Question Three #2
Sure enough, an old-fashioned trolley appears from the trees.
It’s red and gold, rolling along tracks I hadn’t even noticed, thin power lines running above it.
I am not typically prone to delight or charm, but even I feel a double tap of excitement inside my chest as the trolley crawls closer, bell ringing.
The trolley trembles to a stop in front of us, and the doors fold open. The man sitting in the driver’s seat looks like a drawing of a trolley operator in his black vest and black-and-white conductor’s cap. He doesn’t belong in this century.
He gazes out at us with wide, vacant eyes, lips curved in the barest hint of a smile, yellowed teeth just visible.
Once again, I’m hit with that strange, inexplicable fear.
It’s a twisting in my gut, the same feeling I get when I’m walking alone at night and hear a sound like someone laughing but can’t figure out where it came from.
“All aboard,” the trolley operator calls in a soft, musical voice that reminds me of the tinkling of far-off bells.
The Luminary grounds are like an Andrew Wyeth painting come to life: Gothic in a midcentury, Midwestern way.
Colors seem dimmer, duller, the light hitting in some strange way.
Spindly trees mark the edges of campus, surrounding fields rolling into three distant buildings.
No, not buildings, barns. We move past a narrow creek, water bubbling over stones and twigs, early morning sunlight painting the surface silver, and I spot a row of townhouses huddled in a square, rooftops made of green shingles, ivy climbing the redbrick walls.
As we get closer, sprawling oak trees shade the street, their branches swaying in the breeze.
Everything smells like cinnamon and cardamom, like the air itself is pumpkin spice scented.
Finally, the trolley turns, aiming for the white building I saw when the gates first opened. We’re close enough now that I can see a maroon-and-gold banner flapping at the front doors: Sullivan Hall.
A hush falls over the car as we slowly line up behind the three other trolleys and jerk to a stop. My chest seizes: We’re here.
Everyone’s quiet as we make our way through the halls and enter an auditorium that looks like a brand-new modern theater.
Raised seating surrounds the center of the room on three sides.
On the fourth, there’s a wide black wall flanked by two paper-thin screens.
Tiny lights fleck the ceiling above, reminding me of stars.
A line of people who look barely older than students themselves stand just inside the front doors, wearing matching navy-blue Luminary T-shirts. They help us all find seats.
Scar crowds in close behind me as we make our way down the aisle, her breath hot on my ear. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she mutters, jerking her chin. “Ian.”
I whip around to look, and sure enough, Ian St. Clair sits in the seat nearest the aisle, flap of gold hair hanging over his forehead. My stomach twists unpleasantly.
Ian is Scarlett’s nemesis, except that he doesn’t know that and probably wouldn’t care if he did.
I truly believe Scarlett’s brilliant in her own way.
She’s the kindest person I’ve ever met, and her emotional intelligence is through the roof.
But she’s never been good at school, no matter how hard Tammy pushes her. Her brain just doesn’t work like that.
Still, Tammy can’t let go of her dream of having a kid in the Ivy League, so every year, she convinces Scarlett to sign up for some club that she’s going to hate, Academic Decathlon or Mathletes or Model UN.
And every year, the team from West Central High—Ian’s school—wins.
And Ian is inevitably the captain, the one who walks away with the trophy, whose hand Scarlett has to shake as she fights back tears.
It wouldn’t be so bad if Ian were remotely capable of being a gracious winner.
But no—he has to gloat. When he beat Scar’s debate team at the regional championships last year, he publicly thanked them for making it so easy.
He actually said the words “I’d like to thank the opposing team for making such easily refutable arguments” over a microphone in the auditorium, in front of all of their friends and family.
And last semester, when Scar went up against him in Academic Decathlon, he handed her a tissue in case she cried.
He pulled her aside after the junior science fair and told her she might want to consider a different extracurricular activity.
I heard him say that she “seemed like more of a drama club type.” I happen to know from attending twelve different schools in eleven years that the drama club kids are always the coolest, but I’m still pretty sure Ian meant it as a burn.
Scarlett is mean to exactly no one. Being cruel to her is like kicking a puppy.
And it’s against my religion to let a guy like Ian get away with the last word.
