She manages a smile anyway. “You ready to go?”
“Almost,” I say. When she doesn’t immediately turn to leave, I know it’s because she wants to see me off. I don’t bother to protest. Not today. Instead I just do a quick check: first the mundane—backpack, wallet, sunglasses—and then the specific—ring around my finger, key around my neck, list in my… No list. I duck back into my room to find the piece of Archive-issued paper still shoved in the pocket of my pants. My phone’s there, too, lying at the foot of my bed where I tossed it earlier. I transfer the slip—blank for now—into the front pocket of my shirt and type a quick answer to Wesley’s question…
What are you wearing?
Battle armor.
…before dropping the phone into my bag.
On our way out, Mom gives me the full spiel about staying safe, being nice, playing well with others. When we reach the base of the lobby’s marble stairs, she plants a kiss on my cheek (it sounds like breaking plates in my head) and tells me to smile. Then an old man calls over from across the lobby, asking if the café is open, and I watch her hurry away, issuing a trill of morning cheer as she leads him into Bishop’s.
I push through the Coronado’s revolving doors and head over to the newly installed bike rack. There’s only one bike chained to it, a sleek metal thing marred—Wes would say adorned—by a strip of duct tape on which the word DANTE has been scrawled in Sharpie. I knew a car was out of the question—all our money is feeding into the coffee shop right now—but I’d had the foresight to ask for the bike. My parents were surprised; I guess they figured I’d just take the bus (local, of course, not school; Hyde wouldn’t deign to have its name stenciled on the side of some massive yellow monstrosity, and besides, the average student probably drives a Lexus), but buses are just narrow boxes crammed with bodies full of noise. The thought makes me shudder.
I dig a pair of workout pants out of my bag, tugging them on under my skirt before unlocking Dante. The café’s awning flaps in the breeze, and the rooftop gargoyles peer down as I swing my leg over and push off the curb.
I’m halfway to the corner when something—someone—catches my eye, and I slow down and glance back.
There’s someone across the street from the Coronado, and he’s watching me. A man, early thirties, with gold hair and sun-touched skin. He’s standing on the curb, shielding his eyes against the sun and squinting up at the old hotel as if it’s intensely interesting. But a moment earlier as I zipped by, I could swear he was looking at me. And even now that he’s not, the feeling lingers.
I stall at the corner, pretending to adjust the gears on my bike as I watch him not-watch me. There’s something familiar about him, but I can’t place it. Maybe he’s been to Bishop’s while I was on shift, or maybe he’s friends with a Coronado resident. Or maybe I’ve never seen him before, and he just has one of those familiar faces. Maybe I just need sleep. The moment I let in the doubt, it kills my conviction, and suddenly I’m not even sure he was looking at me in the first place. When he crosses the street a moment later and vanishes through the front doors of the Coronado without so much as a glance my way, I shake it off and pedal away.
The morning is cool, and I relish the fresh air and the wind whistling in my ears as I weave through the streets. I mapped out the route yesterday—drew it on my hand this morning to be safe—but I never look down. The city unfolds around me, a vast and sunlit grid, a stark contrast to the dark tangle of corridors I’m used to.
And for a few minutes, as the world blurs past, I almost forget about how tired I am and how much I’m dreading today. But then I round the corner and the moment ends as I find myself face-to-face with the moss-slick stones, ivy-strewn walls, and iron gates of Hyde School.
TWO
MY FAMILY is about to run away.
Ben’s been dead for almost a year, and our home has somehow become a house, something kept at arm’s reach. They say the only way around is through, but apparently that’s not true. The other option, I know now, is to turn and run. My parents have started packing; things are vanishing, one by one, into boxes. I try not to notice. Between struggling to survive sophomore year and keeping my list of Histories clear, I’ve done a pretty good job of ignoring the Ben-shaped hole—but eventually even I can’t help but see the signs.
Mom quits another job.
Dad starts going on trips in his most collegiate suits.
The house is more often empty than full.
And then one day, when I’m sitting at the kitchen table, studying for finals, Dad gets back from a trip—an interview, it turns out—and places a booklet in front of me. I finish the paragraph I’m reading before letting my gaze wander over to the glossy paper. At first glance it looks like a college packet, but the people splashed across the cover in studious poses wear uniforms of black and green and silver and gold, and most of them look a shade too young for university. I read the name printed in gothic capitals across the top: HYDE SCHOOL.
I should say no. Blending in is hard enough in a school of fifteen hundred, and between the Ben-shaped hole and the Archive’s ever-filling page, I’m barely keeping up my grades.
But Dad has that horrible, hopeful look in his eyes, and he skips the speech about how it will “enrich my academic portfolio,” doesn’t bother to tell me that it is “a smaller school, easier to meet people,” and goes straight for the kill. The quiet, questioning, “It will be an adventure.”
And maybe he’s right.
Or maybe I just can’t stand our home-turned-house.
Maybe I want to run away, too.
I say yes.
I should have said no.
