Liv, Forever (9 page)

Wallace married for true love. And truly love he did.

Among their papers—mostly handwritten notes on curriculum and school traditions—was a series of love letters. I’d read some pretty good love letters in my sixteen years. None addressed to me of course. I’d never received anything more elaborate than a drugstore valentine from Doug Caswell in the fifth grade. But I’d read letters by Van Gogh and Beethoven and dozens of poets—yes, I know, I spent far too much time on the Internet—and these Wickham letters ranked right up there. They were written when Wallace set off to the United States in search of land for a school. They desperately missed each other and constantly referenced lines from their beloved poets. In one letter, Wallace listed numerous names of poems for Minerva to read—Lord Byron’s “She Walks In Beauty,” “Love” by Wordsworth, and Keats’s “A Thing of Beauty”—almost like an old-fashioned playlist for her.

In the letters, Wallace and Minerva detailed their dream of creating a school steeped in nature and wilderness. A place to study the humanities—poetry, literature, the fine arts—and embrace Romanticism. A place where they could seek peace from his overbearing family. A place where society wouldn’t disdain them for their choices.

Wallace found this land in 1859 and purchased it immediately. He wrote to Minerva, calling it “a wildlife sanctuary where ideas could be explored and minds opened.” I imagined them hiking through the nature preserve and being the first to discover the mountain and its glorious
view over the lake. I wondered if they’d kissed there or jumped off the cliff.

And, finally—when I’d practically forgotten what I was looking for—I came across a reference to the Blake. Minerva’s father, a blacksmith, had been Blake’s neighbor when Blake moved to Felpham in Sussex. They’d become friendly. Minerva’s father had done some work for Blake, and Blake paid him with the drawing, a sketch for
Milton
, which he wrote while in Felpham. Minerva had always loved the drawing and, in one of her letters to Wallace, instructed him to “please build a small chamber for its viewing” in Old Homestead.

Minerva died in an accident ten years after founding the school, so she never saw Wickham Hall rise to its place as one of the top preparatory schools in the country. And poor Wallace didn’t last long after her death. One article mentioned that he “continued to talk to her and to write her love letters until the day he died.” He believed that her spirit lingered and that he communed with her. Apparently he’d even attempted to take pictures of it. It was sad but somehow beautiful. The poor guy really couldn’t bear to live without her.

Their only child, Elijah, became a teacher at Wickham Hall. He took over the school until his own death many years later. There were numerous articles about the awards Elijah had won, details about how he’d brought the school into the twentieth century—embracing technology and instigating Wickham Hall’s rigorous academic testing.

What would the Wickhams think of their school now? Sure, it still had the nature preserve, but it now stood
against everything they had believed in. It had become the most elite of the elite. It
was
the society that disdained people like them: people foolish enough to marry for real love. There was no time to enjoy nature. No time to stand in awe. No time to find that person you couldn’t live without.

There were no Minervas here. I might have been close, but I didn’t belong.

I ARRIVED IN MY
studio the next day and found a large canvas, freshly stretched and gessoed. Oil paints and solvents were already placed on a palette nearby. I could smell the turpentine from five feet away.

Ms. Benson stood nearby looking quite proud of herself.

“Subtle hint,” I said.

She chuckled but kept her eyes trained on me, urging me to approach the giant canvas.

“Go on! Make it big and messy! Give me some heart, some life!” she cackled.

I paused. Then she moved closer to me and got quite serious.

“You are so talented. Do you understand? Your skill is
exceptional.
If you unleash and add true emotion to your work, it will sing, Olivia! It will fly!” She started to walk away but then paused. “I understand it’s hard. From what I know of your past, your story’s not so different from my own. But if you don’t do this—explore your emotions and truly open yourself up and put yourself out there—well, then, you’re not truly alive.”

The studio door shut behind her.

I stared at the canvas. I tried to pretend I didn’t know what she meant. But I did know. I understood her completely. I just wasn’t ready yet.

AT OUR MONTHLY WORK-STUDY
meeting, Mrs. Mulford kept me and Gabe waiting while she updated and dispatched all the other duos. Once we were alone with her, she finally told us that, yes, we were still assigned to the bricks in the catacombs. I could feel the anxiety mounting in Gabe, so I tried to see if good ole Pitchfork Lady would cut us a break.

