Chapter Twenty
Thursday morning comes,and I find myself in a wing of the castle that I haven’t seen before. The furnishing here is simple and modern in contrast to the thick, stuffy fabrics and elaborate artworks of the west halls. It’s less crowded too; I only run into a couple of other students as I make my way towards the room labeled on my map as the dance studio. Steady, practiced cello scales issue from behind a set of double doors, and my heart picks up pace. That’s the music room—it has to be. I don’t have the time to take a look inside right now, but the description in my mother’s journal paints a clear picture: pale hardwood floors, sunlight arcing through tall windows, rows of gleaming string instruments… and, of course, the grand piano. Her favorite.
That was her realm—but mine lies ahead of me, past the door with a metal plaque embossed with the words WOMEN’S DRESSING ROOM.
My mother’s first love was music. Mine is dance.
I grasp the doorknob, twist it, and let myself in.
The dressing room is smaller than I expected. One wall is lined with mirrors, and the opposite contains a set of labeled cubbies. A few other girls are scattered over the long benches in the center, stretching their legs and adjusting their outfits—including the duo from my floor, Shivani and Angelica. Just my luck. Shivani gives me a tiny wave, but her blonde companion ignores me entirely. Maybe for the better.
It only takes a moment to find the empty cubby marked with my name. I strip off my blouse, shoes, and skirt and stuff them inside before slipping into my leotard. The tight, stretchy fabric is freeing after the stiffness of my school uniform, and I can breathe more deeply than I have since… well, since before I can remember, really.
“Hey, it’s you!”
I focus on lacing up my shoes. I’ve gotten used to the delighted cries of friends reuniting with one another after a summer off campus, but it still stings me every time. Next year, I’ll be among them. It’s only natural that it’s taking me a while to settle in?—
A petite pair of legs in black tights park themselves in front of me.
“You’re the girl from Marko’s class. The one he freaked about.”
The same voice—talking to me?
I raise my eyes, and—sure enough—the girl in front of me is gazing down with an impish smile, hands poised on her hips. She’s cute, with a black bob and neat bangs framing a round, lively face.
“Sorry, do I…?”
“I sat in the back. So you wouldn’t’ve noticed. Totally yikes what he tried to pull with you.”
“Marko?” That’s Shivani, tucking her bag into her locker. She winces in my direction. “You want to stay clear of that guy.”
Angelica shoots her a pointed expression, one that I can read all too easily.
But Shivani seems to shrug it aside, something which ignites a pang of gratitude in my chest. “Seriously, you should try to transfer while you still can.”
“Wow.” The new girl winces. “I thought he seemed like a dickbag, but is he really that bad?”
“Well, you know…” Shivani pulls out an expensive-looking wooden hairbrush and begins to drag it slowly through the long waves of her hair, not quite making eye contact with me. “People talk.”
“Please tell me that you don’t mean what I think you do,” the girl with the bob groans.
The studio door swings open before Shivani can answer, and another stranger saunters in. Despite the plaid skirt and red button-up blouse of the school uniform, she holds herself like a miniature business magnate, striding inside with a confidence that I can only admire. High cheekbones, threaded brows, meticulously braided cornrows—I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone who oozes such a sense of class.
“Are we gossiping?” she asks, parking herself in front of a cubby labeled Roxanne Chambers. A hint of perfume follows in her wake, vanilla and suede layered with floral notes.
“Kind of. We’re warning her—wait, sorry.” Black-bob girl tilts her head quizzically in my direction. “What was your name again?”
“I’m Lia. Lia Morgan.”
She grins and gives me a tiny curtsy. “Yuki Saito. Right, so we were just—well, she—sorry, I don’t know anyone’s name?—”
“Shivani.”
“Shivani,” Yuki continues, “was just warning both of us that the Marko guy is—if I’m getting this right—a total creep.”
“He’s certifiable,” Shivani confirms.
