“Just don’t do anything you’ll regret. This is Bedlam, remember? People are watching you.”
“What people?” I say, my voice strangled. I search Will’s face for clues. Is he threatening me?
“Don’t worry about it, Anthem.” Will pauses, his eyes glittering with malice. “But I’d love to know—who’s the guy?”
“What guy?” Does he somehow know about Gavin?
“Forget it. You don’t have to tell me,” Will says, checking his watch. “I’ll be here when you change your mind.”
“I’m not changing my mind,” I say sharply. I push past him, but he grabs my wrist before I can clear the pew. I whirl around and yank my hand away, opening my mouth to speak but not finding any words.
“Lie to me all you want, Anthem, but don’t lie to yourself.” He pulls his leather satchel over his shoulder and straightens up to his full six feet. Before I can think what to say, he turns and stalks heavily out of the chapel.
My hands are trembling as I adjust the burgundy tie at my collar and slowly, mechanically smooth out my pleated plaid skirt. I bend to slip my oxfords on and wait a few minutes before I leave. My eyes wander back to Judas and his false kiss. Under someone’s ordinary face can lurk the most sinister thoughts. The church bells start to clang again, but all I can hear is Will’s voice.
People are watching you.
CHAPTER 6
When the final bells of the school day begin to clang at 2:55 P.M., I bolt up from my seat in Honors English and hurry out the forty-foot arch of Cathedral’s front doors. Checking over my shoulder to make sure Will is nowhere in sight, I pass the security booth at the school gates. Blake and Meechum, the armed guards on duty in the afternoons, stand at the ready, watching for criminals or vagrants.
Meechum nods hello. His hand rests casually around the barrel of the BulletBlower 27 he wears strapped around one arm. “Afternoon, Miss Fleet.”
“Hi, Meech.” I smile. I’ve known him since kindergarten. He’s getting on in years, but just last week he chased down a couple of punks who’d threaded their way among all the high schoolers boarding school buses, catching them with half a dozen wallets and two Pharm-inhalers stuffed in their pockets.
I move past him onto the sidewalk and start to weave through the crowd of burgundy, navy, and white–uniformed kids milling around. Then I feel my phone vibrate in my skirt pocket.
Gavin: Can you get away? I miss you.
I look up the block toward Seven Swans. The answer should be I’ve got ballet today, but yesterday was too good.
I walk quickly around the block where it’s quieter, then call Madame Petrovsky. It turns out to be disconcertingly easy, lying to her.
When she answers, I tell her I overdid it on Sunday and twisted my ankle, and that I missed rehearsal yesterday because I was seeing the doctor. “He said to elevate it and rest for a while longer, until the swelling goes down,” I lie.
“Oh dear,” she says, pausing to emit a long sigh. “Please rest. No walking. Lots of ice. We are choosing parts for Giselle very soon,” she reminds me, a trace of panic creeping into her voice. “I suppose I can put it off a little longer. . . .”
I can almost hear her frowning, can almost see the crease between her eyebrows deepening. I do my best to shake off my guilt. I’m not bragging when I say I’m among the best dancers she’s got in level six. I can practice at home, at night, I tell myself. I can still land the prima role. A few days can’t erase twelve years of training.
“Sorry. I know it’s terrible timing.” I rise onto my toes and hold on to a light post, then move through a sloppy pas de bourrée, my guilt about lying now almost completely overtaken by my excitement about a whole afternoon with Gavin.
We sit side by side on the deserted beach of Lake Morass watching the cotton-candy fog roll in off the water, so thick we can almost hold it in our hands. He tells me about his mother dying when he was just nine years old after being sick with a wasting disease for years; about how his father, who moved away when Gavin was a baby, never came to claim him from the orphanage he was sent to live in when his mother died. When I ask him about what the orphanage was like, he shrugs, and says simply: “The kind of place you do everything you can to get away from. I left when I was thirteen. Been supporting myself ever since.”
I ask him how he supports himself now, and he tells me he paints houses on the North Side. The work is seasonal, so he’s busy in the summer and free in the winter to work on his art.
