Liv, Forever (2 page)

WE WERE RUNNING LATE
. The man made sure I was aware it was not his fault but rather due to my plane’s delay.

“Tardiness is not tolerated at Wickham Hall,” he snipped. He told me he’d take me straight to Main to join the transfer tour. I asked him if I could skip it. But he said it was required—then shut the window between us, ending the conversation.

I looked at my reflection in the tinted glass. Just a trace of me but enough to see the unfortunate circles under my eyes and a silhouette of my dark, tangled hair. The locket I always wore around my neck glimmered like a disco ball as the light came and went. I started to raise the back of my sleeve to wipe the shine off my nose, but we turned and the gates opened as we passed a security booth. My focus shifted from my reflection.

A stretch of perfectly manicured gardens unfurled as far as I could see. I’ve always questioned the so-called perfection of surfaces. If you looked close enough, there was always a flaw. And sure enough, in the distance beyond those gardens, the jagged outline of an old cemetery crowned a plump green hill. That was more like it. Out the other window was a cluster of big colonial buildings. We’d studied Mount Vernon in history class, and they looked just like four Mount Vernons—each imposing and symmetrical, painted white with black shutters and capped with a pointed cupola.

Then we passed a spectacular Victorian mansion, its gingerbread trim delicately elaborate. And another one.
And another. Signs out front announced these were faculty housing. I wanted to ask him to stop, but then I saw the Art Center. This one I’d studied of course. It was the reason I wanted to come to Wickham Hall. Designed by Philip Johnson, it was, according to the website, their only modern building. The school had called it a “perfect celebration of art.” They were right about that, at least. To me it looked like an explosion of everything I loved. I couldn’t wait to go there, unpack my suitcase, and actually have a studio.

Up until now, I’d worked in my room. I’d had to cover my floor with painters’ drop cloths because our apartment had wall-to-wall carpet. My mother said if I got a single drop of paint on it, I’d have to pay for it myself. When it wasn’t too hot, I’d work in the alley or in a park nearby. But it was almost always too hot.

I’d just spotted a Gothic chapel in the distance when the limousine stopped in front of the main building. The man came around and opened my door before I thought of it. He waved me toward a small gathering of students at the top of the stairs.

“Your things will be waiting in your dorm: Skellenger,” he said, then closed the door and drove away.

There was a small group of five or six students halfway up the steps of Main, following a girl with straight blonde hair. They were all dressed similarly in what the school website called “class dress”—dress shirt, tie, and sport coat for guys and for girls, a knee-length skirt and a blazer.

I called out to the blonde. No response. So I ran up the stairs.

“Olivia Bloom. You’re late,” she snapped once I’d caught up. Not exactly the warm greeting one might have hoped for after coming clear across the country to attend a new school.

“Sorry, my plane was delayed.”

“Well, we’re on a tight schedule.” She got back to her tour, perturbed to have been interrupted. “Where was I?”

One of the fawning male transfers said, “Presidents.”

“Yes, as I was saying, two of the most illustrious presidents of the United States lived in those rooms,” she said, gesturing up to the windows of Main. Then she motioned over to the Mount Vernons. “And two others lived over there. Google it if you don’t already know. The point is: Wickham Hall has a rich history, renowned alumni, and a powerful network that extends around the entire world.” She spoke as though delivering a soliloquy for an unseen camera. “Now, come along. We have a lot to see.”

She turned her back on us and scaled the stairs. From behind, I couldn’t help but stare at her hair. I’d never seen such straight hair cut in such a straight line. Surely some blog would proclaim this the perfect bob. But to me it looked like a piece of tracing paper wrapped around a head.

We entered the lobby of Main, a stately, masculine sitting room with a hand-carved fireplace and a massive pewter chandelier. It looked like the kind of place where cigars were smoked … or pipes—definitely pipes. Strangely, there were no students lounging in the deep leather chairs. I realized I hadn’t yet seen a single student on the campus aside from our small group.

Perfect Hair led us through the lobby to a small door and then down a spiral staircase that was so narrow we had to walk single file. I was last, so by the time I reached the bottom of what seemed like hundreds of steps, I’d missed the beginning of her speech. Not that I really cared.

“And you may or may not have heard the frivolous rumors that Wickham Hall is haunted. Students have passed ghost stories down from generation to generation, mostly as a means of diversion. And non-Wickies like to snicker about our ghosts because frankly, there is nothing about us in the
real
world they can snicker at.”

“
Wickies
?” I asked.

“Yes, Wickies,” she replied, completely without humor. She turned to lead us down the dark hallway. I lingered back and looked around. I paused at an arched doorway and looked inside—a small nook—as she continued. “We call these the catacombs. They connect all six of the original academic buildings. And, as you can see, they are not, in fact, haunted.”

Right then, the lights went out. Pitch black. The group had moved several yards ahead, but I could hear our guide trying to remain calm. I laughed quietly—because it was as if a ghost were protesting its nonexistence (not that I believed in ghosts)—but right then, I felt it. I turned quickly to look. It felt like someone had opened one of those giant freezer doors at the grocery store—that cold burst of air. Except here there were no doors. No windows.

“Hello?” I called. I waved my arms.

The guide assumed I was talking to her. “Is that Olivia? We’re up here! Please don’t get separated from the group!”

I moved toward her shrill voice and the general rumble rising from the group of nervous transfers. “Everyone follow me,” she barked. “Stay close!”

