Chapter 31
Those weeks leading up to final exams were harried and miserable. It was unseasonably hot and the humidity was thick. Every time Lennon left Logos—to attend a class or study in the library—she became a feast for the swarming sand gnats that amassed in dense, buzzing clouds around the campus. She thought of Dante often and hated herself for it. After their almost kiss, he’d all but cut her off. He delayed their advisory meetings, which were supposed to occur every week. His office hours were postponed indefinitely. In class, he never made eye contact with her and always left the moment he was done lecturing, perpetually double-booked or late to some task that required his immediate attention. Every appointment Lennon tried to schedule with his secretary was promptly canceled. And once, Lennon had spotted him cutting across campus and had attempted to flag him down. But either Dante hadn’t seen her or, more likely, had intentionally chosen to ignore her, a slight that stung more than Lennon cared to admit.
But despite this abrupt and cruel shunting, Lennon’s feelings for him didn’t diminish.
Quite the opposite, actually.
As a rule, she had always despised the feeling of falling in love. Her experience with Dante was no exception to this, but her resentment toward him—a feeling so strong it could almost be called hatred—was an anomaly and she felt so stupid for allowing him to occupy so much of her headspace, especially now that it was so painfully obvious just how little she mattered to him.
Finals week began, and the campus buzzed with the building anticipation of a long holiday break. Everyone but Lennon seemed excited to return home to their families. Blaine would be yachting in the Maldives with hers (Lennon thought it was rather unfair that she got to be beautiful and rich, and told her as much). Sawyer would head back to Connecticut to spend the holiday with his father. Claude had been sent home prematurely, to recuperate with his family, and Emerson had plans to go to Europe with her girlfriend of the moment, Yumi. But to Lennon, the idea of folding herself back into a life and family she’d left behind felt strange and unbearable, like shoving her feet into boots several sizes too small and then being forced to go hiking in them.
Finals proved easier than Lennon suspected—almost suspiciously so. Most of her written exams were short, no more than six or seven questions long. Meditation was pass or fail, and based entirely on attendance and participation. Persuasion I concluded with a series of brief persuasive exercises that functioned as their final assessment. Thus, four days into finals week—Lennon was free as a bird. Her one and only test taken, her papers for metaphysics turned in. Her first semester at Drayton came to a soft close.
That same week, Lennon said goodbye to her peers at Logos House and left the school via a car parked in the staff parking lot. The driver was a handsome man who looked vaguely embalmed, as if a statue at a wax museum had been brought to life. He didn’t speak and Lennon, dead tired from a string of late nights and early mornings, fell asleep before they’d even left the parking lot. When she woke, they were at the Savannah Airport, where a small jet was waiting to fly her down to Florida.
Apparently, the school didn’t trust her to travel there by elevator.
Three hours after boarding, Lennon landed at the Orlando airport, where her mother—Beverly—was waiting to pick her up. She was slight and tall and beautiful. Her face was very similar to Lennon’s, but their energy was unmistakably different—her mother soft in all the ways that Lennon was sharp, and warm in all the ways her daughter was cold. Upon seeing Lennon, she broke into a jog and pulled her daughter into a tight embrace. But she quickly pushed Lennon away, stepped back to get a real look at her. “You look different. Taller, maybe? Or thinner? I can’t tell. Have you been eating enough?”
It was a fraught question, but Lennon was happy to have a good and honest answer. “Three square meals a day.”
“I believe you,” said her mother. “You look…well.”
“I like to think I am,” she said, and meant it.
Lennon’s sister, Carly, was in the kitchen when they arrived at the house, her hair heaped atop her head and held fast with a large claw clip. Where Lennon favored their mother, Carly favored their father. She had his heavy-lidded eyes, full lips, and blunt brows that made her seem like she was always frowning a bit. But she was actually frowning when Lennon entered the kitchen that day.
“Hey,” said Lennon, that one word breaking the silence that had lapsed between them since their last argument. It had begun after Lennon had called Carly, drunk at 3:00 a.m., just a few days after her big move to Colorado, one that Carly had strongly advised against. Lennon had been crying about her life and all of the things that had gone wrong with it, and Carly had been silent on the line for some time. But she would never forget the way her sister’s voice sounded when—ten minutes into the call—she finally spoke in a strained monotone: “You’re self-absorbed and annoying and at some point, you’ll have to accept the fact that at the center of all of your many problems is you. And making those problems everyone else’s problem isn’t the same as actually dealing with your shit.”
