by Callie Hart
I begin to read.
An hour goes by.
And then another.
By the time I close the journal and set it on the bed, I am thoroughly, thoroughly worried.
I pick up my phone and do something I haven’t done since last July.
I text Dash.
47
DASH
Stella: We need to talk.
Stella: NOW.
I’m such a pathetic piece of shit. This proves it right here; I’ve finally started seeing things. I twist to the right, holding the phone over the side of the sofa, where Pax can’t see what I’m looking at. The words swim all over the screen, not making any sense. I’m lit up like a signal flare, hands trembling, heartbeat suddenly racing away from me. No way Carrie just messaged me. No way this is real.
“Dash!!!! What the fuck, man! I’m getting my ass handed to me over here. Quit fucking around.”
I check the TV screen, hissing through my teeth when I see how much shit we’re in. Not a good time to be hitting the pause button; I know exactly how Pax is going to react.
“ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE!”
Shit. I hate to be right. He looks like he’s about to kill me. I jump up from the couch, holding my phone up. “Sorry. This is important. Family shit,” I tell him.
“It’s, like, barely even dawn in the UK!” he cries.
“Exactly. It’s important.” I hurry out of his bedroom before he can chuck a shoe at my head or something. I haven’t even hit my bedroom and closed the door before very loud, very angry grind-core metal explodes from his speakers, making the walls rattle. Man, he is pissed. I’m gonna get a royal chewing out for this later.
I don’t give a shit, though.
The phone.
The message on the phone.
I half expect the mirage message to be gone when I look at the screen again. But nope. Not only is it still there, but two more messages have joined it.
Stella: I’m serious, Dash.
Stella: I’m not fucking around. Text me back!
My fingers tap at the screen of their own accord, but I stop myself. Take a breath. Regroup. I delete the gibberish I was about to send to her and write something more concise instead.
Me: When? Where?
Stella: Now. Dining hall.
Me: It’s late. Harcourt will murder us both if she catches us there.
Stella: Suggest somewhere. I can’t drive down the mountain now. They’ll hear the car.
I can’t drive up there without alerting security, either. Hugh’s been extra vigilant ever since Pax and I trashed Fitz’s den. I used to walk or run up when I spent all of those nights with Carrie, and I’m going to have to do the same now.
Me: The gazebo.
Stella: No way. I can’t complete the maze.
Fuck. I forgot how much she hates the maze.
Me: Wait for me by the entrance. We’ll go in together.
Stella: Fine. Thirty minutes. Don’t make me wait.
Some images are destined to burn within a mind for a lifetime. I round the northern wall of Wolf Hall, alive from the run up the fire road, skin prickling with sweat, and there Carrie stands, painted in moonlight, the loops of the beautiful curls spilling over her shoulders highlighted brilliant silver. Her skin is pale and radiant, her full lips a slash of perfect pink. Hard, distant eyes turn on me as I approach, and even though the dark depths of them hold no warmth, a thrill of anticipation races through me. Even with her hate so plainly on display, my soul rejoices when this girl looks at me.
She shifts uncomfortably when I reach her. “Get us to the gazebo. We can talk there.”
God, every part of me aches. I’d happily trade a year of my life for every second I get to hold her in my arms. I hide the pitiful yearning in my soul, setting my jaw. “Follow me, then.”
I’m glad I brought a flashlight. The moon’s bright enough, the sky open and clear, but the close walls of the maze are high and cast deep shadows that make it difficult to see. I lead the way through the maze, walking quickly, keen to make it to our destination, my mind reeling. What does she want to talk about? What was so urgent that she had to message me so late? What was so urgent that she had to message me, period? She’d rather bite off her own tongue than have to talk to me. Whatever this is, it must be important.
The gazebo is in darkness when we reach the center of the maze. The octagonal building isn’t very large—maybe only three hundred square feet—but it’s comfortable inside. I unlock the door with one of three keys in existence (guess who has the other two), gesturing for Carrie to go inside first.
