Forbidden French, page 3
It wouldn’t matter though. A new, worse version of her would crop up in her place. Oh god, the horror of that almost makes me shiver out of my skin. If I were Catholic, I’d do the sign of the cross at the thought.
As I walked away from my dorm, I did so while wishing she’d contract some incurable, horribly disfiguring STD. Is that too much to ask of karma?
With nowhere left to go, I headed to the library because I didn’t feel like getting my head chewed off if I interrupted Blythe and her partner again. Silly me, I ended up getting my head chewed off anyway.
I didn’t even notice Emmett was in there when I first arrived. I was going back to the spot where I like to study, where the books are so dusty and forgotten that I’m more likely to run into the Ghost of Authors Past than another living person.
I was still recovering from the shock of seeing him there, one aisle over, sitting on the floor with his back to the stacks and a whiskey bottle dangling between his bent knees, when he shouted at me.
“What the fuck do you want?”
I leapt a mile in the air.
I should have kept running until I was out of the library, but I only made it three aisles down before I panicked and took solace within the stacks.
Even now, my heart is still lodged halfway up my throat. Tremors run through my hands and fingers.
I’ve been dropped into a horror movie.
“I know you’re in here,” he says, his voice eerily devoid of emotion.
I stay perfectly still, waiting for him to make the first move.
Time slows to a crawl. I’m kicking myself for not finding a better hiding place.
For a few long seconds, my heartbeat thunders so loud it’s all I hear. My chin trembles. Then, I focus in on him: the heavy clink of his whiskey bottle as he sets it down on the parquet floor, the rustling of clothes as he stands, the ominous tap tap tap of his soles as he slowly starts to hunt me.
“Montre-toi…montre-toi…où que tu sois.”
I don’t understand his French, but I recognize the sing-songy cadence of his taunt.
Come out, come out wherever you are.
Though I wish I could stay frozen, I have no choice but to gather courage, turn around, and peer between the books so I can see what he’s doing. I watch as he comes to the end of his aisle and looks both ways before turning right, away from me.
I clench my jaw, sick of the trembling.
“There’s no reason to be scared,” he tells me, his words smooth as butter.
So then why do I feel on the brink of tears?
“Do you think I’m some kind of monster?”
He keeps walking away, in no hurry at all. He gets to the end of an aisle, leans over to peer down it, and then, upon finding nothing, continues on. His search is lazy; he knows there aren’t many places I could have gone.
I’m a sitting duck if I stay where I am. He’ll turn back, come this way, and find me.
Ignoring my racing heart, I start to take a step when he takes a step, using the sound of his walking to disguise my own. My goal is to make it to the rear exit of the library, the one that leads to a dark, safe corridor.
I’m almost past the first hurdle, slinking to the end of my aisle when he suddenly pauses and turns back, no longer walking away from me.
I freeze.
“You know maybe I’m the one who should be scared, alone in a library with Lainey Davenport. If the rumors are to be believed, I might not make it out of here alive.”
Embarrassment washes over me, but not for long. Anger follows, so much pent up from the shitty day I’ve had. First my grandmother, then Blythe, now him.
“You know you don’t help yourself when you do things like this, lurking in the shadows, acting as if you’re mute.”
“I’m not,” I snap impulsively.
His head whips in my direction, his gaze meets mine through the bookshelves, and his mouth curls into a fiendish smile.
“Ah…there you are. Petit de la souris.”
I watch him warily as he approaches, wondering what his plan is, worried he’ll suddenly realize our respective roles: lion and lamb.
My hands ball into fists as he walks to the aisle just before mine and turns in, stopping once he’s right in front of me. I feel my heart pound down in my stomach as the books that separate us get tugged away one by one, tossed carelessly to the ground, until his suit-clad chest is fully visible through the gap.
Then, slowly…he bends down so we’re eye to eye.
For a brief moment, we merely look at each other across the top of the empty shelf.
I’ve never seen him this close before. He’s cast in shadow, but he might as well be cast in bronze, a beautiful boy with sharp cheeks and hard angles and mean eyes. His is the body the devil would take if he wanted to walk the earth.
I wonder what he would say if he knew I keep a photo of him underneath my pillow, a page I ripped from the St. John’s yearbook. He’s grown up even more since that portrait was taken, taller by the day.
He tips his head, studying me.
“So you do have a voice.”
I narrow my eyes, but my annoyance only amuses him.