“Drawing was all I had for a long time,” he says. “I used to steal coal from the kitchen and sketch on old newspapers. It was the only thing I could do that felt like an escape from being me. So I kept doing it.”
I nod, knowing exactly what he means. When everything else is terrible, a day of dancing is all it takes to remind myself of what’s good. I think guiltily of the studio and wonder for a second what sequence the level sixers are doing now.
Later that afternoon, we buy cups of tea from a nearby café and sit next to each other, staring out over the river with our pinkies linked on the table. The silence between us is comfortable, somehow familiar.
He drives me back with ten minutes to spare. I wait for Serge in the lobby of Seven Swans, doing my best to shake the sand from my hair.
Each day this week, I’ve called to check in with Madame and report on my ankle, then walked to a meeting place Gavin and I have chosen, just a few blocks from Seven Swans. I’ve never missed this many days of practice in my life.
It happens fast. My feelings for Gavin grow exponentially more intense each day, and I’m becoming one of those girls I normally cannot stand. Those dreamy, dopey gigglers who see the bright side of everything, who seem almost stupid with love. It was never like this with Will.
“It’s almost better,” I say to Madame on the phone on Friday, the fifth day in a row that I’m missing ballet. I check furtively around me for anyone I might know as I wait at the designated corner for Gavin to pull up on his bike. “I have a physical therapy appointment today, and if I get the all-clear, I’ll be at Saturday practice.”
“Very good, Anthem. You’ve been very responsible about this injury. We look forward to your return.”
Ugh. I’ve been the opposite of responsible, I think as Gavin’s bike pulls up. This has to stop, or I’ll have no hope of catching up. . . .
When he pulls his helmet off, Gavin’s face is half-hidden by his shaggy hair, but his expression is so eager that I lose my train of thought. “Me too,” I say to Madame, and click the phone off.
“Where to?” I grin.
He takes me to his studio, in the old rail yards deep in Southeast Bedlam. When we pull up between two rows of rusted trains surrounded by tall thickets of grass and scrub, the first thing I notice is how quiet it is. Then I hear the cooing of circus birds and look up to see a nest on the closest train car, all but eaten up by deep red rust. A large albino crow announces itself on the roof of another rail car a few feet away, its sharp beak open to the gray sky.
“That’s Money,” Gavin says, whistling at the crow, who regards us with one red eye.
“Money?”
“He’s here today, gone tomorrow.” Gavin grins. “I named him when I first started painting out here.”
He leads me toward an ancient-looking train car wrapped in desiccated vines that will probably become bright green in the summer. He unlocks a heavy padlock and slides open the door. My breath catches when I get inside.
It’s a riot of color. The walls are coated in layer upon layer of paint, and there are several half-finished canvases—some stunning, haunted landscapes that look inspired by this rail yard, where plants overtake the buildings and the cars. There’s a triptych of townspeople standing in front of a country church, all of them staring at the sky, horror etched into their faces, their mouths open in silent screams. Another of a couple, their bodies elongated as they run from a fire.
“This is your studio?” I breathe, moving in a slow circle to take in all t
he art. In one corner of the room are a few dozen large cans of house paint, some rollers, a pile of tarps.
“Yep. Also my storage space for the day job.”
“How do you stay so clean?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“If I hung out here, I’d be covered in paint every day,” I say.
“Coveralls,” he says. “Also, um, I’m trying to impress you with my best duds. Is it working?”
I look him over. Worn black pants with a small hole in the knee. Combat boots. A button-down shirt with a frayed collar. All topped with a motorcycle jacket. “Totally.”
I walk toward him and lean upward for a kiss. When we break away, I want to tell him he could show up in ripped rags and I’d still like him. A lot. I clear my throat. “You should stop worrying about impressing me.”
“It’s just hard to believe a girl like you would bother with someone like me,” he says softly, his eyes trained on the paint-splattered wood planks of the train car’s floor.
“A girl like me would definitely bother.” I laugh. “Though bother isn’t the word for it.”
