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“Their bylaws don’t actually prohibit girls from joining,” I reply with a shrug.
“And you’re the first girl who has been ballsy enough to try.”
“I’m sure they’ll fix that particular loophole now that they know about it.”
Anya lets out a rueful laugh. “I’m sure they will. It’s all anyone has been talking about since I got back, which is probably better than…other things.”
She doesn’t need to elaborate. Olivia Pratt’s sextape being publicly shown at a party would have kept the gossip wheel turning for months. The only thing that could trump it would be her pledging Havoc House immediately afterward.
I shrug like it doesn’t matter, despite the pang of guilt. Olivia’s reputation is in tatters because of me. “People will always talk.”
“Are you sure this is what you want to be doing…messing around with Havoc Boys? They can do so much worse than they already have.”
“My only other option was to run away with my tail between my legs. As a Havoc Girl, I have some protection against people like Serena and Maisie.”
Her smile is rueful. “Yeah, they can be real jerks when they want to be.”
“Your words.”
“That’s the best way to survive in this place, kill or be killed. You learn pretty quickly not to show any weakness.” She gives me a serious look, all levity gone from her expression. “Just promise me that you’ll be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“Somehow, I doubt that, but at least I’ve tried.” Anya squeezes my arm as she passes me on her way to the door. “You want anything from the dining hall?”
I shake my head in a negative and watch as the door closes behind her.
It would be idiotic to let her warning fall on deaf ears, but I’m in too deep to back out now. This is a swim into open ocean, racing against the clock. I can’t worry about saving any energy for the trip back.
Leaving here isn’t an option.
The bed is calling my name as I stumble toward my room. But once I’m laying down, my eyes stay wide open to stare up at the popcorn ceiling instead of closing. My mind whirls, moving through images that come way too fast for me to focus on any one of them.
This is Olivia’s room. She picked this bedspread out of a catalog and chose the posters that I hung on the wall. Even though we haven’t spoken in years, I can practically feel the excitement that must have churned through her as she prepared for her first year of college.
I’ve been wearing her clothes and attending her classes, but she has never really felt like a true part of this. I’ve taken on her identity, literally stepped into her shoes, like a wolf hiding in sheep’s clothing. And I told myself that I was doing it for her, even if it wasn’t with her.
When I’m with Drake, it’s easier to forget just how alone I’ve been. I’ve been alone since the day that I was first sent away at eleven years old.
But so has Olivia.
I’d investigated her life as much as I could before I ever arrived at St. Bart’s. I read her diary entries and went through the photos on her phone. If anyone asked, I could tell them her favorite clothing brands and the shade of lipstick she liked best.
Except, I studied her like an archeologist digging through historical records. I put puzzle pieces together until a picture formed. But her life might as well have belonged to a stranger that I would never meet. The only thing connecting us was a shared face and obligation.
When we were kids, the twin connection was stronger. If one of us started crying in the crib, then the other would start. I always knew when she was sad, whether it was because I heard some kid at school make fun of her or the feeling just came out of nowhere, without her having to say anything. She could sense my emotions too, although I always trended more toward anger than sadness.
We lost that connection a long time ago.
Maybe it’s delirium from lack of sleep or wishing for something so hard that you convince yourself it’s true. There isn’t any rational explanation for the sudden wave of emotion swirling through me.
I’ve been living in her room for months, a room full of reminders that she had a life before I came here. But until now, this place has had all the emotional presence of a museum exhibit. Evocative, but distant, meant to be appreciated but not directly experienced. Olivia’s presence was never a living, breathing thing for me.
Something has changed.
I feel her, in a way that I haven’t since we were children. Like she is so close that all I have to do is reach out and touch her.
The fear makes sense, but this sadness is too big to belong just to me.
