’m busy with my work-study job.”
He leaned in close and whispered, “Tonight. It’s a full moon. And security will be distracted because the headmaster’s having an event.”
When he spoke to me, Kent disappeared. So did Gabe. So did our job, so did whatever “warning” had been threatened. Thinking about a night alone with him, I couldn’t help but smile. He knew it was a yes.
“I’ll text you details.”
“Another military mission?” I asked with fake spy seriousness.
He nodded.
“Ten-four,” I said with a smile, then turned and left Main, heading down the dramatic stairs into the chilly night.
THE PLAN WAS QUITE complicated. All the dorms had alarm sensors on the doors, so the only way to get out was through a first-floor window. Most of the first-floor windows were permanently locked, but the dorm prefects lived in the rooms with windows that opened to the outside. It was a sign of trust (and a fire safety thing). Since Malcolm, of course, was a dorm prefect, he could easily get out. And he’d figured out a way for me to. He said he knew Abigail wouldn’t be in her room at 11 P.M., and he’d leave a master key under her doormat. All the prefects had master keys.
At exactly 11 P.M., I was to come down the back stairs of the dorm, at which point he would provide a distraction so no one would be in the common room. Then I’d use the key to enter Abigail’s room and climb out the window. It terrified me so much: the thought of being caught and punished by Mrs. Mulford, promoted to Final Warning like Gabe, or even expelled. But it was also exhilarating. I’d never even considered doing something so dangerous before, something that could jeopardize my life here, my studio, my luck. And best of all, I’d be—quite literally—stepping all over Abigail Steers as part of my escape.
As I climbed down the back stairs, I heard music blasting. As a distraction, Malcolm had placed some speakers in front of the dorm and was playing “Come As You Are.” From the stairs, I could hear my dormmates tittering, rushing to the front windows to see who was playing this potentially romantic gesture and speculating for whom. If they only knew. I smiled to myself as I snatched the key and slipped into Abigail’s room.
It wasn’t what I expected. It was a mess, actually: piles of her clothes, discarded shoes. I stepped on a hairbrush—a particularly sharp one—and, in order to keep from yelping, I collapsed on her bed. Also, I couldn’t help myself; I had to snoop. Just a little. This was a military mission, after all. I looked in her bedside table drawer: Elizabeth Arden Eight Hour Cream, Kleenex, iPhone charger. Boring.
I went to her computer, woke it up. Her calendar was on the screen. It detailed her every move, all color-coded. Tonight at ten thirty there was a “meeting.” In purple. There were numerous purple “meetings” across September and October, always in the evening. Sometimes quite late, even after curfew. Unless there was a secret Alcoholics Anonymous program on campus, I was pretty sure they involved the Victors.
I heard voices returning to the common room. I dashed out her window, carefully pulled it closed and crept away into the darkness.
Malcolm had texted me extremely specific directions, taking into account which parts of campus were the most brightly lit (to be avoided, of course). In certain places, he even told me how many steps to take. I held my phone in my hand, cupping it to minimize the light, as I stole through the darkness.
I snuck around the back of the Art Center, along the tall wall that looked down on its spacious outdoor theater and fire pit, and then rushed past the old well. Following his instructions, I dashed into a grove of pine trees but stumbled on a pinecone and fell at the foot of a majestic weeping willow tree. As I stood up, I felt it again: a chill. It rushed past me, through me, almost. I turned. Nothing. Silence except for my noisy heart—frightened or perhaps just filled with anticipation.
When I finally arrived, I found Malcolm waiting for me, pacing between two trees. He wore his class blazer over a fully untucked oxford shirt; somehow he made the Wickham Hall garb look cool. And his even-messier-than-usual hair formed a silhouette like a wild and dark crown.
“Thank God you made it,” he whispered. His blue eyes popped in the moonlight, looking anxious. I laughed quietly. Everyone at Wickham Hall was so terrified of getting in trouble.
“Your comrade-in-arms wouldn’t abandon you in the field,” I assured him as he led me silently through some trees to a clearing where he’d spread out a blanket.
“Look,” he said. He lay down on his back. I lay down next to him and followed his gaze. There was an opening in the canopy of trees where we could see the brilliant moon. And stars. Hundreds of them. He took my hand. He held it strongly—with commitment. We lay there silently for a long while until he spoke.
“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or
else swoon to death.”