The unspoken part of this conversation is that up until now, we’ve been keeping our time together a secret. He hasn’t asked me why I haven’t shown him my neighborhood haunts, my apartment, my favorite place to get coffee, but I know he senses that my parents wouldn’t approve of what we’re doing, and not just because I’ve been skipping ballet.
“It’s been a good week,” he says, then moves to a far wall and turns an easel around. There’s a palette set up, oil paints glistening on it, still wet from use. Above it, a small canvas, half of it filled with my face. He’s even done my freckles, the few darker ones under my eye and the lighter gingery ones across the bridge of my nose. “I started working on this early this morning.”
“How can you do this from memory?” I breathe.
He shrugs, studying the painting, then glances at me to check how accurate he was. The answer is very. He must have a photographic memory. “I just think about you, and this is how I picture your face.”
“I’m here now,” I suggest. “If you want to do the other half . . .”
“Nah,” he says, quickly flipping the easel back around to face the wall. “Not enough light. Maybe next week.” I bite my lip at the mention of next week. I have to get back to ballet. The only way to spend time with Gavin is in the evenings, and that means telling my parents. But I’m pretty sure telling my parents I’ve been seeing a South Sider will mean being instantly grounded, or at least forced to go everywhere with Serge. It will be the end of my time with Gavin Sharp.
And if there’s one thing I’m absolutely sure of, it’s that I don’t want this to end.
CHAPTER 7
On Monday I stuff my books into my locker and turn my bloodshot eyes to the crowded stone hallway. I walk slowly through the sea of crisp white button-down shirts and plaid skirts. My throat is raw from lack of sleep; I stayed up talking on the phone with Gavin till 1:00 A.M. But being exhausted has never felt so good.
The halls have been humming with an extra intensity today—everyone’s talking about the girl from Midland Prep who was stabbed last night outside her house on Juniper Street. Snatches of conversation reach my ears—the stabbing, prom tickets on sale next week, Principal Bang’s appearance on Channel Four News Roundup early this morning to speak about protecting the children. A droopie deal gone wrong, I hear someone say. No way, says another. Only lowlifes do droopies. It’s all smokestacks and gigglepills for Midland Prep girls.
“How do you say, ‘We’re cutting Latin’ in Latin?” a familiar voice chirps in my ear.
“Zahra!” I exclaim, turning to link arms with her. It’s been a while since we’ve really talked, I realize guiltily. I haven’t exactly been avoiding her, but I’ve been pretty evasive when we’ve hung out at lunch, guarding my afternoons with Gavin as if telling anyone would somehow pop the bubble we’ve been living in each day. “Where have you been?”
“Veni, vidi, vici. I came, I saw, I yawned. We need an emergency debriefing session,” Zahra says, her eyes covered by a pair of vintage cat-eyed sunglasses. “Now.”
“The usual spot?”
Z nods. “Act nonchalant. Blandsen and Bang are watching you.”
I laugh nervously as I swivel my head around and look for Will and Olive Ann, but Zahra squeezes my elbow and frowns. Suddenly I have the distinct suspicion I’m on display, a glass slide under the Cathedral Day microscope.
Five minutes later, we’re racing through the stacks of the school library, inhaling the smell of old leather and wood polish. We reach the spiral staircase at the back of the main study area and quickly clatter up it until we’re well into the Thesis Tower. It’s lined with dark wood shelves containing the bound thesis projects of every student who has ever attended Cathedral. All this insulation makes it the perfect place for a private conversation—especially compared to the rest of Cathedral, where the gray stone halls are known for their echo-chamber effect, the architecture of the school encouraging the spreading of secrets and lies.
Zahra and I have been coming here to decompress, together and sometimes alone, ever since we discovered it freshman year. We’ve vowed never to take anyone else up here.
At last, Zahra lifts her sunglasses. Her violet eyes are flat and clinical as she looks me up and down, appraising me. As if she doesn’t quite trust me.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to need an anxiety assessment,” I say.
