by Callie Hart
When I catch my breath, Kevin isn’t shaking anymore. He’s very still, legs splayed, eyes fixed, staring up at the ceiling, and the front of his John Deere Equipment t-shirt is covered in spit and blood. Is…is he dead?
I think he must be. I race across the living room, I grab Jason’s reeking hoody from where it’s hanging on the hook, I yank the front door open, and I run.
It’s raining. My feet are bare. I’m naked save for the disgusting hoody I’ve wrapped around my shoulders. The cold and the dark don’t matter. All that matters now is my escape.
I hurl myself into the night, and I do not stop.
12
DASH
Okay. So what? I’m a liar. Big fucking deal.
I’ve taken my fair share of pills. I drink, and when I’ve drunk enough, I’ve been known to smoke. Mary Jane and I are best friends. I’ve tripped my face off on acid and mushrooms, and I even hit a crack pipe once, just for the hell of it (zero stars, would NOT recommend). But have I done heroin? Of course I haven’t done heroin. I’m not that fucking stupid.
I am capable of making my own decisions, though, and I sure as hell don’t need some jumped up do-gooder telling me what a mess I’m making of my life. I’ve been stressed. The heel of my father’s size eleven Italian leather shoes on the back of my neck is a constant source of pressure, and a hit from a hip flask just before lunch is a perfect way to ease back the tension. I won’t be letting Carina Mendoza chide me like an incompetent little kid, just because she has her shit locked down tight and everything’s roses for her.
If I’d had any Molly on me, I would have done that. Xanax would have been acceptable. A Valium or two. But I didn’t have access to any of those drugs, did I? So, I had a nip of vodka, which is fucking child’s play in comparison, and yet she stood there, looking at me like I was the biggest loser on the face of the planet? Yeah, I don’t think so, love.
Why does she even care, anyway? It’s none of her concern if I want to cultivate a mild buzz between periods. I mean, who the fuck does she think she is? She’s a no-one, sticking her nose in where it doesn’t belong. If she’s not careful, she’ll wind up trying to get involved in something that falls strictly under Riot House dominion, something that really isn’t her business. Heaven help her then.
I make my way around the back of the main building, ranting angrily to myself under my breath as I draw closer to the entrance to the maze behind Wolf Hall. The maze was designed and built by a mathematic savant back in 1903. It’s notoriously difficult to solve, with its exceedingly high hedge walls and its infuriating switchbacks, but we Riot House boys made it our business to solve it during our first month at the academy. Back in 1957, the dismembered head of one of the academy’s custodians was discovered at the very center of the maze. Wolf Hall students love to tell stories about that unfortunate janitor, claiming that the ghost of his body roams the narrow, overgrown walkways, searching for his head. The stories are bullshit. Everyone knows they are, but even so, no one willingly enters the maze these days. No one except myself, Wren and Pax.
I follow the pathway I have seared into my mind, following the memorized lefts and rights without even paying attention where I’m going. And all the while, I’m thinking about Carrie. Fuming about Carrie. Obsessing over Carrie. Burning because of Carrie.
The girl should have stayed the hell away from me. She should have heeded the rumors and done whatever she could to avoid me like the plague, not fucking follow me. Now she thinks I’m a fucking heroin addict, and the boys are about to make her life a living hell if I can’t convince them that I don’t give a shit about her, and—
“She’s poison. If you don’t tell her to back off, a gentle word in her ear from me might persuade her from harassing you.”
I step on the brakes. I’m one right hand turn away from entering the clearing at the center of the maze. There’s a gazebo there, where the boys and I hang out when we have a free period and we can’t be fucked going back to the house. With its open fireplace, comfortably worn furniture, and comfortably worn books, the little many-windowed hangout reminds me very much of my old governess’s sitting room back at Lovett House. Spending time there makes me awkwardly sentimental, but also at ease, which is why I was planning on sulking away the afternoon there. But it looks like somebody already beat me to it.
