by L V Chase
“But that can be good, can’t it?” I ask. “You aren’t doing all of these drawings just because you love to draw. You know what you need to do to win the Damian Comstock Art Award. You said yourself that you came to this school just for this competition.”
He inclines his head in concession. “It can be good—but only for the person who’s doing it. Everyone else is a liability.”
I smile at him, touching his arm. “Am I a liability, Jay?”
He carefully pulls his arm away from me. “I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”
A cold draft hits me. I ignore it, swallowing back any negative connotation to his words. If Damian isn’t the man I thought he was, I can’t lose my last friend at Roman Academy.
I stand up slowly. “Thank you, Jay. I’ll let you get some rest now.”
“Good plan. Maybe if I pretend I’m sleeping, I can stall the sponge bath.”
He forces a smile. I force one back. We’re two performers, each trying to win the Oscar for Worst Acting.
I walk towards the door.
“Cinnamon.”
I turn back to him.
“If you truly don’t trust Damian, you should talk to Ally McCulloch,” he says. “She’s the head librarian and the person behind Peer Review. If anyone knows anything, it’ll be her.”
“Our head librarian spreads gossip?” I ask.
He shrugs. “She deals in information. She’s cool. Good at what she does.”
I nod. “I’ll talk to her. Thank you, Jay.”
He spins the pencil between his fingers, but he doesn’t respond. It’s likely for the best.
I haven’t spent much time in the library. It’s massive, the bookcases tall enough to require ladders. Off to one side, a woman sits in the center of a rather cluttered desk. The words information center are carved into the panels of the desk over and over, in varying sizes and fonts.
“Hi,” I say, walking up to her. “I’m looking for Ally McCulloch.”
She raises her eyebrow, looking up from the thick book she was perusing. “Well, congratulations, you accomplished your task. What’s the next objective?”
“Oh, shit. You’re McCulloch?” I ask.
From everything I know about Peer Review, Ally McCulloch enjoys wielding power and ruining lives, so I expected her to be a bitchy woman with bleached blonde hair and dramatic makeup like the rest of the popular girls at this school. She should be the emblem of the mean girl. Instead, it appears that she only has a faint layer of make-up, and her red hair is pulled back into a low ponytail. She’s got black-framed glasses, too. She looks like a librarian.
“One of them, yes,” she says. “I’m not enthusiastic about small talk, so could you tell me what you need?”
“You don’t enjoy small talk, but you spread gossip.”
She flips a page in her book. “If you consider gossip to be small, you have no idea how much power I have. Have a nice day, Cinnamon.”
“Wait.” I press my hand over the page of her book. Her lips pinch together. “You know who I am?”
“Cinnamon Reeves,” she says. “The witness behind Grayson Voss being beaten by his father, the girl who got into a fight with Aurora Voss during Homecoming, and the one whom Grayson saved from expulsion. And, of course, the girl stabbed by Diana Mason. Though, if I’m being truthful, I’m far more interested in your connection to Grayson.”
“I’m not here to talk about Grayson.”
“That’s a shame,” she says. “I you’d have plenty to say for my eager ears.”
I frown. “I want to ask about Damian White. What do you know about him since he’s been here?”
“Since he’s been here?” she asks. “Not much. Before that? A little bit more, but Damian is promising me an internet-breaking compilation of information if I don’t write about him. Being connected to Writing on the Wall could be very lucrative for Peer Review.”
I let out a slow breath. “Of course. Money. That’s what makes the world revolve around here, isn’t it?”
“It’s what makes the world revolve everywhere, Cinnamon. You should know that as someone who’s lived in poverty her whole life.”
I slap my hand on the book. She doesn’t even flinch. “Right. Well, thank you for being exactly who I thought you’d be.”
“How’s Jay doing?” she asks as I start to turn away. Her eyelids are lowered toward the text of her book, but I can see her looking at me through her eyelashes.
“Why, so you can put it on your website?”
