The Dark Vault
Page 30
Waiting for something to start is always worse than when it does.
As the lesson begins, I’m relieved to find that underneath the moss and stone and uniforms, school still kind of feels like school. You can dress it up, but it doesn’t change much from place to place. I wonder what class Lyndsey has first. She’ll be sitting in the front row, of course. I wonder who will sit next to her on the left, who will reach over and doodle in the margins of her books when she’s not looking. I start to wonder what Ben would be studying, but then I catch myself and turn my thoughts to the equations on the board.
I’ve always been good at math. It’s straightforward, black-and-white, right and wrong. Equations. Da thought of people as books to be read, but I’ve always thought of them more as formulas—full of variables, but always the sum of their parts. That’s what their noise is, really: all of a person’s components layered messily over one another. Thought and feeling and memory and all of it unorganized, until that person dies. Then it all gets compiled, straightened out into this linear thing, and you can see exactly what the various parts add up to. What they equal.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I notice the sound in the lull between two of Bradshaw’s explanations. It’s a clock on the back wall, and once I start to notice it, I can’t stop. Even with Bradshaw’s expert projection (I wonder if he took a speech class or used to act, and how he ended up teaching precalc instead), there it is: low and constant and clear. Da used to say you could isolate the sounds in the Narrows if you tried, pluck out notes and pull them forward, letting the rest sink back. I tug on the tick tick tick, and soon the teacher’s voice fades and the clock is all I can hear, quiet and constant as a pulse.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Tick. Tick.
Tick…
And then, between one tick and the next, the lights go off.
All at once the whole set of soft fluorescents on the ceiling flickers and goes out, plunging the classroom into darkness. When the lights come back on, the room is empty. Sixteen students and a teacher all gone in a blink, leaving only vacant desks and the ticking clock and a knife resting, gentle as a kiss, against my throat.
THREE
“OWEN.”
It comes out barely a whisper, my voice tight with fear. Not here. Not now.
He lets out a low breath behind me, and then I feel his lips brush against my ear. “Hello, M.”
“Don’t—” I start, but the words die as the knife presses into my throat.
“Look at you,” he says, using the metal to lift my chin. “Putting on a show. Smiling and nodding and trying to pass for normal.”
The knife falls away, and a moment later he’s there—rounding my chair, clucking his tongue as he perches on top of the desk in front of mine, hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His silvery hair is swept back, and his eyes hang on me, wild and wolfish and blue.
“Do they know you’re broken?” he asks, twirling the blade between his fingers. “They will, soon enough. Should we show them?”
I grip the desk. “You don’t exist.”
“And yet I could break you,” he says softly, “in front of all of them. Crack you open, let them see all the monsters you’re made of. I could set them free. Set you free.” He sits up straight. “You don’t belong here.”
“Where do I belong?”
In a blink he’s gone from the other desk and standing next to mine. He rests the knife against my desk, its tip inches from my ribs. His other hand comes down on my shoulder, holding me in my chair as he leans close and whispers, “With me.”
He drives the knife forward and I gasp and jerk upright in my seat, catching my rib cage on the edge of my desk as the bell rings. Owen is gone, and the room is full of students scraping their chairs back and hoisting their bags onto their shoulders. I sag back again, rubbing my ribs, then haul myself to my feet and slide my too-blank notebook into my bag, trying to shake off the dregs of the nightmare. I’m almost to the door when Mr. Bradshaw stops me.
“Miss Bishop?” he says, straightening his desk.
I turn back to him. “Yes, sir?”
“Did I bore you?”
I cringe. “No, sir.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “I do so worry about boring my students.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t,” I say. “You’re a very good speaker. Drama training?”
I curse myself before the words have even left my lips. Mouthing off in the Archive is one thing, but Mr. Bradshaw’s not a Librarian, he’s a teacher. Luckily, he smiles.
“I’ll assume then that, despite outward appearances, you were listening to my lecture with rapt attention. Still, perhaps in the future you could listen with your eyes open. Just so I know for sure.”
I manage a weak smile, a nod, and another “Yes, sir” before heading into the hall in search of Literary Theory and Analysis—I don’t see why they can’t just call it English. But before I can orient myself, someone clears his throat loudly. I turn to see Cash leaning against the door, waiting. He’s got a coffee in each hand, and he holds one out to me.
“Still trying to play the knight?” I ask, reaching reflexively for the cup.
“Your English class with Wellson is on the other side of the quad,” he says. “Five minutes isn’t enough time, unless you know the way.”
As soon as I take the coffee, he sets off down the hall. It’s all I can do to keep up and not spill the drink all over myself as I swerve to avoid being hit by shoulders and the noise that comes with them.
“Before you ask how I knew about Wellson,” he says, “I don’t have a thing for preying on new students.” He taps the side of his head. “Just a photographic memory.”
“That has to come in handy in a school like this.”
His smile widens. “It does.”
As he leads me through the building, I try to commit the route to memory.
“You’ll learn it backward and forward in no time.”