Another voice breaks the silence. “She’s harmless. I was just fucking with her before,” Wren—I’d know that voice anywhere—states in a bored tone. “You’re starting to sound like a jealous little bitch, y’know. And here I was thinking we were just killing some time.”
The other voice speaks again, so familiar but so out of place that it takes me a second to recognize it. “Downplay it all you want. You like this just as much as I do. Go ahead. Deny it. Thing is, I’ve spent a lot of time watching you act out your little performances. I’m wise to them now. If I stopped calling you—” teasing, breathless, toying, “—you’d still come running.”
I shy back, scalded.
What…in the actual…fuck?
No. I’m not hearing this right.
On the other side of the hedge wall, I hear something else that forces me back a step: a zip being lowered. “See,” that voice says. “You like looking, don’t you? It turns you on. You like to watch me touch myself. You like to watch me come.”
I spin and turn back the way I came. As I march away from the center of the maze, taking wrong turn after wrong turn in my confusion, I’m cursing under my breath for an entirely different reason. Not because my friend was back there flirting with a guy, when I’d always assumed, always known that he was straight…
…but because my friend was back there flirting with our teacher.
13
CARRIE
Someone’s up at the observatory. From my bed, the warm yellow glow coming from the domed structure’s windows in the distance is hard to miss—bright, like the flame of a struck match burning in a sea of black. Aside from Professor Leidecker, I’m the only person with a key to the place. Should I get up and find out what’s going on? The astronomy club had nothing scheduled for tonight. I’m in charge of the charting schedule, so I would know.
To get to the observatory, you have to hike the steep, slippery goat track that leads up the hillside behind Wolf Hall, though, and the ascent can be treacherous in the dark.
I should make sure the place isn’t being broken into, I supp—
Oh.
The light abruptly extinguishes, plunging the ridgeline into darkness.
That settles that, then.
It was Alderman who taught me about the stars. I wasn’t interested in anything when he first took me in. He tried to teach me math, and English, and history, but all I cared about were the tales he told about the constellations. Eventually, he managed to relate most subjects back to astronomy, and that’s how I learned that I loved math. I didn’t just love math. I was really good at it. Good enough to land myself a scholarship to any private school in Northern America. Alderman chose Wolf Hall, though. Said I’d be safest here. He paid for my full tuition up-front, and I didn’t argue. I was just happy that he was letting me go anywhere at all to mind that the academy was in the middle of nowhere.
On the other side of my tiny room, my watch ticks softly in the hush, marking out the seconds and the minutes that I should be using to sleep. Sleep won’t come, though. All I can think about is an imaginary needle hanging out of Dash’s arm and I can’t handle it. All of that talent, so closely guarded, gone to waste. The thought of never hearing him play again, every Saturday night now an empty vessel, ringing with the silence. Even imagining it is overwhelming to the point of panic. I’ve seen first-hand what that drug can do and it isn’t pretty.
A lot happened in the split second when he laughed and said that, sure, he’d try anything if it made his life more bearable. I was standing back in that filthy living room, my body exposed, and Kevin was prepping a needle for me. I was a living flame of fear, and I was plunging t
he steel down into his eye.
I wasn’t myself.
I was Hannah Rose Ashford, and I was terrified for my life.
I roll over onto my side, rubbing my fingers against my eyes. Exhaustion pulls at me, but there’s no chance I’ll be able to slip into unconsciousness now. I’m too wired. The ghosts of the past are lurking in the shadows of my room, intent on haunting me until the sun rises. And anyway, if I sleep, I’ll dream, and dreams have a nasty habit of turning into nightmares. I’ve never been good at dragging myself out of them. I—
The sound comes from outside.
In the hallway.
A soft shushing sound, and an eerie creeeeeak.
