She pauses to gawk at me with an incredulous look. “Jenevieve.” It rolls harsh off her tongue and she bears her teeth as she says it. “Look, I don’t know what the heck you’re up to, or if you’re just trying to make me throw you off the balcony, but since it’s your first day, I’m going to tell you kindly to knock this shit off.” She pauses just shy of an enormous staircase, taking me in with her stone blue eyes. “Where the hell were you—and why do you have a forest growing out of your ear?” She plucks a sprig of pine needles from my hair. “I talked to Jones. He wants to get together with the three of us, Saturday.”
“Jones?” If she hadn’t referenced him as a male, I would have assumed we were blocking out a precious chunk of weekend to scan the carpet for the residue of all things illegal.
“I’ll drive,” she says, leading me up the vast sweeping stairwell. As we near the top, it affords me an eagle-eye view of the facility—a large room sits below along with a roaring fireplace the size of a single-car garage. A smattering of girls sit nestled with their laptops on L shaped couches. One of them convulses into her keyboard with an intensity that borders on intimacy. It looks sexual the way she strokes the keys, biting down a secretive smile.
Upstairs, Austen House is dark, heavily lined with navy embossed wallpaper that presses out in repetitive rows of paisley and diamonds. My mind warps the images until all I see are faces, devilish grimaces staring back at me, each one locked in a silent scream.
“Fletcher almost killed me the last time we drove together.” She flips her hair over her shoulder like a white silk scarf. “Fair warning, don’t get in a moving vehicle with him at the helm.”
“Fletcher?” Dear God. This is some warped dream—nightmare—easily this is a nightmare because it started out with a hostile corpse. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if Jenevieve turned around and took a bite right out of my neck.
“Yes, Fletcher.” She looks simultaneously surprised and horrified at my ability to maintain stupid. “Our brother.” She’s so expressly pissed it looks as if she’s about to swallow her tongue. “Jones wanted me to tell you to find Fletch tonight and, you know, meet people so you won’t be such a loner—or do stupid things like you did at Rycroft.”
“Fletcher’s our brother?” That happens to be my brother’s name, or at least it was while he was living. And Jenevieve is my sister’s formal name, although, this imposter is clearly the wrong Jen. My sister has dark hair and electric blue eyes. We hardly look related unlike this faux relative who stands before me befuddled. In fact, nuJen and I share the same nose, the same pale eyes, maybe even look more like sisters than the one I share a genetic bond with, sans the supermodel jackpot I’ve yet to cash in on.
“Our brother…” I pause, still not over the fact she knew Fletcher’s name. I don’t know what’s going on, but I have a feeling I’m about to meet yet another Stewart family knockoff.
Fake Jen opens the door to my new room. It’s clean and dull with the same satanic wallpaper from the hall peeking out from behind the bookshelves. Two twin mattresses are pushed against opposing walls with a mahogany desk next to each.
Three statuesque girls welcome me by way of hard looks and scoffs that suggest I reek of excrement or rotting corpses. Come to think of it, both are a possibility.
“Kresley Fisher, Grayson Evans.” Jen points at two girls lying side by side on a navy quilt with white flowers embroidered in dizzying patterns, their feet sunk in ditches over the pillow.
The dark-haired one, Kresley, shoots a look of venom at me with her sharp almond eyes as though I were solely responsible for the slaughter of a thousand baby whales. She’s beautiful in a hypnotic kind of way. Her toxic brand of beauty is mixed with equal parts of viciousness and vixen with a dash of entitlement thrown in for good measure. The haughty look in her eye assures me there will be no friendship brewing here in the near or distant future. Judging people is my fatal flaw, but when you bat a thousand, it’s a little hard to stop.
The other girl, Grayson, has long hair much like my own with the exception it’s devoid of any color that I could accurately put my finger on. In fact, there isn’t a single hue found in all of nature that holds that brindle, velum, ash disaster. A dark line of roots erects itself from her scalp a clear inch, contrasting itself so harshly it looks artful in its own way. She crimps her lips, taking me in. She holds a sharper beauty than Kresley, looking less menacing in general, but you can tell the venomous nature is one in the same. It lingers to her like a patina that coats her from the inside. You can see her malevolence plain as the beauty on her face.
