Liv, Forever (4 page)

“If I could write, I’d write you one, a poem.”

I gave him a look. I mean,
seriously
? But he really seemed to mean it. “You don’t even know me,” I said.

“But I know I need to.”

Need, not want.

I was glad we were no longer moving our feet, because I wouldn’t have been able to dance through that. I looked into his eyes, semi-expecting to see a glimmer of something, like he was teasing me or purposely being over the top, but he wasn’t. He seemed sincere.

“Well, you talk big,” I said, and he smiled, taking it as a compliment. He pulled me a little closer, gently turning my head to rest on his shoulder, and we just moved together.

I imagined seeing us from above. I did that sometimes, pictured things from different angles. Maybe it was because I was always trying to decide how to commit an image to paper. From up there, we looked like two people united, resisting tradition. Like Klimt’s famous lovers in
The Kiss
, we formed a single unit, as if we were wrapped in that same glistening golden robe, protected. We were an island in a swirl of waltzing couples, a steadfast island amid a swarm of conformity.

But then the song ended and everything was normal again. By normal I mean awkward. We were, after all, not wrapped in a golden robe. We were two total strangers who’d just waltzed together in front of the entire school. Before we could say anything, that blond guy and a few others were all over Malcolm, laughing about the First Dance, what a stupid tradition it is. I gave Malcolm a quick wave and rushed away. When I got back to my table, Gabe was already gone.

AS I WALKED BACK
to the dorm, Abigail came running after me. “Olivia! You missed the announcement earlier about the transfer gathering tonight. It’s at Old Homestead at eight.”

“Thanks, but I’m pretty tired.”

“No! It’s really fun! Plus, it’s
mandatory.
” I wondered if she’d decided to befriend me after what Malcolm had done. I knew it was more likely she’d decided to hate me. But it seemed she had some duty dealing with the transfers, so it was her job to tell me about it. She was the “prefect,” after all. Weird how close that word was to “perfect.”

According to the school map, Old Homestead was Wickham’s oldest landmark. Built in 1861, it was the actual home of the school’s founders, Minerva and Wallace. It was on the other side of campus from my dorm, about a half-mile away.

I purposely chose the route that passed through the cemetery. I love cemeteries. I love their stillness. I love their beauty, uniform but random. For a little while, I went to a cemetery to draw, but when my mother found out, she said it was “unholy” and forbade me from going back. As I crossed through Wickham Hall’s cemetery, I realized that my mom’s opinion didn’t really matter anymore. I lingered and glanced at a few of the old headstones. They looked ancient, all the names mossy and illegible. I was tempted to sit down and draw, but I was late. The sky was darkening, so I hurried on.

Approaching Old Homestead, I passed an old well that looked like it’d once served the house. I felt in my pockets for a penny—I’m always one to knock wood or make a wish, I mean, why not, right?—but I didn’t have one. I stopped anyway just to take a look. On the outside it was perfectly maintained, but when I leaned over and peered into it, I saw it was scarred and cracked. It faded into pure black, seemingly bottomless. As I leaned into the well, I felt a gust. Colder than the air. I whipped around, but nobody was there. No wind brushed the leaves. It was unnaturally still. Suddenly I felt very alone. I pushed on.

CLEARLY, THE FACULTY HOUSING
had been modeled on this house. It had the most exceptional woodwork of all, as if
the house had been draped with dark lace. I had to stop on the porch to inspect the detail. Looking closely, I saw so many images emerge: angels, bees, fire, and even strange creatures. The style reminded me of William Blake, like the etchings from
The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.

The front door was unlocked. The entryway was creaky and opulent (like everything else here), presided over by a large framed portrait of the Wickhams: Wallace and Minerva—or so I assumed. They were not the stiff-lipped Victorians I’d expected. Her beauty was somewhere between Dora Maar and Mona Lisa—exotic and mysterious but elusive. And he appeared dignified, but gentle. I heard music coming from upstairs, so I headed up the curved staircase.

“Hello?” I called.

No answer.