She’s uncomfortable, I can tell. She shifts from one foot to the other as I turn on the small lamp on the bookshelf and quickly begin to build a fire in the grate.
Her stony, clipped voice breaks the silence. “Don’t bother with that. We aren’t gonna be here long enough for it to make a difference.”
I ignore her. Outside, it’s a lot warmer than it has been recently, but Carrie came down here in nothing but thin sweatpants, a t-shirt and an oversized cardigan. I’m already responsible for breaking her heart. I won’t be held accountable for her catching pneumonia, too.
She huffs, but she doesn’t object further. I’m glad of the extra seconds of silence, of something to do with my hands and an objective to focus on while I try not to freak the fuck out. It’s been a long time since Carrie and I were alone together. This feels stupendously important. I have to be careful not to do anything or say anything to fuck this up.
Soon, orange tongues of flame lick at the throat of the chimney, leaping kind of high, actually, and there’s nothing else left to do but face her.
She’s looking around, surveying the books on the shelves, and the rug, and the lamps, and the mirror above the mantel, her expression warlike. “You realize how ridiculous this is, don’t you?” she whispers. “This place is on academy grounds and somehow it belongs to Riot House. It’s an unspoken fact. It’s just…yours. No one else can come here.”
“Not if they want all ten fingers and toes intact.”
With a derisive huff, she shakes her head. “You’re not even going to deny the special treatment, are you?”
“Why should I? This was Fitz’s territory up until a couple of years ago. He brought seniors here to screw them. Pax and I started showing up here so he wouldn’t. We staked our claim. No one challenged us for it. This place wasn’t given to us, love. We took it.”
“Don’t you dare.” Her voice breaks on the last word. “You don’t have any right to call me that. I don’t give a shit if it is a throw-away term that doesn’t mean anything to you. You don’t ever get to use that word when you talk to me. Not ever again.”
“Carrie—”
She hurls something down on the ground at my feet. It lands with a loud slap and skids across the rug, colliding with my shoe. Instead of looking down to see what it is, I lock my gaze on her, refusing to look away. “It was never a throw-away term with you. I do know what that word means.” She’s about to snap back at me, but I stop her before she can speak. “Why did you tell Elodie that we were only together a couple of days back at the café? You rewrote our entire history.”
She shakes her head, anger twisting her features. Even furious like this, she’s still breathtaking. “Why do you think? I was embarrassed. I didn’t want her knowing how long I let you manipulate me for.”
“I didn’t manipulate you. I never lied to you once.”
She clenches her jaw. “Just stop. You tricked me for months. I let you do that. That’s on me.” She pulls her cardigan tighter around her body. “But I’ve learned my lesson now. You can’t look me in the eye and make me…make me feel…” She pants, as if the things she can’t say are causing her great pain. “I’ll never believe a word out of your mouth again, so quit wasting your breath and pick up the book.”
It's hopeless, then. Since Alderman’s phone call, when he told me to make it up to Carrie, I’ve spent every waking moment trying to figure o
ut how I might do that. A part of me was so sure that if I looked her in the eye, explained everything, and told her how much I loved her, that she’d recognize my sincerity and know that I was being truthful. She never will, though. She’ll see the honesty and the pain in my eyes, and she’ll attribute both to impressive acting skills. I’m screwed, no matter how I handled this.
It really is over.
I bend down and pick up the book—that’s what she threw at my feet—turning it over in my hands. It’s heavy. Bound beautifully, the leather soft as butter and supple beneath my fingertips. “What is this?” I flip it open. Inside, the pages are covered in loopy black and blue ink—very girly, childish handwriting covering every page.
“Mara’s journal. The last few pages are off. They don’t read like the rest of the entries. None of it really makes sense. It feels as if she’s trying to implicate Wren in something.” Carrie sniffs, holding the back of her hand to her mouth. Her eyes shine brightly, wet with tears that she obviously doesn’t want to shed.