“This is your roommate, Casper Masterson.” Jen flicks a finger toward the girl at the desk, painting her fingernails a dark glossy crimson—dragon’s blood red.
I give a wry smile. I used to sit for hours and watch Wes, my long-dead boyfriend, run his brushes over canvas. I would give names to the colors he mixed onto the palate. It was spellbinding, watching him stir through a rainbow of his own invention. For Christmas, I was going to make a set of brushes for him with my own hair. The art supply store in town said they would do it, but Christmas came and went without Wes. He had been in the ground three full months before that day. I miss Wes with an aching passion. Maybe they’ll have a fake version of him here, too. But there could never be another Wes. When he died he took all of the color out of the world with him.
“Hello,” Casper offers, but doesn’t look up from her long methodical strokes. It sounds sarcastic, like a threat. Her short bleached hair spikes at the top, a contrast to her delicate features and soft round lips.
Life can’t be easy with a name like Casper. I suppose Kresley and Grayson aren’t too far off on the moniker punching bag—neither am I come to think of it.
“Be nice to Laken,” Jen reprimands before turning to me. “I get off at ten. I’m staying at Lowery’s if you need me.” She arches her brows before leaving as though speaking some silent sisterly language that said, try to get along.
I think both faux Jen and I know that getting along with these girls is doubtful.
I exhale a huge breath I hadn’t notice I was holding and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look like crap and death rolled into one—ironic because if you throw a reanimated cadaver into the mix it’s a frightfully accurate description.
“Which bed is mine?” I ask Casper, the girl busying herself with dragon’s blood. What the hell am I saying, which bed is mine? I need to get home, to the right state, the right universe—but deep inside I’m certain if I just shut my eyes I’ll magically turn up there anyway.
“Other bed,” she grunts.
I assume she means the one farthest from her person, which makes me want to evict the two girls lounging on it with their feet molesting my new pillow. Although I doubt they’d listen, and the last thing I need today is an ass kicking. Even though I’m partially tempted to administer one myself, the idea is more exhausting than it is exhilarating at the moment. All I really want to do is sleep—see if I can wake up in a state I actually belong in.
“Do you guys have a phone I can borrow?” I ask no one in particular. I need to tell my mother I had the misfortune of a drive-by drugging or a hammer to the back of the head because clearly I’m suffering from psychological turmoil. Nevertheless, the words, “Laken phone home” reverberate in the back of my mind.
“Nope,” Kresley says it bored without looking up. Her dark hair creates a curtain over her features, but I can see the curve of a wicked smile flexing at my expense.
She stretches her long golden limbs like a cat and sears me with a sideways glance as if my presence alone offended her. “Don’t ever let me wear heather grey,” she seethes to her bedmate.
“I know, right?” The plastic-haired Grayson rolls over to pick up a brush off the floor, and a round orb of flesh spills out the side of her tank top.
Holy shit.
I have never seen a body like that before. Not that I make a habit of inspecting other women’s wares, but this is
something that falls under the category of a factual oddity, or “Quick, get Guinness on the phone.” Her boobs expand over her chest like planets, painfully large and perfectly round like someone tucked a pair of volleyballs under her skin for safekeeping. For a brief second I think they may be tumors.
“Hate that color,” Grayson gags. “It’s pathetic. Makes people look like they crawled out of a convent.”
“I’m thinking about wearing orange this fall.” Kresley sits up and spins her long dark hair into a sloppy bun before shagging it out, exposing a waterfall of rich dark curls. “Like maybe a coat or a sweater.”
“Me, too.” Grayson rakes the brush through her creamy locks. “We should mix it with those red suede boots.”
Kresley scoffs at her with profane disapproval. You would think she had suggested they gut road kill and add it to their oatmeal for breakfast.
