Stolen

by Elizabeth Gilpin

  I was the school’s concern now. My escorts had shuffled me off to a woman in her thirties who introduced herself as Cynthia—although she might as well have said Lynn Anne Moore. She had the pastel cardigan and the loafers, the light Southern accent and the false smile. Cynthia even had the same hair as Lynn Anne: a shoulder-length bob, undoubtedly curled by foam rollers. They could have been relatives or clones, different models of the same “education expert” robot.

  Wherever she came from, this Lynn/Cynthia, she was leading me through the front door.

  The carriage house was small, a few closed rooms, a small library. She led me to her office where two girls sat waiting.

  “This is Maggie.” She nodded toward one of the girls. “She’ll be your big sister.”

  “Hi,” Maggie said. “Nice to meet you.”

  She was small and unassuming, with brown hair tied up neatly in a ponytail. She had a tomboy vibe like me and seemed friendly enough.

  “You too,” I said.

  The second girl, however, would be a whole different story. She stood up and shook my hand before Cynthia even introduced her.

  “And this is Beatrice. She’s part of the Friends Committee.”

  “Welcome to Carlbrook, Elizabeth.” Beatrice gripped my palm and gave it a firm shake. “It’s going to be so nice to have you here.”

  “Sure,” I said, trying to free my hand.

  “Okay, let’s get you through intake,” Cynthia said.

  I joined the others on the couch and looked around Cynthia’s office. It was neat and well-appointed, just like her. It was Lynn Anne’s office and it was my mother’s house. A very specific Southern brand of perfect.

  Cynthia had a black three-ring binder on her desk. I saw my name printed on the spine. It was basically empty, but it would fill up quickly with all kinds of notes about my behavior and descriptions of my deepest, darkest secrets.

  “So, I assume you know the drill. The whole clothes off, spin three times routine?”

  “Again?”

  Cynthia nodded.

  “But I came straight from the woods. Where I was stuck for three months. How could I even get my hands on something illegal?”

  “It’s protocol, you know?” She shrugged. “Come on, up. The sooner you do it, the sooner it’s over.”

  I stood and looked down at the couch where the other girls still sat.

  “In front of them?”

  Maggie, at least, had the decency to look away, but Beatrice was smiling like some sort of diplomat. An ambassador for the school, or maybe its mascot.

  It’s a weird lesson to have already learned by fifteen. How to be strip-searched with dignity. Or, at least, how to make it seem on the outside like you aren’t dying on the inside. Like your self-respect isn’t shriveling with each rotation. I had been a varsity athlete when I was still in middle school. Now my most impressive feat was to cough and squat after spinning around three times.

  I don’t know whether to take a bow or collect tips.

  Cynthia cleared me and I got dressed as quickly as I could. When I crouched to tie my shoes, Beatrice began chattering in my ear about the wonders of the school. “It’s really opened up my whole soul, you know?”

  Nope, not really. Good for your soul, though.

  “If you’re all set,” Cynthia said, “the girls will take you over to the sleeping mods.”

  We left the carriage house and started walking across the campus.

  I assumed my parents had visited the school. I wondered if Beatrice had performed her ambassadorial duties for them too. As soon as we started walking across the campus, I understood exactly why they’d chosen Carlbrook.

  It was beautiful, just as stately and picturesque as Episcopal. There were Corinthian facades on the stone-crafted buildings. The grass was lush and perfectly maintained, the trees were tall and leafy. A lake bisecting the grounds was dotted with geese—enough to be scenic but not so many they might become annoying. It was like walking around inside a snow globe, quaint but also very insulated. Like there really was a barrier between Carlbrook and the outside world.

  I’d later find out the dark history of these grounds. The property had been a tobacco plantation in the pre–Civil War era. It was a place where enslaved people toiled, and learning that made the serene beauty of Carlbrook even more insidious.

  “Just a little farther,” Beatrice said, “and we’ll hit the sleeping mods.”