“I was wondering, Mrs. Mulford, if maybe you might want to assign us to a different task?” Gabe shot me a “shut-up” look, but I continued, “Considering the laptop incident and everything. Maybe we’d be more productive in a different environment.”

“No way!” Gabe protested. “We
love
our job, Mrs. M! Best job ever.”

She flashed a brittle smile. “Good. Because this task
must
be completed before Fall Festival. No discussion. With regards to the laptop, I’ve temporarily procured Mr. Nichols’s personal computer as part of his punishment. And as for you, Miss Bloom, I spoke to the headmaster. Consider yourself officially notified of your First Warning. You are now excused.”

WE ENTERED STUFFY NAMES
from years past—more unreal tones like Elias Higgenbotham and Edward Britteridge. I tried to entertain Gabe, acting like I had before,
like everything was normal. But he wouldn’t laugh, so I stopped.

“What exactly do you see?” I asked. I
was
curious.

“Just stop. I know you don’t believe me.”

“But I’m trying to understand. Do you see one right now?” I demanded.

“No. If I saw one right now, we wouldn’t be here. She’s usually down the hall in that nook place.”

“She stays there?”

“It’s the only place I’ve ever seen her. But I can hear her other places sometimes.” He started to say more but stopped himself, biting his lip as if to hold himself back.

“But not right now?”

“No.”

“Good.” I kept reading names: “Herbert Carver, 1874. Elizabeth Brewster, 1873.” And then, “Balthazar Astor, 1885. Wait, do you think he’s related to Malcolm?”

Gabe scowled at me. “Duh.”

“It says ‘V.P.’ at the bottom. Was he like vice president of the school?”

“Guys like that aren’t
vice
anything. They’re presidents. I bet it stands for Victors President.”

“What’s Victors?”

His eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”

“Come on, I’m new, remember?”

“The Victors. It’s a secret society. And your friend Malcolm belongs.”

I winced. “What do they do?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, it’s secret. You think they’d tell me?” He shook his head, disgusted. “I’ve heard they
have rituals. But I’m not kidding, it’s all seriously secret. They take oaths and shit.”

“Oaths?”

“Yeah.”

I shivered.
Oaths.
That’s what Malcolm had said. Suddenly, it all made sense: all that talk about him having to be a part of things, those mysterious “things” he couldn’t talk about.

“And Malcolm’s definitely in it?”

“Um,
yes.
If there’s one person I
know
is in it, it’s him. And that’s proof right there,” he said, gesturing to the brick. “That’s how you get in, supposedly—blood. You have to share blood with someone who was in before.”

Something washed over me right then, a feeling of sickness and powerlessness. I was Christina in Andrew Wyeth’s
Christina’s World
: stranded in a field, helpless and alone. Faceless. And Malcolm was the house: safe, secure, poised on top of the hill. I knew it had all been too good to be true, that there was something wrong with him, there
had
to be.

Gabe saw my face. “Don’t tell me you
like
him.” He said
like
as if it were the most disgusting verb in the dictionary.

I paused for too long.

“I thought you were different,” he snapped. “Otherwise, I never would’ve told you.”

“I
am
different.
He’s
different, too, I swear—”

“He’s
not
different. He
is
them. In fact, he’s worse than they are because he pretends to be something else.” Gabe turned and started to walk away.

“You can’t say that! You’re just pissed because I don’t believe you!”

He stopped and turned back to me, fierce. “Believe this: There is something evil here, and they’re all part of it.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

He opened his mouth, but closed it. His eyes widened. His face went pale. He shook his head. “Lydia’s coming,” he whispered as he backed away, then turned and ran down the hall, leaving me alone.

I remained because I didn’t believe in ghosts. There was nothing to be afraid of. And part of me kept thinking that this might be some elaborate prank on Gabe or
by
Gabe. I checked my watch. Our shift was not done, so I started to pack up the computer to go after him. As I zipped up the travel case, I felt it again—that chill. I hurried toward the steps.

