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I feel like a junkie, sick for my next fix and not sure if it will come.
Maybe she’s eating breakfast in her room, I tell myself. That’s a reasonable thought, a normal one. I can just catch her before she leaves. I won’t let her see how much it matters.
I race up the stairs of Gilbert House, past a couple of freshmen girls, who giggle.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” one says, mock-scolding. “This is the girls’ dorm.”
I pause and give her my best smile, my coconspirator smile. The one that I practice in front of the mirror. The one that’s supposed to promise all kinds of evil delights. “Good thing I have you to cover for me.”
She smiles back, her cheeks going pink.
At the top of the steps I catch the door to Lila’s hall as Jill Pearson-White comes out. She’s got her backpack thrown over one shoulder and an energy bar in her mouth. She barely pays attention to me, taking the stairs two at a time.
I cross the corridor, fast, because if Lila’s hall mistress sees me, I am totally screwed. I try Lila’s door, but it’s locked. I don’t have time for anything fancy. I pull out a bank card from my wallet and slide it down the seam. That trick has worked on my own door before, and I’m lucky, because it works now.
I expect Lila to be sitting on her bed, maybe lacing her shoes. Or pulling on a pair of gloves. Or printing out a paper at the last possible minute. But she’s not.
For a moment I think I’m in the wrong room.
There are no posters on the walls. There is no bookcase, no trunk, or vanity or illicit electric kettle. The bed has been stripped down to the mattress, and there’s nothing else there.
She’s gone.
The door swings shut behind me as I cross the empty room. Everything feels like it has slowed down, the edges a little dim. The awfulness of it, the loss of her, hits me in the gut. Gone. Gone and there’s nothing I can do about it.
My eyes are drawn to the window, where light’s streaming in, casting an odd shadow. There on the sill, resting against one of the panes of glass, is a single envelope.
My name is written on it in her handwriting. I wonder how long it’s been sitting there. I imagine her loading all her stuff into boxes and carrying it down the stairs, Zacharov himself helping her, like all the other dads did. With two goons, guns tucked into their waistbands, helping him.
The thought should make me smile, but it doesn’t.
I sink to the floor, the paper clutched to my chest. I rest my head on the bare wood. Somewhere in the distance I hear a bell ring.
I’ve got no reason to get up, so I don’t.
10
WHEN I FINALLY OPEN the letter, it makes me smile, despite everything. And for some reason, that makes it even more awful that she’s gone.
4/ 8\6/5/3\ 9/6/8| 4/ 9\2\7// 6|6/ 4\6/6/3\ 2\8\ 7//2/4|6/6/5/ - 9\3|5/5/ 4/6\ 6|6/8\ 4\6/6/3\ 2\8\ 7//2\9/4/6|4\ 4\6/6/3\2|9/3| 3|4/8\4|3|7/ - 4/ 2\5/9\2\9/7// 5|6|3|9\ 9\4|2\8\ 4/ 9\2\7// 4\6/4/6|4\ 8\6/ 2|3| 9\4|3|6| 4/ 4\7/3|9\ 8|7\ - 4/ 2\5/9\2\9/7// 5|6|3|9\ 9\4|6/7//3| 7//4|6/3|7// 4/ 4|2\3\ 8\6/ 3/4/5/5/ - 2\6|3\ 4/ 6|3|8/3|7/ 7//2\4/3\ 4/8\ 2|8|8\ 4/ 3|6|8/4/3|3\ 9/6/8| 3/6/7/ 6|6/8\ 4|2\8/4/6|4\ 3|8/3|7/9/8\4|4/6|4\ 2\5/5/ 7\5/2\6|6|3|3\ 6/8|8\ - 4/ 5|6|6/9\ 4/8\ 9\2\7//6|8\ 2\5/9\2\9/7// 3|2\7//9/ - 7\3|6/7\5/3| 3\4/3\6|8\ 8\7/3|2\8\ 9/6/8| 5/4/5|3| 9/6/8| 9\3|7/3| 4/6\7\6/7/8\2\6|8\ 2|8|8\ 9/6/8| 9\3|7/3| 3/7/3|3|
9/6/8| 7//8\4/5/5/ 2/2\6| 2|3| 2|8|8\ 9/6/8|7/3| 4\6/4/6|4\ 8\6/ 4|2\8/3| 8\6/ 8\7/9/ 4|2\7/3\3|7/ 4/3/ 9/6/8| 9\2\6|8\ 8\6/ 7//8\2\9/ 8\4|2\8\ 9\2\9/
—5/4/5/2\
It’s a code. One I recognize immediately, because Lila and I used it to leave notes for each other when we were kids. It’s a simple one. Nobody with a real secret and any knowledge of cryptography would use this. You just take a phone and copy down the number that goes with each letter. Like L would become “5” and A would become “2.” But since there’s more than one letter for each number on a keypad, the code has a second symbol. A slash or straight line indicates the letter’s position on the phone button, like this: \|/. So the final code for L is “5/” because L is to the far right on the key. And A is “2\” because A is to the far left. And if it’s one of those numbers with four letters, then you add an extra slash, so that “9/” is Y and “9//” is Z and so on. It’s time consuming to translate back, but easy, especially if there’s a phone in front of you.
The existence of the letter—that she knew I would come here and find it, that she remembered our old code and believed I’d remember it too—makes my throat hurt. Nobody at Wallingford sees me the way I am, underneath everything. But she did. She does.
I smooth the paper out on the floor, find the receipt from the diner and a spare pen, and start translating:
I told you I was no good at school. Well, I’m not good at saying good-bye either. I always knew what I was going to be when I grew up. I always knew whose shoes I had to fill. And I never said it, but I envied you for not having everything all planned out. I know it wasn’t always easy. People didn’t treat you like you were important, but you were free.
You still can be, but you’re going to have to try harder if you want to stay that way.
—Lila
I’m tracing my fingers over the coded paper, thinking about how long it must have taken her, picturing her lying on her bed, making mark after laborious mark, when my phone rings.
