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FIFTEEN
Remi
The bell chimes, and our dorm room doors swing open. In the hallways chaos ensues, everyone scatters like sewer rats rushing to find the items hidden around the school. I watch in distaste, pulling back my hair into a high ponytail, as students push and shove one another out of the way. Along with khaki shorts, a simple white tank top and tennis shoes were laid out for us—finally something useful to wear. I step out of my door, tightening my ponytail, ensuring no stray curls can escape and obstruct my view.
And boy, what a view.
As everyone disperses, one boy is trampled under the copious pairs of stampeding feet, his glasses smashed under the rampage. Normally, I wouldn't feel bad for someone like him—we come from wealth, and this student has more than enough money to replace a pair of broken glasses—but here at Bitterwood, I don't know if he'll have that option.
And being blinded in a place like this means sooner or later, you're going to die because no one's going to hold your hand and help you—not when their own lives are on the line.
In a kinder world—a fairer world—I might have helped him, just like I might have helped Bianca. My brunette roommate dashes off down the staircase and away from me, like most of the other students. Good. I don’t need any trouble while I attend to my priorities. I catch sight of Cash and Ben running outside, and I havenodesire to follow them. The events from last night are still too raw for me to ignore, and if I’m honest, so is my entire back side from Vaughn’s sinister ministrations. I can still feel the kiss of the whip, the sting of the cane, vividly recalling how I loudly came more than once under his practiced hand, in spite of my desperation to pretend I wasn’t affected.
Don’t think about him, Remi. Focus.
Instead of running, I walk aimlessly. If anyone is watching me—and Principal Windsor is definitely watching—I look like a lost lamb trying to find something useful to help me survive in this world, but what I'm really doing is far more calculating. I'm using this rare unsupervised advantage to scope out Bitterwood Prep without the prying eyes of guards or teachers watching my every move. Perhaps Principal Windsor is too stupid to realize the opportunity he's afforded me—or perhaps he's an evil, cunning bastard whodoesknow.
Either way, I can't pass it up—I just need to remember to always be on my toes.
At this thought, my brain brings up the memory of my naked body stretched, strung up like a puppet, in front of Professor Vaughn. I slam my eyes shut, shaking my head to dispel the haunting—and arousing—image. Growling in disgust at my visceral reaction, I remind myself that I can’t afford to think about the professor right now along with all the things he did to my body.
That man is trying to break me, and if I don't watch my back—he’ll succeed.
I meander down the stairs after most students have dispersed, keeping a sharp eye on the layout of the three-story foyer, as well as searching for red tags. After memorizing all I can here, I ascend the stairs again, noting it lands on thethirdfloor, not the second. Interesting. A hazy memory surfaces, and I realize I’m retracing my steps from the first night which helps me establish where everything is. I know for a fact the dorms are here on the third floor, meaning either you can only get to the second via elevator or a different set of stairs. Unfortunately, the elevators are fingerprint controlled, not to mention hidden behind elegant panel walls.
Who knows how many rooms I’ve passed without knowing.
I move down the hallway lined with wood doors. Frustration brews, because in the short time since I left my room, all the doors have closed, hiding whatever knowledge and advantages lying within them. Still, I attempt to open every single door in the corridor, because here at Bitterwood, information is everything, more critical than currency—the more you know about your opponent, the easier it is to beat them. But it’s to no avail, the handles won’t budge.
On quiet feet, I head to the other side of the wing where the boys’ dorms are, passing by the double staircases and banister overlooking the foyer. Careful not to be seen, I hug close to the wall and move down the boys’ hallway, turning the knob of every door I pass. To my surprise, one actually opens, and I gasp in shock, frantically looking around to ensure I’ve not been seen, that this isn’t some wicked trick of Windsor’s to thwart me. But there’s nothing here, just me and the sound of my heart pounding loudly in my ears.
