46 Students Remaining #5
It wouldn’t be that bad if Ian were remotely capable of pacing himself.
But he has only one setting, and that setting is work.
Once, I told him I needed to use the bathroom, and he shot me the most poisonous look I’ve ever seen and said, “I’d have assumed you were potty trained by now, Michaels.
” I have not mentioned the bathroom again since.
“Check it out,” Seven says suddenly, jerking their chin toward the window. I turn and spot Zo crouched in the yard just outside, her hair still tucked beneath the blue silk bonnet she sleeps in. She has one hand stretched out and appears to be offering a small red fox some food.
“Is she trying to make friends with that fox?” I ask.
Seven shrugs. “No idea. She’s been at it for half an hour, though. I think it might be hurt.”
I raise an eyebrow and say nothing. Along with the kitten I saw our first day here, I suspect Zo has another animal hidden away. Her room’s directly across from mine, and sometimes I hear it screeching behind the closed door.
The other night, I walked past Ashlyn telling Zo that while, technically, Luminary has a no-pets policy, she’s willing to look the other way as long as she doesn’t see or—more importantly—hear whatever Zo has hidden away in there. I cringe to think what might happen if Zo adds a fox to the mix.
“Anyway, it’s not just Ian,” Seven says. “There was a pop quiz in my math class, and this guy sitting next to me—do you know Diego Martinez?” I nod, and Seven continues, “He missed one question and got so mad he punched the wall.”
“He did?” A tight feeling twists through my stomach.
We still don’t have exact details about why students are asked to leave—every member of the staff gives us the same scripted answer as Wyatt and Ashlyn—but most of us assume they’re getting booted for failing to meet their academic expectations.
In other words, keep your grades up or you’re gone.
I’ve seen girls crying in the hall after particularly intense lessons, and a few days ago, I saw Chloe in the bathroom, anxiously trying to bandage her fingers, which looked burned.
“I hurt them on the blow dryer,” she’d muttered, and ducked out of the bathroom before I could point out that she wasn’t making any sense.
But what was the point of lying if she hurt them in a class like I hurt my ankle?
Did she burn them on purpose, I wonder, because the stress was all too much?
Or did she think one of her teachers would take it easier on her if she’d gotten injured?
I’ve been trying to compartmentalize. But with testing starting this week, I imagine we’ll start dropping like flies. And the possibility of losing my spot here makes me sick.
“When’s your first test?” I ask Seven.
They frown. “I’m not actually sure. All my professors have been saying they’re starting this week, but no one’s given us an actual schedule.”
I chew my lower lip. None of my teachers have told us anything about the tests, either. Which is pretty bizarre considering how much they talk about them.
“This place is so strange,” I murmur after a moment. Seven makes a noise of agreement in the back of their throat.
Outside, the little red fox sniffs anxiously at Zo’s palm.
That night, it feels like I’ve only been asleep for seconds when I’m jerked awake. The room around me is pitch-black. I can’t see anything, but I hear the sound of breathing, and the soft hush of whispered voices, so I know I’m not alone.
Panic flutters in my chest. Every inch of my skin tingles with fear. I start to sit, hands clenching into fists, but I don’t move fast enough. Fingers wrap around my arms, my legs. Their grip is firm, holding me tight.
I open my mouth. “What the—”
Another hand presses into my lips, shoving them back against my teeth, muffling my voice. And then the hand moves away and something else is shoved into my mouth: a rag, I think. The darkness changes as a bag gets yanked over my head, leaving the air around my face close and stuffy.
I struggle, but there are too many hands, too many people. They hold my arms to my sides and shove me to my feet and out of my dorm, down the stairs, through the front door.
Cold night air whispers against my skin. My heart is pounding against my rib cage like it’s begging to be let out.
What the hell is going on? Where are we going?
I don’t know how long we walk. All I hear are our footsteps and the occasional low murmur of voices, too quiet for me to make out whether they’re male or female, young or old. Fear rages inside me like an animal, but I do my best to keep my head tall, to walk like I’m unbothered.
Finally, we stop moving, and someone yanks the bag off my head. The abrupt return of light shocks my eyes, leaving me cringing.
The room around me is lit dimly as a memory. Red-tinted emergency lights crawl along a rough-hewn ceiling, blinking on and off at even intervals.
I whirl around, panting, searching the writhing dark for my captors. But they’re already gone.
Instead, there’s Ian. His hair is sleep mussed, sticking up on one side and flattened on the other, and he’s wearing matching, navy-striped pajamas that—even in my distress—I make a note to torture him about later.
He looks at me, something unfamiliar flickering through those glacial eyes of his. Fear? Or just confusion?
“Lia,” he says, voice a hard scrape. “What—”
A voice cuts him off. It’s disembodied, coming from a speaker hidden somewhere in the room:
“Welcome to your History and Politics end-of-module test,” the voice says in a low, even monotone. “Your task is to change the course of history. You will have one hour to complete your mission. The clock starts now.”