  “We’re roommates.” Maggie smiled at me. “It’s you, me, Brittany, and Kristen.”

  Four people? In one room?

  Panic rushed my brain, a flurry of white static like snow. Very quickly, the picturesque scene began to fall away. We reached the edge of the grass and veered toward the woods. This was nonbrochure territory. A row of double-wide trailers fanned out across the edge of the woods, mobile homes pretending to be dorms. And one of them was mine to share with a group of other girls.

  At least it’s shelter, right? At least it’s not the woods.

  Beatrice gave me a hug good-bye while Maggie opened the front door to our sleeping mod. We walked in and ended up looking right at the communal bathroom. Inside were three showers and three stalls. A single small mirror hung over the sink. At least there was a door, though, a luxury that did not extend to my new bedroom.

  There were eight bedrooms in the trailer. My new home was small, especially for a space I would be sharing with three other people. There were two bunk beds, two dressers, and two flimsy IKEA closets. We each got two drawers and half a closet for all of our things. Since the other beds were already taken I knew I wouldn’t be getting that top bunk spot that every former camp kid covets.

  “You’re right below me,” Maggie said, pointing to a lower cot.

  Hey, at least it’s a bed. Under an actual roof. That you don’t even have to set up or anything.

  By all accounts I should have been relieved. The truth was, after sleeping in the open air for so long, the trailer felt suffocating. It suddenly occurred to me that I’d never shared a room before. I’d always had my own space, even if that space was a shelter. Now I had not one roommate, but three.

  “We’re in luck,” Maggie said. “It’s a good room. No one snores or anything.”

  It wasn’t long before my other two roommates walked in. The nonsnoring Brittany and Kristen.

  “Welcome to hell,” Brittany said, laughing.

  “Bans, Brittany,” Maggie said.

  “Sorry. Stupid bans. I always forget.”

  I looked around to see if anyone was going to explain what the hell they were talking about. Nope.

  “What are bans?” I said.

  “Basically it means, like, you’re banned from stuff,” Brittany said.

  “For now it means you can’t speak to anyone else who’s new,” Maggie said. “Or gesture, like, nonverbally. Actually try to avoid eye contact altogether.”

  “Seriously?”

  This was somehow even stricter than the woods.

  “For like the next month,” Brittany said. “Just while you’re pre-Integ.”

  “Pre-what?”

  “It’s the name of a workshop,” Maggie said. “Integritas. I think it’s Latin or something.”

  Brittany nodded. “This place is obsessed with workshops. Integritas, Amicitia, Animus…”

  Huh? What is it with these places and weird, made-up names? Fire Phase was bad enough, but Integritas? That’s just ridiculous.

  Maggie must have noticed my confusion. She cut Brittany off before she could finish her stream of Latin.

  “It’ll make more sense when you’re here longer.”

  “Actually, though?” Kristen, the third roommate, said. “It really won’t.”

  It was the first thing she spoke to me, and her only contribution to the conversation. But it made me like her immediately.

  “Okay,” Maggie said. “Let’s get you unpacked. Your parents sent a box of clothes. Let’s make sure everything’s within standard.”

&
nbsp; Within standard? Seriously? Who talks like this?

  “We’ll start with the jeans you’re wearing,” she said. “We can only wear jeans on weekends, as long as they’re in standard. And those are not.”

  I looked down at my pants. They seemed pretty normal to me.

  “What’s wrong with my jeans?”

  “I can see your ass,” Brittany said.

  I was confused. Was she trying to suggest my jeans were too tight? They actually felt a little loose.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The outline,” Maggie said. “Jeans can’t cling like that here.”

  “Are you serious? That’s, like, all I own.”

  “Well, let’s have a look.”

  There was a big cardboard box on the floor. My name was written in the neat, flowery handwriting I recognized immediately as my mother’s. I could see her in my room, packing up the box, and it made me want to scream.

