My gaze travels to a girl in the corner, talking on the phone. She reminds the person on the other end to take their medicine and brush their teeth.
“That’s Ivy,” Parker says, standing at my side now. “I’m not sure if you noticed it yet, but we don’t get cell phone reception here, so if you want to make a call, you have to use the landline.”
“No calls for me,” I say with a smile. The last thing I want is to listen to my dad whine about how I deserted him with two engine rebuilds and three front axle replacements. “It’s nice to have a couple of days off.”
“Especially when those days involve a major movie legend, right?”
“Totally.” I love that he gets it too.
“Shayla? Frankie?” Midge is standing at the kitchen island, mixing up some sort of green punch drink. “Would you like to see your rooms?”
“Hold on,” Shayla says, looking around. “Is everybody here? Are we all the winners?”
“Everybody’s arrived,” Midge says, dropping a handful of fake black spiders into the punch. “But not everybody’s in this room. Taylor, Ivy’s roommate, went for a walk and should be returning shortly. And, Shayla, your roommate is already upstairs.”
“And I haven’t even met her yet?” Shayla springs up from the couch—this is obviously a national emergency. If she were only half as cute, her eternally perky demeanor might be annoying.
We follow Midge upstairs, but the door to Shayla’s room is locked. “Natalie?” Midge raps lightly on the door.
Meanwhile, Shayla continues to chatter on, saying how pumped she is to meet her roommate, like this is the most exciting thing on earth. And I suppose it is. I mean, I’m pretty stoked too. And it’s sort of cool to be with people who share that same vibe, rather than at the garage where everything is always a downer, where doom and gloom are as encouraged as cash payments.
“Do you need some help?” I ask, watching as Midge struggles with the key.
“The lock already turned,” Midge says, “so I’m pretty sure the key works.”
“In other words, the door is stuck?” Shayla asks.
“Natalie?” Midge calls again. “Can you open up? Your roommate is here and she’d really like to meet you.”
“Maybe she’s sleeping,” Shayla says.
Midge frowns, like someone just stole from her collection of severed fingers.
“Let me try,” I say.
Midge steps to the side, and I grab the knob, forcing my weight against the door. It doesn’t budge. “There must be something propped up beneath the knob, on the inside.” I take a step back to gain momentum and then lunge at the door. At the same moment, the door opens and I go flying inside, barely catching myself from falling on my ass.
A girl stands there. Black hair, dark clothing. Way too Goth for my taste, but you can tell that she’d be totally hot with her full lips and slanted blue eyes—that is if she’d stop shopping at Freaks “R” Us.
“Sorry,” Natalie says. She tries to smile, even though it looks like she’s been crying. Her skin is blotchy and her eyes are red.
This is way too much drama for me, so I ask Midge to point me in the direction of my room. She nods to an open door, across the hall—room number nine.
There are two beds inside. I’m assuming mine’s the one without all the crap—the heap of clothes and art supplies, not to mention the bloody skeleton poster hanging above the headboard. I recognize the skeleton. It’s from the album cover of a heavy metal band from the ’80s. The lead guitarist plays a Gibson Explorer.
I move to my half of the room, noticing six guitars set up on the far wall. There’s a signature Eric Clapton Fender Stratocaster, signed by the man himself. There’s also a Telecaster signed by Jim Root from Slipknot. “Holy shit,” I say, under my breath. These must be worth a fortune.
Still keeping my eye on the Clapton, I venture to touch a ’70s Black Beauty Les Paul Custom—the same model that Peter Frampton made famous with his album Frampton Comes Alive. The thing is an absolute stunner with its sleek black body and mother-of-pearl block inlays.
I reach for a Gretsch, beyond stoked to see that it’s signed by Jack White from the White Stripes. Seriously, do I need to pinch myself?
“What color is your blood?”
I turn to find Garth there. This is his room too. “Man, you scared the crap out of me.”
“What color is your blood?” he repeats.