The girl with the braids, Roxanne, scowls into the mirror. Even with her face drawn into the ugliest of expressions, she’s a stunner. “Yeah, he’s bad news. He got into a whole legal battle with the Marquez family last year after their daughter left campus. Who wins? The guy with the school to back him, of course.”
“That’s bullshit,” Angelica calls from across the room, where she’s begun a series of stretches. “Laura Knollwood got abducted by that cult, and everyone knows it.”
Yuki throws up both hands. “Whoa, okay, I’m behind the times. We’ve got a cult here?”
“An imaginary cult,” Roxanne says, rolling her eyes. “Come on, what’s more likely—some creepy old fuck tries to make a move on her, or she gets to serve as the blood sacrifice to the ghost of Count Verdo?”
Ghost of Count Verdo? That’s a new one.
“That’s not what the cult does,” Angelica grumbles.
“Want to enlighten me, then?” Roxanne flashes her a sunny, wide, and utterly false smile. “What do they do? You’re clearly the expert.”
Angelica ignores her, instead sinking into a plié. Her form, I can’t help but note, could definitely use improvement.
“Leave her be,” Shivani says, but her tone is half-hearted at best—quarter-hearted, really. From the sound of it, she’s not feeling too great about her choice of a roommate. The array of pictures plastered over their door sure makes it look like they’re close, but I guess living with someone is an easy way to see their true colors.
“Well, in any case,” Yuki concedes, stretching her arms above her head and spinning in a quick circle, “I know I’m gonna try to get out of that class. You should too, Lia.”
“You’re a freshman too?” Roxanne asks. It’s not until her eyes meet mine in the mirror wall that I realize she’s talking to me.
“Yeah—yeah, I am.”
“Then you’re both screwed,” she says—matter-of-fact, but not unsympathetic. “Every returning student knows not to touch Johann Marko with a thirty-foot pole. None of the other Intro Lit classes are gonna have spaces open ’cause they’re stuffed full of people trying to get away from that sick fucker.”
Yuki groans. “Maybe I’ll just drop it. Literature is kinda… well, I signed up because I thought it was gonna be easy. No offense to any humanities majors in the room.”
“What, um… what are all your majors?” I ask. That’s a reasonable topic of conversation, right?
“Chem!” Yuki trills at once. “I’m gonna go into health science.”
“Poli-sci for me,” Roxanne says.
“I kind of have no idea,” Shivani admits. “I was thinking maybe history, but I actually really liked some of the STEM classes I took last year? So I guess I’m feeling it out. What about you, Lia?”
I should have expected that the question would get redirected towards me—but I didn’t, and now I’m drawing a blank. “I’m not sure, either.”
“You’ve gotta have some sort of idea,” Yuki protests. “What was your favorite subject in high school? That’s somewhere to start.”
“Uh—I was homeschooled, actually.”
“Well, sure, okay. What was your favorite subject in home-high school?”
I’m spared from having to answer by the studio door opening. Standing on the other side, one hand on her hip, is another student I don’t recognize, petite and well-muscled. A long russet braid hangs past her shoulders, and a thoughtful expression rests on her face.
“Shivani,” she says with a nod. “Roxanne. Welcome back.”
“Good to see you, Prof.” Roxanne smiles again, and this time the expression is far more genuine. “Have a good summer?”
Wait. Prof? But this girl—this woman, I guess—doesn’t look a day older than the rest of us.
“It was lovely. Caught some rays.” She extends one long, lithe arm, showing off a fine bronze tan, earning soft oohs of appreciation from Roxanne and Shivani. “You? How was France?”
“C”était merveilleux.”
“Très bien. And you…” The professor’s almond-shaped eyes find mine. “Miss Alexander? Your parents spoke with me.”
“Oh, I’m not?—”
“I’m Angelica Alexander.” The huff of exasperation from the corner is almost enough for me to feel bad for her—almost.
“Ah.” The professor tosses her a brief glance. “Apologies. Blonde and blonde, you know.” She gestures to her own coppery locks. “Which means that you’re Lia Morgan. And you’re my other first year. Yuki Saito.”
“Bingo!” Yuki beams.