I’ll have to. One of the “innovative learning tactics” mentioned in the brochure is the scheduling. Semesters at Hyde are made up of five classes: three before lunch, two after. Every other day the schedule is reversed, so whatever class came first goes last, last first, etc., etc. So Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays look like this: Precalc, Literary Theory, Wellness, (lunch), Physiology, Government. Tuesdays and Thursdays look like this: Government, Physiology, Wellness, (lunch), Literary Theory, Precalc.
The brochure contained a lengthy, case study–supported explanation of why it works; right now it feels like just another hoop to jump through.
Cash leads the way through a set of doors, out onto an inner quad that’s ringed with buildings. Then he veers down a path to the right. Along the way, he drinks his coffee and cheerfully tosses out fun facts about Hyde: It’s been around since 1832; it used to be two schools (one for guys and one for girls), but they consolidated; one of the founders was a sculptor, and the campus is studded with statues, fourteen in all, though the number is always up for debate. Cash rambles on, waving whenever someone shouts his way (which is surprisingly often) without so much as a pause in his speech.
Luckily he doesn’t stop to chat with anyone this time, and we reach my class right as the second bell rings. He smiles triumphantly, turning away—but not before I can say thanks this time. He offers a salute that sweeps into a bow, and then he’s gone. I finish my coffee, trash the cup, and push the door open. Students are still taking their seats, and I snag one two rows back as a middle-aged woman with strikingly good posture—I assume she’s Ms. Wellson—writes in perfect print across the board. When she steps aside and I see the words, I can’t help but smile.
DANTE’S INFERNO.
It is summer, and I’m searching for a coffee shop beneath layers of dust, while Wesley Ayers sits backward on a metal chair. I can see the outline of a key beneath his shirt. The shared secret of our second lives hangs between us, not like a weight, but like a lifeline. I clean,
and he rescues a book from a pile of sheets beside the chair.
“What have we here?” he asks, holding up the text.
Dante’s Inferno.
“Required reading,” I tell him.
“It’s a shame they do that,” he says, flipping through the unread pages. There’s a reverence in the way he handles it, his eyes skimming the words as if he knows them all by heart. “Requirement ruins even the best of books.”
I ask him if he’s read it, and he says he has, and I admit I haven’t, and he smiles and tells me that books like this are meant to be heard.
“I’ll prove it to you,” he says, flashing me a crooked smile. “You clean, I’ll read.”
And he does. That first day, and for the rest of the summer. And I remember every word.
When the bell rings again, I’ve aced a pop quiz—the other students didn’t even have the decency to look annoyed when Ms. Wellson announced it—and gone a whole class period without a nightmare, thanks to Cash and his coffee. I expect to find him waiting for me in the hall, but there’s no sign of him. (I’m surprised to feel a small pang of disappointment as I survey the stream of students in black and green, silver and gold, and come up empty.) The silvers and golds, however, all seem to be heading in the same direction, and since I know from the brochure that juniors and seniors all have Wellness—which as far as I can tell is just a pretentious way of saying gym—together before lunch, I decide to follow the current.
It leads out and across the lawn, beyond the ring of buildings to another majestic structure, this one all ancient stone and gothic accents. I finally catch sight of one of the sculptures Cash mentioned, a stone hawk perched on the mantel over the doors.
“The Hyde School hawk,” he says, appearing beside me out of nowhere, and a little out of breath. “It’s our mascot. Said to represent insight, initiative, and ingenuity.”
A cluster of junior girls are on the path several feet ahead of us; as Cash talks, one of them looks back and rolls her eyes. “Cassius Arthur Graham, I keep telling you, you can’t woo girls with school facts. Hyde history is never going to be a turn-on.”
I feel my face go warm, but Cash doesn’t color at all, only smiles broadly. “It may surprise you, Safia, but not all of us open our mouths with the sole intention of getting into someone’s pants.”
Her friends laugh, but the girl’s eyes narrow with the kind of irritation usually reserved for exes and younger siblings. Judging by her features—she has the same dark hair as Cash, hers pulled back into a ponytail, and the same gold eyes—I’m guessing she’s the latter. Cash’s comment seems to have hit a nerve, because Safia links her arm through her friend’s, shoots back a short string of nasty words, and hurries into the Wellness Center. Cash shrugs, unfazed.
“Sister,” he confirms as we pass through the doors. “Anyway, sorry I was late. Mr. Kerry went off on one of his tangents—be glad you’ve got a year before you’re subjected to him—and kept us after. Have I sacrificed my knighthood? Or did my valiant display in the face of fire-breathing dragons just now win me some credit?”
“I think you can keep your shield.”
“What a relief,” he says, nodding toward his sister as her ponytail vanishes into the locker room. “Because I think I’ll need it later.”
By the time I find my locker, preassigned and prestocked with workout shorts and a T-shirt—I cringe at the sight of short sleeves, thankful I’m largely bruise-free (if not scar-free) at the moment—I’ve knocked into three different girls by accident and managed to avoid several dozen others. School is like a minefield: so many people, so little personal space. Locker rooms are even worse, but I make it through with only a dull headache.