“I wouldn’t print anything about Jay.”
Jay once managed to convince her to write about Grayson and his father. It must have been a dangerous thing for her to post—Grayson clearly wouldn’t want it published. But she did it on Jay’s word.
And she doesn’t enjoy small talk, so Jay isn’t a small subject matter to her.
“He’s okay,” I say. “He’s his normal self. His body is just a bit messed up.”
“But he isn’t in too much pain?”
“I don’t think so. They give good drugs at that hospital. I know from experience.”
She smiles—a genuine, relaxed smile. “Good.”
I turn away, walking back through the stacks.
“Cinnamon,” she calls out.
I turn around.
She’s looking straight at me. “You know, Eric’s very lucky that Jay’s parents didn’t want to press charges. An assault charge could give him prison time, but the police could also flip over Eric’s whole life and find out more than they expected. Jay is lucky, too, because that could lead Eric to resent Jay, and Jay wouldn’t see the consequences he’d triggered. It’s difficult to be vigilant when you underestimate the threat.”
She looks back down at her book, her finger trailing across it.
She isn’t the type of woman to be random. Even in this short discussion, it’s clear that she sees all conversations as a way to convey information. She wants me to take what she said and understand it.
I don’t understand it.
I sweep the dance studio alone this time as Grayson cleans the halls outside. A thousand thoughts keep colliding in my head. Grayson. The police. Eric. Jay. Damian.
Eric. The police. Grayson. Jay. Damian.
The police. Grayson. Damian. Eric. Jay.
Jay. Damian. Grayson. The police. Eric.
Grayson. Jay. Eric. The police. Damian.
Damian. The police. Consequences.
The night Damian was arrested for the marijuana in his car—the marijuana my mother planted—used to haunt me like a recurring nightmare. I used to think about it anytime anything bad happened to me, thinking karma was sinking its teeth into me for staying close to Damian despite knowing how malicious my disapproving mother could be. But since Damian accepted my apology, I hadn’t thought much about it.
It was just a possession arrest, Cin. I paid a fine.
I’m just saying it’s a hell of a lot better than jail food.
Ally had mentioned prison time when it’d come to Eric. She deals in information, so she must have been giving me something in exchange for reassuring her that Jay was fine.
I set the broom down and pull out my phone. I pull up the web app and search for the marijuana arrest a year ago in the parking lot of Hardak’s grocery store.
Arrest in Hardak’s Parking Lot Leads to Hit and Run Suspect.
On Friday, the NYPD made an arrest in connection to a hit-and-run that was committed on August 23.
After a drug possession arrest of a minor, a member of the NYPD found DNA evidence that the car the drugs were located in had been used in a hit-and-run more than a month prior.
Sharon White has been charged with leaving the scene of an accident with serious personal injury and loss of life.
The NYPD released a statement, which detailed how the vehicle had been captured by a neighbor’s porch security camera, but the license plate had been indecipherable. An officer recognized the vehicle and found DNA matching one of the
victims, who had spent over a week in the hospital for her injuries before passing away. A second victim survived with permanent disfigurement.
White is being held at the Rose M. Singer Center pending a bond hearing.
I click through more articles. Only one more line mentions Sharon White’s fate: The hit-and-run driver was convicted and sentenced to a 4-year prison sentence. She’s still in prison. Damian hadn’t ever mentioned it.
Why wouldn’t he mention such a stressful part of his life to me? His mother had her problems—she once sold the family car to buy a pot-bellied pig—but he loved her.
This is on the internet. Ally had to know about it. She told me that the police could flip over Eric’s whole life over one criminal charge and find more than they expected. That’s what happened to Damian. A marijuana possession charge was nothing. A hit-and-run charge led to a harmless woman serving four years in prison. When Damian and I were eight, she freaked out because Damian killed an ant that crawled over my hand.
I set my phone down and pick up the broom again. I sweep, but the rhythm of the bristles against the floor reminds me of police sirens.
