by Callie Hart
The librarian grumps, peering at me through the coke-bottle lenses of her readers. “I can’t trust anyone on the computers, child. Not if I can’t keep an eye on you. I need to make sure you’re not ordering the methamphetamines.”
I don’t think she even knows what meth is; she sure as shit doesn’t want me buying any of it. Not on her watch. I give her what I hope is a winning smile. “I don’t need to use a computer. I need a quiet place to work and space to spread my books out. That’s it.”
She thinks on this. Against all the odds, she turns the end of the brass key poking out of the lock to the right, opening the door instead of locking it. “If I hear one peep out of you, child, there’ll be hell to pay. I can’t catalogue if there’s any kind of tomfoolery going on.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you. You won’t even hear me breathe.”
It’s Wolf Hall policy that anyone who gets detention has to present themselves at the library after the last class of the day to atone for their sins. Personally, I’ve never been given a detention slip, so I’ve never had to suffer the indignity of sitting at ‘The Naughty Table,’ as Mrs. Lambeth and the other two decrepit librarians refer to it. I know precisely where it is and who will be sitting at it today, though.
Through the reference stacks, past the Biology section, and around the corner where the AV section is located, the table is shoved into a dark corner of the library. This is where Principal Harcourt assumed ill-behaved students would best serve out their punishment without disturbing anyone. She didn’t consider the fact that no one can actually see what’s going on back here, or that Mr. Joplin (no relation to Janice—we’ve asked) literally never stays with the kids he’s supposed to be watching over. This is, without a shadow of a doubt, the worst spot in the entire library that they could have put the detention table. This Wolf Hall faculty oversight works in my favor this afternoon, though.
Dashiell’s back is to me. His head bobs up and down to a beat that only he can hear; I see the small white AirPods in his ears—strictly prohibited—as I approach the table, breathing a sigh of relief that he can’t hear my approach. My heart’s beating so hard that he must feel the thunder of it shaking the ground beneath his feet, though. I’ve really got to get a handle on the insane physical reaction he triggers in me—I can’t have myself falling to pieces every time I’m within twenty feet of the guy.
I’m almost at the table.
Oh, fuck, I’m almost at the table. What the hell am I going to say? What the hell is he going to say? I’m so nervous that I almost spin around and march back the way I came, but I steel myself at the last second, forcing myself forward. I dump my bag on the table next to Dash’s open Math textbook, and then I pull out a chair and sit myself down before I have a moment of anxiety and flee.
Annoyingly, Dashiell doesn’t even look up from the book. He goes rigid, staring fixedly at the table, eyelids wide and unblinking. He waits for a second, sighs wearily, and then commences to ignore me and carry on with his reading.
“We’re not doing this, Dash. Look at me.”
He doesn’t.
Asshole.
“Dash, take the damn headphones out. I need t—” My impatience gets the better of me. I reach over and yank the AirPod out of his right ear. The look he gives me when he raises his head is cold enough to re-freeze the melting polar ice caps. Good for climate change. Not so great for my anxiety. “Give it back, Mendoza. These things only work if you have both of them.”
“I’m aware of that.” I close my hand around the AirPod, then slide my hand underneath the table. I don’t think he’d grab my wrist and prize my fingers open, but I’m not taking any chances. “Don’t worry. This’ll only take a minute, and then you can have it back. I need your undivided attention for a second.”
“Good luck with that. I’ve been struggling to focus even half of my attention on anything since two thousand and ten.” As if to prove his point, he glances back at his book, wrinkling his nose. “Did you know that the Danes have no word for please? Weird, right? Begs the question, how would I ask you to leave me the hell alone right now if we, by some inexplicable twist of fate, found ourselves to be Danish.”
God, I am going to fucking kill him. “You are literally the most frustrating person I’ve ever come across, you know that? One second you have your tongue in my mouth, and the next—”
“That word is overused way too much.”