That’s all I can think as I straddle the bike and stare up at Hyde School. The campus is tucked behind a wrought iron fence, and the lot in front is filled with fancy cars and peppered with students who look like they came straight out of that catalog Dad brought home last spring. There is a bike rack, too—but the only students around it are clearly freshmen and sophomores. I can tell by the color of the piping on their uniform shirts. (According to the brochure, freshmen are marked by a glossy black, sophomores by green, juniors by silver, seniors by gold.)
I hover at the edge of the lot, leaning the bike against a tree as I dig out my phone and reread Wesley’s text.
I’m pretty sure you can handle private school.
Letting my gaze drift back up, I’m not so confident. It’s not the uniforms that have me thrown, or even the obvious old-money air—I wouldn’t be much of a Keeper if I couldn’t blend in. It’s the fact that I could count the number of students here in less than a minute if I wanted to. There are few enough to make me think I could come to know their names and faces. Which means they could come to know mine. My last school was large enough to afford a certain degree of anonymity. I’m sure there was a radar, but it was easy to stay off it—and I did. But here? It’s hard enough keeping my second life a secret with only a few people to con. In an “intimate atmosphere”—the brochure’s words, not mine—people are going to notice if I slip up.
What difference does it make? I tell myself. Just a few more people to lie to.
It’s not like I’ll be selling different lies to different crowds here. I just have to convince everyone of one simple thing: that I’m normal. Which would, admittedly, be easier if I’d slept more than a couple of hours at a time in the last three weeks, and if I weren’t being haunted by the memory of a History who tried to kill me. But hey. No such thing as a perfect scenario.
Most of the students have gone onto campus by now, so I cross the lot, chain Dante to the bike rack, and tug off the workout pants from underneath my skirt. When I get to the front gate, I can’t help but smile a little. A massive metal H has been woven through the bars. I snap a photo on my phone and send it to Wes with the caption Abandon all hope, ye who enter here (the inscription on the gates of Hell in Dante’s Inferno, and Wesley’s favorite passage). A moment later he responds with a single smiley face, which is enough to make me f
eel a little less alone as I step onto campus.
Hyde is made of stone and moss, most of the buildings laid out around a quad. It’s all linked by paths and bridges and halls—a miniature version of the university where Dad works now. (I guess that’s the idea behind a college preparatory school.) All I can think as I make my way down a tree-lined path to the administration building, with its ivy-strewn facade and clock tower, is how much Lyndsey would love it here. I send her a text telling her so, and a few seconds later she texts back.
Who is this?
Ha. Ha.
The Mackenzie Bishop I know doesn’t charge her phone, let alone text.
People evolve.
You did it for Guyliner, didn’t you?
No.
It’s okay, I forgive you.
I roll my eyes and pocket my phone before taking a last, deep breath and pushing open the doors of the admin building. I’m deposited in a large glass lobby with corridors trailing off in several directions. I manage to find the main office and retrieve my final schedule and room assignments from a woman with a frighteningly tight bun, but instead of backtracking, I’m then sent through a separate set of doors that lead into a large hall crowded with students. I have no idea what to do next. I do my best to stay out of the way as I internally repeat the phrase I will not pull out a map, I will not pull a map, I will not pull out a map. I studied the layout of campus, I really did. But I’m tired. And even with a solid sense of direction, it’s like the Narrows, where you have to learn the grid by moving through it.
“It’s one building over, second hall, and third room on the left.”
The voice comes from right behind me, and I turn to find a senior (gold stripes trace across the black of his uniform) looking down at me.
“Excuse me?”
“Precalc with Bradshaw, math hall, room 310,” he says, pointing at the paper in my hands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to look over your shoulder. You just seemed a little lost.”
I fold the paper and shove it back into my bag. “That obvious?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.
“Standing in the middle of the admin building with a class schedule and a daunted look?” he says. “Can’t blame a guy for wanting to help.” There is a kind of warmth to him, from his dark hair and deep tan to his broad smile and gold eyes. And then he goes and ruins it by adding, “After all, the whole thing does have an air of ‘damsel’ to it.”
The air ices over.
“I’m not a damsel.” There’s no humor in my voice now. “And I’m really not in distress, if that’s where you were going next.”
He flinches; but instead of retreating, he holds his ground, his smile softening into something more genuine. “I sounded like an ass just then, didn’t I? Let me start again.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Cash.”
“Mackenzie,” I say, bracing myself as I slide my hand into his. The sound that fills my head is loud—the noise of the living is always loud—but strangely melodic. Cash is made of jazz and laughter. Our hands fall apart and the sound fades away, replaced a moment later by the first bell, which echoes through the halls from the clock tower.
And so it begins.
“Let me walk you to class,” he says.
“That’s not necessary.”
“I know. But I’d be happy to do it all the same.”
I hesitate, but there’s something about him that reminds me of Wes—maybe the way he stands or how easily he smiles—and at this point I’d probably attract more attention by saying no; people are already casting glances as they hurry past us to class. So I nod and say, “Lead the way.”
Within moments I regret it.