The police wouldn’t have connected that it was his mother’s car right away. They would have suspected that Damian was the one who committed the hit-and-run. He would have been interrogated. He wouldn’t have given his mother up. He would have served jail time, waiting for his trial.
That’s how he knew what prison food tasted like.
He should have told me. I would have sympathized. I would have gone with him to visit his mother in prison. I wouldn’t think less of him over his mother’s crime. It’s only by some miracle that my mother has never injured someone over her drunk driving.
I look down at my feet. I pick up a tiny pebble, the sharp edges digging into my fingertips. It only takes a tiny rock to fuck up this floor. The smallest things can ruin any foundation.
24
Grayson
I drag the bucket along with the mop inside to another spot on the floor, then squeeze the water of the mop and begin mopping up this last section. It's hilarious, the thought of me cleaning this hallway. Cin's been gone for the last five minutes, cleaning up elsewhere.
I only started coming to these stupid sessions to see Cin, but she barely acknowledges me the entire time. There was practically nothing but the sound of dripping water and squeaky mops against the tile and wooden floors for the last hour. In any other situation, I would have thrown the mop down and left long ago, but just having Cin next to me was soothing.
I also heard that the janitor supervisor, Jim, Jimbo, whatever his name was, snitched on us when I ditched last time. I didn't find out until today from Cin, because no one complained to me. They bitched at Cin, though, and she probably blamed me. Another reason she's mad at me. So, despite being a Voss, I grit my teeth and mop up the floor for another thirty seconds. For her sake.
But Cin's been out of my sight for long enough, and I'm done with this shit. I push the cleaning equipment to the corner of the hallways, stop by the lockers briefly to clean up, and search for Cin. I go up and down the stairs, checking all the rooms again, but she's nowhere to be found.
When I walk by the dance studio, though, I notice that the door is slightly ajar, and the soft light from within is spilling out into the dark hallway.
"Cin," I call as I open the door. "Come on. Let's close up and ditch this shit."
I pause when I see what she's doing. She's set up a canvas and easel. I didn't see her bringing it with her, so either she had it stashed away somewhere earlier, or she went out and brought it back within the last five minutes. I'm guessing she had it stashed in the locker somewhere, because she's painting, and it looks like she’s gotten in more than a few minutes’ worth of work.
Her brush moves slowly but surely along the canvas in a sea of reds, blues, oranges, purples. At first, I can't be sure what I'm seeing with all the bold, intermixed strokes of colors. They swirl together in an undefined pattern, more surrealist than the types of normal paintings I can understand.
Cin's back is to me, and she doesn't stop painting. I think she saw me in the mirror, but I don't interrupt. I let her paint.
Her arm moves in long fluid motions. She dabs at another fresh color of paint. She stands at one angle, then another, whether to get a better line of motion for her arm, or just to see her work from a fresh perspective.
It's thrilling, in its own way, watching her work on something that she loves. Sure, everyone can see the final product, but seeing the steps behind it and seeing her in motion feels like a special privilege. Almost like seeing her naked, the raw and unbridled beauty that no one else should get to see.
I stare at the painting for a bit longer. Then, I understand.
I know what she's painting. The red contours are shaped like the outlines of a woman. It's her. The dark blue is me. They're intertwined in an obvious position if you know what to look for.
They're fucking. Or rather, it's a picture of us fucking.
There are small images of the red and blue figures. Reflections from mirrors. She's painting us fucking in this very room.
"That's a fucking crazy painting," I say. "Like literally."
Cin jumps when I say that, the brush in her hand leaving a stray mark of red paint on her canvas. She frowns at the blemish, then turns to scowl at me.
"Did you have to do that?" she asks.
"What?"
"Sneak up on me like that?" She shakes her head in exasperation and goes back to fixing her painting.
