Chapter Eight
EIGHT
It takes a while for me to fall asleep, and then it’s fitful, me tossing and turning, all the anxieties of the day rushing back.
I’ve been congratulating myself on coping so well, but the truth is that I’m madly stuffing all my fears and worries into boxes and shoving them on a shelf, and once night comes, all those boxes topple down on my head.
I’m struggling to accept that I’m never going back to my old school, my old life. Whenever I’ve changed schools before I’ve always had time to say proper goodbyes. Mom and Dad were so careful about that—moving during summer break and telling me at least a month in advance.
Why had we moved so much? I’d never asked.
It’d just been part of my life, and it wasn’t as if my parents woke me at midnight, telling me to pack my things.
But it also wasn’t as if my dad had the kind of job where your company moves you around.
He’d worked at this and that, usually in an office, and each time we moved, he changed jobs.
I know people can move around chasing work, but Dad never had that problem. When we met his bosses, they always made a point of telling my mom what a great employee he was, how happy they were to have him. But then we’d hit the road again.
Whatever struggles we endured as a family, whatever tensions I felt hearing my parents whispering late at night about moving again, I could hold fast to three indisputable facts:
My mom and dad were both amazing parents.
They loved each other.
They loved me.
As a family, we were outrageously happy, and losing them was…
Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror, and I see the cracks, a shattered girl painstakingly pieced back together, those cracks still visible.
I want to imagine myself as one of those Japanese bowls repaired with gold.
I love the concept of kintsugi—that the breaks make me stronger and better.
Someday, I want to put one of those bowls on a shelf and say, “That’s me.
” But it’s not me, not yet. My cracks are fixed with the cheapest paste.
What keeps me going is knowing that, as much as I’ve lost, I had more than most people ever get. My parents were incredible, and everything I am today I owe to them. I might be at Westdale because of Mom’s name, but if I flourish here, it will be a tribute to what they made me.
And yet, I have questions. So many questions.
When a floorboard creaks overhead, I glance up at the ceiling. Another creak, along with the soft pad of footsteps. I ignore it and return to my thoughts.
Did my father go to Westdale? If everyone thought Mom got pregnant here, then that would seem to mean he attended—
Another creak overhead stops me, the footsteps moving on just as I realize that I’m on the top floor. There can’t be anyone walking up above me.
No, there must be another level. Or I’m just hearing the creak of a very old house.
I roll over in bed and open my nightstand drawer to take out a notepad and pen. I haven’t quite shut the blind, so there’s enough light for me to see as I jot down notes.
Whether or not I join the Liliths, I still want to answer questions about my parents. I could start with yearbooks. Look up—
My door makes an odd little noise. A low beep that I recognize but…
It’s the noise it made when I first tried the keyed combination. I’d typed the default in wrong, and it lit up red with that little beep.
Is there someone at my door?
I go very still, and when I strain, I pick up the faint sound of the buttons being pressed. Another error beep.
Someone is at my door. Entering the wrong code.
Because they have the wrong room. Sure, we’re supposed to be in bed by eleven on school nights, but when I was talking to the others tonight, they assured me it isn’t as if some kind of alarm sounds if we leave our room.
Westdale is considered a transitional state between boarding school and college—there’s a curfew, but it’s your responsibility to follow it, because you’re old enough to make your own bad choices.
Someone is returning from another room—talking with a friend or fooling around with a partner—and they tried my door by accident. Except my room is right by the stairs, which makes it hard to mistake for another one. And it’s very clearly marked with my name.
After Ms. Dimitriou left us this morning, Cecilia showed me how to change the code and insisted I do it immediately for safety. The “last four digits of your phone number” is a very easy code to crack, especially if that’s everyone’s default.
What if someone entered that default code, presuming that as a new student I hadn’t changed it yet?
What if someone is trying to get into my room, while I sleep?
I tell myself I’m overreacting, but I still slip to the peephole and look out. No one’s there.
I pull on sweatpants and tuck in my oversized sleep shirt. I open the door and peer both ways. No one in the hall. No one descending the stairs.
For a moment, I pause, thinking. Then I slip out, creep along the corridor and peek around the corner.
Empty.
I ease along, rolling my bare feet. At the end of the hall, there’s an attic door in the ceiling, like in a house we’d rented once, but this one doesn’t have any way to lower it.