So, I started taking matters into my own hands.
For instance, when Ian was making his way down the aisle of the auditorium, holding his golden debate trophy aloft, gleaming like the all-American boy he is, I tripped him.
Juvenile? Yes. But oh, how I loved watching him drop to the ground like a bag of flour.
“Ignore him,” I murmur to Scar, attempting to distract her by guiding her down an aisle near the back of the room. Seven’s already sitting here, talking to someone with deep brown skin and curly black hair. He has “hottest guy in your improv class” good looks.
The distraction unfortunately works too well. The moment Scar spots the curly-haired boy, she grips my arm and releases a breathy “Oh.”
I’m very used to this. “Scar, no. Not again.”
She shakes her head, eyes never leaving the curly-haired boy. “It’s too late. I love him.”
I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. This happens at least once a month. Scar’s favorite thing is a crush. She’s like a duckling who imprints on the first person she sees. I’ve already lived through six all-consuming obsessions—and I’ve only known her a year.
“Do you want to ask Seven to introduce us?” I ask as we take our seats. But Scarlett turns bright red and quickly shakes her head.
“No, no, absolutely not,” she whispers. She steals another glance at the curly-haired boy and adds, “Ours will be a chaste love. We’ll admire each other from afar but never speak.”
I give her a look that I hope conveys just how obnoxious I find this. “Scar, what the actual fu—”
An authoritative voice suddenly booms over the room, snapping my attention away from Scar. “Now that we’re all seated, let’s get started.”
A woman has appeared behind the podium on the center stage. The screens to either side of her suddenly flicker to life, and now there are three of her. A hush falls over the crowd.
The woman looks middle-aged, with straight, gray hair cut into a sleek bob, and thin wire-frame glasses.
I’d guess she was some sort of secretary or administrative assistant, although I can’t help but notice the lines of her clothes, the way her blazer nips in at the exact right spot on her waist and flares, almost sculpturally, around her hips.
Nondescript, but not boring. I raise an eyebrow, impressed.
“Thank you,” the woman says. “Here at Luminary, we believe in breaking down hierarchical barriers to foster a sense of community and mutual respect. As such, we refer to professors and administrative staff by their given names. You are all welcome to call me…Lynn.” Lynn’s lip twitches, giving me the impression that she doesn’t much care for the idea of being referred to as anything other than ma’am, yes, ma’am.
“I will be acting as your assistant director for the year. Let me take this opportunity to welcome our first fifty students to the inaugural year of Luminary Preparatory Academy.”
A smattering of polite applause breaks out around the auditorium.
“By now, I’m sure you’ll have noticed our support staff,” Lynn continues, gesturing to the people in the Luminary T-shirts who helped us to our seats.
“These young men and women are some of the most talented new educators throughout our beautiful state. They will be acting as teaching assistants for the duration of the year and will be here to help with anything you might need between classes.”
The TA standing nearest our aisle glances down the row of students and gives us a quick wave. She has short, curly red hair, and she’s wearing earrings in the shape of tiny half-moons. A name tag attached to her shirt reads Ashlyn.
“And now, let’s all give a warm welcome to our dean, Wyatt Sullivan,” Lynn says.
The lights in the room suddenly dim. Blue, red, and green spotlights flash across the stage, like we’re at a concert.
A song—some pop thing Scar’s been blasting all summer—booms over the loudspeakers.
I frown at Scar, about to whisper, What the hell is going on?
But before I can get the words out, a man runs onto the stage and—
Does a front flip. A freaking front flip. Right in the middle of the stage.
Everyone in the room breaks out in cheers. I watch, shell-shocked, as a tall, middle-aged white guy with wild salt-and-pepper hair and dark, deep-set eyes takes Lynn’s place behind the podium.
The music fades away, and the lights come back on as our dean, Wyatt Sullivan, leans toward the microphone.
“Thank you for that very warm welcome, Lynn,” Wyatt says, surprisingly only a little out of breath from the front flip.
“And thank you to all of you for being here with us today. Luminary has long been a dream of mine, and I can’t tell you all how excited I am to finally get it off the ground. This is going to be a great year!”