I hardly snuck up on her, but I don't point that out. She must have been so caught up in her painting that she didn't hear me coming in earlier, or even calling out to her. Cin's like that, all into her art. Hell, her art's probably my biggest rival, not some dickhead.
"I like it," I say. "The painting."
"It's nothing," she says. "Just a random mess. What do you want, Grayson?"
Something about the way she says that makes me stop. I shrug. "Just close up. Head out. You?"
Cin stops painting for a second and looks at me in the mirror. "I don't know. I really don't know anymore."
"You still have that art competition, don't you?" I ask.
"Yeah."
But we both know that's not what I'm talking about, and that's not why she made the painting in front of her. Her shoulders sag slightly. Her face is downcast. I want to rush over and wrap her in my arms, promise her that everything will be perfect. But I don't want to lie to her, and I don't know if she's ready for the truth.
Or if I am.
"I'm just tired," Cin says. "I'm tired of everyone hiding things from me. Everyone treats me like I'm some fragile idiot that can handle hard facts."
I try not wince. She's right. Even though I've been harsh on her with the bullying and all the bullshit, for the things that actually count, for the hard truths, I've been going soft on her. I want to shelter her from all the shit that can actually hurt her. I failed already, when I let Diana hurt her for real, and I don't want the same thing to happen to her again.
Cin turns to face me directly. "I trusted you," she says.
Those words sting. I think at first that she's figured everything out on her own, or maybe Damian spilled everything to her. But then I realize that if she had found out, she probably wouldn't even be willing to face me now.
But I can't keep lying to her. I can't keep up this act. I won't let Damian, Dad, Kat, or anyone else dictate how I treat Cin.
I won't let myself hurt her.
"I trust you, too," I say.
Cin shakes her head. "That's what you always say, but..." Her voice drops away.
I step close to her. I take the brush out of her hand, then set it aside.
"This time's different," I say. "I'm going to tell you everything. From the beginning."
Her large green eyes find mine. She nods slowly and waits. I hold her two hands. If I go forward with this, it might be the last time I ever have her like this. I stare into he
r face, trying to memorize every detail of her face, every stray hair, every reflection in her eyes, ever curve in her face.
"You think we Vosses are assholes," I say. "It's worse. We're fucking monsters." I pause, trying to take in her beauty one last time, but I'm not stopping now.
"You know about my father. He...he has a lot of business dealings. Some legal. Some gray. He does everything he can to seal deals, to gain leverage." I take a deep breath. "Bribes. Blackmail. You name it. Maybe even murder."
Cin's eyes widen in shock, but I gently squeeze her hands and pull her closer.
"But what he wanted me to do was to get the girls ready." I stop again. This is harder than I had expected. "You're a smart girl. I'm sure you noticed that the other scholarship girls aren't exactly what you'd consider good Catholic girls."
Cin shrugs. "Well, me neither."
I can't help but smile at that. "No, but you're different." I frown. "My father's been using the scholarship girls at the school for years. He knows that they're desperate for." I gesture towards myself. "People like us."
Cin's eyes narrow. "Rich people, you mean. He knows that those girls are gold diggers. Or the school makes sure that they are."
"See. I know you're smart. Dad gets these girls ready. Grooms them, you could say. He uses them for his business dealings. He hooks them up. The business partners get what they want. The girls get a chance to experience something. Maybe they get more."
"Wait a minute," Cin says. "Didn't your father meet his wife here? Wasn't she a...a poor girl?"
"Yeah." I shrug. "Who's to say it can't work out like that with another girl? It's what they want, right?"
I can see that she's taking it all in, thinking, judging, reacting. She frowns, then shakes her head, then opens her mouth to say something before shutting it again.
"What's that have to do with me?" Cin asks. "You were grooming me, too?"
"It's more complicated than that. It was supposed to be Diana..." I shake my head, too. "See, my father needed someone’s cooperation. Brady, a big lawyer in the DA's office. Brady saw your picture, heard you were a strong-willed girl—"