“I’m pretty sure it’s red, the last time I checked. Hey, are these your guitars, or do you know where they came from?”
“Do you check?” he persists. There’s a screwed-up smile on his face, like he just ate his family for lunch. “Do you cut your skin open and watch the blood leak out?”
“Not lately.”
“You do know that blood is actually blue, right? When it’s inside the body, running through the veins. It isn’t until you cut yourself open and the blood hits the air that it turns that red color.”
“Except I’m pretty sure that’s a myth,” I say, thanks to Ms. Matthews, my science teacher back in middle school. This whole conversation feels pretty middle school, but I play along, trying to keep the peace. “The blue color you see in your veins, under the skin, is really just a darker red,” I tell him.
“What do you say we put that theory to the test?” He wields his mighty pinky ring; there’s an arrow point at the very end—one that could probably do some damage.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot what appears to be an animal skeleton of some sort on the drafting table by the window.
“Like it?” he asks, following my gaze. His eerie smile grows wider.
I look away, unwilling to let his bullshit get the best of me, and resume checking out the guitars.
“It belongs to a squirrel that pissed me off,” he continues. “Now, it’s a source of artistic inspiration. My good luck charm. Would you believe that I got stopped in the airport for carrying it? Security questioned me for over an hour. They went through all my bags and asked me if I’ve ever had thoughts of hurting others. I missed my connecting flight because of them. I was supposed to have traveled with Natalie and Taylor…both of whom I’ve yet to meet, by the way.”
“And I should give a shit about any of this, because…” I turn to look at him again. He may be super tall, but I can tell that I’m at least twice his size—that beneath all those layers of gray, there’s the body of a scrawny seven-year-old kid.
A second later, there’s a knock at the open door, interrupting us.
Parker’s there. “Hey, you guys want to come check something out?”
“Absolutely,” I say, returning the Gretsch to the rack, more than eager to ditch this freak.
THE BOYS HERE ARE SUPER CUTE, and I’m super excited to get to know them more—to get to know everybody more—but my roommate is a buzzkill.
“I want to go home,” Natalie says, sulking at the edge of her bed, her cell phone clenched in her hand.
“Nonsense,” Midge tells her. “You’re just tired and probably hungry, but that’s nothing that some rest and a warm meal wouldn’t cure.”
“Try clicking your heels together three times,” I joke.
But Natalie’s not really the joking type. She stares down at her clunky black boots (for the record, Dr. Martens originals). I feel kind of sorry for her—and not because of her lack of style, though that’s pity rendering too. Having spent the last nine years at four different boarding schools, I’ve had my fair share of abrupt transitions and seen some nasty cases of homesickness. My best friend Dara’s included.
“Maybe you could just give us a moment,” I tell Midge.
“Sure,” she says, but she seems unsure, as if Natalie is a delicate flower that I could trample with one wrong step. Thankfully, Midge leaves us alone anyway.
I sit
down beside Natalie on the bed, noticing that her hair looks even gnarlier than mine does, pre-relaxer. It’s like something straight out of a Tim Burton movie—big and dark and creepy and fake. I try to imagine how she might look if she’d fix her hair and shed the bag-lady clothing. I’d bet she’d be really striking. She has a model’s facial bone structure: high cheekbones, a nose that turns slightly upward, and a perfectly pointed chin. Plus, her lips look naturally full and her skin appears virtually flaw- and pore-less.
“So, Miss Natalie, where are you from? And what do you like?”
“I actually prefer to be called Nat.”
“As in the bloodsucking insect? News flash, bloodsucking is so five years ago,” I say, still trying to keep things light.
“You don’t have to babysit me, you know.”
“I think roommate-sit would be the more accurate term, don’t you?” I smile. “Now, tell me, what’s with the dark cloud hovering over your sunny time here?”
She gets up and fishes inside her suitcase, pulling out a package of Twizzlers. “I just really miss Harris.”
