Chapter Six
SIX
After that, Cecilia collects me, not batting an eye when she sees me with Theo instead of Maddox. She takes me to the principal, Ms. Dimitriou, and we have lunch while Ms. Dimitriou gives me my schedule and explains the rules.
While I have a vehicle, students can’t leave without permission and, even then, only on weekends unless there’s an emergency. Weekday evening outings are not allowed. Leaving the property for a walk is not allowed. This is an intensive program and our guardians expect us to embrace it.
“You won’t need to worry about Liliana,” Cecilia says, and I think she means I don’t need to be encouraged to embrace my studies, but then she says, “She won’t be leaving the grounds while she’s here.”
I slowly turn her way. “Excuse me?”
She ignores my tone and addresses Ms. Dimitriou. “Considering her situation, security is very important. People are going to find out who she is, and that poses a risk.”
Ms. Dimitriou bristles. “Not at Westdale.”
“That’s my point. She’s safe here, so here she stays, unless I give my express permission for her to leave.”
“Is this about what happened on the way in?” I say. “It was a rock.”
“What happened?” Ms. Dimitriou’s voice sharpens with concern.
“Liliana was struck by a flying stone,” Cecilia says.
“Obviously it was an accident, but it made me think about her safety. Her grandparents have appointed me as her guardian, and I’ve decided she should stay locked down for a while.
” She looks at me, and her voice softens.
“Take time to settle in. This is a lot, and you need that space.”
“I think I’m old enough to decide what I need. I’ve been doing it since Mom died.”
Cecilia flinches, and I regret mentioning it. Mom was her friend, after all.
“Just take it slow,” Cecilia says. “Once news hits that the Chamberlain heiress has been found, I’ll need to assess the threat level.”
“Are you worried something could happen?” I frown. “Who was supposed to inherit before you found me? Are they a threat?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing like that. The will is structured so that if you weren’t found, your grandparents’ estate would have been divided among various trusts and charities.”
I squirm at the thought that I’ve taken money away from worthy beneficiaries.
Ms. Dimitriou clears her throat, clearly eager to get back on track. “About the security concerns, for the time being, Liliana will stay on the property.” She looks at Cecilia. “Would you like extra security for her?”
“No. For now, I’m just being cautious.”
“Well, please let me know if you change your mind. We are more than happy to accommodate. Let’s move on to your daily routine, Liliana.”
There are thirty-eight students at Westdale this year.
Four periods a day, three classes running concurrently, with between ten and fifteen students in each.
There are specialties within each discipline—like writing or literature for English—but no electives.
Even within the disciplines, my courses have been chosen to align with my future goals.
There aren’t any extracurriculars at Westdale. There’s no time for them. Instead, there are the societies. Ms. Dimitriou runs through those, and then she gets to the Westdale Optima competition.
“Liliana won’t be entering,” Cecilia says.
I turn a slow stare on her, but she ignores it.
“I believe the Optimas are expecting her to run,” Ms. Dimitriou says.
“I’m sure they are. But it’s too dangerous.”
Ms. Dimitriou laughs softly. “Dangerous? It’s not the Hunger Games, Cecilia.” Her voice lowers to a murmur, “Though that might actually make it more interesting.”
When Cecilia glares, Ms. Dimitriou gives a tiny smile. “Sorry, that was supposed to be my inside voice. The competition isn’t dangerous. It’s cutthroat, without any actual cut throats. It’s the most important part of being at Westdale—the reason many parents send their children.”
“Liliana isn’t here for that. She’s here because her grandparents want it, and she doesn’t need to be an Optima. She’s a Chamberlain.”
“But her grandparents are both Optimas and—”
“And Liliana will not be.”
My expression must be thunderous, because Cecilia finally glances over.
“That’s not an insult, Lili,” she says, her voice softening. “You’ve been through a lot, and your job here is to focus on the transition. As I said earlier, you don’t need to make Optima.”
Ms. Dimitriou sneaks me a we’ll talk later look and then says, “All right. Let’s show you to your room.”
We climb to the third floor, and Ms. Dimitriou indicates the first door on our right. She shows me how to unlock it with the last four digits of my new phone number and tells me to just ask for help changing it.
When we walk in, my breath catches. My full ride to the state college had included a shared dorm room with common areas, including a washroom that looked like something from my high school.
Here, I get a private bedroom, with a private en suite bath.
Ms. Dimitriou assures me that I’m welcome to have my own furniture delivered, as many students do.
I look at the four-poster double bed with its thick duvet, the plush armchair and ottoman, the modern desk with an ergonomic chair. I don’t even know what I’d change.
“We’ll let Ms. Dimitriou get back to work,” Cecilia says. “I can help you get settled in, but I’ll need to go soon, and I believe you have…” She checks the schedule on my desk. “Math.”
—
Before I head to class, I consult my map, so I’m not wandering aimlessly. Seeing my class name—Qualitative Analysis and Algebraic Financial Solutions—my stomach clenches. I’ve taken algebra, of course, and I know what qualitative analysis is, but I expected to take it in college.
No, I’ve got this. I already anticipated putting in extra work to catch up. That happens when you change schools, even in the public system. You’re always either ahead or behind.
The lecture hall is set up as a horseshoe. I move toward a guy settling in.
