Question Four #4
Zo laughs and zips her backpack up again. She doesn’t zip it all the way closed, though. And it might be my imagination, but I think I see the glimmer of a small, black eye peering out from behind that book.
The sun has already started to set when we leave the cafeteria. Massive oaks crowd the grounds, branches crisscrossing the darkening sky, gas lanterns flickering behind warped glass.
All of a sudden, Tattoos separates from the dark like a shadow peeling away from the wall.
“Hey,” he says, knocking his shoulder against mine. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m pretty sure I recognize you.”
“That’s probably because you’ve been staring at me all day,” I tease him.
“Touché,” Tattoos says, smiling with half his mouth. “I’m Rani.”
“Lia,” I say.
Seven suddenly slides between us. “Hi,” they say to Rani, their voice practically a purr. “I’m Seven. I don’t think we’ve met.”
Rani’s eyes don’t leave my face. “Rani.”
“Rani,” Seven repeats. They glance at me. “And which dorm did you get, Rani?”
“Protector.”
Seven purses their lips. “Protector. Interesting.” They fall back a step and mouth zaddy behind Rani’s back. I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Rani pretends not to notice. “You?”
“Innovator,” I tell him.
“Innovator, nice. That’s just through the trees from Protector.” Rani smiles.
I feel a smile tug at my lips, largely against my will, and I’m about to respond when a faint, high pitched sound cuts through the grounds. I go still, skin prickling.
“Was that a scream?” Zo asks.
I swallow. It certainly sounded like one.
“Maybe it was some kind of animal,” I mutter. The others don’t look convinced, but after a moment, we all start walking again.
We eventually reach a crossroads, and I say my goodbyes to Rani, Mando, and Scarlett (Scarlett hugging me for a little longer than the other two, and hastily wiping a tear from her cheek when I let her go) and head down the right-hand path with Seven and Zo.
The Innovator dormitory appears between the trees like a dream: a sprawling white farmhouse with a wraparound porch, twinkly lights hanging from the trees casting everything in a soft, golden glow.
My breath catches. The house feels like something out of a movie—big picture windows, a porch swing swaying lightly in the breeze, lightning bugs flickering lazily through the yard, competing with the twinkly lights.
“That can’t be it,” Zo says. Her voice is almost reverent. “We get to live there?”
“Better than where you used to live?” I ask.
“I used to live in my car.” She says this like a challenge.
I want to ask her more about that. Did she live in a car with her parents?
Did she run away from home? But I have a lot of practice with people who don’t want to talk about their pasts, and I’ve learned when to keep my thoughts to myself. “This’ll be a bit better, then.”
Zo watches me for a second longer, and then she pulls a dinner roll out of her pocket and feeds it to her backpack.
Inside the dormitory, raw wooden beams crisscross a ceiling of whitewashed wood.
Simple wrought iron chandeliers dangle from the beams, casting a dim yellow glow over knotty pine floors and vintage rugs.
I catch a sliver of living room through the front hall, the corner of a massive stone fireplace, crackling flames.
My room is on the third floor, second door on the right.
It’s bigger than I expected, with a pitched roof and a full-sized bed, a heavy wooden desk shoved under the window.
My backpack and suitcase are next to my closet, so I start to put my clothes away, carefully placing vintage band tees in my new dresser, hanging jackets.
Finally, I get to my lockpick set and beloved iCopy machine.
Last summer, I figured out you can clone those magnetic key cards they have in hotels using an iCopy, and I nabbed one off eBay for $200.
Scarlett and I spent three months sneaking into the fanciest hotel pools in Springfield, floating in perfect blue water while the sun blazed overhead.
I remember feeling so free, like the entire city was a series of puzzles that only I could unlock.
Which is why it feels bittersweet to scoop the tools off my bed and shove them to the very back of my closet, where I won’t have to think about them.
For the remainder of this school year, I vow to resist the urge to pick locks.
I’ll go cold turkey. From this moment on, I’m on the straight and narrow.
I won’t get kicked out of this school. Not with my entire future on the line.
I’m about to close the closet door when I notice something on the very back of the wall that makes me pause.
Notch marks. Three sets of four vertical slashes, each crossed with one diagonal to mark five. Fifteen notches total.
I step inside the closet and run my finger along the notches. The wood around the cuts is raw and splintery, pricking my skin. Like they’ve been freshly carved. The back of my neck tingles with nerves.
It could be anything. But it looks like a countdown.