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“Yes.”
Usually at this point, Arabella would turn, huffily, to the nearest teacher to tattle on the chiefs. Today, she sinks into her chair and scribbles moodily in the margins of her notebook.
Mr. Stevenson has little patience, either. “Can you expresswhyyou feel a content warning is required for a Gothic fantasy novel from the early nineteenth century?”
“It’s basic respect. Dismissing othering via patriarchal tropes has negative dualist connotations. It’s literally perpetuating bigoted lookist ideologies, ingrained in imperial oppression.”
Finlay gazes at her blankly, his cheek slumped on his hand, and mutters beneath his breath, “Parklife.”
“‘Lookist ideologies’? Why do you relate so much to Frankenstein’s monster?” Rory tilts his head to the side. “Who made you?”
Again, Arabella slumps into silence. It seems she’s spent all her energies on that single convoluted declaration.
“Debate and discussion is good,” our teacher says. “Mr. Munro, I sense you’re of the opposite opinion?”
“Yes. Respect isearned. You don’t just demand it, otherwise it’s entitled mollycoddling. I doubt Shelley cares if some student in the twenty-first century believes she’s committed the crime of whatever -ism’s popular today — she’s long dead. And, frankly, a book doesn’t give a damn about you being offended — it’s an inanimate object. But then, you still have to learn that, don’t you, since you were famously caught screaming at one.”
Arabella stares straight ahead, lips taut, her flushed cheeks darkening to scarlet. Rory stares at her, waiting for her to snap like her usual yappy terrier-like self, but only silence comes.
“It’s also a good way to get out of doing any work, I suppose,” Rory drawls, and I know he’s deliberately provoking her now. “‘Can’t read beyond page twelve, I swooned into the fainting couch because I wastoo offended.’”
Again, Arabella offers no retort. Rory looks mildly unsettled.
“I think we’ll leave it there,” Mr. Stevenson says. “I’m sorry there was no class yesterday. As I said, it wasn’t my decision.” With a lingering look at Arabella, he adds, “And pleasedobother to read all of the assigned texts. Your grade depends on it.”
As we pack away our books, Rory stares after Arabella, who drifts away from the classroom as if completely untethered. He meets my gaze, perplexed. “Something’s up with her.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “I think she’s still upset about the whole library thing.”
Rory packs quickly, cramming his books into his bag at random. He grabs my wrist and encourages me to follow. I watch as he dashes out the door, trying to catch Arabella.
“Hey!” I hear him call. “Hey, you!”
Arabella stops in the middle of the stone corridor. She spins, languidly, on her heel. She has no drive, no impetus. Her expression is so glazed and vacant, it’s beyond dreamy and into something deeper, darker, as if she won’t float away but drown. I know that look well — because before Lochkelvin, it had been me.
“What’s wrong with you?” Rory barks.
“Nothing.”
Unconvinced, Rory steps forward, trying to be menacing, but really I know he’s achingly curious. “Whatever you’re playing at, it’s weird, Baxter, all right? Cut it out.”
Arabella gives him the ghost of a smile. She says nothing to the point it becomes eerie. But then, eventually, she murmurs, “Who knew that to get your attention I just had to say nothing.”
We watch as she walks, drifts, down the hallway. Finlay and Danny join us, and all four of us are utterly bewildered.
42
Even at dinner, Baxter doesn’t mention why the castle had operated under lockdown last night. The younger years had treated it as a game; the teachers, a drill. To Baxter, it may as well never have existed.
What ruse is this, I ask myself, digging into mashed turnip.For what purpose is she hiding that something big must have happened to trigger Lochkelvin’s highest security response?
The only message she delivers at the lectern relates to our forthcoming trip to Dunhaven, for which she reminds all sixth years to pack early. Although I’d had severe doubts I’d made the list, I’d checked before entering the dining hall and saw with some astonishment my full name written in fine black ink. Not at the bottom, either, even though it’d been ordered based on house points — Finlay, on -145 house points, took that prized spot instead.
I sense the frustration in the castle from those who seek answers. Some will always be concerned only with that which exists beneath their nose, but the tension in the hall thickens from those who are paying attention when Baxter sits without offering a decent explanation. And with the newspapers in Lochkelvin forever a day behind, it means we’ll have to tune into the world’s dorkiest radio station to learn the skewed version of the truth from our enemies instead.
In politics class, Rory grimly thunks the radio onto his desk. We gather around it, the focal point of the room, our window to the outside. It’s cozy, like something from decades ago, as if we’re listening to wartime broadcasts on the wireless.
“I’m not looking forward to this,” Danny murmurs. His lips brush the crown of my head as I place it on his shoulder. To Rory, he asks, “Have you listened?”