“What? What the hell are you—”
“Literally. The word ‘literally’ gets used in the most inappropriate ways. Oh my god, you are lid-er-ally the worst,” he pantomimes in his best valley girl accent. “Whoever they are, they aren’t the worst. Hitler was the worst. Or Stalin. Ninety percent of the time, there’s a way more accurate term that should be used. People are so hyperbolic—”
“I’m not being hyperbolic, Dash. You are literally the most frustrating person I’ve ever met. Now shut your mouth.” He’s so stunned that he grants me my wish and his mouth snaps closed. I lean toward him across the corner of the table, trying to keep a steady hand on my anger. If I’m not careful, I’m going to wind up shouting in here and causing the exact kind of tomfoolery that’ll make Mrs. Lambeth blow steam from her ears. “I had a run-in with Wren Jacobi in the dining hall this afternoon.”
Dash sits up straight, his eyes narrowing. Well, well, well. Looks like I have at least eighty percent of his attention. That’ll suffice.
“He was acting really weird. He ignored Mara, but guess what? He had a bunch of questions for me. Strange. Can you think why that might be?” Alderman hates sarcasm. He says it’s the lowest form of wit. He’s tried to train me out of it over the years, but he hasn’t had much luck. If he were here right now, he’d roll his eyes so hard he’d pull a freaking muscle.
Dashiell closes his book and sits back in his seat. “What did he want to know?” Even, steady, and completely devoid of emotion: the question is calmly posed, but there’s something in Dash’s multifaceted eyes that tells me he’s experiencing plenty of emotion. His fingers twitch against the surface of the table.
“He wanted to know if my parents were in the military. He wanted to know where I come from.”
“And? Those are pretty normal questions. Here, anyway,” he adds. “Seventy-five percent of the students at the school come from military families. No one’s from Mountain Lakes. It’s not like he can do anything weird with that kind of information. Now, if he asked you if you had any life-threatening allergies…that might have been a little worrying.”
He has a point. Under normal circumstances, the questions Wren asked wouldn’t have been cause for concern. However, that’s not the case here, is it? My circumstances are not normal. Haven’t been normal since I fled Grove Hill. The very last thing I need is someone like Wren Jacobi sticking his nose into my business. “Look. I’m a private person, okay. I don’t want everybody knowing everything about me. It’s—it’s just not who I am. If you could tell him to just mind his own business—”
“If you wanna keep your shit private, the last thing you should ask me to do is tell Jacobi to back off. That’s like waving a red flag in front of a bull. A deranged bull that’s not quite right in the head. Y’know. Mentally.”
“Yeah, yeah, I already know he’s out of his goddamn mind. Please, Dash. I’m not joking, okay? If he’s planning on digging up dirt on me for you because he thinks he’s doing his duty as a good buddy or something, you need to set him straight. Tell him there’s nothing going on with us.”
Out of nowhere, Dash flares his nostrils and clenches his jaw, his eyes sparking with electricity. He leans toward me, baring his teeth. “There is nothing going on with us. Don’t you think I’ve told him that? Wren and Pax…they’re gonna do whatever they’re gonna do, Carina. We aren’t yanking on each other’s leashes, reining each other in. We get enough of that shit from our parents. It isn’t how our friendship works. Just don’t engage with Wren. He’ll be harmless once he’s figured out what he wants to know. He likes nothi
ng better than figuring people out. You guys are like fascinating puzzle boxes to him. If you didn’t answer his questions, he’ll probably go and read your academic file. He’ll read about your parents and check out where you came from, and that’ll be the end of it.”
“You and I both know the words ‘harmless’ and ‘Wren Jacobi’ do not go hand-in-hand. Not when he’s got something in his head. He must want to know about my shit for a reason. Don’t you guys talk about this stuff? What does he want?”
On the other side of the library, a loud crash disrupts the silence, followed by a strained, “thunderation!” I can picture the tall stack of books on Mrs. Lambert’s cart, wobbling, teetering, see-sawing, then crashing to the ground. I should go help the poor woman, but Dash will have Houdinied his way out of the library by the time I get back.
We just stare at each other. “He doesn’t want anything. He’s bored. If you don’t react, he’ll be even more bored, and then he’ll give up. That goes for Pax, too. If Pax does or says anything—”
I’m going to have a hand-on-heart, honest-to-goodness heart attack. “Who said anything about Pax? Why is Pax involved now?”