Having Cash as an escort not only results in a halting pace—he stops to say hello, hug, or fist-bump everyone—but also more attention than I ever wanted to garner, since he introduces me every single time. And despite the fact that the first bell’s already rung and the halls are emptying, everyone takes the time to say hello back, walking with us a few feet while they chat. By the time Cash finally guides me through one of the elevated halls that bridge the buildings into the math hall and deposits me at room 310, I feel dazed from the attention.
And then he just disappears with little more than a smile and a “Good luck!”
I don’t even have a chance to thank him, let alone ask for a clue about where I’m headed next. Sixteen pairs of eyes shift up as I walk in, sporting the usual spectrum of interest. Only the teacher’s attention stays trained on the board as he scribbles out instructions below the header Precalculus. Most of the seats are already taken; in some strange and twisted version of the high school dynamic, I’m left with the back row instead of the usually shunned front. I slide into the last empty seat as the teacher starts, and my chest finally begins to loosen.
Waiting for something to start is always worse than when it does.
As the lesson begins, I’m relieved to find that underneath the moss and stone and uniforms, school still kind of feels like school. You can dress it up, but it doesn’t change much from place to place. I wonder what class Lyndsey has first. She’ll be sitting in the front row, of course. I wonder who will sit next to her on the left, who will reach over and doodle in the margins of her books when she’s not looking. I start to wonder what Ben would be studying, but then I catch myself and turn my thoughts to the equations on the board.
I’ve always been good at math. It’s straightforward, black-and-white, right and wrong. Equations. Da thought of people as books to be read, but I’ve always thought of them more as formulas—full of variables, but always the sum of their parts. That’s what their noise is, really: all of a person’s components layered messily over one another. Thought and feeling and memory and all of it unorganized, until that person dies. Then it all gets compiled, straightened out into this linear thing, and you can see exactly what the various parts add up to. What they equal.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I notice the sound in the lull between two of Bradshaw’s explanations. It’s a clock on the back wall, and once I start to notice it, I can’t stop. Even with Bradshaw’s expert projection (I wonder if he took a speech class or used to act, and how he ended up teaching precalc instead), there it is: low and constant and clear. Da used to say you could isolate the sounds in the Narrows if you tried, pluck out notes and pull them forward, letting the rest sink back. I tug on the tick tick tick, and soon the teacher’s voice fades and the clock is all I can hear, quiet and constant as a pulse.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Tick. Tick.
Tick…
And then, between one tick and the next, the lights go off.
All at once the whole set of soft fluorescents on the ceiling flickers and goes out, plunging the classroom into darkness. When the lights come back on, the room is empty. Sixteen students and a teacher all gone in a blink, leaving only vacant desks and the ticking clock and a knife resting, gentle as a kiss, against my throat.
THREE
“OWEN.”
It comes out barely a whisper, my voice tight with fear. Not here. Not now.
He lets out a low breath behind me, and then I feel his lips brush against my ear. “Hello, M.”
“Don’t—” I start, but the words die as the knife presses into my throat.
“Look at you,” he says, using the metal to lift my chin. “Putting on a show. Smiling and nodding and trying to pass for normal.”
The knife falls away, and a moment later he’s there—rounding my chair, clucking his tongue as he perches on top of the desk in front of mine, hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His silvery hair is swept back, and his eyes hang on me, wild and wolfish and blue.
“Do they know you’re broken?” he asks, twirling the blade between his fingers. “They will, soon enough. Should we show them?”
I grip the desk. “You don’t exist.”
“And yet I could break you,” he says softly, “in front of all of them. Crack you open, let them see all the monsters you’re made
of. I could set them free. Set you free.” He sits up straight. “You don’t belong here.”
“Where do I belong?”
In a blink he’s gone from the other desk and standing next to mine. He rests the knife against my desk, its tip inches from my ribs. His other hand comes down on my shoulder, holding me in my chair as he leans close and whispers, “With me.”
He drives the knife forward and I gasp and jerk upright in my seat, catching my rib cage on the edge of my desk as the bell rings. Owen is gone, and the room is full of students scraping their chairs back and hoisting their bags onto their shoulders. I sag back again, rubbing my ribs, then haul myself to my feet and slide my too-blank notebook into my bag, trying to shake off the dregs of the nightmare. I’m almost to the door when Mr. Bradshaw stops me.
“Miss Bishop?” he says, straightening his desk.
I turn back to him. “Yes, sir?”
“Did I bore you?”
I cringe. “No, sir.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “I do so worry about boring my students.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t,” I say. “You’re a very good speaker. Drama training?”
I curse myself before the words have even left my lips. Mouthing off in the Archive is one thing, but Mr. Bradshaw’s not a Librarian, he’s a teacher. Luckily, he smiles.
“I’ll assume then that, despite outward appearances, you were listening to my lecture with rapt attention. Still, perhaps in the future you could listen with your eyes open. Just so I know for sure.”
I manage a weak smile, a nod, and another “Yes, sir” before heading into the hall in search of Literary Theory and Analysis—I don’t see why they can’t just call it English. But before I can orient myself, someone clears his throat loudly. I turn to see Cash leaning against the door, waiting. He’s got a coffee in each hand, and he holds one out to me.