  Earlier in the day my escorts told me about a little trick they used to tell how much trouble to expect from a kid. Apparently, the state of their room was a near-perfect indication of the state of their psyche. The messier the bedroom, the more trouble to expect. As Maggie rooted through the box, pulling out one neatly folded item after another, I had the urge to push the whole box to the floor. Nothing about my mental state felt tidy and clean.

  “Here,” Maggie said, holding out a pair of corduroy pants. “Try these.”

  I put them on. Once again, there I was, stripping in front of people I’d just met. Really, what kind of a future did this school have in mind for me?

  “Close. But they’re a little frayed at the bottom,” Maggie said. “Let’s keep going.”

  I tried on outfits for my roommates. Another pair of jeans, a graphic shirt, a tank top, denim shorts. All rejected outright.

  “I used to wear stuff like that,” Brittany said. “And now I get to dress like my dad’s secretary.”

  A pair of loose pants were deemed unacceptable because they were embellished. An Abercrombie & Fitch polo was nixed for its logo. Pretty much everything I owned went into the “no” pile.

  Too tight, too short, too long, too colorful.

  The “yes” pile contained one pair of loose pants, a single oxford shirt, and a few sweaters. I was also allowed to keep a few things as weekend wear, but all the tees my mother had packed were old soccer or swim shirts. It seemed almost cruel to have to look at them, these relics of my old life. I should have kept one of my orange shirts from the woods. I’d rather wear a reminder of the nightmare I’d survived than the dreams I’d given up on.

  “Look,” Maggie said, “I know what you’re thinking. ‘Fuck these rules, I’ll wear what I want.’ Right?”

  Well. Now that you mention it.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “I get it. We all do. But don’t let them call you out for stupid stuff like clothes, okay? It’s just not worth it.”

  I felt my stomach sink. I was out of the woods, sure, but maybe I wasn’t yet out of the inferno.

  Maggie smiled at me. “It’s not actually all that bad here. I’m just saying, you’ll have an easier time if you blend in where you can.”

  She handed me a J.Crew catalog. On the cover, a young blonde modeled khakis from a sailboat. She looked calm and happy. She looked a little like I used to look, back when I still knew how to fake it.

  “Circle what you want.” Maggie passed me a pen. “And we’ll have your parents order it ASAP.”

  “Ooh,” Brittany said. “Let’s get matching sweater sets!”

  “Brittany…”

  “Elizabeth, what’s your favorite color?”

  “Um—”

  “You have two choices.” Brittany cut me off. “Gray and brown.”

  “Bans!” Maggie said. “You two aren’t supposed to be talking.”

  Chapter 14

  I’VE THOUGHT A lot about the advice Maggie gave me that first day at Carlbrook. That I should blend in and not make waves, keep my head down and just get through each day as best I could. It was exactly what she seemed to be doing. She wasn’t performative like Polly; she didn’t have to be the best or the most enthusiastic. She just had to be part of the line marching forward, navigating from the middle of the crowd. Maggie’s graduation was on the horizon when I met her, and her attitude of quiet submission kept her on a steady path. She’d have to tolerate the dumb rules and fake Latin just a little longer and then she’d be free.

  It was good advice, a helpful tip to her school-assigned little sister, offered in good faith. Try to blend in where you can. Just take the indignities, the unfairness, and look the other way. So why didn’t I listen? Why didn’t I model myself after Maggie, shuffling forward in my baggy jeans along the path of least resistance? I don’t know. But it’s a question I think about a lot.

  I circled items in the J.Crew catalog almost at random. Half of the stuff in there was already on the three other girls in the room, so what did it matter? I handed the catalog back to Maggie, and she helped me put away the few items I was allowed to keep. A single pair of pants hung in the closet and the tops went into the drawer.

  “Make sure you fold everything really neatly,” Maggie said. “And your shoes need to be lined up along the bottom of your closet.”

  I refolded the sweater in my hands. “Got it.”

  “Dorm heads check your spaces every morning, so it’s important you don’t forget. Clothes must be put away, always. Beds made, with no wrinkles and all the corners tucked. Here, I’ll show you.”