Lennon wasn’t sure if she’d hung up on Carly or if Carly had hung up on her, but they hadn’t spoken since.
“You’re smoking again,” she said to Lennon.
“No, I’m not,” Lennon snapped. But it was a half lie. She’d begun smoking socially a few weeks after she’d begun studying at Drayton, a bad habit she shared with most of the student body and faculty. “Not often anyway.”
Carly narrowed her eyes. She was a lawyer, gunning for partner at a big firm in New York, and as such, she was cutthroat, and smart in a way that often scared Lennon. Which is not to say she was unkind, but hers was a kindness that was packaged in a thick wrapping of brutal and incisive honesty. It kept Lennon in a state of perpetual tension, hanging on her every word, waiting for whatever truth would break her, because when it came to Carly, inevitably something that she said would.
“You know me and my nasty habits,” said Lennon, the self-deprecation itself a kind of olive branch.
Carly received it as such and dragged her into a tight hug, her bony shoulder cutting deep into Lennon’s windpipe. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said.
That night, they ate dinner on the patio off the kitchen, which overlooked a wide swath of lush, green golf course, and a murky pond with a fountain spitting in the middle of it. There was an alligator sunning on its far bank, large and black and fat with possums or deer or the neighborhood dogs that had made the fatal mistake of venturing too close to the water’s edge.
Her mother beamed at the girls. “It’s nice to have the gang back together, isn’t it, Joseph?”
“Sure is,” said Lennon’s father. He was a quiet man—slight and furtive—but seemed even more ill at ease than usual in Lennon’s presence. Had they been apart long enough to become strangers, she wondered, staring across the table at him. Or had he always been so acutely uncomfortable in her presence, and time had just smoothed over the memory?
The questions about Lennon’s life came over dessert. They’d spent the whole meal stepping carefully around the elephant in the room that was the abrupt end to Lennon’s now-broken engagement and her subsequent enrollment at Drayton. But she’d known it was only a matter of time before her mother or Carly started fishing for details. What she hadn’t expected, though, was her father to ask first. “You said you were studying in Savannah?”
“Yep.”
“Studying where?” Carly inquired, eyes flickering up from her ice cream. “SCAD?”
“No. You know I suck at art.”
Her mother lifted a glass of wine to her lips. “Then where?”
“A place called Drayton.”
“Never heard of it,” said her father, frowning. He’d grown up in Brunswick, before moving north to Augusta for college. “Is that some sort of unaccredited for-profit thing…like that Griffin University or whatever it’s called?”
“Of course not,” said Lennon, bristling a bit. “Drayton is nothing like that.”
“What are you studying there?” Carly inquired, which was really one of the worst questions she could’ve asked, second only to Can I visit? Lennon found herself desperately wishing that the admin at Drayton had offered something by way of advice when it came to handling inquiries (or inquisitions, as the case was then) about Drayton. Something as simple as a brochure or a website to appease anxious parents would’ve been helpful. But then, Lennon realized that they had already equipped her with everything she needed to handle a conversation like this one. In fact, she’d spent the entire semester’s worth of persuasion classes preparing for just such a time as this. If she’d wanted to—with half a thought—she could’ve shut the conversation down, made them all forget it had ever happened. But the fact that that thought had even occurred to her made her stomach clench with guilt. Who was she?
“I, um…I study the human condition,” said Lennon.
Carly narrowed her eyes. “So, psychology?”
“Not quite. But it’s related.”
Her mother looked quite alarmed. “And that’s…an accredited course?”
“Yes. At least I think so.”
Carly raised an eyebrow. “How do you not know?”
“How long will you be in school?” her father asked, chattier than he usually was. More curious. Frankly, Lennon wasn’t used to him being interested in the particulars of her life and it made her uncomfortable.
“I’m supposed to stay for at least two years,” said Lennon.
There was a long silence at the table, and for a fleeting moment Lennon believed that this portion of the conversation had come to an end. But then Carly spoke up: “And you’re sure this isn’t…you know…”
“No,” said Lennon, looking up at her sister. “I don’t. What are you trying to say?”
Her mother, who could see where this was going, issued a low: “Girls.”
Carly waved her off, affixed her gaze to Lennon. “You’re sure this isn’t just another way for you to run away?”
A long and uncomfortable silence settled over the table.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“You don’t… think so? You take off in the middle of the night—breaking your engagement—and turn up across the country studying at some random-ass school that no one has ever heard of, and you don’t think that’s running away? Do you hear yourself?”