I’d heard footsteps overhead. Was someone creeping through the attic? The same someone who tried my door?
Okay, I’ve definitely read too many thrillers. Clearly, whoever came this way must have ducked into one of the bedrooms I passed.
Someone tried to get into my room. Was it just a prank? Or…
I don’t know what that “or” would have been. But I do know one thing: Maddox is right; I need to be careful. I sleep with the light on that night.
—
I’ve just drifted off when someone raps softly at my door.
“Lil?”
My eyes snap open. That sounds like Theo.
It’s the middle of the night. Why would Theo Dubois be at my door?
Someone had just tried to get into my room. Someone whose own room is presumably on this floor. Someone who’d know the default door code, because he asked for my phone number.
My stomach clenches.
He’d been too nice earlier today, and I knew that, deep down. Guys like Theo Dubois aren’t nice to girls like me, not unless they have an agenda.
Did his story about wanting more Optima competition make sense?
No, and yet I’ve been doing backflips to convince myself it does because I want to justify his interest in me.
I know that interest isn’t romantic. Sure, he’d said he’d seen me and wanted to get to know me better, and my ego would love to believe it, but I’m not that gullible.
Theo suspects I’ll run for Optima, and he’s setting himself up as an ally to control the competition. Part of that could mean sneaking into my room at night and doing something like planting drugs to knock me from the race before we even declare we’re running.
“Liliana?”
Is he trying to get me to let him in now? Take another run at whatever he has planned? Because of course I’ll let a hot guy in at…
I lift my head to peer at the clock: 7:54.
I bolt upright. That can’t be right. My alarm was set for seven—
An image flashes. My alarm going off. Me smacking it to silence and then shutting my eyes, just for a second.
Theo is here because we’d agreed to meet at seven-thirty so he could walk me through the breakfast routine.
I yank on my sweatpants, tug at my shirt, and then crack open the door to peek out. Theo stands there, looking sleepy himself, his hazel eyes clouded with concern.
“You okay?” he whispers.
“I accidentally turned off my alarm,” I say. “Now I’m late and—”
Theo lifts his hands. “It’s fine. Breakfast isn’t a served meal. Classes start at eight-thirty. But are you okay? Ma—Someone said your light was on last night. Couldn’t sleep?”
“Wired from yesterday.”
“It must be overwhelming,” he says, leaning in as I open the door another crack. He smells of aftershave, his hair still damp, his eyes softer than usual, as if he hasn’t woken and pulled on his armor yet.
I swallow hard. Yesterday, Theo Dubois was a lot. But at 8 a.m., standing outside my bedroom door, sleepy and unguarded and worried about me and smelling so good?
Too much.
I have to fight the urge to withdraw into my room. Or to grab him by the shirtfront and pull him into—
Where the hell did that come from?
Lack of sleep. Definitely.
“Lil?”
“Sorry. I’m out of it. Thanks for the wake-up.”
“Do you eat breakfast?”
I quirk a half-smile. “Most important meal of the day.”
A laugh that’s far too soft for Theo Dubois. “It is. Can I grab you something?”
“No, I just need a few minutes to get ready. I’ll still have time to eat.”
“I’ll wait for you. Fifteen?”
“Ten.”
“See you then.”
—
Breakfast really is informal. Most students just grab and go. We take our plates into the lounge and talk quietly as we eat.
I don’t mention someone being at my door last night. Theo had already warned me about Natalia and Jayden, and maybe I should tell about that encounter, but…
I need to be more careful about trusting Theo. Last night, Natalia tried to scare me out of the race. Theo could be taking another tact, one that would work far better: charismatic guy befriends the new girl on the pretense of teaming up, and gradually convinces her not to run.
I’m also aware that I can’t trust myself. I would love to think “charismatic guy” is never going to work with me. A day ago, I might have actually believed that. But then I met Theo, and I have discovered I am not as immune as I thought.
I’m more concerned about what Theo said earlier. That someone saw my light on last night. I didn’t miss Theo saying “Ma—” before rerouting. Theo’s redirection seems significant. He was avoiding saying the name, because it’s someone he’s not supposed to be friendly with.
Maddox.
How would Maddox have seen my light on? And why would he be telling Theo?