“Why are you here?” he asks, gentler now.
“It’s not because of you if that’s what you’re thinking.”
His dimples pop. He thinks I’m lying.
“Do you regularly sneak around in the library?”
I regularly sneak around everywhere. I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately.
Death will do that to a person.
“What are you scared of?” I ask myself sometimes.
I don’t know how to answer. It feels silly to admit that I’m scared to close my eyes, that the night my mom passed away, I was woken up from a deep sleep, my grandmother’s maid standing at my door, her hand covering her mouth.
I can still hear her racking sobs.
“Lainey, you poor thing. You poor soul. I can’t bear it.”
When I went to sleep, my mom was alive. When I woke up, she was gone.
Logically, I know sleep will not steal the living from me. I’ve slept many nights and woken up to find my grandmother still alive and well. I know I’m not cursed like that. Only, at night, when it’s dark and quiet and I’m alone with my thoughts, I can sometimes convince myself otherwise.
The first time I left my dorm for a midnight stroll, it was on a night when insomnia had a firm grip on me. I was tossing and turning and knew I was annoying Blythe. Her groans of agitation told me I had better lie still and soon. Instead, I got up, slid on a pair of flip-flops, and left my dorm. The faculty here are lenient when it comes to curfews. This is a posh boarding school with enough privileged students (AKA Daddy and Mommy are wrapped around their little fingers) that the faculty has learned they have to pick and choose their battles. Nothing illegal, but beyond that, use your judgment, and quite frankly, even the illegal things get overlooked most of the time. The amount of drug use at St. John’s could rival Studio 54 in its heyday. Still, most of the time, the faculty is more than happy to ignore the stench of weed or a little bit of white powder if those tuition checks keep rolling in and those hefty endowments keep clearing.
Walking out of the building, I had no goal in mind. I just knew I wanted to be outside, so I used the moonlight to guide me. First, I went to the rose garden, gently feeling my way around the bushes, smelling my favorite varieties, the ones I come back to time and time again. Then, I proceeded to the woods surrounding the manicured lawn, and finally down to the pine-rimmed lake where the rowing team practices.
That’s where I found Emmett.
He was sitting on the dock that leads out into the dark water, feet dangling down, lit by the full moon.
His presence startled me the same way it did tonight in the library. He wasn’t supposed to be there; it felt like he was invading my dreams. A person should be able to wander alone at midnight without fear of stumbling upon someone, but there he was, awake like me.
While I was still absorbing the shock of seeing him, he stood, dove off the end of the dock, and started to swim. I waited for him to pause and catch his breath, to bob aimlessly or simply float on his back, cast in moonlight. Instead, he kept going. His strokes were precise and practiced, one after another after another. The rhythm was perfect. He was obviously a competent swimmer, but the lake was big, and I had no idea what he was planning.
Worried, I took deep breaths as if trying to gift him my air as he shrank down to nothing, disappearing in the distance. I could barely see the other side of the lake; surely he wasn’t planning to cross it. It seemed like a nearly impossible feat, like those psychos who swim the English Channel. Sure, it can be done, but at what cost?
I looked behind me, searching for help though I knew I would find none. It just seemed like I needed some kind of plan for what I’d do if he didn’t reappear soon. He was out there all by himself, or at least he assumed he was. I could hear my grandmother’s admonishing voice in my head. How incredibly foolish of him.
My brain conceived of all possible outcomes. If he went out there to drown, I would be the last person to see him alive, thus I’d be the first person on their suspect list. I’d be hauled off to the police station for questioning.
The stress was starting to eat away at me. I could really imagine myself getting taken away in handcuffs, not to mention the very real horrifying fate if I’d just witnessed a person dive to their death.
Just when I was sure it was time to alert someone, consequences be damned, he heaved himself back up onto the dock and splayed out, gulping in huge breaths, his wide chest rising and falling. I imagined how hard his heart was pounding in his chest, a kick drum against his ribs.
He looked spent.
I didn’t realize it then. Only after weeks of watching his midnight swims have I come to understand that moment is precisely why he does it. The feeling he gets at the end of his swim, that utter exhaustion is his goal. He lies there on the wooden dock, his face toward the sky, and he seems for once at peace, calmed by exertion. It’s the same thing I strive for during my late-night walks. I like to think we’re the same that way. Twin souls. The midnight wanderers.