Lennon realized—with a searing flash of hurt and shame—that her family thought she was lying, thought that Drayton was all some large and elaborate ruse to cover up the fact that she was just, once again, choosing to flee from her problems instead of facing them. And could she really blame them, given her history?
Lennon had run away no less than six times as a teenager. On more than one occasion, after a nasty fight with her parents, she’d fled into the night with no money or belongings, except the clothes on her back and the cell phone buzzing in the pocket of her jeans. When she snuck out to parties, she often didn’t bother going home after they ended, preferring instead to wander the streets alone deep into the wee hours of the morning, returning home sometimes days later, in smeared makeup, with her heels dangling from hooked fingers. It was sick, but back then she had liked the power of punishing people with her absence. Of making herself disappear only to turn up again, like some twisted little magic trick.
She liked to think she’d grown up since then. But had she really?
“The night I left Colorado, I caught Wyatt fucking my only friend in the state. And yes, when I saw that I ran. I fled the house, stole Wyatt’s car, and drove off. I ended up in the parking lot of this abandoned mall…” Lennon realized she couldn’t tell them the rest of the story without risking another involuntary psych hold. “When I found Drayton—or when Drayton found me—I felt like for the first time I had something to run toward instead of from. I still feel that way, and if you can’t see it then I don’t blame you, because I think to you, I’m always going to be this drunk teenage girl running away from…hell knows what. But I’m not that person anymore, and if you give me a chance, I’d like to prove it.”
Her mother reached across the table, squeezed Lennon’s hand. Her smile was pained and pitying. “If you’re happy, we’re happy.”
After dinner, Lennon’s mother handed her a letter from the mail stack. It was sheathed in a crisp, white envelope. It was addressed to her in filigreed calligraphy and it had a gilded stamp that depicted some sort of gargoyle-like creature. It had no return address.
“What’s this?” Lennon inquired, holding it up. But she already knew who it was from. What she couldn’t figure out, though, was how they’d known where to send it.
“I don’t know. It came in the mail this morning. In fact, the postman knocked and hand-delivered it. Made me sign for it and everything.”
Lennon slit the letter open, withdrew a hard piece of parchment paper, embossed with the Drayton letterhead in the left corner. It read:
Ms. Carter,
It is our great pleasure to inform you that you’ve passed your first semester at Drayton, and we look forward to welcoming you back to campus in the new year. The spring semester will resume on January 22, and you will resume your studies under the supervision of Dr. Alec Becker, your newly appointed advisor.
Please dial the number below to confirm your attendance.
Fondly,
The Drayton Registrar’s Office
At the bottom of the letter was a telephone number, along with a list of her spring-semester classes, which she didn’t even bother to read.
Lennon crumpled everything in a closed fist, her heart hammering against her sternum. She knew that Dante had been distancing himself ever since their near kiss—that, he’d made painfully clear—but she’d never actually suspected, or even considered, that he would pass her off to Alec Becker, Ian’s advisor, of all people. He’d abandoned her, he’d really done it, and he hadn’t even had enough care or decency to do it himself, so he’d passed the task off to some admin at Drayton, as if she wasn’t important enough to warrant an actual conversation.
And maybe she wasn’t.
The hurt came then, her cheeks warming with it, and then the anger after that. The last time she’d felt this betrayed had been the night, months ago now, that she’d found Wyatt screwing Sophia in their shared bathroom. But that betrayal had felt somehow more…familiar. Expected even, in its own way. If she was being honest with herself, she had never really expected things to work out with Wyatt. But with Dante it was different. Why was it different? Had she really been dumb enough to assume that he not only shared her feelings, but could reciprocate them in such a way as to actually amount to something like a relationship? Dante didn’t even seem like the type, and maybe that was exactly why she wanted him so much.
She hated herself for that. Almost as much as she hated him.
“What does it say?” her mother asked, nodding at the letter, just as nosy as she ever was. But she wasn’t the only one watching. Carly was gazing at her from across the living room with a knitted brow, sensing trouble, and even her father had torn his gaze away from his football game to watch the scene unfold.
Lennon shoved the crumpled letter into the pocket of her pajamas. “Nothing,” she said. “Just junk mail.”
That night, while the rest of her family was sound asleep, Lennon picked up the landline phone on her nightstand and dialed the number at the bottom of the crumpled letter. She decided that if Dante wanted to be an asshole, she would follow suit.
