“It’s my birthday. What’s your excuse?” She rubbed at the invisible insects swarming beneath her skin until the tingling subsided.
“It’s high school. Do we really need an excuse to skip?”
He had a point. “Just don’t let Maren know. She’ll rat us out.”
“Yeah, she’s a terrible human being.” He stepped over her backpack and flopped onto her bed. “Probably the worst person I know.”
She had to agree. Maren was the worst.
“So…whatcha doin’ up here with that guilty look on your face?” He propped himself on his elbows and narrowed his eyes at her.
“Nothing. I’m still not feeling right.”
“Sorry for not comin’ to see you when you were sick.” A wince. “I haven’t been in a hospital since Dad…well, you know.”
Lyle’s dad had died from cancer long before Vivienne had met him. “It’s fine. I was asleep for most of it anyway.”
She gathered her dirty laundry into a heap beside the door with great intentions. But the thought of bringing it all the way downstairs and washing and drying and folding it, then hauling it all back upstairs . . . Tomorrow. She would do it tomorrow.
Lyle picked up the bus ticket from her nightstand. “Are you going somewhere?”
“I was going to go to Cleveland,” she said, snatching it from him and tucking it into her pocket, “but changed my mind.”
“Good. Because I’d never forgive you for leaving me alone with Maren.” He stretched to his feet and patted her on the shoulder. “I’m gonna watch some trash TV, if you’re interested.”
“Maybe later.”
Instead of leaving, he meandered over to her desk. The frames were still face-down from the day before. “Are you gonna read these”—he picked up one of the envelopes scattered on the floor—“or are you starting a collection?”
“Are you gonna go away,” she mimicked, “or are you gonna annoy me all day?”
“Geez. Someone’s testy this morning.” He made his way into the hallway. “Whatever you’re up to, I’m going to figure it out.”
There was no hope of that ever happening. “Go away, Lyle,” she said with a laugh.
“I will…but only because it’s your birthday.”
After closing the door, she turned back to the stack of college application responses. Going to college wasn’t nearly as exciting as going to Neverland, but she had to do something after graduation. She carried the pile to her bed and opened the first one. A form rejection. She tossed it toward the metal wastebasket next to her closet—and missed.
Ten minutes later, there was more trash on her floor than in her wastebasket.
With a yawn, she opened the card from Lynn and scanned the generic message of celebration and well-wishes. Lynn’s signature was the only word inscribed inside, and a crisp fifty-dollar bill had been taped to the inner fold. It was an enormous gesture considering the woman struggled to make ends meet.
Vivienne stood up and stuffed the money into her back pocket, knocking the last unopened letter to the floor.
She retrieved it and slid her finger beneath the seal.
Miss Vivienne Dunn:
We are pleased to offer you a place at Kensington Academy . . .
Kensington Academy? She had never applied to—or heard of—Kensington Academy.
She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and typed “Kensington Academy” into the search engine. A website with generic stock photos of smiling students and stately professors popped up. Unsure whether or not it was the right place, she matched a picture of a rooster with its head raised toward two stars from the letterhead to the web banner.
She tapped the link to the college’s phone number and waited for the call to connect.
“Kensington College, this is Michelle. How may I direct your call?”
“Hi. I got an acceptance letter from you guys, but I have a few questions.” She tugged at a stray thread, unravelling her ancient quilt.
“What’s your name?” the woman asked.
“Vivienne Dunn—with two n’s in both.”
The distinctive clicking of nails on a keyboard indicated Michelle was still on the line. “I’m afraid there must have been some sort of mistake, Vivienne. I can’t find you in our system.”
“That’s why I called. I never applied to Kensington Academy.”
“Ah. You’re looking for Kensington Academy?”
Vivienne lifted the letter on her lap to reexamine it. “That’s what my letter says.”
“Please hold.”
A generic recording boasting a picturesque campus, freedom within classes, and unique job opportunities played while Vivienne waited.
“Kensington Academy, this is Julie. How may I direct your call?”
“Hi, Julie. My name’s Vivienne, and I got a letter of acceptance to Kensington Academy. But—”
“Congratulations, Vivienne.”
“Thanks.” What had she been saying? Oh, right. “But, there’s a problem…I never applied to Kensington.”
“How odd. Will you give me your last name? I can check if perhaps the letter was sent to you in error.”
“Sure. It’s Dunn—with two n’s.”
“Give me one sec…” There was a moment of silence then a click, and Julie came back on the line. “Miss Dunn? There’s no mistake. You’ve been accepted to Kensington.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure. Your file is right here in front of me.”
How was it possible that she had applied to a college she had never heard of? “I don’t mean to be rude, but I think you have the wrong person.”
“Vivienne Dunn—with two n’s—born the twenty-fifth of September, living in Columbus, Ohio at—”
“How’s this possible?”
“It seems as though your exemplary work at Southern High School caught the attention of our recruiting officer, and he thought you’d be a perfect fit for our institution. Do you remember meeting with him?”
There had been a college fair nearly a year ago, right before Christmas of Vivienne’s junior year. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember speaking to a representative from Kensington Academy. “I’m so embarrassed, but I don’t remember—”
“I believe Benjamin Cronin was the one who spoke with you. Does that ring a bell?”
“Nope.”
“Hmmm…How about a recruiter named Deacon?”
Vivienne’s finger flew to the red button and ended the call. She shot to her feet, and the letter drifted to the carpet. That piece of paper was from Neverland. Did it mean she had another chance to reconsider Deacon’s invitation?
The doorbell rang.
Holding her breath, she stepped into the hallway and tiptoed partway down the steps.
Lyle groaned and mumbled something about interruptions. The hinges on the front door whined open. “Can I help you?”
“My name is Lawrence Hooke, and I’m here to see your sister.”
HOOK.
Vivienne paused mid-step.
“Which sister?” Lyle asked.