Chapter Five
Emmett
“Do you regularly sneak around in the library?” I ask her, standing one aisle over, giving her enough space that I hope it will keep her from running again.
She doesn’t answer.
In fact, she doesn’t even look remotely compelled to answer my question.
I’ve never met anyone like her. Her ability to stare someone down without uttering a single word is so intriguing to me. Half these kids at St. John’s never shut up. There’s always something to brag about, some trip they just took or some celebrity they’re supposedly friends with. Who cares. None of it’s real. Not like this.
“Do you not like that question?” I ask her, gentling my tone as I lean in. “What about another? Who gave you those eyes?”
Her dark eyebrows furrow as if she has to really think to come up with the answer.
“They’re a shade of green I’ve never seen before,” I add, hoping to get her to lower her guard.
She looks shyly down to the floor and then back up with conviction in her gaze.
“My dad.”
Her voice is so delicate and light.
“Do they make me look scary?” she asks, sounding so sad at the prospect.
I have a sudden urge to reach out and brush the side of her cheek with the back of my finger like my mother used to do when I was little. I wish I could reassure her that every cruelty she’s ever had to endure will only make her stronger in the end, but that’s a lie. Some people get the short end of the stick, and Lainey Davenport is one of those people.
My back is starting to ache from crouching down to her eye level, so I prop my elbow up on the shelf before I reply, “No offense. I’m not sure if you were hoping to lean into the whole mysterious persona, but you just look like a little kid. Nothing scary about you, eyes and all.”
Her delicate chin rises in defiance. “I’m not a kid.”
“You’re twelve,” I say, sounding less than convinced.
“Thirteen.”
“Thirteen,” I amend.
“I’m not that young,” she insists.
Oh right. I’m not that young, says the diminutive girl with rounded cheeks and trembling shoulders.
“I don’t know why you’re trying to shirk off youth. I’m young, you’re young—big fucking deal. We have years to make mistakes and learn from them and grow up.”
Her mouth flattens in a discontented line, but she doesn’t argue.
It strikes me suddenly that I’ve been granted something very few kids at St. John’s have experienced—an interview with Lainey Davenport. Anne Rice wishes she were in my shoes.
I barely know what to ask first. I want to know it all.
I start with, “Why did you seem sad when your grandmother was here earlier?”
She rears back in shock and shakes her head. I don’t know if she’s surprised I noticed her or if she’s surprised she wasn’t doing as good of an acting job as she thought during the picnic luncheon.
She looks away like she’s considering her exit strategies, and I realize too late that I might have delved too deep too soon. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want her to ask me why I noticed her looking sad. The fact is, Lainey is hard to miss. The swell of rumors that surround her act as a buffer between her and the rest of the student body. She walks around with a black cloud hanging over her head. Even if there were no whispers, I think she’d always stand out with her contrasting features, such dark hair and such light eyes. I suppose I’m simply intrigued by the girl who’s intrigued the whole school.
After taking a moment to compose herself, she looks back at me and steps closer to the shelf, closer than she’s dared this whole time, and instead of replying to my question, she fires one back at me with one brow raised tauntingly.
“Why did your dad come all the way to St. John’s only to stay for a few minutes?”
What a loaded question. Perhaps it’s her way of telling me I’m not the only voyeur among us.
Interesting.
I like this game.
I wave my finger up and down her body. “Why did you wear that frilly dress? Do you like it or did you have no choice?”
“Why did you wear that suit?”
I nearly grin at her intelligence.
I lean in. “Why don’t you stand up for yourself when people bully you?”
She leans in. “Why do you always seem angry and detached from the rest of the world, even your own friends?”
“Why is a little mouse like you hiding in the library at this time of night?”
“Why is a devil like you asking me all these questions?”
She’s breathing hard and her nostrils flare. I get this great sweeping feeling like I can see her down to her soul, and yet at the same time, it feels like if I held my hand out to touch her, it would pass right through the air, merely a mirage.
I never do get my answers.
The whiskey took effect, or maybe she grew bored of my taunting—she left after her last question, spinning on her heels, her dark curls bouncing.
The next morning, I wake up with a pounding headache, the kind of pain I know won’t budge even with Tylenol. I almost feel sorry for myself. It was stupid to drink that much. I never do it, hence why I still had that almost full bottle of whiskey three years after my friend gave it to me.