Of course I knew the poem; we’d just studied it in English lit. But I’d known it before Wickham. John Keats. “It’s beautiful. And impossible,” I said.
“You think so?”
“That’s what it’s about, right? The paradox. You wish a moment could last forever. But it can’t. We are not stars. And if we were, we’d be distant, immaterial. Alone. It’s pretty bleak actually.”
“I was trying to be romantic.”
“Mission accomplished.”
He smiled and turned over onto his stomach. “It’s one of my favorites. Always has been.” He took my right arm in his hands, pulled out the green marker (he’d remembered it!), and carefully started to draw along the inside of my forearm. I didn’t look until he was finished. Two stars. But stars like you’ve never seen before—expressive, singular—more like Van Gogh’s than Rihanna’s. I smiled, and he knew I loved it.
Then he reached into his pocket and slipped a ring onto my finger. My right ring finger. My breath caught in my throat. I lifted my hand to examine: a gold Wickham Hall band with B.A./V.P. 1885 inscribed in Wickham Hall’s trademark font below the insignia. It gave me a weird feeling in my stomach.
“It was my great-great-great-grandfather’s.”
“Balthazar?” I whispered.
“How did you know that?”
“I have my spy ways,” I said, trying to lighten the mood, which suddenly felt very heavy. “Ways that involve my scholarship work-study assignment to record every name inscribed in the bricks in the catacombs.”
“Oh.”
“1885. And V.P.—that means Victors President, right?”
He looked right at me. Silent.
“I know you can’t talk about it. And I’m not going to ask you to. But can you just tell me there’s nothing sinister about it?”
He laughed, surprised. “Yes, I can confirm there’s nothing sinister about it. Just snobby. Elitist. Stupid.”
I stared at him. “I’m trying to believe whatever that secret society is and does has nothing to do with us. And you remain steadfast.” I felt better. I’d said it.
“It doesn’t. And I will,” he said. We were face to face. Again. So close that his breath warmed me. We looked into each other’s eyes. Without thinking, I reached behind his head and pulled his lips to mine. And we kissed.
Had I thought first, I never would’ve done it. I’d never done anything like that before. Of course I’d fooled around with boys, but I’d always been passive. I’d never felt like that before. It felt urgent. Essential. I forgot about all the things I’d always stressed about during a kiss. Stupid things. In fact, there was no thought at all. I just kissed him. And he kissed me.
I have no idea how long it went on for, but when it ended—as effortlessly as it’d begun—he said it: “I love you.” Those three words every girl dreams about hearing. Every girl except me. I was terrified of those words, and he could see it on my face.
“It’s too soon?” he asked.
“No, I mean, yes, it’s just …” How could I explain I’d never said those words before? Not to anyone. Ever. Not even my parents. How could I explain I’d been moved from foster home to foster home for seven grueling years? How could I explain that, as obsessed as I was with the Romantics, I did not really believe in love?
I considered telling Malcolm everything, all these words and thoughts and feelings I’d kept to myself for so many years. I really did consider telling him, but right then we heard a faint crunching sound.
We froze.
“What was that?” I asked.
He lifted his finger to his mouth.
I heard the sound again. Footsteps on fallen leaves. Someone sneaking up on us—probably campus security.
“I’m already in trouble with Mrs. Mulford,” I whispered.
He blinked a few times, concerned. I hadn’t told him. He thought for a moment, then said, “We need to split up. You go that way. I’ll go the other way and try to distract them. Okay?”
I nodded.
“Now!” he urged.
I jumped up and ran back the way I’d come. Around the graveyard, under the pines. Too scared to look back. A vision of being sent back home flashed into my mind. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go back. As horrible as Wickham Hall could be, it was better than home. I had my studio. I had Malcolm. I ran for my life.
I paused at the old well to catch my breath. I told myself how silly I was—this was not life or death.
How silly I was.
I looked around—no one was coming—so I leaned on the well, trying to calm down. I looked into its blackness. Abyss. Then something suddenly rushed up from the dark, and that cold chill slapped me in the face. My head whipped back from its force. And that’s when everything went black.
FALLING INTO NOTHINGNESS. DARKNESS. But I see skulls. Bodies. Velvet. Starched white linen stained with dried blood. Ribbons.
Fingernails scraping the stone walls. Dirty fingernails, clawing at crude drawings on the stone. A ring on her finger.
Landing on lifeless bodies with a thud. Flesh, unaware.