I followed the sounds of Katy Perry or some other piercing pop singer who didn’t belong in this house. It was like a museum, exquisitely preserved. The beds were made perfectly. Pillows fluffed. There was even a crystal tumbler on the bedside table in the master bedroom. Behind what looked to be a closet door I found another set of stairs, long and narrow. Finally I came to a small circular room where the music was loudest. It was painted a deep dark red, but most of the walls were lined with books. As I stepped inside, the door slammed behind me.

When I turned, there was no door.

I was surrounded on all sides by curved, floor-to-ceiling bookcases. My pulse quickened. I banged on book spines. I could see the faintest outline of a door, but there was no latch or handle, no way out. I yelled for help and grabbed
at the books, seeing if one might be a secret lever, but they all just slipped off the shelf into my hands. The song kept blaring—something about a party—and I couldn’t take it anymore.

I found the spot in the room where the song blasted loudest. I seized books and threw them to the floor, completely ignoring the fact they seemed quite old and precious. Finally, there it was, underneath a vintage copy of
Paradise Lost
: an iPhone. I flipped off the song (it
was
Katy Perry), breathed in the silence, then realized I was holding something that might be useful.

I quickly navigated through the phone. Jackpot: it belonged to Abigail Steers. I checked her phone favorites. I saw Mom, selected it, and put it on speaker phone.

“Abigail,” I yelled, “I’m calling your mother!” But the phone immediately lost signal. I’d forgotten you can’t really make a call at Wickham Hall.

“How about I read a text exchange instead? Let’s see,” I quickly glanced over her texts to find something juicy. “Here’s one about someone named Malcolm …”

An instant later, the hidden door swung open, and Abigail stormed in with several others—some of the girls from the dorm and that smiling blond guy from the dance. She snatched the phone from my hand and snapped at me, “What are you doing in here?! You’re not allowed in here. This is a private room!”

“Are you serious? You invited me … I think you
know
what I’m doing in here!”

She looked astonished by my accusation, an almost convincing performance.

“And, let me guess,” I added. “It’s a Wickham Hall tradition.” I turned and stormed out. At least the anger had trampled my tears.

As I ran down the final flight of stairs, I noticed him slumped on the bottom step. I could tell from behind it was Malcolm. You couldn’t mistake his messy-haired silhouette. Seeing him, I could feel my emotions starting to rise up, so I gathered speed and blasted right past.

“Hey, wait!” he yelled.

But I kept running. I could hear that blond guy yelling after him. “Astor, what are you doing?! We have a meeting!”

Malcolm was running after me, but I didn’t look back. I ran as fast as I could through what was, by then, darkness. When it seemed I’d lost him, I slowed down, catching my breath, but then tripped over a small headstone and wiped out right onto another one. I hadn’t even realized I was back in the cemetery. When I turned over, a figure towered above me. He was there.

I stood, dusted myself off, and turned away from him. “Just go
away
!”

“I wasn’t part of that. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

I turned back to face him. “Then what were you doing there? With your friends?”

He was silent. So I started to walk away again.

“I can’t talk about it,” he said after me.

I kept walking. He ran ahead to get in front of me. He put his hands on my shoulders, stopping me. “I’m not just saying that. I really cannot talk about it. There’s an oath involved.”

“Of course there is,” I snapped. He laughed at that. And so did I, surprisingly. “But seriously, this place—is it all traditions and pledges and oaths? Doesn’t anyone want to do anything new? Or unexpected?!”

“I do!” he exclaimed.

“Me, too!” I yelled, louder than necessary.

Then neither of us knew what to do, until he leaned in and kissed me. It was just a peck, really, but it took me aback.

“There’s something new,” he said.

“And unexpected,” I added, pulling away. I could feel my face flushing. I didn’t want to like him. I wanted to turn and walk away, but I couldn’t.

“I’m sorry they did that. If it’s any consolation, it’s just what they do. Pranks are big here, especially on the new students.”

I didn’t respond. I wasn’t going to say something like “it’s okay,” because it wasn’t.

