THE BETRAYAL
I am loath to give up the shirt. It feels like if I do, I’m severing my new and tenuous ties to Ivy Bound in some way. I hardly have a choice, though, the two police are standing outside my door and the dean is watching me expectantly.
I turn my back to hide the rash I know is blooming on my body. I strip off the shirt, scramble into another, and hand it over. What else am I going to do? If I fight this, it will look bad. I just need them to go away and leave me alone.
The dean gives me a watery smile, holding the T-shirt like it’s a dead ferret. “It will all be okay, Ash. I promise. I’ll send Becca to escort you upstairs. Try to get some sleep. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
She pauses, as if she wants to say something more, then shakes her head and leaves.
Jesus, Camille. What the hell did you do? And what the hell have you done to me?
I move to the window, look out onto the darkened quad. It’s almost three in the morning. Where is Camille now? In the back of an ambulance? In a drawer at the morgue? Still lying, broken and bloodied, on the concrete?
Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl.
“That’s no way to talk to your Mistress.”
Becca darkens my doorstep, and I bite back a scream of surprise. I didn’t realize I said it aloud, and I am so damn tired of everyone sneaking up on me.
Becca’s reflection in the window: the popped hip, the pouty smile, the ruffled, messy bun make her look so innocent. She is heartbreakingly beautiful and devastatingly cruel, and I am torn between loving her and hating her. I can’t help but feel that somehow, because I came to Becca’s notice, that Becca saw me and was compelled to tease me that first day, I have led us all to this precipice. A twisted kind of fate.
“I meant Camille.”
“I know. Come with me, Swallow.”
I’m reluctant to leave the sanctity of my room, but again, what choice do I have? Rush after the dean and the cops trying to explain myself? I want as much distance between me and the authority figures as humanly possible.
Becca marches to the stairwell without a backward glance. I’m both touched and angry that I’m expected to follow without question. I suppose this is what being a Swallow means. Obey your Mistress no matter what.
A little voice in the back of my mind says, Even if you end up in jail?
Stop. I’ve done nothing wrong.
Haven’t you?
Dr. Grassley’s pouty-lipped face floats in front of my eyes.
Not my fault, not my fault.
I shut the door on Muriel’s death and go back to Camille. I doubt most taps end in a student’s death. But Camille wasn’t with us.
Who was she with?
It takes me a moment to realize Becca has led me upstairs and I’m walking freely down the seniors’ hall.
The attics. The coveted attics. And not shunted off into some strange, creepy room, this is the real deal.
Becca is moving quickly, but there are plenty of doors open—the whole school is awake and distraught. I see flashes from inside—colors, crying, insolent stares. A few exclamations of protest, but muffled. I’m with Becca Curtis. I’m protected. I’m golden.
Becca leads me to the end of the hall, a room by the stairs. “You may enter,” she says, like I’m a vampire she’s inviting in for dinner.
At first glance, Becca’s room feels shockingly plain. One desk. The sofa is wider, deeper, and covered in dark blue velvet. There are two damask armchairs. Dormers, both with a window seat and fluffy pillows. Lofted ceilings with timber beams. A huge mahogany wardrobe. Bookshelves. There is a second room, too, the bedroom itself, and she has a private bath.
It’s like a well-appointed Parisian garret, only not as small.
And it’s original to the school. It has not been renovated into obscurity like the bottom three floors.
This, this is what Goode should look like.
“Holy shit.”
“Yes, it’s nice, isn’t it? The former dean’s space. It’s always saved for head girl. I like it. My mother did the decorating. This style is one of the few things my mother and I agree upon. She has impeccable taste.”
“Yes.” What else am I going to say? My roommate just died but I think your mum has an excellent feel for drapery?
“Sit.”
I collapse into a chair. It is wide and soft and I want to curl into a ball and go to sleep, preferably for days.
Becca closes the door and folds herself into the far edge of the sofa. Her knees are dirty. Like she’s been kneeling in ashes.
“I have to say, you’re well shot of that roommate. She was only going to hold you back. But what a fucking mess. What did you tell them?”
“Nothing of note. That I was bodily taken from my room to someplace I can’t identify, yelled at, then brought back. I didn’t tell them anything else about the tap.”
“Did you give them the shirt?”
“I didn’t have a choice. Becca, what—”
“Did you tell them we were together the whole time?”
“Yes. Mostly.”
“What do you mean, mostly?”
“I had to tell them I took a shower. And you weren’t in it with me.”
Becca looks stricken for a second, then anger crosses her angelic face.
“I gave you an ironclad alibi, and you tossed it away? How stupid are you?”
“First off, I don’t need an alibi. I didn’t do anything. Second, I couldn’t lie. They knew I’d showered, my hair and towel were wet, and they took apart the room. They asked if you were with me. Would you rather me lie and say we were showering together after hours?”
“You could have said it was Camille’s towel.”