A woman’s voice answered after three long rings. “This is the Drayton Registrar’s Office. Is this Lennon speaking?”
“Yes. I need to speak to Professor Lowe,” she said, and just saying his name over the phone was enough to get her heart racing. She’d rehearsed the conversation several times in her head before she’d actually worked up the courage to call. She’d honed her strategy, refined her threats, decided that she would adopt a tone of cool detachment, just like his.
“Professor Lowe isn’t in right now.”
Her heart sank. Surprisingly, stupidly, she hadn’t planned for this. “Well, then could you give me his home phone number? I really need to speak with him.”
“I’m afraid that’s not an option.”
“Fine,” Lennon snapped. “Then let me just leave a message. Will you relay it to him?”
“If it’s an urgent matter—”
“It is. Tell Dante I won’t be returning to school next semester if he’s no longer my advisor. Tell him I’ll withdraw.”
A long and staticky pause. The voice changed slightly, going deeper, the syllables stretched like a slowed recording. “Thank you for your call.”
The line went dead.
Lennon should have gone to sleep after that, but instead she lay awake, fueled by the weak hope that Dante might return her call. An hour passed, then two, and still nothing. She got up and went to the kitchen, made herself a cup of tea and turned on one of her mom’s old period pieces, a stylized regency where everyone wore shapeless pastel dresses and little ringlet curls around their ears.
Lennon was a half hour into the movie when Carly entered the living room, dressed in an overlarge sweatshirt she’d owned since they were in middle school. It was a wonder that it was in such good condition, given that it was so old. But it was pristine, like all of Carly’s belongings. Everything she owned or loved or tended to was all the better for it—boyfriends, pets, plants, it didn’t matter. Lennon was the one exception to this rule, and she knew that it bothered Carly.
“I have melatonin if you want some,” said Carly, sitting down on the couch, an awkward distance between them.
“I don’t need it,” she said, which was a lie.
On-screen, the heroine of the movie ran through a forest of dead trees, her white nightgown billowing behind her.
“You know, as a kid, I always fucking hated this movie,” said Carly. “I was sick with jealousy because you and Mom loved it so much and I just didn’t get it. I couldn’t even admit it was kind of good until I rewatched it as an adult. And even then, it was hard.”
“Wait, you were jealous of me ?” This was new. It had always been Carly and her mom’s closeness that Lennon was jealous of. Perpetually the outsider looking in through the window of their relationship. They were the ones who were more alike, resolute and reliable, so steady and sure of themselves in a way that Lennon decidedly was not.
“Of course I was jealous,” said Carly, not looking at her. “Mom might like me better, but she loves you more.” Lennon opened her mouth to challenge that statement, but Carly cut quickly to a new topic of conversation before she had the chance. “So, are you going to tell me what you’re actually studying at that school?”
“The human condition—”
“Yes, you said that over dinner. But I want a straight answer. What are you really studying?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Try me.”
Lennon did try, but when she opened her mouth to speak of the magic of Drayton, its strange curriculum, she gagged on the words.
Carly sprang to her feet and bolted to the kitchen with surprising speed, grabbed a glass out of the cabinet, filled it with water, and returned. “Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you?”
Lennon waved her off. “I’m okay. I guess this is what happens when we try to talk about it.”
Carly set the glass of water on the coffee table and sat down. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re not meant to. And if I tried to make you understand, then…”
“Then what, Lennon?”
“Then I wouldn’t be able to. Something would stop me.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind,” she said. “Forget it.”
“Lennon, I—”
“I said forget it,” said Lennon again, and this time she made it reality, erasing the past few beats of conversation, to the moment just before Carly asked her what she really studied at Drayton. It was surprisingly easy entering Carly’s mind, for all her stubbornness. Lennon had once heard it rumored that it was easier to persuade those you were already bonded with. Romantic partners were apparently the easiest to manipulate, but family members were a close second. This was certainly true for Carly, whose memories Lennon was able to carefully extract with more ease than the rats they’d experimented on in Dante’s class.
It was only when she drew away from Carly that she saw that she might’ve made a mistake. Carly’s chin began to tremble, creasing up the way it always did before she was about to cry. “I…I feel like I’m coming down with a migraine or something.”
Lennon, sick at the sight of what she’d done, wrapped an arm around her sister and helped her to her feet. “It’s okay,” she whispered, walking her back to her bedroom. “You’re just tired. It’s okay. You’ll be okay.”