I wince when I sit up and look over to see that Harrison isn’t in the room. His bed is a crumpled mess. The clock reads half past eleven. I accidentally slept through breakfast in the dining hall, not that food sounds all that appetizing at the moment anyway.
I think of last night and wonder how Lainey is feeling this morning, then I brush the thought aside. She’s not my concern. Whether she wants to admit it to herself or not, she’s a kid. I have no business befriending her. Actually, I have no business befriending anyone right now. I have a set of goals that were hand-delivered to me yesterday by a cyborg in a suit. I have ten weeks left in this place, and then I’m gone, back to Paris where my life will consist of coursework and my internship at GHV.
Lainey will need to learn to fend for herself.
The door’s flung open, and Harrison walks in balancing three plates of food.
“First of all, idiot, you slept through breakfast, but I’m a good friend so here’s some cold eggs and hash browns. Pancakes and sausage too, though I took a bite out of both on the way up.”
Plates clatter as he haphazardly sets them down on my desk.
“Second, where the hell were you last night? I swear to god if you’re sleeping with Pippa again, you’re going to regret it.” He mimes the infamous Psycho knife scene. “She’s batshit, man.”
I get up out of bed and try to ignore the fact that the world feels like it’s tilting on its axis. “I wasn’t with Pippa.”
“Good, because I think Francesca is into you, and you cannot walk away from that. Please, for me, just spend the last few weeks before you graduate making the rounds.”
“Francesca isn’t my type.”
“Collette then?”
“No.”
“Are you kidding? It physically pains me that you don’t take more advantage of the French shit. You could just wander around saying whatever the hell you want and these girls would go wild for it.”
I rub my temples, trying to ease the headache that seems hellbent on staying put.
Harrison starts another sentence, some other thing that’s going to annoy me.
I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “Could you just shut up for five seconds?”
“Unfortunately, no. It’s a real problem.”
Chapter Six
Lainey
I stay away from the library for the next few weeks, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see Emmett. I’ve developed a nighttime routine, leaning into the insomnia, appreciating it now, actually. Around 11:30 PM, I slip out of bed, quiet as a mouse. Petit de la souris. I looked up what that means, and I find I don’t mind the nickname; it’s fitting. My shoes wait for me near the door, and I slip out of the dorm while Blythe sleeps on, oblivious. She never wakes up, but even if she did, I have a bathroom excuse ready to go in my head.
As I walked away from my dorm, I did so while wishing she’d contract some incurable, horribly disfiguring STD. Is that too much to ask of karma?
With nowhere left to go, I headed to the library because I didn’t feel like getting my head chewed off if I interrupted Blythe and her partner again. Silly me, I ended up getting my head chewed off anyway.
I didn’t even notice Emmett was in there when I first arrived. I was going back to the spot where I like to study, where the books are so dusty and forgotten that I’m more likely to run into the Ghost of Authors Past than another living person.
I was still recovering from the shock of seeing him there, one aisle over, sitting on the floor with his back to the stacks and a whiskey bottle dangling between his bent knees, when he shouted at me.
“What the fuck do you want?”
I leapt a mile in the air.
I should have kept running until I was out of the library, but I only made it three aisles down before I panicked and took solace within the stacks.
Even now, my heart is still lodged halfway up my throat. Tremors run through my hands and fingers.
I’ve been dropped into a horror movie.
“I know you’re in here,” he says, his voice eerily devoid of emotion.
I stay perfectly still, waiting for him to make the first move.
Time slows to a crawl. I’m kicking myself for not finding a better hiding place.
For a few long seconds, my heartbeat thunders so loud it’s all I hear. My chin trembles. Then, I focus in on him: the heavy clink of his whiskey bottle as he sets it down on the parquet floor, the rustling of clothes as he stands, the ominous tap tap tap of his soles as he slowly starts to hunt me.
“Montre-toi…montre-toi…où que tu sois.”
I don’t understand his French, but I recognize the sing-songy cadence of his taunt.
Come out, come out wherever you are.
Though I wish I could stay frozen, I have no choice but to gather courage, turn around, and peer between the books so I can see what he’s doing. I watch as he comes to the end of his aisle and looks both ways before turning right, away from me.
I clench my jaw, sick of the trembling.
“There’s no reason to be scared,” he tells me, his words smooth as butter.
So then why do I feel on the brink of tears?
“Do you think I’m some kind of monster?”
