Chapter Nine #2
I know all about a tragedy affecting my life, though I wasn’t necessarily close to Isla.
And that’s on me. That’s the regret I’ll live with for the rest of my life, especially if she never comes out of this coma.
But that tragedy, should it ever come to pass, will have to get in line behind all the other rocks thrown into the lake of my life.
Connor’s words and attitude fill me with simmering rage, and I clutch my fists in my lap. I feel like I might explode. And then, when I see the arrogant expression on his face, I do.
“Must be nice, not taking any responsibility for your shortcomings and blaming them all on a girl who’s fighting for her life while in a coma,” I retort, not caring that my annoyance is on full display. “She can’t even defend herself against your accusations.”
He jumps to his feet, the glower on his face making me shrink away from him. “But you can? You don’t even know her, Billie. You don’t know anyone at this school, which has me thinking you should keep your shitty opinions to yourself.”
Before I can respond, Connor is walking away, his long strides taking him out of the dining hall in seconds. I sit in my feelings for a few minutes once he’s gone, sipping my lukewarm coffee. A part of me is full of regret that I pushed him too far.
I shouldn’t have said that about Isla, but my emotions have been on edge since last night, and I’m sure his have been all over the place since the night his sister died. I can’t judge him. I shouldn’t insult him, either.
But I also can’t lie to myself—he infuriated me.
He’s so sure Isla hurt Emily, even though none of the articles I’ve read have offered a single reason why that might have been true.
Probably because it isn’t true. It’s like the whole world decided that the easiest way to process the tragedy of Emily’s death was to blame Isla, who can’t defend herself or offer an alternative explanation for what happened that night.
No one seems to care that Isla and Emily were best friends—or maybe it’s just that everyone has decided their friendship doesn’t matter.
If anyone bothered to consider that Isla and Emily were as close as sisters …
As close as sisters are supposed to be, I remind myself.
The thought grinds my runaway anger to a halt. The world may have failed Isla, but I failed her first. If I never get the chance to apologize to her, the least I can do is clear her name.
With a sigh, I grab my phone and pull up the photos of the Autographs page in the back of Isla’s yearbook, looking for some sort of clue yet again.
“LLAMAS ’08” is written in my sister’s loopy script above a list of names: Ashworth.
Pembroke. Vale. Carmichael. Harrington. Canterbury.
I don’t get the “llamas” part. What does that even mean?
Does Wickham have a mascot, and is it, inexplicably, a llama?
No way. That’s too silly.
I study the names again, trying to connect dots.
They make me think of the circled faces in last year’s yearbook.
Some of the surnames match, but not all of them.
I need to find a yearbook from 1997-1998, but where?
The library, maybe? In a place like Wickham, obsessed with its own legacy, surely there’s an archive of them. I should ask the librarian.
Zooming in on the photo, I see there’s a last name separated from all the rest, and I recognize it—Arnaud.
My mother’s maiden name. Acronyms are written beside it: “ACMER?” and “ARTSMER?” What does all of it mean?
If I had to decipher the acronyms, I’d guess they could stand for some sort of academic or arts scholarship, like what Connor has.
Maybe? I might be reaching, but it’s possible.
I stare off into the distance, lost in thought. Remembering how cute Connor was when he smiled. When he said arseholes. And when he grabbed my hand and our palms connected? The touch was brief, but I felt it. A pulse of heat seemed to pass from my skin to his, and I can’t explain what it was.
Chemistry? More like the zing of irritation. Though wouldn’t Mom be thrilled that the boy I’m crushing on is into art like she used to be? They’d have something in common, a subject they could talk about passionately—
Wait. A. Second.
The boy I like? Please. I’m not crushing on Connor. I can’t. And my mother will never have the opportunity to meet him, let alone have an entire conversation with him about art. What sort of delulu land am I living in, anyway?
It’s obvious I need more coffee.
…
Halfway through the school day, I take a break from the grind, desperate to get away even if it’s just for a few minutes.
I hide out in my dorm room and eat a sandwich, enjoying the peace and quiet.
No Priya and Abigail conversing in French.
No ghosts lingering in the room as I cry myself to sleep.
No professors droning on about a boring subject I don’t give a damn about.
Most everyone has left me alone today, and it’s been nice.
Not a single tear has been shed the entire day so far, either, and I consider that a win.
Once I finish my sandwich, I toss the wrapper in the tiny trash can by my desk and go to the closet to check my hair and make sure there’s nothing in my teeth before I head back out. I throw open the door and gasp when I see the mirror hanging inside.
Someone took a berry-pink lipstick and drew circles over and over again in the center of the mirror. And written beneath the angry circles are the words fucking bitch!
Just like the Polaroid I found my first day here.
I whip out my phone and take a bunch of pictures of the damage. Then I proceed to grab a makeup wipe and get rid of the lipstick, scrubbing extra hard over the nasty words meant for me.
After I’m finished, I wrap the makeup wipe with a tissue and toss it in the trash, not wanting anyone like my roomie—or her toxic best friend—to see the evidence.
Destruction-wise, using lipstick on a mirror is fairly harmless, but the words sting.
And when I check the pictures I took, I realize the scribbled circles completely obliterate my face. Exactly like the photo I found.
Someone wants to make me disappear.
And I need to figure out who.