Zahra raises her eyebrows, her mouth sealed shut. She plucks a thesis—Machiavelli in Bedlam: Today’s Power Brokers and Their Quest to Rule—from the curved shelf that snakes up the tower and starts to flip through it. “I can wait here all day until you start talking. Some great reading material here. And unlike you, I’m not averse to ditching classes.”
I blink hard and try to hold her gaze, but her expression is so steely I have to look away. It’s clear she’s waiting for me to spill. “Okay, there’s some stuff I haven’t been telling you. But I guess you know that.”
“Um, yeah.” She smiles tightly, shutting the thesis and gesticulating with it still in her hand. “What in Bedlam’s balls is going on? You’ve been off in the clouds all week, and now I hear that you broke up with Will?”
“You were right about him,” I say, thinking of the countless times Zahra’s suggested Will wasn’t with me for the right reasons. I lean my forehead against the wall of books and close my eyes, the red splotches behind my eyelids dancing like poisonous blooms. Maybe I’m just paranoid, but I could swear Will’s been shooting me nasty looks every chance he gets this week. “I should have ended it a long time ago.”
She nods, nibbling her bottom lip. “What finally broke the camel’s back?”
“Well.” I grin and clear my throat, savoring the chance to shock my unshockable best friend. “For one, there’s someone else.”
“Bandanna boy?” Z squeals, slapping me hard on the hip with the Machiavelli thesis.
“Uh-huh.” I beam back at her, the thrill of finally sharing my feelings for Gavin sending a pleasant shiver down my spine.
Z grabs my hands in hers. “Why didn’t you say anything before? I tell you everything!”
“Sorry. I meant to tell you. I just . . .” I trail off. I just wanted to make sure it was real.
“It’s okay. Forget it. You’ve told me now, at least.”
“Anyway.” I sigh, my stomach twisting with the knowledge that whatever Gavin and I have will collapse like Bridge Nine the moment we’re discovered. “It’s not like it can last.”
“Why not exactly?” Zahra asks.
“Zahra, think about it.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Gavin’s from the South Side. And we’re—”
“Yeah, your family owns half of Bedlam. So what? Opposites attract.”
“But I could never even introduce him to my parents.”
“You don’t know that,” Z says brightly, waving her hand through the air as
if erasing all my doubts. “Maybe your dad will look at him as a project.”
“Maybe,” I say, but I seriously doubt it.
“And if not, know what?” Zahra throws her arm around my shoulders.
“What?”
“You’re eighteen in a few more months. Your parents aren’t in charge of you forever.”
Just then, the bells begin their frantic noontime ringing.
As we head back down the spiral staircase, I let my thoughts drift back to Gavin. The spaces in between seeing him feel like the blurred background of a photograph, whereas our afternoons together are crisp and clear in a way I’ve never felt before. Just three more hours, I tell myself, until everything comes into focus again.
“Here,” Gavin says, holding his leather jacket over my head and shoulders. We’re huddled under a narrow fire escape in the alley behind Seven Swans. An electrical storm opened up on us as we were driving back on the bike, and we’re both drenched.
“You’re soaked,” I protest. “Keep it on!” His thin white T-shirt sticks to his chest and stomach, but he just shakes his head and holds his jacket over me.
There’s a deafening crack of thunder, and he pulls me to him. Rain drips off our noses as we kiss. I shudder in his arms, happier in this moment than I’ve ever thought I had a right to be. The knowledge that our afternoons together are ending suddenly feels catastrophic and horribly unfair.
I managed to buy one more day from Madame by telling her the physical therapist insisted, but tomorrow I have to go back. If I don’t, I risk not just my role as the lead in Giselle but also the entire winter performance.
“Anthem,” Gavin says, grabbing my hand and looking me in the eyes. His lashes are wet and bunched together.
“Gavin,” I whisper, just as a car pulls up around the side of the alley. I glance down at my watch. Seven. Time to meet Serge. “I’ll call you later.” I pull my hand away and grab my ballet bag from the back of Gavin’s bike, slinging it over my shoulder.
The Brokenhearted Page 4