I start to stand up. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I understand how this game is played. Don’t lie unless you need to? I signed the pledge, just like you did. I can’t get kicked out for lying about something so inconsequential.”
“But you’d let me? My God, Ash, you contradicted what I told the dean. I said I was with you all night. All you had to do was say the same. Then we’d both be covered. Instead, now there’s a time gap, and it looks like I was trying to cover something up.”
“Were you?”
The words are out of my mouth before I can think. Becca’s anger turns to rage, billowing across her face, and I move so quickly I knock over the chair. I’ve only seen that look from one other person, and it scares me to the bone. I know what follows, and brace myself.
Becca, though, doesn’t move. The color slowly drains from her face. I’m backed against the wall, waiting for the punches to come, to land, but Becca is frozen on the couch.
A breath. Another.
Slowly, I detach myself, flexing my hands. My shortened, clipped but unfiled nails have bitten into the thin skin of my palms; blood wells. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. I was thoughtless.”
Becca speaks softly, a thin veneer of sadness over her words. “You thought I was going to hit you. That I could hurt you. After everything I’ve done, to help you adjust, to help you fit in, to cover for you, to pave your way, to be your friend, you thought I was going to attack you?”
How many ways will I screw this up?
“I’m sorry,” I say again, my voice small, meek. I never used to apologize like this. I never used to be so weak.
“You don’t know much about friendship, do you, Ash?”
“This is a strange kind of friendship, Becca. You’re mean to me, alternately ignore me, then are nice and kind, lie for me, interrogate me, scream at me. I don’t get you.”
I sag into the chair again, put my face in my hands. The springs on the sofa squeak, then I feel Becca’s arms go around me. I wait, unmoving, not leaning toward her, not accepting the hug.
After a moment, Becca peels my hands from my face, searching for the tears she’s sure are there. Though I’m not crying, I don’t meet her eyes. I am surprised when I feel her breath on my face.
The kiss is soft. Gentle. Sweet.
Then the pressure increases. A hand goes into my hair, pulling my ponytail back gently so my mouth is forced to tip open. Becca’s tongue is warm, shockingly so, and I feel a rush move through me, longing, desire, and suddenly, I’m gasping for breath.
I’m confused by the emotions I’m feeling. Do I want this? This girl-woman who tortures me with sweet kisses and cruel words? Yes, I do. No, I don’t.
Becca is emboldened by me not pulling away. The kiss deepens. Her long, slim hand slides under my shirt, grazing my ribs, moving up until she’s softly cupping my left breast. She flicks her thumb across my nipple. Another surge courses through me, one so unexpected and strange that I stiffen and swat away her hand.
Becca laughs into my mouth and draws me closer, tucking my body into hers. The hug is almost as intimate as the kiss. Becca rests her face against my chest.
“Sorry, little bird. No reason to rush. We have all year to get to know each other. It’s going to be so much easier now that we both have singles. At least you were wearing my gift tonight. You looked pretty in my shirt. Did you like it? I’m sorry they took it away.”
“No. I mean, I’m—”
Becca jerks away. “You’re what?”
My mind is a whirling mess. I can’t form the proper words. Because I can’t let anyone get too close. It’s too dangerous. I’m too dangerous. You gave me the shirt? The shirt that the police took into evidence? The shirt with the tear in it?
My danger trigger is on fire. I have to get out of here. Now.
“I’m not sure I want to do this, Becca. I don’t know. I’ve had a very long night. I need some sleep.”
The words linger between us for a moment. They can’t be taken back. And I know I’ve made a terrible mistake.
“Becca—”
Becca holds up a hand. She is brisk, businesslike. Her face betrays no more emotion. She’s become the Mistress again. Retreated behind her perfect veneer. There is no more softness, no more vulnerability. She is hard, implacable, like diamonds. The switch is fast and unnerving.
“I understand. Forgive me for being so forward. I see how you watch me. Everywhere I go, you’re just offstage, watching. I thought you were interested. I thought you wanted to be with me. But if you don’t, that’s fine. Completely fine. There is a set of stairs to the sophomores’ hall right outside my door. Go to bed, Swallow. Report at 7:00 a.m.”
I’m frozen to the spot. I have wounded her. The one person who’s been accepting of me, kind, even if her attentions have been slightly twisted. She brought me into the fold and I’ve rejected the offerings.
“Go,” she says.
Miserable and oddly relieved, I comply without another word. Out the door, into the stairwell, down, down, down. Every tread, her name rings in my head.
Becca. Becca. Becca.
Flashes of her face, the kiss, the way she stood up for me with the cop. The shirt, soft and worn, with the bird on it. A gift. You looked pretty in my shirt.
Becca more than likes me. That’s why she has been so nice. These past few weeks have been a seduction.
Flattering. Interesting.
But there is something else Becca said that makes me stop cold, my hand on the knob.
It’s going to be so much easier now that we both have singles.
It’s like she planned this from the very beginning.