Just as I caught up with the group, there came a long and anguished howl. A textbook howl, really. One of the transfers screamed and grabbed me. Their chatter got louder. The panic was palpable. The guide had to yell to be heard. “Everyone calm down! Please! I’m leading us out the fastest way!”

We started up some steps, rough and uneven underfoot, as if they were stone. And I could smell the dankness. While the other transfers whimpered and whispered, I remained silent. We were inside a protected fortress, after all. What could happen? I had no idea I’d be so still in the face of fear. I just listened to each pulse of my blood, surprised I could actually hear it pounding in my ears. And I felt my heart banging through my chest like in an old
Loony Tunes
cartoon.

As we mounted the stairs, a faraway shriek rose eerily from somewhere deep in the catacombs. One of the guys pushed me aside to save his own life. Nice. We all moved to get out of there as fast as possible, piling on top of one another.

“This way!” the guide yelled, sounding quite overcome herself. We came around a bend to blinding bright lights and thundering noise. Oxford shirts. Blazers. Laughing faces. Perfect teeth. Lots of them. Kind of like those paintings by Yue Minjun—everyone laughing hugely and wearing the same clothes—except all these people weren’t Chinese. In fact, none of them were.

I looked up and saw Gothic arches. To my left were some men and women, all delighted, and a pulpit. We were in a chapel. On stage. In front of the entire school. One of the men onstage approached a microphone, stifling a chuckle. “Welcome! Welcome transfers to Wickham Hall! Did you get a fright?”

I looked to my fellow transfers. They were all quick to smile and play along, pretending that was absolutely the most charming greeting they’d ever received. I stood in disbelief. Disoriented, but mostly shocked.

The man at the microphone, wearing a stiff blue suit, went on. “I’m Headmaster Thorton. We always welcome our new transfers with a grand prank. And, thanks to our star thespian Abigail Steers, we got ’em good!”

Our guide, apparently named Abigail, stepped forward and took a bow. And then another one. The students cheered, and I noticed some adults I had to presume were faculty members also clapping and cheering for her.

“So that was supposed to be funny?” I didn’t plan to say it. The words just fell out of my mouth. It wasn’t accusatory. It was a sincere question. I was truly grasping to understand why they would do this. The headmaster went silent, and I knew he had heard me. Everything went silent, and everyone was looking at me. Accusing me. Or so it seemed. I’m sure it wasn’t that bad, but I’m not the type to stand onstage. I’m the type who hides in her closet, drawing. For an instant it all felt very dramatic.

But the headmaster ignored me, turned away as if I’d said nothing, and looked out to the student body, continuing his well-oiled speech. “As I was saying, welcome.
You, transfers, are the chosen few, carefully selected to fill the scarce open spots at Wickham Hall. You will spend your remaining years in preparatory school getting the best education this country has to offer. But be forewarned, we are an institution of traditions. Big and small. From our beloved Headmaster Holidays to our secret societies, we are founded on a tradition of excellence, of high performance, of, dare I say,
perfection.
”

That’s when I noticed him. He was standing next to the headmaster, still looking at me even though the others had turned away. Dirty blond. His expression was different than the others’. Not disapproving or shocked. It almost looked like wonder. I noticed his shirt was partially untucked. And his teeth were
not
perfect; one buckled ever so slightly in front of the other. Our eyes met, and I quickly looked away. But I could feel his gaze linger. I desperately willed my face not to flush, my lips not to purse. Suddenly I was aware of every single muscle in my face. I even think I invented some. I tried to focus on the headmaster’s words.

“As you all know, this is Wickham Hall’s sesquicentennial. We’re celebrating one and a half centuries as the country’s premier secondary school. We celebrate Wickham Hall’s birthday every year with Fall Festival, but this year, we have a
very
special alumni celebration planned.”

He kept talking, but I no longer heard him. I looked up at the Gothic ceiling, but all I saw were those mesmerizingly imperfect teeth.

When I got to my room, my clothes were already unpacked, and whoever had done it felt leggings deserved to be hung up. I couldn’t decide if that made me feel fancy or violated. I was trying to appreciate Wickham Hall, so I decided to feel pampered, like I’d checked into a hotel so lavish they unpacked your bags. And this invisible valet had made my bed, too. The crisp white sheets and pillowcases had
WH
monogrammed on the edge. I wasn’t used to having my bed made for me. Or crisp sheets for that matter.

It’s not that it was so bad at home. My parents were nice people. Nice people—I always spoke of them as if they were someone else’s parents. Legally, they were mine, and it’s not that I wasn’t grateful they got me off the foster-home circuit; I was deeply grateful. But I felt about as close to them as I did to my chemistry teacher. And chemistry was not exactly my favorite subject.

My dorm, Skellenger, was one of those Mount Vernon
buildings in the stretch known as Dorm Row, but the style inside wasn’t quite as presidential. The room was simple and small. A bed, a desk, and a giant wardrobe with a mirror. Cold linoleum floors.

The first order of business was to rearrange the furniture. I always did this. My foster parents had always been so surprised when they’d come to see how my first nap was going, only to find I’d rearranged the room. Some would laugh; some were impressed by the strength of such a slight girl. But usually they’d get angry. I guess it was my way of making those short-term rooms feel like my own. Or, if you want to psychoanalyze, you might say I did it as a way to assert some control over my erratic life. Or it might just be that I’ve always liked things to look a certain way.