I watch the other girls peel off their necklaces and rings—what little jewelry Hyde allows—and stash them in their lockers before getting changed. I’m not about to relinquish my ring, but I fumble with the key around my neck, knowing it will draw more attention. If someone calls me out on the necklace, they’re bound to demand the rest of my jewelry comes off, too. I slide the key over my head and set it on the shelf, feeling too light without it.
I’m just tugging on my workout shirt when I hear someone shout, “Come on, Saf!”
“I’ll be right there,” comes a now-recognizable voice. I look over to see Safia lacing up her sneakers at the end of the bench. She doesn’t look up, but there’s no one else around, so I know she’s talking to me when she speaks.
“You know it’s his job, right?” she asks, cinching her shoes.
“Excuse me?”
She straightens, tightening her ponytail before leveling her gaze on me. “My brother is a school ambassador. Showing you around, making you feel welcome—it’s just another one of his duties. A job. I thought you should know.”
She wants it to sting, and it does. But hell if I’ll give her the benefit of letting it show.
“Well, that’s a relief,” I say brightly. “He’s been so clingy, I was starting to think I’d led him on.” I shut my locker firmly and stride past her. “Thanks,” I add, patting her shoulder as I go. (It’s worth the sound of ripping metal in my head to feel her tense beneath my touch.) “I feel so much better now.”
The outside of Hyde’s Wellness Center may sport the same old stone-and-moss facade as the rest of campus, but beyond the locker rooms—which act as gatekeepers to the gym—the inside is all whitewashed wood and glass and steel. There are smaller rooms branching off to one side and a pool branching off to the other, but the main training room is a massive square. It’s subdivided into quadrants by black stripes on the floor and ringed by a track. I can’t help but brighten a little at the sight of the glittering equipment. It’s a pretty big step up from my makeshift gym on the Coronado roof.
I hug the perimeter, taking in the scene. A group is playing volleyball, another jogging around the track. Half a dozen students are breaking into fencing bouts; Safia stands with them, fastening her glove and flexing her sword. I’ve never fenced before, but I’m half tempted to try, just for the chance to hit her. I smile and take a few steps toward her when a shout goes up from the far side of the room.
On a raised platform near the edge of the massive center, two students are sparring.
They’re standing in a kind of boxing ring minus the rope—both seniors, judging by the gold stripes that mark their gym clothes where the fabric peeks out from behind the pads. The gold is all I can see, since the rest of them is buried beneath padding; even their faces are masked by the soft helmets. A handful of students—I can just make out Cash among them, a fencing mask tucked under his arm—and a burly middle-aged teacher stand around, watching as the two boys bounce on their toes, punching, kicking, and blocking. The shorter of the two seems to be working a lot harder.
The taller one moves with fluid grace, easily avoiding most of the jabs. And then, between one blink and the next, he acts instead of reacts, thrusting one foot forward and low before planting his shoe at the last moment, turning on it, and delivering a roundhouse kick to the other boy’s head.
The boy ends up on his back, dazed but unhurt. I doubt anyone else noticed his opponent slowing his motion just before his foot connected, easing the blow. The teacher sounds a whistle, the students applaud, and the victor helps the defeated to his feet. He gives the shorter boy a quick pat on the back before the loser hops down from the platform.
I’ve managed to make my way across the fitness hall while watching the bout, and I’ve just reached the edge of the group of spectators when the victor gives a theatrical bow, clearly relishing the attention.
Then he tugs his helmet off, and I find myself looking up at Wesley Ayers.
FOUR
WESLEY AYERS IS THE stranger in the halls of the Coronado.
He is the Keeper in the garden who shares my secret.
He is the boy who reads me books.
He is the one who teaches me how to touch.
And today, he is the guy on the stone bench, wearing a tux.
Something is eating at him, I can tell. Something has been since he showed up, and I stupidly assume it’s just the fact that he hates his father’s fiancée, or at least what she means for his family. But he doesn’t offer any of his usual acerbic remarks, doesn’t even acknowledge the wedding or the tux. He just slumps down onto his bench and starts reciting the last of my required reading as if it’s any other day.
And then, somewhere between one line and the next, his voice trails off. I glance over, wondering if he’s asleep, but his eyes are neither closed nor unfocused. They’re leveled on me. I return the look.
“You okay there?” I ask.
A smile flickers across his face. “Just thinking.”
He sets the book aside and pushes up from his bench, smoothing the front of his rumpled tux as he closes the gap between us.
“About what?” I ask, shifting to make room as he settles down beside me. He comes close, close enough to touch, his folded arm knocking against my shoulder, his knee against mine. I take a breath as his rock band sound washes over me, loud but familiar.
“About us.”
At first, I barely recognize him.
Wesley’s hazel eyes are free of the eyeliner I’ve seen him wear all summer; his hair is still black, but instead of standing up, it’s stuck to his forehead with sweat; every bit of silver is missing from his ears. All his little quirks are stripped away, but he’s got those proud shoulders and that crooked smile, and his whole face is lit up from the fight. Even without the bells and whistles, it is still undeniably Wesley Ayers. And now that I see him, I don’t know how I didn’t see him earlier.