I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I do make a solid note to myself that I don’t want anything to do with any of that. I’m here to get away from bullying assholes, not dive back into it.
“So anyway,” she continues, leading us up to one of the buildings. ‘Hayden Hall’ is carved over the dorm. “Don’t go into the tower unless you’re invited and only if you want to.”
“Got it.”
She lifts her arms wide. “Welcome to the dorms. Girls live in Hayden. Boys in Cresswell.”
I look up at the building that will be my home for the next six months and take a deep breath. I don’t know anyone here, and no one knows me. Exactly how I want it.
Sleep should come easy to me, knowing he isn’t just down the hall. But even though I don’t feel the deep thrum of building panic, it’s still difficult. The room is unfamiliar. The lights from outside play against the wall in a way I’m not used to. The sounds of Georgia’s breaths and sleep-shifting is a constant reminder that I’m not alone in here.
It’s stupid. Georgia really seems okay, even though she’s a little physical for my tastes. Her hands are constantly moving, touching her hair or face, reaching for things—me. In just a few short months, I’ve become a master of standing just outside of the contact zone. It’s tiring, I think, staring up at the white ceiling. My hand is clenched around the shaft of the knife under my pillow, the way a kid would cling to a blanket, getting used to other people’s movements. At home, even with Doug invading my space all the time, he was familiar. Dangerous, but familiar.
The devil I knew.
When morning comes, I dress, pausing only when Georgia rolls over in her bed, yanking her pillow over her head. It’s easy to sneak out the door.
My goal is to get where I need to, either early or late. The less people around the better. I need to build a system here, a solid routine that reduces the likelihood of contact as much as humanly possible. From the quick tour Georgia gave me the night before, I locate the dining hall easily. I grab a coffee and a bagel, swiping my meal card through the little slot. The green light blinks, approving it—approving me. There’s this hum of background anxiety that people will realize I’m not supposed to be here, that it was all a mistake. I mean, who gives a scholarship to a girl mid-way through the year, and especially Cliff trash like me?
You’re nothing, you hear me? You’re trash. No one wants you.
Well, the Adams Scholarship did.
Getting out of the Briar Cliffs had long been a dream of mine, one that seemed desperately out of reach until college at the very least. But I’d subscribed to a newsletter that lists available scholarships to private schools and prestigious camps, and buried in with the rest, I saw one for Preston Prep that hadn’t yet been awarded this year. I applied on a whim, meeting the criteria for low income, academic excellence, and—with the help of a portfolio thrown hastily together on the public library’s scanner—creative potential. My tragic background probably lent a helping hand, too. What I was, most of all, was desperate to get out of my house and just… away. It could have been a shack on the side of the highway, and it would have been enough for me. If I hadn’t been accepted here, I probably would have run away eventually. I’d have just gotten into the Mustang and went as far as it could take me. I’d been shocked when the email came, announcing I’d won.
Three weeks later, here I am, standing among the ancient oaks, historic buildings, and a dining hall that looks straight out of Harry Potter, trying to figure out how to fit into a world with rich kids, secret societies, and world class facilities.
I go out the exit just as the entrance door swings open, and a group of guys walks in. Perfect timing, as planned. They’re a blur of red and black. Letter jackets, names and awards stitched on the back, shouting greetings at the workers, banging trays along the serving line. They jostle against one another, and there’s no hostility in it, but my ever-present unease stills simmers under the surface.
I walk out the front door and head toward the parking lot, prepared to walk the three miles to the garage to check on my car. I need the time and cool, fresh air, to think about how I’m going to pay for getting my car fixed. I have eight-hundred dollars in my bank account, which is all that’s left from my summer job. Everything on a classic car like the Mustang is expensive, always costing more than is strictly necessary for the piece of junk it is. I know once the mechanic gets under the roof, he’ll find even more problems. A smart person would sell it for scraps and buy something reliable and dependable. But there’s no way I can do it.
Halfway there, the deep rumble of a muffler echoes off the pavement. I turn and see a burst of shiny bright blue as it streaks past, the leaves on the street and my hair blowing from the gust of wind it creates. I catch sight of the license plate before it vanishes down the road.
JAS-MIN.
By the time I see the glowing diner sign up ahead, I’m thinking I may have a plan. If the repairs cost more than what I have, maybe they’ll let me put it on a payment plan. I can get a job after school and pay in increments. It’s not like I’ll need it much since I’m living on campus. They can hold onto it until I can pay in full.
I take a deep breath and cross the street, walking up to the garage. Even though it’s Sunday, one bay is open, and the sound of fast, hard music carries into the parking lot. Merle, the manager, told me he’d be here by ten and it’s only 9:30. I consider the fact he’s here already to be a stroke of rare luck and head through the open door.
The Mustang is up on one of the lifts, but the first person I see is bent over the hood of a different car—the blue Ford. Jas-min.
He must hear my footsteps because he emits a hard sigh and says, “Not open yet.” In a lower mutter he probably doesn’t expect me to hear, he adds, “So fuck off.”
His jeans are faded, pale blue, frayed at the cuffs that hang over the tops of his black Converse. I don’t know who this guy is, but it’s definitely not sixty-year-old Merle, in his army green jumpsuit. I see his hand reach into the toolbox, knuckles red, streaked in grease. My hair-trigger fight or flight response tickles at my sore neck and I take a step back, deciding to wait outside. I need some air, anyway.
My foot catches on something, and the sound of metal clanging to the ground bursts through the garage. The mechanic tenses, and then jolts up, taking care not to hit his head on the roof of the hood. It’s his hair that I see first; fine, almost white, pushed messily above his forehead. But it’s his eyes that squeeze all the air from my lungs. They’re intense, piercing, and horrifyingly familiar. Even if I hadn’t already met him once, I’d still know those eyes anywhere.
They’re the impending promise of chaos.
Nothing makes him less terrifying, not even the surprised part of his lips. My hand goes to my jaw and I will my feet to move. That’s the problem with my body. It never cooperates anymore.
His fault, my brain hisses.
“Damn, girl, you startled me,” he says, running his greasy hand down his thigh. “You’re looking for Merle, right? He doesn’t usually get in until a little later on Sunday. But I guess…” I don’t miss the way his eyes rove over my body, nor the way his demeanor has grown suddenly fri
endly. “Maybe I can help.”
“No,” I say, voice flat and hard, hand curling around the knife in my bag. “I think I’ve had enough of what you call help.”