“Pleasure to meet—and re-meet—all of you. I’m Asha Campbell. That’s Professor Campbell during school hours. And this, as you hopefully know, is Intermediate Dance. It’s a small class, and it’s only going to get smaller. Reason’s simple: I’m a hardass. Shivani and Roxanne can attest to that.”
Shivani nods emphatically.
“The point of this class isn’t to be fun, or to be easy. You’re gonna be sore as hell tomorrow, and if you don’t make sure to stay in shape outside of class, you’re going to be sore as hell every Friday.” Professor Campbell claps her hands together. “That being said, I’ve only got you girls until noon, so let’s get right to it. Finish getting dressed, and I’ll see you on the dance floor!”
The class passes in a whirlwind of heat and motion. After a quick overview of the syllabus, Professor Campbell leads us through a series of grueling warm-ups, then introduces some basic moves from our first unit: contemporary. My happy place—but that doesn’t make it any easier.
Campbell wasn’t kidding when she said that she doesn’t go easy on her students. Despite being in great shape, I’ve got a solid sweat worked up by the time we enter the second hour of class. Still, her voice is a strong motivator—“Good, Lia, good!” she calls as I whip through a clean triple pirouette. “Angelica, sit back and watch Lia for a moment. See that form, her shoulders? That’s what I want to see from you. Chin up, Shivani; you look like you’re fighting for your life over there, and nobody wants to see that!”
I step, spin, and skip my way across the dance floor, shoes squeaking against the polished wood, my own reflection gliding past me in the mirrored walls. This studio is three times the size of my setup at home, and I take full advantage of it, savoring the exertion that courses through my heart and lungs, losing myself in the euphoria of pure movement.
When Professor Campbell dismisses us at last, I’m the only one who isn’t outright gasping with exhaustion.
“Holy shit, Lia,” Yuki wheezes as she flops onto one of the dressing room benches, one arm thrown dramatically across her forehead. “You’re a powerhouse. Are you a gym rat or what?”
“I just practice a lot.” I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging, but I can’t quite disguise how warm her words make me feel. “I don’t always have a lot to do at home, so…”
“Well, Campbell is obsessed with you. And so am I, to be honest. You gotta show me your routine sometime.” She rolls over onto her stomach and drapes her arms over the edge of the bench. “D’you guys wanna get lunch?”
Lunch—that reminds me. I promised Harper this morning that I’d give her the full update on the Ryker situation; all she knows is that he asked me out again, and she’s probably dying of curiosity. I retrieve my phone from my cubby, and sure enough, she’s already blowing up my messages.
Harper: Ok forgive me but I’m totally putting together a whole curriculum for u
Harper: I’m literally so excited lol
Harper: Like more excited than I’ve ever been for my own dates tbqh
Harper: Meet me @ home? Gonna grab us carryout
The timestamp from the last message is half an hour ago. She’s probably already got the food by now.
“I can’t today,” I sigh, “but maybe we could all trade numbers or something?”
The other girls chorus in enthusiastic agreement, and we huddle in a circle to pass our phones around—even Angelica joins in, however begrudgingly. I can actually remember my number this time, and a little thrill jolts through me every time I get to enter it into another girl’s contacts. When my own phone comes back to me, I’m almost overcome by the biggest wave of euphoria yet. Their names are all there—Shivani, Angelica, Yuki, Roxanne.
My friends…?
Not yet, maybe, but soon.
It takes me a minute to gather my things, during which the others leave one at a time. Only Angelica and I are left, and she’s back to ignoring me—at least I think so, until a firm grasp on my upper arm bars me from exiting the room.
“Don’t think that we’re friends just because you have my number.”
“What?” I pull away, frowning. Of course we barely know each other, but I don’t understand what I did to earn the chilly sneer twisting her face. Why would she bother to give me her number at all if she was just going to act like this? “I mean—okay, got it. Sorry.”
I try to head on my way again, but this time she steps in front of me to block the doorway, crossing her arms.
“My sister’s not stupid, you know.”