Blinking in astonishment, I stare into the empty dorm room set up so vastly different from my own. It’s stark—Spartan even—with bunk beds lining an undecorated, muted yellow wall. It’s small and there are no windows, reminding me of jail cells I’ve only seen in movies. Even the beds remind me of a prison, fitted with cheap, forest green sheets, a thin blanket, and a single, flat pillow. The sight offends me for multiple reasons. I’m not so ignorant of my humility to admit I’ve never slept in such poor quarters before, but what’s even more astonishing is the fact that the room I share with Bianca is so dramatically different. The only plausible reason for such a discrepancy is because Bianca is Vaughn’s little fuck toy, and that thought enrages me.
I’m only getting “special” treatment because of her—and him.
Without a doubt, I would rather sleep in this shithole of a room with those two asshole boys than in my luxurious quarters with Bianca. Because where she is, Professor Vaughn is, and I’d like to avoid both at all costs. Rifling through whoever’s stuff this is, I try to find something useful—anything—to help me escape. Even if I can find money or anything of value, I might be able to trade my way out of here with some of the servants. The guards and medics are sick bastards who enjoy their jobs too much to ever be bribed, but someone being forced to work heremighthelp—might being the key word.
If I have any hope of winning someone over, I need to find something damn impressive to make it worth their while to help, but there’s nothing in this room to aid me. Just as I turn to leave, I catch the faint whiff of a familiar scent and I pause. Inhaling deeply, the handsome and cruel face of Bentley pops into my head, and even though I can’t say for certain, I’m sure that I’m in his and Cashel’s room. Time to retaliate for the bullshit they pulled in the Bawl or Brawl game. Smiling, I decide to be vindictive—the boys will never know who trashed their room.
It could be anyone, right?
Stomping over to the bed, I yank off the thread-bare blanket, and grasping a corner on each side, I pull with all my strength. The flimsy thing easily splits in two, and a sick satisfaction courses through my body at the thought of Cashel and Bentley seeing the torn fabric in scraps on the floor.
Tossing it down, I spit on it before making short work of the sheets and pillow. My hand grabs the top pillow, and I bring it to my nose and smell, detecting the faintest scent of Cashel. But how my body responds to his scent enrages me. A boy like him hasn’t earned the right to arouse such reactions from me. Pissed off, I slam his pillow to the floor, stomping it with my feet and continue my rampage, not stopping until I’ve destroyed the entire room. Only then do I step back to look at my handiwork. Those assholes better watch themselves now that I know where they sleep.
I feel better now, having released some of my pent up anger, and I flounce out of the room, determined to find the hidden panel to the elevator. After twenty minutes of scouring up and down the damned hall, I decide I’m wasting my time. Regret sinks deep in my belly—I let my ire and hatred get the better of me and threw a tantrum back in the dorm room. It felt good—fuck, it feltgreat—to work out my frustration, but it was stupid of me nonetheless to waste even a single second of this precious time.
Not when I have shit to do and a school to escape from.
Jogging back down the three-story staircase, I exit the foyer and explore the first floor. I know Principal Windsor’s office is somewhere on this floor, and I shudder thinking about the man. Walking from front to back of the giant mansion, I pass the theater room where we first learned about Bitterwood—it reminds me of the open showers where we were thoroughly humiliated. Inside are two boys upending all the chairs in their hunt for red-tagged items. Every other door I pass is closed and locked. The principal only wants us to see whathe wishes us to see, making my plans to escape more difficult.
It dawns on me that escaping on my own might be futile, but more importantly, I never stopped to question Principal Windsor’s motives for this little scavenger hunt. Was this his own, fucked up idea or a game voted on by The Gallery? If it’s the former, and I know the man doesn’t do anything without a purpose, then it might be foolish—deadly even—to end this adventure empty-handed. I close my eyes, recalling the things and places that Principal Windsor showed everyone on the screen before the scavenger hunt started. One item in particular snags my attention—a gilded, ornate key.It was shown so briefly as if to highlight its importance.
Knowing I have maybe an hour left to find this impossible object, I walk back to the foyer staring up at the double staircases once more. A girl rushes past me and out of sight, holding a hammer with a red tag while another girl chases her presumably to take it for herself.
I wait until they’re both gone and lift my gaze, noting neither the right nor the left staircase connect with the second floor, making it inaccessible from here—the perfect place to hide something you don’t want anyone to find. It’s rather clever of Principal Windsor.
But I’m smarter.