“Your boyfriend?”
“My brother. We’re twins.”
I can feel the bewilderment on my face, unable to imagine missing my booger-picking brother after five months, never mind five hours. “Well, you could call him, you know…on the landline.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“Why not?”
She opens the licorice package, twists a stick around her index finger, and gnaws on it like a baby with a teething ring. “I didn’t tell him I was coming here. I didn’t tell anyone, for that matter.”
“So, your parents don’t know where you are?”
“They probably have some idea. I mean, they know I won the contest. They just didn’t want me to come. Harris didn’t either.” She swallows a mouthful of licorice before loading her fingers with a couple more sticks.
“I could call them,” I offer, suddenly remembering that I promised my mom that I’d call her, too. I flop back onto the bed and kick up my legs, admiring my checkerboard pedicure. “Not to brag or anything, but I do have a way with parents. It’s one of my hidden talents.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, making the checkerboards dance.
A second later, there’s a knock on the open door.
It’s Parker…looking even more amazing than he did ten minutes ago. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he just stepped off the runway. I mean, holy hunk of hotness with his broad shoulders, tousled blond hair, chiseled features, and sea glass–worthy blue eyes.
“Come on,” he says. “We’re all next door, in Ivy and Taylor’s room. There’s something you’ll want to see.” There’s a delicious grin on his face. He’s just so incredibly yummy.
“Totally,” I say, jumping up from the bed. But then I look back at Natalie.
She’s turned away now, silently asserting a big fat no.
It’s all I can do not to scream. “Just give us a few minutes, okay?” I tell Parker, faking a smile, and closing the door behind him.
“You should go,” Natalie says, between bites of licorice.
“Why don’t you come too? I mean, we’re here to get to know everyone, right?” I spend the next eleven minutes telling her about my arrival at Winston Academy, the only black girl in a sea of fair-skinned blondes with names like Josie, Bunny, Kiki, and Coco. “But I had to eventually mix in and give people a chance. I couldn’t just sit around sulking in my room all day.”
Still, bag of candy in hand, Natalie moves to lie down on her bed, drawing the covers over her face.
I suppose I can take a hint. I leave her alone and hop next door. But, to my surprise, no one’s in there now. I go inside, curious to know what Parker was talking about—what I so desperately needed to see.
Half of the room is decorated with cookbooks and food videos, not to mention a creepy cutout of Julia Child holding a slimy chicken carcass. Classy. The other half is baby-doll pink and suited to a dancer. I wonder which side is Ivy’s.
I continue to look around, checking to see if anything appears off, finally spotting a rack of ballet slippers. They’re all so pretty and delicate—like tiny works of art. Even though I’m not a dancer now, I used to take ballet when I was a kid—back when it was okay for little-girl ballerinas to be something other than white and emaciated. But sometime around the age of eleven, when I started to sprout boobs and booty, and when I decided to trade my frizz-ball hair bun for neat little cornrows, my ballet teacher suggested that my “look” and body type might be better suited to hip-hop, which totally squelched my dreams of being in Swan Lake one day. I haven’t danced since, which Dara always thought was crazy. “You’re an incredible dancer,” she used to say. “Don’t let someone else’s opinion dictate your life.”
If only Dara had taken her own advice.
I peer over my shoulder to make sure that no one’s looking, and then I go to try on a shimmering white slipper, but I can barely squish my toes in, confirming what my ballet teacher was talking about: some of us simply don’t fit.
I move over to the closet, noticing a stash of glittery costumes, hoping that there’s one for Princess Odette, my favorite character from Swan Lake. I search the racks, eager to find one before someone comes in and sees me here.
There are costumes from The Nutcracker, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Peter Pan, and Sleeping Beauty, but I don’t see any for Swan Lake. I take some Nutcracker wings, imagining myself as the Sugar Plum Fairy.
Then I spot something else. At the back of the closet. A streak of red on the wall.