“Orange driving moccasins,” they say in unison before exploding in a fit of laughter.
I take them in with their perfect pouts, their flawless skin—their aggressive monstrous attitudes that rival that of the creature in the forest.
Dear God—I think they’re mocking me.
Who the hell has an entire conversation solely based on the color of their upcoming fall wardrobe? Who the hell has an upcoming fall wardrobe?
“So, um…” I clear my throat. “I think I need to find my brother. Fletcher?” It comes out pleading. I’m not sure why I’ve suddenly accepted this mission, but I know for damn sure I’m not sequestering myself in a room full of girls who bear an uncanny inward resemblance to the beast from the woods. I’d mention him, but in truth, I’m half afraid they’ll all start morphing into zombies. Nightmares are fickle that way.
Besides, if I linger here too much longer, I might be moved to do something heroic like venture into the closet and hang them all by way of sweaters in their least favorite colors. Murder doesn’t feel so illogical or illegal in this strange new world I’ve conjured up.
I’m probably in a coma somewhere. It’s never a good thing when you go through a windshield and end up in Connecticut on the other side. I bet if I think about it long enough, I’ll start controlling things, like catching their hair on fire, spontaneously dying their skin blue, or tangling up their underwire bras—and that will be a bigger problem for some than others.
Casper turns around. Her short pixie-like hair is peppered with a glittering effect that I can only further contribute to this alternate state of reality.
Freaking Tucker—mother-Tucker, I’ll think of a million of them before I make my way back home and strangle him with my bare hands for landing me on the other side of the looking glass.
I fully give myself permission to establish his name as the vilest profanity in this new world. If he hadn’t cheated with Megan Bartlett—hell, with the entire volleyball team—I wouldn’t be standing here contemplating a triple homicide.
“There’s a party at Henderson.” Casper, the pixie, frowns. “We’re leaving in ten if you can get ready.” She scales me with her eyes, appalled at my disheveled appearance.
“Who’s Henderson?” God, this is like the land of unfortunate names. Apparently, I’m really bad at casting my own nightmare, probably some effect of having a strange name myself.
“Henderson Hall, you know,” she says, snatching the brush from out Grayson’s hand, “where your brother lives.”
The two girls jump off the bed and stretch as though they’ve just been roused from a very long slumber.
“Wesley has a present for me tonight.” Kresley sways into her long bronzed legs when she says it. Her pale blue cutoffs glow against her fresh summer tan. “I think it’s going to be something big, like an engagement ring.”
“Good luck with that.” Casper averts her eyes at the thought.
“So,” Kresley says, walking over to me uncomfortably close, her chest heaving into mine, “make sure you meet up with Flynn.” Her pale green eyes are fascinating even if they are peppered with an unfounded amount of hatred toward me. “He’s Ephemeral’s official welcoming committee.” She bites down a smile. “Heard about what happened at Rycroft. Sounds like you might be teaching him a thing or two.”
She snatches Grayson by the elbow, and they drift out the door, leaving us in a wake of stilted silence as the mystery of her words swirl through my mind.
“What’s with Rycroft? And what did I do?” I ask pointblank. If it’s slanderous enough to span two campuses, I might as well be let in on the secret.
Casper rises and inspects me for a moment before depositing her brush on the counter.
“That’s for you to tell me,” she answers coyly as if she knows but wants the report firsthand—only, my brain has apparently malfunctioned and I can’t provide either of us with the salacious details. “The fake blonde is about as friendly as a pit bull.” She moves the conversation along. “I take that back, every pit bull I’ve ever met was way nicer than Grayson.” Her lips curve into a naughty smile.
“She’s a model, well, they both are, and they will remind you of this ad nauseam.” She dry heaves for effect. “Grayson has expanded her casting couch capabilities to land herself a role in some B movie that’s coming out, Power Position. Trust me,” she says, glancing at the ceiling, “it’ll be 3-D without the glasses. Prepare to lose an eye in the process.” She plops down on her bed and takes off her socks.