He keeps walking away, in no hurry at all. He gets to the end of an aisle, leans over to peer down it, and then, upon finding nothing, continues on. His search is lazy; he knows there aren’t many places I could have gone.
I’m a sitting duck if I stay where I am. He’ll turn back, come this way, and find me.
Ignoring my racing heart, I start to take a step when he takes a step, using the sound of his walking to disguise my own. My goal is to make it to the rear exit of the library, the one that leads to a dark, safe corridor.
I’m almost past the first hurdle, slinking to the end of my aisle when he suddenly pauses and turns back, no longer walking away from me.
I freeze.
“You know maybe I’m the one who should be scared, alone in a library with Lainey Davenport. If the rumors are to be believed, I might not make it out of here alive.”
Embarrassment washes over me, but not for long. Anger follows, so much pent up from the shitty day I’ve had. First my grandmother, then Blythe, now him.
“You know you don’t help yourself when you do things like this, lurking in the shadows, acting as if you’re mute.”
“I’m not,” I snap impulsively.
His head whips in my direction, his gaze meets mine through the bookshelves, and his mouth curls into a fiendish smile.
“Ah…there you are. Petit de la souris.”
I watch him warily as he approaches, wondering what his plan is, worried he’ll suddenly realize our respective roles: lion and lamb.
My hands ball into fists as he walks to the aisle just before mine and turns in, stopping once he’s right in front of me. I feel my heart pound down in my stomach as the books that separate us get tugged away one by one, tossed carelessly to the ground, until his suit-clad chest is fully visible through the gap.
Then, slowly…he bends down so we’re eye to eye.
For a brief moment, we merely look at each other across the top of the empty shelf.
I’ve never seen him this close before. He’s cast in shadow, but he might as well be cast in bronze, a beautiful boy with sharp cheeks and hard angles and mean eyes. His is the body the devil would take if he wanted to walk the earth.
I wonder what he would say if he knew I keep a photo of him underneath my pillow, a page I ripped from the St. John’s yearbook. He’s grown up even more since that portrait was taken, taller by the day.
He tips his head, studying me.
“So you do have a voice.”
I narrow my eyes, but my annoyance only amuses him.
“Why are you here?” he asks, gentler now.
“It’s not because of you if that’s what you’re thinking.”
His dimples pop. He thinks I’m lying.
“Do you regularly sneak around in the library?”
I regularly sneak around everywhere. I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately.
Death will do that to a person.
“What are you scared of?” I ask myself sometimes.
I don’t know how to answer. It feels silly to admit that I’m scared to close my eyes, that the night my mom passed away, I was woken up from a deep sleep, my grandmother’s maid standing at my door, her hand covering her mouth.
I can still hear her racking sobs.
“Lainey, you poor thing. You poor soul. I can’t bear it.”
When I went to sleep, my mom was alive. When I woke up, she was gone.
Logically, I know sleep will not steal the living from me. I’ve slept many nights and woken up to find my grandmother still alive and well. I know I’m not cursed like that. Only, at night, when it’s dark and quiet and I’m alone with my thoughts, I can sometimes convince myself otherwise.
The first time I left my dorm for a midnight stroll, it was on a night when insomnia had a firm grip on me. I was tossing and turning and knew I was annoying Blythe. Her groans of agitation told me I had better lie still and soon. Instead, I got up, slid on a pair of flip-flops, and left my dorm. The faculty here are lenient when it comes to curfews. This is a posh boarding school with enough privileged students (AKA Daddy and Mommy are wrapped around their little fingers) that the faculty has learned they have to pick and choose their battles. Nothing illegal, but beyond that, use your judgment, and quite frankly, even the illegal things get overlooked most of the time. The amount of drug use at St. John’s could rival Studio 54 in its heyday. Still, most of the time, the faculty is more than happy to ignore the stench of weed or a little bit of white powder if those tuition checks keep rolling in and those hefty endowments keep clearing.
Walking out of the building, I had no goal in mind. I just knew I wanted to be outside, so I used the moonlight to guide me. First, I went to the rose garden, gently feeling my way around the bushes, smelling my favorite varieties, the ones I come back to time and time again. Then, I proceeded to the woods surrounding the manicured lawn, and finally down to the pine-rimmed lake where the rowing team practices.
That’s where I found Emmett.
He was sitting on the dock that leads out into the dark water, feet dangling down, lit by the full moon.