I part the costumes to get a better look. Dark letters on the back of the closet spell out GET OUT BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.
“OKAY, WHO HAS THE SICK sense of humor?” someone shouts.
“Sounds like somebody’s looking for me,” I holler back, proceding down the hallway, wielding my mighty ax.
It was Shayla’s voice. She’s in Ivy and Taylor’s room. There’s a sexy little smirk on her face. “Did you do this?” She points inside a closet.
Before I can ask or see what she’s talking about, the others come back upstairs. I swing the ax, picturing myself as Sidney Scarcella in Hotel 9: Blocked Rooms in the lobby scene, when poor Mrs. Teetlebaum ventures from her room in the middle of the night. But they’re all so busy blathering on that they don’t even notice.
“Ohmygosh,” Shayla bursts out as soon as she sees Parker. “So, I was just checking out the costumes, and…wait, where did you get that?” She’s looking at me now, referring to my ax. A curious smile sits on her lips. I can tell she wants to play too.
“In the bathroom. The blade was stuck in the wall—just a sweet little reminder of why we’re all here.”
“Is it real?” Ivy asks.
“Unfortunately, no.” I sigh, scratching my head with the plastic blade. “But it’s the thought that counts, right?”
I move into the room and take a peek inside the closet. The costumes are pushed to the side, exposing the back wall. “Get out before it’s too late,” I say, reading the flaming-red words. I let out a big fat yawn. “I mean, seriously, this is it?”
“Did you do it?” Parker asks me.
“If only I could take the credit.” I step closer to examine the writing. Some of the letters have fingerprints in the individual strokes. But, I know my stuff. “It wasn’t written in blood,” I say, “in case that was a concern.”
“This from the guy who thinks that blood is as blue as his balls,” Frankie says.
“I don’t really believe that blood is blue. I just wanted to see if I could convince you that it was.” I smile, making sure to expose my pointy incisors, hoping to psych him out. “If this were real blood there would be droplets all over the floor. Plus, if it’s been at l
east an hour since this was written—and I’m assuming it has—the blood would’ve had time to oxidize.”
“Meaning?” Parker asks.
“Meaning, it would’ve browned by now. It’s got to be paint or marker, or something else—a nifty corn syrup concoction, maybe.” I lean in to give the writing a sniff, noticing a slightly glossy sheen. “It’s still wet.”
“So, I guess that rules out the theory that it was done by a former guest,” Shayla says.
It’s lip gloss. I’m sure of it. I can tell from the beeswax scent. I reach out to touch the stain. “On second thought, maybe it is blood,” I lie, pretending to lick the smear from my finger.
Ivy lets out a shriek. She’s way too easy to disturb. My dad would be all over her paranoid ass, injecting fake blood into her toothpaste tube, and other “fun” stuff like that.
“Oh my God! Remember that scene in Hotel 9: Enjoy Your Stay?” Shayla asks. “When Emma Corwin commits suicide out of self defense?”
“So that the killer won’t get her.” Frankie nods.
“After Emma slits her wrist, she dips her fingers into her own blood and starts to write the word help on the window glass,” I continue.
“Only she doesn’t get past the letter L,” Shayla says, finishing my thought. Her amber eyes grow wide. There’s a certain smart-girl sexiness about her. Maybe it’s the square black glasses. Or maybe it’s the curvy situation she’s got going on beneath that ridiculous housewife tracksuit.
“What if Taylor left us that message?” Ivy asks, still freaking out.
“You seriously need to be medicated,” I say. “I mean, think about it: a bunch of Justin Blake horror junkies travel from all over the country to partake in a scary weekend. This sort of stuff is to be expected.”
“Okay, but if it was only done in fun, then why hide it in a closet?” Ivy nags. “Why not put it out in the open? This message was done in secret. Maybe Taylor was hiding when she did it.”
“Or maybe Taylor doesn’t even exist,” Frankie says. “What if this whole scenario was created just for our entertainment?”