“Can I show you something?” he asked. “Something amazing.”

“Why?” I said it without thinking but then realized that’s what I really wanted to know—
why? Why did you follow me? Why did you just kiss me? Why are you even talking to me?
But I couldn’t ask him any of that.

“You’ll see. Come,” he gestured to the big mausoleum in the middle of the cemetery. “It’s the Founders Tomb.”

I hesitated.

“You’re not afraid, are you?”

“No,” I said. I wasn’t afraid of the tomb.

As we walked silently toward the vault, I heard my blood pulsing in my ears. My heart was thumping so
loudly I worried Malcolm might hear it as we slipped into the narrow entrance and stood alone in the darkness. He stopped in front of the farthest slab wall. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, an artwork slowly revealed itself, as if being painted by an invisible artist.

I gasped. It was extraordinary: a landscape—a view of a seemingly endless lake with one protruding rock on its horizon—faded from years trapped inside the dank stone vault.

“Edward Hopper,” he said softly.

“Seriously?”

“Did you know he went here?”

I was stunned. I had no idea. But then I smiled. Why should I be surprised at anything I learned about this place?

“They never talk about it because he got kicked out. But, rumor is, he did it.”

“I can’t believe it’s still here,” I breathed. “That no one’s removed it or tried to sell it somehow.”

“No one dares touch the Founders Tomb,” Malcolm said. I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or sarcastic.

I searched my pockets to see if there was a scrap of charcoal. There usually was. I found a stub. I stepped back from the painting to look at it again, take the whole thing in. Then I leaned in very close and started to draw. I didn’t draw
on
the painting—I’d never do that—but I drew above it: an angel in flight appearing as if she was emerging from the mist on the lake.

I stepped back to take a look. It was only then I saw Malcolm’s face. That sublime, defective smile. “It’s incredible,” he said.

I looked down, embarrassed. Then he seemed a little uneasy as well. I wasn’t sure why until he hesitantly asked, “You wanna see something I did?”

I nodded, and he walked me to the other side of the chamber. There was a small intricate drawing of a forest.

“Is it in ink?”

He nodded and I looked closer. The trees were all the same or nearly identical. There was one tree in the center that appeared to be like the others at first glance. But coursing through its roots—its veins—was a streak of red. Bright red ink.

“It’s a self-portrait,” I said with certainty.

He looked surprised, but then not at all.

“So you’re an artist, too,” I added.

He shook his head. “No.”

“Yes,” I insisted.

He smiled, as if grateful that I thought so, but insisted, “It’s not something I can do.”

“What do you mean ‘can’? You obviously can.”

“Expectations, you know?”

I shook my head. No, I did not know.

“There’s just a lot of pressure to be a certain way. Do the same things my dad did. And that doesn’t include making art.”

“What
does
it include?”

“Wickham Hall student government, crew team captain, Harvard, Yale Law School. There are a
number
of things I have to be a part of.”

“Like … now?” I didn’t get it. His list sounded like a resume for some job application.

He shrugged. He wasn’t going to elaborate.

“But why is it so important to your dad?”

“Because I’m an Astor.”

“What’s that?”

His face broke again into the most perfect imperfect smile.

“
What
?” I asked, starting to feel self-conscious.

“I think I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

“It must’ve been a pretty boring life.”

“It was. Then I met you.”

Day one of classes and the first thing I learned is that I was not, in fact, a junior in high school. I was a Fifth Former or, if talking to an outsider, “a Fifth-Form Wicky.” Someone said it’s something they do in England. The Wickies had different words for lots of things. Not that anyone spoke to me much. I felt the entire campus was looking down on me. Or, rather, looking
through
me. No one noticed me. And I’m not just talking about the students—the teachers, too. I wasn’t expecting a parade or anything, but after the public humiliation of the first day, I thought they might soften toward the transfers. At my old school, the new students would always at least be introduced in homeroom. Of course, Wickham Hall didn’t even have homeroom. They probably considered it too common or something.