Dash rolls his shirt sleeves up his arms, heaving out an irritated breath, and I have to catch myself. He showed me his track-free skin in my bedroom last night, when he stripped out of his clothes and stood there in his boxers. I was too distracted by his chest and his stomach to pay much attention to his forearms, but I can’t stop staring at them now. What’s fucking wrong with me? All this time, I’ve been so careful, been so diligent not to screw up and let anything slip, but Wren Jacobi’s about to uncover my biggest, most damning secret, and I’m sitting here marveling at Dash’s forearms?
I’m sick.
I’m depraved.
I’m categorically, absolutely, positively boned. If I can’t get my shit together, my whole life is going to unravel, and it won’t be some majestic, impressive unraveling. It’ll be one solitary thread, fraying and snapping in a really stupid way. The cops will drag me back to Grove Hill quicker than you can yell, ‘homicide.’ I’ll have plenty of time to think about Dash’s corded, strong forearms after that, when I’m in jail for the murder of a skeevy fucking heroin dealer.
Regroup, Carina. For fuck’s sake, get a handle on your shit, girl.
I look up and he’s watching me. For the first time since we ran into each other in that E.R. room, he’s looking at me and I don’t see hostility in his eyes. “Carrie—” He swallows. “Look, I don’t know what Wren’s playing at, okay, but I’ll do my best. I’ll make sure he stays the hell away from you. But you’ve got to do one thing for me in return.”
“What?” I whisper, because anything above a whisper will feel like sacrilege; this unexpected tension that’s mounting between us is climbing fast, and I wouldn’t want to do anything to make it worse.
“You’ve got to stay the hell away from me.”
He has said this over and over, but this is the first time that it actually stings. The posturing and arrogance is missing. There is only the soft, shifting color of his eyes as the light hits his irises through the windows to his right. The color reminds me of the sea—so changeable, bright and crystalline one second, dark and moody the next. I’ve harbored such anger toward him the past couple of weeks, that this sudden shift in…everything…is making my head spin. I can’t breathe around it. I can’t get out from underneath it. He has me trapped.
“I’m not saying that because I don’t—” He rips his gaze away. “Seems like all I do is warn you how badly you’re gonna get hurt if you don’t give me a wide berth, Mendoza. But no matter how shitty I am to you, you don’t seem to be paying any fucking attention. Why is that? I’m trying to save you—”
“Stop.”
He looks back at me. His eyes shutter.
“Stop trying to save me, for fuck’s sake. Just… I want you to be real with me. That’s all I’ve wanted from the beginning. Everything’s a front with you. An argument. A game. A lie. I’m so sick of it. I just want the truth. I just want…I just want you.” I blush furiously, because the truth of that statement is so overwhelming and terrifying that I want to run and hide from it. I want to back-peddle and explain that I don’t want him. Not like that. What I meant to say was that I just want some sincerity from him, and a glimpse at who he really is. Nothing more. Nothing less. I stop myself from stumbling awkwardly through that bare faced lie only because I saw how hypocritical I would be if I were to say it. I do want him like that. And if I can’t be real or honest with him, at least on this one small thing, then what right do I have to sit here and ream him out for not giving me the same courtesy?
Dashiell’s eyes bore into mine for a long time. It’s as though we’re coming to some silent agreement but there are still things that need to be ironed out. The muscle in his jaw feathers, a muscle popping in his temple. He just sits there, so clearly conflicted.
Somewhere behind us in the stacks, Mrs. Lambeth starts singing off key.
Suddenly, Dash is speaking. He spins his pen over his index finger. “My father is the biggest piece of shit to walk the face of this planet. He’s a duke—”
“Wait. But you’re a lord?”
“The sons of dukes are lords until their fathers die and they inherit the title. That’s not the important part. My father is a fucking duke. Do you have any idea what kind of pressure that puts on a person? He has my whole future planned out for me. Once I’m done at Wolf Hall, I’ll be banished to Oxford, where I’ll have to study politics and world economics just like he did. Then I’ll have to become a cabinet minister, just like he did, too. Have you ever heard the term, you can’t pour from an empty cup, Carrie?”