I’ve been assigned this room for nearly two years. There isn’t a floorboard out in that hallway that I’m unfamiliar with, and the floorboard that creaked just so happens to be the one right outside my bedroom door. My pulse ratchets up a gear, even though there’s no need. People get up to use the bathrooms at the end of the hall every night. It’s common for other girls on my floor moving about in the night. But…this feels different. This isn’t the half-asleep thudding of someone blindly weaving their way in the dark to go and use the bathroom, or the hurried footfall of one of the other Wolf Hall students sneaking into someone’s room to watch Netflix after hours.
This…is a sneak.
This is a prowl.
This is someone standing in the hallway, casting their long shadow underneath my bedroom door…
Rap. Rap. Rap.
The knock is quiet—so soft that I can hardly hear it.
Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with me? Why is my heart suddenly racing? I’m safe here. I’m surrounded by people. If I scream, ten other girls will come flying out of their rooms in an instant.
“It’s three am,” I hiss at the door. “I’ll talk to you in morning, Pres.” That wasn’t Presley’s knock, though. Wasn’t Mara’s, either. Neither of them is that subtle, and we have our own signature tap besides. I’d know immediately if it was either of them, and it wasn’t.
A heavy quiet pools in my ears as my watch ticks out another handful of seconds. Then: a voice on the other side of the door.
“Don’t make me pick the lock, Mendoza.”
A cold wave of alarm rushes from the soles of my feet upward, whipping around the inside of my head, making the room see-saw. It’s him. Somehow, without any reason to believe it would be, I knew it was the moment I heard that creak. I hurl back the covers and pad to the door, leaning against the wood, as if I’m afraid he might try and boot the damn thing down. “What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss. “You’re gonna get expelled. You should be halfway down the mountain.”
“Open the door, Carina.”
There’s a warning in his voice. He’ll be perfectly happy to follow through on his threat to pick the lock on my door, and then where will I be? Not only will Dash be in my room anyway, but he’ll also be pissed.
I crack the door, shooting daggers at the looming, shadowy figure hovering on the other side. It takes my eyes a second to adjust to the half-light of the corridor, but when my vision corrects itself, I really wish it hadn’t. Dash is dripping wet—I didn’t even know it was raining—and the color of his hair has turned from brilliant ash to burned honey. There are shadows under his eyes, dark and bruise-like. He’s wearing a thin t-shirt which is plastered to his chest, the grey heather color so dark and wet that it almost looks black across his shoulders. The bottoms of his jeans have been cuffed, but they’re still covered in mud and pine needles, which tells me he took the fire road up to the academy from Riot House, and not the main, tarmacked driveway. His jaw works, his eyes stern and piercing as he looks me up and down.
I’m wearing an oversized nightshirt and no goddamn bra. Fantastic. My nipples are peaked beneath the fabric, very, very, visible in the chilly air of the hallway.
“So?” he says, flaring his nostrils.
I laugh under my breath, though the sound is far from happy. “So? So? What the hell are you doing? I was sleeping.”
He smirks, looking down at his filthy sneakers (where the hell are his dress shoes?), head turned to one side, and a bolt of electric energy hits me right in the chest. It leaves me weirdly breathless when I witness the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. “No, you weren’t. You were lying in your bed, staring up at the ceiling, refusing to touch yourself even though you want to—”.
Cocky English bastard. The nerve of him. “Oh, and I suppose I was gonna finger myself while thinking about you, was I, Lord Lovett?”
His smile fades a fraction, dimming like a light switch being turned, but only for a second. It returns at full force a second later. He props himself against the doorjamb. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. You’re only human.”
I could smack him. I’ve never hit anyone before, but I can imagine how good it would feel to clench my hand, make a fist, and launch it into this smug motherfucker’s defined jawline. Where the hell does he get off thinking this highly of himself? I mean, come on! “Go home, Dash. Now’s not a good time for a social visit.”
“I’d say now’s a perfect time actually.” I smell alcohol on him. The strong kind. Whiskey, I think. Boys never venture up to the girls’ wing. It’s too easy to get caught, and the consequences are dire; he must be pretty wasted to even consider such rash behavior.