“Kresley is your standard miserable bitch. She’s got her head tucked so far up her ass, she actually believes the world should bow down to her just like daddy. Which is ironic since she’s the product of an affair between the housekeeper and her father the congressman. Her mother was deported, and she was sent to boarding school prison as soon as humanly possible.”
I freeze midflight to the bed. This is obviously some kind of mean girls trap. Sure she gave a satisfactory explanation why Grayson and Kresley think they make the world go round, but aren’t they besties? Weren’t they just bonding over sweaters the color of popsicles and red velvet knee-highs?
It makes no sense whatsoever to throw them under the bus—and to me of all people—someone she’s known less than five minutes. I suppose it’s my turn now to say all kinds of nasty things about them so she can call me out on it later and they can take turns stabbing me with their stilettos.
“Kresley is obsessed with her boyfriend, the water polo god,” she goes on unmitigated. Casper’s perfectly veneered teeth shine a brilliant white each time she moves her lips. It’s like she has a flashlight at the back of her mouth that automatically goes on when she opens it. “Kresley and Wesley.” She sticks her finger down her throat and pretends to gag before walking into the closet.
“Sounds like a bad limerick is about to erupt,” I say mostly to myself. “Look…” I step over to the threshold of the closet. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but I don’t even know how the heck I got here.” It feels safe to confess this lunacy—own up to the fact I’m having a grand mal seizure of a hallucination. Clearly a sufficient amount of brain damage has already taken place. However, I’m pretty sure she won’t be too thrilled to find out she’s nothing more than a figment of my imagination so I decide to keep that part to myself for now.
She steps back out with a black pea coat tucked in the crook of her arm.
“What did you say?” She picks up a bottle of perfume and douses herself, front and back, up and down, like she’s masking the fact she hasn’t showered for weeks. The glass decanter in her hand fractures a rainbow of light across the walls with her frantic efforts. I take a seat on the bed as the room blooms with the scent of black tea and crushed juniper.
“I was just saying.” I hold back a sneeze. “I don’t know what’s going on. I got this I.D., and the first name is right, but I’m not Laken Anderson. My last name is Stewart.”
She swoops in swift as bat, clamps her hand over my mouth in one quick move. She studies me, circles me with her clear green eyes as if she were memorizing my features.
“Listen”—h
er breathing becomes erratic—“listen good.” She pushes her finger over my lips and holds it there a moment. “Go along with whatever they tell you. Pretend everything that happens is perfectly normal.” She nods as though I should agree. A slow spreading smile comes over her face as she breaks out into a full-blown cackle. It erupts from her like a victory.
“And what if I don’t?” Clearly everyone here is insane.
I can feel the bedding, smell the scent of unsweetened perfume—this is no dream. It’s obvious I’ve been kidnapped by some cult from Connecticut, and now my only hope of getting home is to play along with their boarding school games. I’ll be forced to wear orange and join some demonic sorority where everyone sports awkward epithets. I think I’d rather lube myself with butter, run naked through the haunted woods, opening up a buffet for the creatures that inhabit it and let them gnaw on my flesh until this whole nightmare is over.
“You will go along with it. You have no choice.” Her features narrow over mine as she studies me with a renewed interest.
“What the hell is going on?” I say each word like its own sentence. “What’s the penalty if I don’t play by the rules?”
Her eyes elongate like eggs, her lips press together, forming an anemic white line.
“You, dear Laken, will simply disappear.”
A rush of silence stops up my ears. The room spins from her dizzying words.
“I have to get out of here.” I push my way past her, and she snatches me by the wrist, quick as a thief. “My little sister, my mom—they’re going to be worried sick.”
“You can’t leave.” Her voice breaks when she says it. “They won’t let you.” There’s a desperation in her that pleads for me to understand.
“But this is all a lie.” A wave of unexpected tears rush to the surface, and I suppress the urge to bawl.
“I know it’s a lie,” she whispers. “I’m just like you. I remember everything.”
3