“The meeting.” He looks at me again. “Haven’t you checked your email?”
I tie the sash of the robe closed. “You distracted me.”
“Sorry.” He grins and pulls his cell phone out of his back pocket, showing me the calendar invite on the screen.
An emergency all-staff meeting, Saturday at 11:00 a.m.
“I bet it’s because of that whole thing with Tyler Elkin. Figures they only give a damn once it’s the king of the jocks who offs himself.” Jasper scoffs, combing his hair into place with one smooth pass of his long fingers. “If that’s even what happened.”
A cold fist of dread clenches in my chest. “The police said—”
“Oh, I know,” he says. “I just find it hard to believe that guy would kill himself. He seemed like too much of a selfish prick to me.”
He grins at me again, showing more than a hint of wicked teeth. I’ve always found him more pretty than handsome, but it’s a harsh beauty. Slightly feral.
I used to suspect Jasper might be like me. There’s a coldness in his eyes sometimes, a ruthless focus I recognize. But after spending so much time with him, I’ve come to the conclusion it’s all words with him—cruel comments, gallows humor. He could never do the things I do. Still, he understands me better than any other man I’ve met. I can’t show Jasper everything, but at least I don’t have to pretend to be nice or sweet or accommodating when I’m with him. He’s attracted to my cruelty.
“So I’ll see you at the staff meeting?” he asks.
I nod, tapping my fingernails on the stack of library books. “Yes. Thank you for your assistance as always, Mr. Prior.”
“My pleasure, Professor.”
He leans in to kiss me. I tilt my head just in time, so his lips only catch the corner of mine. It’s been a while since he’s tried that; at least he didn’t make another attempt to sleep over.
As soon as he’s gone, I log in to my email so I can read the calendar invite for myself. But there are few details beyond what I saw on Jasper’s phone. All Gorman faculty and staff are required to attend.
I tug the robe’s sash even tighter, until it digs into my waist. I try to resume my review of the fellowship application, but my mind is racing. Even the slow beat of the music and the crackle of the fire are too much stimulation now. I get up and turn them both off, then pace back and forth across the rug, trying to impose some order on my thoughts.
But I don’t have enough information to devise a plan. And I won’t—not until the meeting tomorrow. I tap my fingertip at the corner of my mouth, the spot where Jasper kissed me.
I fucking hate surprises.
6 CARLY
“Are you making friends?”
It’s a full month into the semester, and this is still my mom’s first question when she calls me—which she does every other day, at minimum. This morning, she sounds bright and unhurried, so my father must not be home. Though she seems a little tired too, a rasp in the back of her throat. I bet they were up late again, arguing. I’m not going to ask. I’m not.
“I’ve been hanging out with a few other freshman girls in my dorm,” I tell her. This is technically true, though the only major social event I’ve attended with them was a candlelight vigil for some student I’ve never met. Some of the other girls were crying, even though they couldn’t have known the guy either, since he died before the semester started. I guess I can understand why: it’s strange when someone our age dies. It makes me feel young and ancient at the same time.
“That’s great, sweetie. I know how hard making friends can be for you.”
I burrow into the bedcovers, pressing the phone harder to my ear, like that can somehow close the miles between us. A month ago, I wanted nothing more than to get out of my parents’ house and never go back, but now, hearing my mom’s voice provokes pangs of homesickness so sharp they’re like needles twisting in my stomach. If only my father would move out again. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s left. The first time, my mom sobbed for days, but I was so relieved.
I cried when he moved back in.
“So how are classes going?” she asks. “You like your professors?”
I immediately think of Alex—his infectious smile, how he adjusts his glasses as he speaks, the intense focus on his face when he listens. He’s the only professor who’s paid me any attention, besides writing Excellent Work in blue ballpoint at the top of my papers. Getting good grades is easy for me; it’s everything else that’s a struggle.
“My professors are okay,” I say.
I hear a soft creaking sound on the other end of the line, and I picture her sitting in her blue rocking chair in the den, one foot tucked underneath her, the other pushing rhythmically off the flowery rug. The den is windowless, but she’s decorated it with artificial bouquets and paintings of scenic landscapes. It’s the one room of the house in which my father rarely sets foot, so it’s our favorite.
She’s waiting for me to elaborate, share more about which professors I like and why, but the words stick in my throat. I want to be convincing. I want her to think I’m happy, having the time of my life at college. I definitely don’t want her to worry about me.
“What about your roommate? Are you two getting along all right?”
As if on cue, Allison comes through the door. She’s fresh out of her post-workout shower, steam rising from her skin.
“Yeah, she’s…” I’m trying my best not to stare, but it gets even harder when Allison whips off her towel and bends over to wrap her hair up in it. “We’re…”
“What’s wrong, honey?”
I drag my eyes back to the wrinkled gray comforter over my lap. “Nothing. I’m fine. I should probably get going, though. Talk to you soon?”
“Okay. Your father and I send our love!”
“Love you,” I mumble, then end the call.
Allison is wearing a bra and panties now but nothing else. She thumbs through the dresses stuffed in her side of the closet. She’s got quite an assortment of them, in every color of the rainbow, while my half of the wardrobe is all black and gray with the occasional drab olive green.
“Was that your mom?” she asks.
“Uh, yeah.” I pass the phone back and forth between my hands, just to have something to do with them.
Allison turns around with a smile, holding up a sweater dress striped with different shades of purple. “It’s so nice that you guys are close. Hey, I didn’t wake you up last night, did I?”
“No,” I tell her. “I’m a pretty deep sleeper, so…”
A complete lie. Even as a child, I woke up multiple times a night with my heart pounding, my shoulders tight, startled by the slightest sound. When she came in last night sometime between midnight and dawn, I only pretended to be asleep, lying very still and keeping my breathing low and steady. I don’t know where she goes when she stays out so late. Probably to see her boyfriend—though she hasn’t brought Wes here again. I just see him—and avoid talking to him—every week in writing class.
“Okay, good,” she says, slipping the dress over her head. It looked baggy on the hanger, but the fabric clings to her body. “So what are you up to today?”