“Why don’t you come back when you haven’t been drinking?” I tell him. “I’m not in the mood to joust with you—”
“I’ve had a really weird fucking day. I drank a little. Sue me. And…here I was, thinking that you wanted to tackle my lance.” He pouts.
I hate that my cheeks flush. “Look. This is cute, but I’m mad at you, remember. You were being—”
“Really fucking dumb.” He nods, suddenly very sober. “Yeah. About that. I just…” His cheeks puff out, his eyes growing round. He shrugs. “Yeah.” He’s struggling for additional words, which is odd—I’ve never witnessed Dash at a loss for something to say. He has always fully vetted and prepared what he’s going to say before he even opens his mouth, so this…flustered version of him is out of the ordinary.
It makes me uncomfortable that he’s suddenly so uncomfortable. “Are you trying to apologize or something?”
He snorts. “Hardly. I just figured you were due a better explanation. Now that I’m not quite as angry, y’know.”
I fold my arms across my chest, then immediately unfold them when I realize that I’m drawing unnecessary attention to my erect nipples. Dash Lovett is no gentleman. If he was, he wouldn’t have just stared down at my tits through my thin nightshirt, and he wouldn’t be smirking like a total bastard right now, either. “You were angry because I’d busted you chugging vodka,” I say through gritted teeth. “And attacking me felt better than admitting that you were being a dick.”
Dash braces an arm above his head against the doorframe. I try not to notice the fact that the tips of his fingers are only a couple of inches away from my cheek, and that they’re dripping water onto the floorboards. I’ve seen the magic he can work with those fingers. I’ve heard his music in my dreams. Looking at him now, it’s hard to imagine that he was capable of creating something so beautiful. It looks like all he wants to do is destroy. His eyes shine brightly when he looks at me. And boy, do I feel it when he looks at me. My goosebumps have goosebumps. I…out of nowhere, I’m fucking aching under his gaze.
The dinosaurs couldn’t prevent their untimely demise; that meteor was going to hit Earth no matter what. The stars can’t stop themselves from burning out. Every light in the sky will eventually fade and die. It’s an inevitability that cannot and will not be stopped. My position is just as helpless when I find myself descending, tumbling further down the giant gaping hole in the ground labelled, “Caution: this way lies heartbreak.”
Dashiell lets out a steady, audible breath, and the warmth of it skates over the skin at the base of my neck—air that’s been inside of him, touching and caressing me. Holy fucking Christ, I a
m so doomed. “I wasn’t aware that you were a psychologist-in-training,” he murmurs.
“I’m not.”
He smiles to such a degree that a single dimple forms in his right cheek, shocking the hell out of me. Dashiell Lovett has a dimple. A saints-be-blessed dimple? How can fate be this cruel? “You seem to know a lot about my motivations for someone who isn’t a psychologist-in-training.” He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, then slowly releases it. I catch the flash of his tongue, and I’m dragged back to the hood of Pax’s Charger, to his lips crashing down on mine, and his tongue probing my mouth, his hands in my hair and my heart pounding out a demented rhythm against my ribcage.
He's just like Jason. Just like Kevin. He’s using. He can never mean anything to you.
The warning voice in my head is right. If Dash puts that poison in his body, then he is poison. I dig my fingernails into the doorframe, fighting to imbue my voice with some sense of authority. “You need to go home, Dash.”
“What if I was angry at you because I felt stupid?” he rushes out. “Look, I know what you’re thinking.”
This should be good. “And what’s that exactly?”
“That I’m an addict.” He says it easily, as if addict isn’t a problematic word, while I shudder against it.
“You’re saying you aren’t?”
He blinks. Rests his hip against the doorframe, shifting his weight. He looks into my eyes, really looking into them, so the two of us are fixed and aligned. And then he says, “Not the kind you’re thinking. I never touch the really hard stuff. I have plenty of vices, but nothing major. I don’t fuck with shit that’ll end up fucking me back.”
“So you lied?”
“I embellished the truth,” he says. “I was pissed.”