“Wren?” I leaf through the pages, turning to the back, trying to find what she’s talking about. “That’s bullshit. We should burn it. Why would she have tried to implicate him in something?”
“I don’t know! This has nothing to do with me. It never has. I shouldn’t even be here right now!”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I whisper. “God. It’s just…after everything, the drugs, the deal with Fitz…I just don’t want any of this coming back to hurt any of us down the line, okay?”
Carrie’s face crumples into an unhappy grimace. She steps toward me—the closest she’s been in an age—and takes the book from me. “We can’t burn it. The cops need to know. What if there’s something important in here? What you’re asking me to do…It isn’t fair. There have got to be consequences. He can’t just—” She stops talking, a miserable sob working free from her. Her tears have finally spilled over, and they’re flitting down her cheeks. “He can’t be allowed to get away with it again. What if…what if he hurts someone else. What if he hurts Elodie?”
“You’ve gotta be kidding.” How can she even suggest such a thing? She’s seen the way the bastard looks at Elodie. She knows how much he cares about her. For better or for worse now, we all do. I know Wren would never hurt Elodie, and Carrie knows it, too. “You know Wren didn’t do shit to Mara, besides call her a ho in the dining hall. You’re lashing out at him because you’re mad at me, and for once, he doesn’t deserve it. You know this has more to do with Fitz than it does with him.”
The stubbornness I used to find so endearing when Carrie and I were together rears its head; her eyes are hard. Two tiny little lines crease the skin between her eyebrows. The expression, coupled with her tears, make me want to fucking die. “Maybe it doesn’t. Even more reason to report this to the cops. He’s dangerous, too, Dash. You know he is. We can’t allow someone else to suffer because of him, either. Not because we’re too chicken shit to speak up, for fuck’s sake.”
She just wants to fight. She’s swinging so wildly from Wren to Fitz that the two of them might as well be interchangeable. This isn’t about them. This is about me, and what I did to her. At long last, I’m a little rankled. “Look. You have no idea what you’re talking about. How can you know she wasn’t high when she wrote that? She was out of her mind ninety percent of the fucking time. Mercy saw to that. Just throw it into the fire and let’s just wash our hands of this entire thing.”
“But Elodie—”
“I know she’s your friend, Carrie, but I don’t know the girl. If you care about her so much, then make sure she stays the hell away from him. Shouldn't be too hard. He'll forget all about her soon enough, and then you won't have to concern yourself with her safety anymore.”
“How can you be so cold? How can you be so detached from this?”
Fine. That was cold. But I can’t waste energy on anyone else right now. I actually like Elodie. Despite the hypocrisy of Wren’s position, Elodie’s actually been good for him. I say something next that I probably shouldn’t. “The only person I care about is you, Carina. I think I've made that abundantly clear. If you don't wanna hear that, then that's your business. I get it. I fucked up. We can deal with that another time, though. Now give it to me.”
She doesn’t say a word about what I’ve just said. She reacted badly enough in English class. Now she just glares at me balefully. “Fine. Here, Lord Lovett. You always get your way, don’t you?”
She slaps Mara’s journal into my hand, aggressive enough that the leather stings against my palm. “Rarely, actually,” I whisper.
“Why are you protecting him like this? He’s not your friend. You know that, right? He might act like it, but he just uses people to get what he wants.”
My friendship with Wren is more complicated than Carrie will ever know. I never got around to telling her what he did for me. She looks at our friendship and sees nothing but the faults and the flaws. If she had any idea how much I owe Wren, she wouldn’t be saying these things. Angry as she is and looking to hurt me somehow, she’d have to find some other fucked-up area of my life to weaponize. Wouldn’t be too hard.
Now isn’t the time to tell her what went down back in Surrey. That was a long time ago, and there are more pressing things to attend to. So, I say nothing, which only antagonizes her further.