“Your sister?”
“Marissa,” she snaps, “obviously. She’s seen the way you look at Ryker Pendragon. You think you’re special, don’t you, just because he danced with you? Forget about it.”
“I don’t?—”
“Oh, stop it,” she huffs. “Don’t try to play innocent… it’s not a good look on you. Ryker has always been and will always be Marissa’s man. And if you get in her way, she will put you in your place.”
She doesn’t give me a chance to say anything before she’s out the door and out of my sight.
What?
I know Marissa and I haven’t exactly hit it off and I haven’t exactly hit it off, but I’m not trying to make an enemy out of her—or out of Angelica, for that matter. Ryker never said anything about another girl. Is he keeping secrets? Seeing someone else without telling me? That doesn’t sound like the Ryker I know… but then again, how can I be sure that I really do know him? The thoughts continue to eat away at me as I trudge back to the dormitory tower, barely conscious of the rain pouring from the sky. I’m dripping when I arrive at our door, and the key is slippery in my hands—but after a moment of struggling, the handle twists on its own, and the door swings open to reveal Harper on the other side, grinning like a maniac, wreathed in the delicious smell of chipotle-spiced chicken.
“Damn,” she notes, gesturing to my drenched hair. “Is it seriously still coming down that hard?”
“It’s not that bad—just a pretty long walk.” I make my way to our shared bathroom, and she lingers in the doorway as I duck over the sink and get to work wringing out my sodden locks.
“You’re a badass. I had to take off my coat to protect the food, which sort of worked, I guess. But I felt like I was gonna freeze to death.”
I give my hair an especially brutal squeeze; water dribbles into the sink bowl. “Well, the food probably appreciates it. I sure do.”
“You’re such a damn sweetheart. Whatever—it’s not the worst thing to happen to me today. Have you ever heard of Cartesian coordinates?”
“Um, no. Can’t say I have.”
“Keep it that way. I’ve had better times getting my teeth pulled.” She tosses me a towel, which I gratefully accept. “Okay. Let me inhale some of these tacos real quick, and then you can give me the full update.”
I perch cross-legged in my bed, while she takes my desk chair. She dives straight into a plastic container of soft-shell tacos, but I don’t eat just yet. Now that it’s so close, the prospect of actually telling her the details has got me a little bit queasy.
“Mm.” Harper rustles in the bag for a moment, pulls out a soda can, and pops it open. “God, that’s so good. Do you think the food here is always this tasty, or is it just, like, a thing where they amp up the quality whenever new students get here? I’ve heard some places do that. Might be a myth, though.” She finishes the first of her tacos in two bites, tosses back a swallow of soda, and swivels to face me full-on. “Okay. I’m functional again. Time for you to spill.”
“Well… there’s not that much to say,” I admit. “After I left the OP house, he was just there. Almost—” Almost like he was waiting for me. But I’m not going to say that aloud; it sounds ridiculous.
“You’re bright red,” she informs me, grinning with wicked delight. “You really like this guy, don’t you?”
“I barely know him,” I remind her.
“That’s what dates are for! To get to know one another. And even if you don’t end up super compatible, you can get a good night out of it. He is hot, after all. I’d be jealous if I weren’t so excited for you.”
A good night out of it.
Does that mean what I think it does?
Crap. I’m not ready for that. I don’t know the first thing about?—
Harper’s face softens. She sets her food aside for a moment. “Hey. I’m coming on too strong again, aren’t I?”
“No, I just…” My throat tightens until I have to force the next words out. “Really have no idea what I’m doing. I can barely even find my way to class, and now…”
“Girl, be real. None of us can find our way to class in this place.”
The sound of my own giggle surprises me. “Yeah. Fair enough, I guess.”
“And it’s okay to be nervous, you know. It’s good to be nervous. It’s when you’re too sure of yourself that you start making mistakes.”
Huh. I’ve never thought of it that way.