His presence startled me the same way it did tonight in the library. He wasn’t supposed to be there; it felt like he was invading my dreams. A person should be able to wander alone at midnight without fear of stumbling upon someone, but there he was, awake like me.
While I was still absorbing the shock of seeing him, he stood, dove off the end of the dock, and started to swim. I waited for him to pause and catch his breath, to bob aimlessly or simply float on his back, cast in moonlight. Instead, he kept going. His strokes were precise and practiced, one after another after another. The rhythm was perfect. He was obviously a competent swimmer, but the lake was big, and I had no idea what he was planning.
Worried, I took deep breaths as if trying to gift him my air as he shrank down to nothing, disappearing in the distance. I could barely see the other side of the lake; surely he wasn’t planning to cross it. It seemed like a nearly impossible feat, like those psychos who swim the English Channel. Sure, it can be done, but at what cost?
I looked behind me, searching for help though I knew I would find none. It just seemed like I needed some kind of plan for what I’d do if he didn’t reappear soon. He was out there all by himself, or at least he assumed he was. I could hear my grandmother’s admonishing voice in my head. How incredibly foolish of him.
My brain conceived of all possible outcomes. If he went out there to drown, I would be the last person to see him alive, thus I’d be the first person on their suspect list. I’d be hauled off to the police station for questioning.
The stress was starting to eat away at me. I could really imagine myself getting taken away in handcuffs, not to mention the very real horrifying fate if I’d just witnessed a person dive to their death.
Just when I was sure it was time to alert someone, consequences be damned, he heaved himself back up onto the dock and splayed out, gulping in huge breaths, his wide chest rising and falling. I imagined how hard his heart was pounding in his chest, a kick drum against his ribs.
He looked spent.
I didn’t realize it then. Only after weeks of watching his midnight swims have I come to understand that moment is precisely why he does it. The feeling he gets at the end of his swim, that utter exhaustion is his goal. He lies there on the wooden dock, his face toward the sky, and he seems for once at peace, calmed by exertion. It’s the same thing I strive for during my late-night walks. I like to think we’re the same that way. Twin souls. The midnight wanderers.
Chapter Five
Emmett
“Do you regularly sneak around in the library?” I ask her, standing one aisle over, giving her enough space that I hope it will keep her from running again.
She doesn’t answer.
In fact, she doesn’t even look remotely compelled to answer my question.
I’ve never met anyone like her. Her ability to stare someone down without uttering a single word is so intriguing to me. Half these kids at St. John’s never shut up. There’s always something to brag about, some trip they just took or some celebrity they’re supposedly friends with. Who cares. None of it’s real. Not like this.
“Do you not like that question?” I ask her, gentling my tone as I lean in. “What about another? Who gave you those eyes?”
Her dark eyebrows furrow as if she has to really think to come up with the answer.
“They’re a shade of green I’ve never seen before,” I add, hoping to get her to lower her guard.
She looks shyly down to the floor and then back up with conviction in her gaze.
“My dad.”
Her voice is so delicate and light.
“Do they make me look scary?” she asks, sounding so sad at the prospect.
I have a sudden urge to reach out and brush the side of her cheek with the back of my finger like my mother used to do when I was little. I wish I could reassure her that every cruelty she’s ever had to endure will only make her stronger in the end, but that’s a lie. Some people get the short end of the stick, and Lainey Davenport is one of those people.
My back is starting to ache from crouching down to her eye level, so I prop my elbow up on the shelf before I reply, “No offense. I’m not sure if you were hoping to lean into the whole mysterious persona, but you just look like a little kid. Nothing scary about you, eyes and all.”
Her delicate chin rises in defiance. “I’m not a kid.”
“You’re twelve,” I say, sounding less than convinced.
“Thirteen.”
“Thirteen,” I amend.
“I’m not that young,” she insists.
Oh right. I’m not that young, says the diminutive girl with rounded cheeks and trembling shoulders.
“I don’t know why you’re trying to shirk off youth. I’m young, you’re young—big fucking deal. We have years to make mistakes and learn from them and grow up.”
Her mouth flattens in a discontented line, but she doesn’t argue.
It strikes me suddenly that I’ve been granted something very few kids at St. John’s have experienced—an interview with Lainey Davenport. Anne Rice wishes she were in my shoes.
I barely know what to ask first. I want to know it all.
I start with, “Why did you seem sad when your grandmother was here earlier?”