Screams of girls. Terrified. Terrorized. Deeper voices chanting words I don’t know but sort of recognize. Latin, maybe. A song emerges, high pitched. Voices in unison. A chorus singing the Wickham Hall alma mater.
I’d had designs on Willfred Pinfolds since coming to Wickham Hall. He was a fizzing beauty but wishy-washy when it came to the fairer sex. That is, until this particular night, when he had some whiskey his roommate smuggled back from Manhattan. It must’ve been quite potent because Willfred was off his chump, and I was quite happy to indulge his desire for a little caper.
What place more romantic to meet your paramour than the Skellenger cupola? It was so tiny two people had to rub skin just to squeeze in together.
I gazed into the sky, streaked with slivers of clouds that looked like claw marks. It was exceedingly bright, as there was a plump full moon. And we were up so high, practically next to it.
“Let’s pretend we are atop that glorious Statue of Liberty! Peeking out from her headband!” He was silent so I continued. “My parents came over from Dublin, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” he said, as if it was something distasteful.
“Everyone came over at some point.”
“Some more welcome than others,” he muttered.
“Apologize,” I demanded.
He just chuckled.
“Apologize right now, you!”
“No. Let’s climb out the window, to the very tip top.”
“You’re pretty well over the bay.”
“I’m fine. Just do it. I dare you. Then I’ll kiss you.”
Who wouldn’t want a kiss from Willfred Pinfolds, even if he was a nasty drunk? And I was always one for a dare.
Little did I know, I was en route to my earth bath. My eternity box. At least my body was.
I found myself still slumped over the side of the well, panting and unsure what had happened. Shaken but okay, I heard some feet skittering away over pine needles—I knew the sound by then. Surely it was Malcolm, but I couldn’t see him. I called out for him. No response.
When I turned, I suddenly came face to face with a pale girl. She was faint, as if painted in watercolor. She started to say something to me, but when I saw the gash across her neck, I turned to run.
I abandoned all attempts to hide myself. In fact, I ran toward the light and anyone who could save me from that horrible girl. It wasn’t just that she was bloody and faint—what frightened me most was that I recognized her. I’d met her. I’d talked to her. It took me an instant to remember; I’d seen her in that dream. It was definitely her, the one with red pin curls and that bloody flapper dress. I ran so fast I could almost feel the air rush through me, constantly glancing back to see if she was there. She was not.
I took the shortest possible route to the center of campus then headed toward the dorms. My mind calmed. I realized it was probably another prank. But this
one was too real. I needed to tell Malcolm what I’d seen. I saw him moving through the shadows along the side of his dorm.
“Malcolm!” I cried in the loudest possible whisper. But it wasn’t loud enough. If I was any louder, I knew I’d wake someone, so I ran toward him as fast as I could and nearly caught up with him as he was approaching his window.
“Malcolm!”
He turned and looked right at me. He was so clearly fed up with me. Sick of my dead heart. Sick that he had told me those three words, and I hadn’t even managed a response. His eyes didn’t even meet mine.
“It’s so complicated. Please believe me. There’s so much I need to explain to you. But just now, I saw something terrible. A dream or something …” But he turned away from me.
“Malcolm?! Please! Don’t just ignore me!”
He opened his window and climbed in. I ran over to the window as he pulled himself through. I looked up at him. But he slammed the window closed and shut the curtains.
I collapsed on the ground, waiting for I don’t know what. Before I knew it—as if I’d fallen asleep or time had magically fast-forwarded—the first inklings of dawn were starting to break. I needed to get back to my dorm before sunrise. I needed to keep myself in Wickham Hall long enough at least to see Malcolm and try to explain things to him. It wouldn’t be easy. I’d never told anybody those feelings before. Explained how I’d been given up, dumped, handed off, passed around, and forgotten. I’d been unloved so long I could hardly even say it to myself.
I hurried toward my dorm, my mind racing. Not really paying attention, I reached out to turn the doorknob but recoiled from a shocking pain. Confused, I tried again, this time watching myself. I gently placed my hand onto the metal. I noticed it felt different—softer, almost like clay except I couldn’t shape it. And when I moved my hand to turn the doorknob, it stung and seared my palm. Shaking my hand out, I stepped back from the dorm to check it out, suddenly imagining a high-tech security system involving electro-shock doorknobs that punish dormitory escapees. I wouldn’t have put it past Wickham Hall.
Liv, Forever Page 7