  She went back to the box and pulled out the bedding my mom had sent. There was a new duvet and crisp, white sheets. Everything looked perfectly nice and comfortable. It was standard, ordinary bedding, and that was what made it so strange. I could hardly even picture these things in my mother’s shopping cart. There were no intricate details, color-coordinated to match the curtains that accented the wallpaper, and they certainly weren’t monogrammed.

  Nope, not a single E.L.G. in sight.

  I guess there wasn’t much of a point to making everything look nice when no one would see it. The perfect things were for the house, after all, and the imperfect stuff got shipped away.

  “Well, this looks like it’s been well loved.”

  Maggie was laughing. There was one more thing inside the cardboard box, folded and tucked away in the corner.

  My baby blanket!

  I grabbed it from Maggie. It had been months since I’d been able to wind my fingers through its knit loops, knowing it was there to keep me safe. I felt better the instant I had it back. For a moment I forgot about the soccer shirts and the plain duvet, just grateful my mom had remembered to pack my blanket.

  “I can keep it here, right?”

  “Just make sure it’s tucked away neatly, okay?” She smiled. “If you remember. I mean, I’m the one who does the morning check.”

  I was glad to have my baby blanket. I folded it up and stashed it under the unwrinkled duvet. My corners were tucked, my pillows were fluffed. And my blanket would be there waiting for me at the end of the long day.

  “Looks good, cadet,” Brittany said. “Now, stand and give me twenty.”

  “Drop and give me twenty,” I corrected.

  “What? Oh, yeah. No time anyway, we have to get to dinner.”

  The “dining mod” was directly across from where we slept. A massive stone dining hall was under construction across campus, but for now we took our meals in another double-wide. This one had been turned into a single room filled with foldout tables and stools. Dinner was served buffet-style from tin catering platters: dry chicken, watery green beans. There was also a salad bar stocked with only the most fattening varieties of dressing.

  It was better than dry ramen, though. I made a salad, still full from the trio of chicken biscuits I’d gorged on earlier. I brought my tray back to the table where my roommates were sitting.

  “Remember,” Maggie whispered, “you’re on bans.”

  I nodded.
>
  Right, bans. No talking, no eye contact.

  For that reason, my first dinner was pretty uneventful. I ate my salad slowly and in between bites, I watched the vinaigrette congeal around the stale croutons.

  I met exactly one new person who actually made an impression. Her name was Charlotte and she wore a black cashmere sweater and a giant black Gucci belt. She walked directly up to me and shook my hand.

  “Hi. You’re new.” She had a hint of an accent, something European. “Welcome to the Carlbrook School for Spirited Underachievers.”

  I laughed without realizing that Charlotte had just recited the school’s actual motto. Maggie shot her a warning look. I watched her as she walked back to her table, already certain she was someone special. She was a high-society rebel who would be put on bans with the color black and designer labels not long after this interaction. They wanted her to blend into the J.Crew catalog just like the rest of us.

  When we were done eating, Maggie led me out of the trailer.

  “Are we going back to the room?” I said.

  “Not yet. It’s time for Last Light.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well.” Maggie smiled nervously. “You’ll see.”

  We headed toward the main building, the big stone mansion I’d seen from the road, known as the commons. It was just as beautiful on the inside, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a crystal chandelier. Portraits of past students hung on the walls. I paused in front of the first series. There were eight kids, seven teenage boys and a teenage girl.

  “That’s the first graduating class,” Maggie said. “Two thousand two.”

  I looked more closely. “There was only one girl?”

  “I know. Can you imagine?” Maggie turned to me. “Hey, you’re from South Carolina, right?”

  “Yep,” I said.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s the same place as her.”

  It was a strange coincidence, but I hardly gave the girl in the portrait a second thought that night. It wasn’t until a few weeks later, after I’d met several other students from my town, that I began to suspect something more than random chance was at play.

  “Ready?” Maggie said as we walked down the hall. “This might seem a little intense at first.”