She rears back in shock and shakes her head. I don’t know if she’s surprised I noticed her or if she’s surprised she wasn’t doing as good of an acting job as she thought during the picnic luncheon.
She looks away like she’s considering her exit strategies, and I realize too late that I might have delved too deep too soon. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want her to ask me why I noticed her looking sad. The fact is, Lainey is hard to miss. The swell of rumors that surround her act as a buffer between her and the rest of the student body. She walks around with a black cloud hanging over her head. Even if there were no whispers, I think she’d always stand out with her contrasting features, such dark hair and such light eyes. I suppose I’m simply intrigued by the girl who’s intrigued the whole school.
After taking a moment to compose herself, she looks back at me and steps closer to the shelf, closer than she’s dared this whole time, and instead of replying to my question, she fires one back at me with one brow raised tauntingly.
“Why did your dad come all the way to St. John’s only to stay for a few minutes?”
What a loaded question. Perhaps it’s her way of telling me I’m not the only voyeur among us.
Interesting.
I like this game.
I wave my finger up and down her body. “Why did you wear that frilly dress? Do you like it or did you have no choice?”
“Why did you wear that suit?”
I nearly grin at her intelligence.
I lean in. “Why don’t you stand up for yourself when people bully you?”
She leans in. “Why do you always seem angry and detached from the rest of the world, even your own friends?”
“Why is a little mouse like you hiding in the library at this time of night?”
“Why is a devil like you asking me all these questions?”
She’s breathing hard and her nostrils flare. I get this great sweeping feeling like I can see her down to her soul, and yet at the same time, it feels like if I held my hand out to touch her, it would pass right through the air, merely a mirage.
I never do get my answers.
The whiskey took effect, or maybe she grew bored of my taunting—she left after her last question, spinning on her heels, her dark curls bouncing.
The next morning, I wake up with a pounding headache, the kind of pain I know won’t budge even with Tylenol. I almost feel sorry for myself. It was stupid to drink that much. I never do it, hence why I still had that almost full bottle of whiskey three years after my friend gave it to me.
I wince when I sit up and look over to see that Harrison isn’t in the room. His bed is a crumpled mess. The clock reads half past eleven. I accidentally slept through breakfast in the dining hall, not that food sounds all that appetizing at the moment anyway.
I think of last night and wonder how Lainey is feeling this morning, then I brush the thought aside. She’s not my concern. Whether she wants to admit it to herself or not, she’s a kid. I have no business befriending her. Actually, I have no business befriending anyone right now. I have a set of goals that were hand-delivered to me yesterday by a cyborg in a suit. I have ten weeks left in this place, and then I’m gone, back to Paris where my life will consist of coursework and my internship at GHV.
Lainey will need to learn to fend for herself.
The door’s flung open, and Harrison walks in balancing three plates of food.
“First of all, idiot, you slept through breakfast, but I’m a good friend so here’s some cold eggs and hash browns. Pancakes and sausage too, though I took a bite out of both on the way up.”
Plates clatter as he haphazardly sets them down on my desk.
“Second, where the hell were you last night? I swear to god if you’re sleeping with Pippa again, you’re going to regret it.” He mimes the infamous Psycho knife scene. “She’s batshit, man.”
I get up out of bed and try to ignore the fact that the world feels like it’s tilting on its axis. “I wasn’t with Pippa.”
“Good, because I think Francesca is into you, and you cannot walk away from that. Please, for me, just spend the last few weeks before you graduate making the rounds.”
“Francesca isn’t my type.”
“Collette then?”
“No.”
“Are you kidding? It physically pains me that you don’t take more advantage of the French shit. You could just wander around saying whatever the hell you want and these girls would go wild for it.”
I rub my temples, trying to ease the headache that seems hellbent on staying put.
Harrison starts another sentence, some other thing that’s going to annoy me.
I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “Could you just shut up for five seconds?”
“Unfortunately, no. It’s a real problem.”
Chapter Six
Lainey
I stay away from the library for the next few weeks, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see Emmett. I’ve developed a nighttime routine, leaning into the insomnia, appreciating it now, actually. Around 11:30 PM, I slip out of bed, quiet as a mouse. Petit de la souris. I looked up what that means, and I find I don’t mind the nickname; it’s fitting. My shoes wait for me near the door, and I slip out of the dorm while Blythe sleeps on, oblivious. She never wakes up, but even if she did, I have a bathroom excuse ready to go in my head.
