THE WAITING
The hours drag between dinner and my appointment in the attics. I check my watch so often Camille leaves in disgust to study in the sewing circle—the nickname for the grouping of couches on the landing where the girls hang out, chatting and gossiping, sneaking tokes off vape pens in the bathroom, listening to music, and occasionally studying.
Alone, with another hour before my rendezvous, I do something I’ve promised not to do. Something the dean said yesterday has been niggling at me. I activate the VPN on my computer, override the school’s meager parental block on the Wi-Fi, open a browser called Brave that doesn’t track my actions (bravo, Brave!), then a private window, and type a name into the browser. The hits pile up, the most immediate a story from the Guardian. At the headline, my eyes go swimmy.
SIR DAMIEN CARR’S DEATH INVESTIGATION CLOSED
Banker Died of Drug Overdose, Inquest Confirms
London Wire
29 August, 2020
Chadwick Staff
The coroner’s court today recorded a verdict of misadventure in the July death of Sir Damien Carr, Viscount Eldridge. Carr, a graduate of Eton who read law at Cambridge and subsequently became one of London’s premier wealth managers, was found unresponsive in his home in Westminster this past 14 July.
Carr was known for his unrelenting desire to keep a discreet and low profile in the industry, and this moral rectitude was one of his hallmarks, making him one of the most sought-after wealth managers in London. He served on several boards and was thought to be in line to be named as under-treasurer for the chancellor of the exchequer. The position was filled by John Bamforth, Carr’s former associate in the financial firm, only last week.
Family and friends, who saw him as a staunch teetotaler, were admittedly shocked by the news of the overdose. Carr’s wife, Lady Sylvia Carr, suffered a breakdown after the incident and sadly took her own life. Their daughter—
“Ash? It’s time. What are you reading so intently?”
I jump up so fast my laptop drops to the floor with a crash. I put a hand on my heart, deep breaths, deep breaths. You are not in danger. You are not about to die.
Vanessa stands in the door looking very young in her bathrobe and glasses, her riotous hair standing out like she’s been pushing her hands through it.
Bloody fucking hell, why do they have to sneak up on me all the time? Is there a class they teach at Goode frosh year in stealth? I could have used it.
“You scared me, Vanessa.”
“Are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”
It’s the nicest tone Vanessa has ever used with me. I have been crying, I realize, tears are bubbling over the edges of my eyes and running unchecked down my face. I sniff and scrub them away.
“I’m fine. It’s time?”
“Yes. You’ll tell us everything, won’t you?” Kind Vanessa is confusing. Vanessa whiplash, I’m starting to think of the girl’s mood swings.
“I will.” I open the laptop long enough to log out of everything and shut off the VPN, wondering briefly what the Honor Code would say about such a thing. Surely there is a difference between protecting my privacy and deceiving the school’s IP filters. I plug it in and take the envelope with my name on it from the desk gingerly.
“Off I go.”
“Go with God,” Vanessa replies dryly.
In the hall, I can hear voices to my left, toward the stairs. Camille and Piper are standing there, whispering behind their hands. They stop when I approach, both smiling tremulously. It feels like I’m being led to the guillotine with friendly witnesses amassed to see me along the way, which is just stupid. I’m going to speak with my bully, get this situation dealt with once and for all. I will not spend term looking over my shoulder, waiting for Becca and her minions to make my life hell. I just won’t. I’ve already been through enough this year. I refuse to be a victim any longer.
I give the girls an ironic smile, a brief salute, and step through the steel door into the stairwell. The first set of stairs is uneventful, but the second flight is blocked by two identically bored, sweatshirted, messy-bun-topped girls sitting on the last step. These are the twins I saw following Becca around that fated first day. Camille said their names are Amanda and Miranda and no one can tell them apart, even their mother, who is chief of staff to a corporate bigwig and isn’t around enough to worry about it. In the murky darkness, I definitely can’t see a characteristic or feature that allows me to distinguish between them.
One says, “Finally. Come here.”
“Why?”
“Because we have to blindfold you, idiot,” the other says. “You’re not allowed to see the seniors’ hall. It’s bad luck.”
I don’t like the idea of being blindfolded at all, and my heartbeat kicks up a notch.
“We aren’t going to hurt you,” the first girl says. “You’ve been summoned. You have an invitation. And you don’t want to keep Becca waiting. Come on.”
I turn reluctantly and try not to bolt as the strip of cloth is tied around my head. It is black velvet, thick and close, and I can’t see anything.
They lead me the rest of the way, soft hands, murmuring “step here,” “watch out,” “we’re turning now.”
One more set of short stairs and the air changes completely. Musty, evergreen, overlaid with the scent of bleach. A gentle coolness on my face; there is a window open, and the night air in the mountains already holds the hint of fall. My nose twitches, I smell marijuana, a scent as familiar to me as my strawberry shampoo. Someone is getting high in the attics. Naughty, naughty.
The hands leave my arms, and the door closes quietly behind me. I am alone.