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“We haven’t come to any determination about your future here at Wallingford yet.” The headmistress leafs through some of the papers on her desk. The dean pours himself a coffee.
“I can still be a day student.” I don’t want to sleep in an empty house or crash with either of my brothers, but I will. I’ll do whatever lets me keep my life the way it is.
“Go to your dorm and pack some things. Consider yourself on medical leave.”
“Just until I get a doctor’s note,” I say.
Neither of them replies, and after a few moments of standing awkwardly, I head for the door.
* * *
Don’t be too sympathetic. Here’s the essential truth about me: I killed a girl when I was fourteen. Her name was Lila, she was my best friend, and I loved her. I killed her anyway. There’s a lot of the murder that seems like a blur, but my brothers found me standing over her body with blood on my hands and a weird smile tugging at my mouth. What I remember most is the feeling I had looking down at Lila—the giddy glee of having gotten away with something.
No one knows I’m a murderer except my family. And me, of course.
I don’t want to be that person, so I spend most of my time at school faking and lying. It takes a lot of effort to pretend you’re something you’re not. I don’t think about what music I like; I think about what music I should like. When I had a girlfriend, I tried to convince her I was the guy she wanted me to be. When I’m in a crowd, I hang back until I can figure out how to make them laugh. Luckily, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s faking and lying.
I told you I’d done plenty wrong.
* * *
I pad, still barefoot, still wrapped in the scratchy fireman’s blanket, across the sunlit quad and up to my dorm room. Sam Yu, my roommate, is looping a skinny tie around the collar of a wrinkled dress shirt when I walk through the door. He looks up, startled.
“I’m fine,” I say wearily. “In case you were going to ask.”
Sam’s a horror film enthusiast who has covered our dorm room with bug-eyed alien masks and gore-spattered posters. His parents want him to go to MIT and from there to some profitable pharmaceuticals gig. He wants to do special effects for movies. Despite the facts that he’s built like a bear and is obsessed with fake blood, he is too kind-hearted to inform them there’s a disagreement about his future. I like to think we’re sort of friends.
We don’t hang out with many of the same people, which makes being sort of friends easier.
“I wasn’t doing… whatever you think I was doing,” I tell him. “I don’t want to die or anything.”
Sam smiles and pulls on his Wallingford gloves. “I was just going to say that it’s a good thing you don’t sleep commando.”
I snort and drop onto my cot. The frame squeaks in protest. On the pillow next to my head rests a new envelope, marked with a code telling me a freshman wants to put fifty dollars on Victoria Quaroni to win the talent show. The odds are astronomical, but the money reminds me that someone’s going to have to keep the books and pay out while I’m away.
Sam kicks the base of the footboard lightly. “You sure you’re okay?”
I nod. I know I should tell him that I’m going home, that he’s about to become one of those lucky guys with a single, but I don’t want to disturb my own fragile sense of normalcy. “Just tired.”
Sam picks up his backpack. “See you in class, crazy-man.”
I raise my bandaged hand in farewell, then stop myself. “Hey, wait a sec.”
Hand on the doorknob, he turns.
“I was just thinking… if I’m gone. Do you think you could let people keep dropping off the money here?” It bothers me to ask, simultaneously putting me in his debt and making the whole kicked-out thing real, but I’m not ready to give up the one thing I’ve got going for me at Wallingford.
He hesitates.
“Forget it,” I say. “Pretend I never—”
He interrupts me. “Do I get a percentage?”
“Twenty-five,” I say. “Twenty-five percent. But you’re going to have to do more than just collect the money for that.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah, okay.”
I grin. “You’re the most trustworthy guy I know.”
