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My father nods without argument, already prepared to leave.
There will be no picnic blanket and sandwiches for us, no brief catch-up and posed photos for Facebook. What was the point of him being here at all? Was it simply so he could take stock of his investment? Check to see if his prized racehorses are being properly cared for?
He gives me one last once-over, pausing when he reaches my face.
“I don’t want to see anything like that ever again. You’re a representation of the Mercier family, and you’ll behave accordingly.”
He’s referring to the shiner on my cheek from where I took that punch at the soccer game.
Then he turns, motioning for Wilson to hand him his phone, and poof, he’s gone. Back from whence he came.
Tonight, I wish I had an actual friend. I used to have one here. Jonathan was his name, but he graduated a few years ago. His family is in the wine and spirits industry. Actually, my father tried to buy their company a few years ago, but they held out. Jonathan’s a good guy. We played soccer together, talked about more than the usual locker room bullshit. He also left me with a bottle of whiskey as a parting gift before he left St. John’s.
I’ve had more than my fair share of the bottle tonight. My head is spinning, but I take another sip because I want to keep a firm grasp on this oblivion. I like it here where the world is paused, the chaos muted. I’m in the library because it’s quiet and no one will look for me here. The guys will knock on my door, wanting something. I want to stay in the back stacks, where the books are so old and the smell of mildew is so strong and sweet that I feel like I’ve fallen into a dream.
Then I hear it.
Someone.
“What the fuck do you want?” I growl.
There’s a sharp intake of breath and then scurrying feet. I turn to see a blur of pink tulle. It’s the Davenport girl. The basket case.
I saw her earlier. She was dressed in that same pale pink tulle dress, her dark hair softly curled. She looked like a doll fresh out of the package. At the Parents Weekend picnic, she sat dutifully on a blanket beside an older woman while three sharply dressed attendants flitted around at their beck and call.
Everyone at St. John’s whispers about Lainey. She’s fragile. Small. Thin. The kind of quiet that scares the shit out of people. Is she lonely or is she haunted? I’ve heard the jeers about her, the sick shit people say even though she’s just a kid.
I feel bad now that she was the one I yelled at.
Of everyone at St. John’s, she deserves my wrath the least.
Chapter Four
Lainey
I want this day to end. Having to endure my grandmother being here on campus was like having to entertain the Queen of England all afternoon. She came early and stayed late, peppered me with a thousand questions. Who are my friends, and which classes do I prefer, and don’t drink tea in great gulps, and for god’s sake, stop slouching.
When her Rolls-Royce pulled off down the Cyprus-lined drive, I wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed with a good book and a mug of hot chocolate, but when I returned to my dorm, I found a sign pasted to the door.
GO AWAY.
Blythe does this every now and then, essentially kicking me out of my own dorm. Usually it’s only for a few hours, though once it was for an entire weekend. I slept underneath a table in the library and had a backache for a whole week after.
When I saw her note earlier, I stood outside my door for a minute, letting the inconvenience of it all sink in. I needed inside my dorm. At the very least, I wanted to change out of my ridiculous dress. My grandmother sent it to me last week with clear instructions to wear it for the luncheon today. I felt like a five-year-old on her birthday, so pink and frilly. Worse, the fabric was itchy as hell.
I sighed and let my forehead hit the door.
“READ THE SIGN!” Blythe yelled.
I pinched my eyes closed and tried to keep myself from screaming back at her. There’s no use. I’ve gone down that route. I’ve told a teacher, told an administrator, told the headmaster. It always winds up making my life worse in the end. Why can’t adults understand that? I don’t want them to bring Blythe into their office for a stern talking to—I want them to kick her out of St. John’s altogether.
It wouldn’t matter though. A new, worse version of her would crop up in her place. Oh god, the horror of that almost makes me shiver out of my skin. If I were Catholic, I’d do the sign of the cross at the thought.