“Are there assigned seats?” I ask.
“No,” grunts a voice behind me. “And if anyone says otherwise, tell them to fuck off. Sit where you want.”
I glance over to see Maddox. As he walks in, he doesn’t look my way. Just heads to the back and pulls out a chair before dropping into it.
I continue to an empty seat—beside the redhead I’d seen with Allegra. “Does anyone normally sit here?”
She smiles up at me. “You do now.” She holds out a hand. “Isolde.”
“I remember. It’s a very pretty name.”
“From some opera. The ice queen.” She tugs at a red curl. “Doesn’t exactly suit me. You’d make a better Isolde, with that gorgeous hair.”
“Ms. Brandt,” a voice says. “May I interrupt?”
Isolde folds her hands on the desk. The speaker is a man in his forties. Dr. Walton. The teacher—or professor, as they apparently call them here.
Everyone quiets down, and class begins.
—
So…math was a disaster. Math has always been one of my best subjects, but here, I was as lost as I’d have been if Dr. Walton had chosen to speak in Finnish. As we leave class, Isolde falls in step beside me and whispers, “That’s not what you were studying before, is it.”
I’m not sure I dare answer. I’ve fallen for all the “new girl” tricks before, like where someone seems to be nice and helpful and is only playing with me. Isolde is a Lilith, after all.
“It’s okay,” Isolde whispers. “It’s not a standard program. Well, not unless you went to one of the Westdale feeder schools, which you didn’t.”
I start to breathe, slowly. She’s right, of course.
“I’ve been the new kid a bunch of times,” I say. “I just always forget this part.”
“I’m happy to help.” When I glance over, she flushes. “Sorry if that was presumptuous. I’m sure you can handle it.”
I’m ready to say yes, I can, but then I see her expression, gaze slightly to the side, as if braced for rejection.
“I’d hate to impose…” I begin.
Her face lights up. “No imposition at all. I’m hardly a math whiz, but I used to tutor at my old school. We have a study period before dinner. Oh, and Allegra is going to invite you to sit at the Lilith table.” She gives me a crooked, sidelong smile. “Just warning you in advance.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” I smile back. “The tutoring offer and the warning.”
She grins. “Anytime. So, what’s next on your schedule?”
—
Next class is English. I’m in Advanced Communication for the Workplace.
Even with the “advanced” part, it sounds like one of those classes for kids who can’t write emails without text-talk.
I try not to be offended. Sure, I’m a business major, but voracious reading means I’ve always been at the top of my English class.
When I arrive, I scan for familiar faces. No Maddox, no Theo, no Isolde. Then I spot Allegra, queen of the Liliths…and she spots me.
“Move,” she says to the poor guy sitting beside her.
He scrambles to another seat. Allegra locks her gaze with mine and motions at the now-empty chair. It’s not a kindness or an order. It’s a challenge.
Will I sit there? Or will I slink into another seat?
I nod, channeling her own cool, and lower myself beside her.
“Interesting dress,” she says.
I tense. I’m supposed to misinterpret that as a compliment and gush my thanks and prattle on about how I just got it and it’s not my usual style but I really like it. And then she’ll smirk and roll her eyes at her classmates, who all understand that she was being sarcastic.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice still coolly polite.
“It needs lipstick,” she says.
I start to say that I don’t usually wear makeup to school, but that would sound as if I’m insulting her for doing so. So I only nod, and as she studies me, I brace for impact.
“You don’t need much makeup,” she says. “Your eyes, to make them pop even more. And lipstick with that dress. Red would be the obvious choice, but it won’t work on you.
” She pulls a tube from her bag. “The company sent me this. Definitely not my color.” She hands it over.
“It’ll work with that dress. You should also try mascara.
Black. No liner. Don’t overdo the goth thing.
The dress and boots work because you don’t seem the type.
It’s the juxtaposition that snaps. Lean into it. ”
I look down at the lipstick. It’s still sealed.
“Try it later,” she says. “If you hate it, pitch it.”
There’s a mean-girl trick here. There must be. But what? The lipstick is unopened, so she hasn’t tampered with it. She’s not telling me to try it on now, which might have left me sitting through class wearing a hideous color.
“Thank you,” I say, a little more genuinely.
“Oh, and you’ll eat dinner with us tonight.”
“I will?”
She meets my gaze. “You will.”
I could refuse, but I do need to join a society, and I should check out the Liliths.
Before I can answer, class begins, and it’s definitely not remedial English for business majors.
Dr. Prior’s emphasis is on clear and persuasive communication in all forms. Right now they’re working on debate strategies, and as someone who spent a year captaining the debate team, I really wish I’d taken this class first.
Dr. Prior looks like a stereotypical English teacher.
Tiny and well past retirement age, with a reedy voice and a puff of white curls.
Then she slices through our arguments like an Olympic fencer with a razor-sharp rapier.
I must be goggle-eyed, because Allegra slides over her phone, open to a Wikipedia page.
Dr. Ester Prior spent fifty years working on political campaigns—as everything from communications director to speech writer to media consultant. She also served as “communications advisor” for two former presidents.
Now this is who I want for a teacher.
Once class ends, Allegra doesn’t ask whether I’ll take her up on her offer. She just says, “I will see you at dinner,” and walks away.