“What? You’re not going to defend him?” she whispers. “What about Fitz? The man’s a fucking psychopath. Are you gonna let him hold this power over your head for the rest of time? That’d be so messed up! He’ll never give you a moment’s peace.”
“Maybe you’re right. But high school’s nearly over, Carrie. We’ll all be going off to follow our own paths in life. I’ll probably never see him again. Until then, I have to see him all the fucking time, and I’m not risking him opening his mouth and blabbing to everyone about what went down that fucking night.”
The fucking drugs. If Wren hadn’t left that goddamn box out with all of those baggies inside of it, we wouldn’t be in this position now. As long as Fitz has that box, we’re all fucked. And as long as this journal exists, there’s a chance the cops will come across it and want to speak to our English teacher about his involvement with Mara Bancroft.
That can’t be allowed to happen.
“Oh my god, what are you going to—” Carrie’s too late. I’ve already tossed the journal into the fire. The flames take it, licking at the leather, singeing the pages and filling the gazebo with the bitter smell of smoke. Carrie stares at me, eyes boring into my face, her mouth a flat, tight line, her cheeks wet with tears. She looks like she’s thinking about slapping me. Rather than attack me, she lets out a choked sob, and then turns and bolts out of the gazebo.
“Carina, wait!”
The still night air echoes with my shout.
She stops. Turns.
“We’ve all made mistakes, okay. Big ones. I don’t think we should have to keep on paying for them like this.”
Carrie sniffs back more tears. “Are you talking about what he did? Or what you did to me?”
I don’t know which he she’s referring to now. It could be Wren or Fitz at this stage. What does it even fucking matter? I look up at the night sky, trying to magic some courage from the heavens, something that will make this easier. “Yeah. I’m talking about what I did to you. I hate it, okay. I hate that I hurt you. I let things spiral out of control and I took a wrong turn. I’ve regretted it every single day since then. When are you going to forgive me?”
It's laughable, I know. She has no idea that I didn’t let Amalie suck my dick. She has no idea that her psychotic guardian forced my hand and gave me little choice about what I had to do next, so I could keep her safe. So, why would she forgive me? From her perspective, I’m a monster. A cheating asshole who ruined her life. I should tell her everything that happened, but I can’t now. It’s too late. Too much has happened. Too much water has passed under the bridge, too many months dragged by with both of us in pain. The pain is a
part of us now. And telling Carina that her guardian spilled her secrets to me will only cause more pain, I think.
She meets my gaze in the moonlight, her face lit up and shining. My beautiful Stellaluna. “I don’t know,” she says. “When are you going to learn that your position in life doesn’t automatically entitle you to a do-over whenever you fuck up?
48
CARRIE
I had a root canal a couple of years ago. One of the molars that Jason cracked with his fist finally got infected and I had to get it taken care of. It was one of the most miserable, most painful experiences of my life. I break out in a cold sweat when I think about going to the dentist’s now, but I would rather undergo ten back-to-back root canal procedures than go to this party tonight.
I told Elodie I wasn’t going to go but I don’t really have a choice. If she goes, then I have to. I can’t let her wander into something blind over there. I’d never forgive myself if she got caught up in some next-level Riot House bullshit.
This party, for some ungodly reason, is fancy dress. I tag along with Pres to Party Empire and pick out a skimpy little Mad Hatter costume, not really paying any attention or caring what I’m choosing in the slightest. Pres opts for a grotesque Beetlejuice outfit that looks like black and white pajamas—not sexy in any way—but she seems excited about it, so I don’t ask questions.
We chat at the checkout, waiting to pay for our stuff. “Mercy was dropping Elodie’s dress off at her room earlier. It’s beautiful,” Pres says. “There are crystals all over the bodice. She’s gonna look like a little fairy in it. She said that Wren bought it for her. Do you think—” She frowns, cutting herself off, stealing a sideways glance at me.