I’m not sure where he’s going with this. “Yes?”
“My parents’ cups were empty before I was even born. My mother had a sister, Penny. She was really beautiful. She was my father’s first wife, and he loved her so much. They were married for seven years but then she got sick and died. My father married my mum because they both thought it would make them feel better somehow. It didn’t. Their hearts were still broken. It didn’t make anything better. So they figured, I know, let’s have a kid! That’ll solve all our problems.” He laughs bitterly. “I come along, on New Year’s Day, their miracle baby. And guess what? Do I take after him? No. Do I look like her?” He shakes his head. “I’m born, and through no fault of my own, through some fucking shitty genetic lottery, I wind up looking exactly like her. Fucking Penny. The aunt I never even knew. It’s uncanny, it really is. I’ll show you a picture someday. I have been punished every day of my life and had the shit beaten out of me for something that had absolutely nothing to do with me. I am not a good person.”
“Dash—”
He shakes his head again. “I’m an empty cup, Carina. There’s nothing of any value in here.” He thumps his fist against his chest. “My parents are dead inside, and so am I. It’s what I came from. It’s who I was taught to be. Whoever you’re looking for me to be…whatever you’re hoping I might be able to give you…I’m not him. I’m not that guy. I just…can’t.”
I stare at him so hard; it feels as though I’m staring right through him. His eyes, his nose, his mouth, his hair, the way his grey shirt pulls taut across his chest, and the way he smells like mint and rain. I remember the way he groaned when he kissed me on top of Pax’s car, and I remember the way his heart hammered in his chest, and I know that he’s not telling the truth. I exhale slowly, sit up straight, and say, “Liar.”
“Excuse me?”
He was expecting me to buy that whole spiel, hook, line and sinker. Dashiell Lovett is nowhere near as emotionally stunted as he wants me to believe him to be.
“I made it up, then?” He glowers at me. “My aunt isn’t dead? My parents aren’t assholes?”
“Oh, I’m sure your parents are assholes. You had to learn how to be an absolute dick from someone, and you’re so good at it, Dash. You must have perfected that skill at a very early age. I be
lieve your aunt’s dead, too. But you feel things, Dash. You hurt. You want. You need. You care.”
At this last statement, he recoils away from me like he’s just been stung. It must have hurt pretty bad from the way he starts slinging his books into his bag. “Goddamnit, Mendoza. You really talk some shit. Sit here and ruminate on all of your fantasies until Monday morning for all I care. Detention’s over and I have somewhere to be. I’m out.”
“Riiiight.” What is this guy’s deal? He was harsher than hell last night. Zero fucks given. He brushed me off like I was nothing. Now, he’s fleeing the library like I’ve just kicked his puppy and he’s off for a good cry.
Lord Lovett turns, walking hurriedly toward the emergency exit that leads to the fire escape. Even if there’s little hope that it’ll work, I need to try one last time and get him to talk to his housemates. “Fine. Call off the wolves, Dash. I mean it. I’ll give you what you want. I’ll stay out of your way. You’ll never have to see my face again!”
He pauses, but he doesn’t look back. I have no reason to believe that he’s going to try and help me, but I have to hope. If I don’t, then I might as well leave Wolf Hall tonight. Alderman could have a car here for me within the hour if I needed one.
I don’t want to leave, though. To most of the students at Wolf Hall, the academy’s walls feel like they’re closing in on them. The place can feel like a prison, perched on its vantage point at the top of our little mountain. Not for me, though. This place has been my sanctuary for the past three years. My home. I decided a long time ago that I would only leave if my very life depended on it. And it might come to that if Wren doesn’t mind his own business.
16
CARRIE
SIX YEARS EARLIER
“You look half starved. And where, for the love of God, are your clothes, child?”
I sit in the passenger seat of the car, shivering, staring blankly out of the window. I killed that man. I stabbed him in the eye with a syringe full of heroin and he died. And now it’s the middle of the night, and I’ve done something even more stupid. I’ve allowed myself to be scooped off the side of the road, looking like some half dead animal, and there’s a man sitting next to me, staring at me with this strange, curious look on his face that makes me…