“Besides—if you do make mistakes, it’s not like it’s the end of the world. I know, I know—you’ve never dated before, so it seems huge. Trust me, though… screwing up with a guy is, like, a rite of passage. Not that I’m saying you are going to screw up, but it’s okay if you do. Ugh, I’m bad at this, aren’t I?”
“No—no, you’re actually really good.”
Harper rolls her eyes. “You’re too nice to me.”
“I mean it.” And I do. “Everything, even the party—I’d be totally lost if not for you.”
She smiles down at her soda can, voice softening. “That… means a lot to me. To be able to do that for someone. Where I come from, I’m not really the most popular. My mom… the work she does—it’s easier for people to make fun of her. And me, by extension.”
Something illegal? It’s probably rude to ask her. “Well, I don’t judge.”
“I’m grateful for that.” She sighs. For a moment, her eyes grow distant, almost mournful—then she snaps back to herself with a devious grin. “Enough sappy stuff. Let’s talk dates. You got questions, I got answers.”
“Well…” Where do I even start? “I’m supposed to dress nice, right?”
“Ooh, clothes. That’s a good one. Yeah, so, second date, you don’t want to go too slutty—not that there’s anything wrong with slutty. But you remember what I said before, right?”
“Play hard to get,” I recite. “Make him work for it.”
“Bingo.” She squeezes one eye shut and lifts her hands, thumbs and index fingers forming a frame for her to evaluate me through. “Okay, I have a vision brewing. Something dark would be good to set off your hair—but nothing that looks too much like the uniform.”
“I’ve got something…” I climb off the bed and cross over to the dresser. My clothes are crammed untidily into the drawers, making it a more difficult task than it should be to find what I’m looking for—but when I pull out the soft black tank top I had in mind, the delight on Harper’s face makes it well worth the wait.
“That’s perfect. Add some nice tight jeans, some simple studs… your ears are pierced, right?”
My fingers dart instinctively to the soft skin of my earlobes. “They’re not—is that bad?”
“Huh.” She shrugs. “Not bad, just kind of boring. No offense or anything! Earrings are just so much fun to play with—but we’ll worry about that later. Moving on. Makeup, straightforward but not light. Dance date equals lots of close-up time, so your face has got to be good—but you obviously need to go easy on the lips, ’cause, y’know, drinks. And food—you’re gonna work up an appetite.”
“I don’t think I’m gonna be able to stomach much.”
“Oh, trust me, girl. You’re gonna want to get something down,” she says with a chuckle. “I know it feels totally impossible, but otherwise you’re gonna get all weird and shaky. Nausea is a hell of a mood killer. Speaking of that, would you please sit down and have a taco? You look totally peaky.”
I obey, setting the tank top aside for now and grabbing a napkin and plastic fork from the bag. She watches with an odd half-smirk as I cut a bite off of one soft-shelled taco, chew, and swallow. I might as well be gulping down cardboard.
“You’re so odd, you know that?” She doesn’t give me a chance to ask what exactly she means by that before continuing on. “Which brings us to our next point. Attitude.”
Of course. The part that scares me the most.
“So, playing hard to get means just that—hard to get. Not impossible. There’s a big difference there. Don’t lay it on too heavy. But don’t act aloof, either.” Her hands move through the air as she speaks, as though she’s physically framing the concepts as she describes them. “Sexy, but self-respecting. Interested, but not overeager.”
“Is that even possible?”
“Well, no. But if you can strike the balance well enough, you’re in business.”
“Okay, sure.” I fidget with another bite of taco on the tip of my fork. “No pressure at all, then.”
“I know you’re being sarcastic, but for real…” She leans forward, eyes wide and intent as they find mine. “Don’t overthink it, yeah? Guys aren’t, like, half as perceptive as we think they are. Things that seem like a big deal to you will completely fly under his radar. I guarantee it.”
I nod, and she continues—but my thoughts have begun to drift. Back to Ryker. Back to his blue-ember gaze and the tight, strong shape of his muscles under his shirt.
Guys aren’t, like, half as perceptive as we think they are.
Harper might believe her own words well enough.
But she hasn’t seen the way that he stares.