When I arrived at the top of the spiral staircase, I saw Malcolm immediately. He was hanging out with Kent in “their” area, the cluster of leather chairs that looked ideal for pipe smoking. Kent was always smiling. He was the polar opposite of his twin, Abigail. I guess he got all the fun genes when their chromosomes split, if that’s even what happens.

Malcolm’s back was to me. And Kent, on his other side, was too busy listening to his own voice to notice me. I wanted to talk to Malcolm, but approaching him when he was with Kent felt too awkward. Also, I needed to find Gabe. Insanity aside, we had work to finish. We were both now on “warning.” So I kept walking.

As I passed, Malcolm turned and saw me. “Liv!” he called.

I gave a little wave and rushed along. But he jumped up and followed.

I paused and looked down. I felt naked talking to him in front of his friends. “Hey, sorry. It’s just I’m busy with my work-study job.”

He leaned in close and whispered, “Tonight. It’s a full moon. And security will be distracted because the headmaster’s having an event.”

When he spoke to me, Kent disappeared. So did Gabe. So did our job, so did whatever “warning” had been threatened. Thinking about a night alone with him, I couldn’t help but smile. He knew it was a yes.

“I’ll text you details.”

“Another military mission?” I asked with fake spy seriousness.

He nodded.

“Ten-four,” I said with a smile, then turned and left Main, heading down the dramatic stairs into the chilly night.

THE PLAN WAS QUITE
complicated. All the dorms had alarm sensors on the doors, so the only way to get out was through a first-floor window. Most of the first-floor windows were permanently locked, but the dorm prefects lived in the rooms with windows that opened to the outside. It was a sign of trust (and a fire safety thing). Since Malcolm, of course, was a dorm prefect, he could easily get out. And he’d figured out a way for me to. He said he knew Abigail wouldn’t be in her room at 11
P.M.,
and he’d leave a master key under her doormat. All the prefects had master keys.

At exactly 11
P.M.,
I was to come down the back stairs of the dorm, at which point he would provide a distraction
so no one would be in the common room. Then I’d use the key to enter Abigail’s room and climb out the window. It terrified me so much: the thought of being caught and punished by Mrs. Mulford, promoted to Final Warning like Gabe, or even expelled. But it was also exhilarating. I’d never even considered doing something so dangerous before, something that could jeopardize my life here, my studio, my luck. And best of all, I’d be—quite literally—stepping all over Abigail Steers as part of my escape.

As I climbed down the back stairs, I heard music blasting. As a distraction, Malcolm had placed some speakers in front of the dorm and was playing “Come As You Are.” From the stairs, I could hear my dormmates tittering, rushing to the front windows to see who was playing this potentially romantic gesture and speculating for whom. If they only knew. I smiled to myself as I snatched the key and slipped into Abigail’s room.

It wasn’t what I expected. It was a mess, actually: piles of her clothes, discarded shoes. I stepped on a hairbrush—a particularly sharp one—and, in order to keep from yelping, I collapsed on her bed. Also, I couldn’t help myself; I had to snoop. Just a little. This was a military mission, after all. I looked in her bedside table drawer: Elizabeth Arden Eight Hour Cream, Kleenex, iPhone charger. Boring.

I went to her computer, woke it up. Her calendar was on the screen. It detailed her every move, all color-coded. Tonight at ten thirty there was a “meeting.” In purple. There were numerous purple “meetings” across September and October, always in the evening. Sometimes quite late, even after curfew. Unless there was a secret
Alcoholics Anonymous program on campus, I was pretty sure they involved the Victors.

I heard voices returning to the common room. I dashed out her window, carefully pulled it closed and crept away into the darkness.

Malcolm had texted me extremely specific directions, taking into account which parts of campus were the most brightly lit (to be avoided, of course). In certain places, he even told me how many steps to take. I held my phone in my hand, cupping it to minimize the light, as I stole through the darkness.

I snuck around the back of the Art Center, along the tall wall that looked down on its spacious outdoor theater and fire pit, and then rushed past the old well. Following his instructions, I dashed into a grove of pine trees but stumbled on a pinecone and fell at the foot of a majestic weeping willow tree. As I stood up, I felt it again: a chill. It rushed past me, through me, almost. I turned. Nothing. Silence except for my noisy heart—frightened or perhaps just filled with anticipation.