Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Laurel
“I need those chemistry notes,” Sam tells me a few days later. “The ones from Chapter Twenty-four.”
We’re holed up in Rosewood Hall again, sitting shoulder to shoulder at a table littered with highlighters and crumpled pieces of paper as we cram for tomorrow’s organic chemistry final.
“Crap!” I smack my forehead. “I forgot them in my room.”
“Seriously?” Sam huffs, annoyed. “We need those. Professor Hodges said it’d be on the test.”
She’s irritated now, but honestly? Her attitude toward me has improved a lot lately. We’re almost, maybe, friends. It started the day I handed her a copy of The Handmaid’s Tale, which I ordered online and had delivered in a plain brown envelope so no one would confiscate it.
Sam had held the small paperback like it was something fragile. “No one’s ever given me a book before,” she’d said, sounding almost awed as she flipped it over to read the back. “I’ve gotten presents like clothes, hair stuff, even a set of paints once, but never a book.”
“That surprises me,” I told her. “You’re smart, Sam.”
She looked up at me, her eyebrows raised.
“I mean it,” I said. “I’ve been watching you and Carrson. You’re both good leaders, but in totally different ways. Carrson mostly leads with strength and fear. When he’s challenged, he goes out and fights, then comes home bruised, bleeding, acting like it’s just part of the job.”
I shook my head, still not used to the brutality of Ashford House or how casually it’s accepted.
Sam stayed quiet, as her fingers lightly traced each letter in the book’s title.
“You…,” I continued, “you lead with empathy. With strategy. Like last week, when Gwen was heartbroken because the guy she liked bonded someone else. You were up all night with her, remember? Just listening while she cried and told the same lovesick stories over and over again. You didn’t roll your eyes.
You didn’t rush her. You just stayed. You wanted to understand. That’s strength too.”
Sam nodded slowly, thoughtfully.
“That’s why this book seemed like a no-brainer gift for you,” I continued. “You like to know things, understand people, their motives. How everything fits together.”
She didn’t say anything at first, just held the book to her chest. Finally a quiet, “thank you,” had slipped out with a lift in her voice as if she was surprised to find herself in this position. Thanking me of all people.
I know she was being sincere, because I’ve seen that book in her backpack.
It’s got dog-eared pages now with annotations highlighted in pink.
I thought maybe she’d want to discuss it with me, but Sam’s been silent.
I have no idea if she’s drawn the connection between that fictional dystopia and the one she actually lives in.
Now, she tells me, “We need to go and get those notes.”
“How?” I ask. “It’s only three o’clock. We aren’t allowed in Ashford House yet.”
Sam’s lips curve into a mischievous grin. “If they don’t catch us, they’ll never know we were there.” She grabs my wrist and tugs me to my feet. “Come on, Laurel. We’ll use the tunnel.”
My pulse kicks. This feels less like studying and more like sneaking behind enemy lines.
The rule-following part of me says I should stop her, be the voice of reason, but there’s another part of me, reckless and curious, that wants to see.
Maybe even wants to break some rules. Everything here is so structured.
Same schedule. Same routine. Shaking things up, just a little, sounds kind of thrilling.
“I’ve heard about the tunnels, but I’ve never actually seen them,” I admit as we slip out of the library and down the back hallway.
“They’re as old as the houses,” Sam says, leading me past the double staircase. “They were originally used to move the girls,” she adds, “so no one could see.”
I blink. “You mean like for safety? Fire drills or something?”
She shoots me a look like I’m the dumbest person alive. “So the women could go to their bonded men at night. Back then it would’ve been scandalous. Unmarried women and men alone, no chaperone.” A pause. “That was two hundred years ago, remember.”
Oh. Right.
It hits me then, how long all this has been going on. The Order. Its hold over this town, these people. Jeez. Talk about multigenerational trauma.
Sam leads me into the sisters’ dining hall.
It’s nothing like the one at Ashford House.
That one’s all stone and stained glass and shadows.
This one’s the opposite, with clean, white-paneled walls, bright sunlight streaming through tall windows, and French doors that open to the backyard the sorority shares with the fraternity.
I catch a glimpse of the pool, the tidy lawn, and, beyond that, the cornfield.
The corn stalks are taller than me. Overgrown and wild. Now that it’s fall, their green has faded to a brittle yellow, the leaves curling at the edges. They rise in a solid, tangled wall, rustling gently in the wind.
“Does anyone ever harvest that corn?” I ask, mostly to fill the silence. “It looks ready.”
Sam glances that way, her voice calm. “It’ll stay up for another two weeks, until Halloween. Then they cut it into a corn maze for the big party we have.” She doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s where all the bodies are buried.”
I laugh, because what else do you do with a line like that? “Right. Creepy, Sam.”
She shrugs. “It’s tradition.”
Then she perks up, her voice brightening. “Did Carrson tell you about the theme we picked for the party?”
“Heaven and Hell, right? Everyone’s supposed to wear white, black, or red.
” I let my hands swing at my sides as we walk.
I’m honestly looking forward to the end of the fall quarter, no classes, no exams. Just one glorious week of pretending I have my life together and going to this infamous Halloween party Carrson keeps hinting at.
Apparently even people from town show up. It’s a whole thing.
“That’s right. Everyone dresses up like angels, devils, demons, monsters. I’m going as a succubus,” Sam says proudly, grinning. “Already have my costume. It’s red, skimpy, and covered in sequins. Super slutty.”
I laugh. “As it should be. Halloween is the one day a year we get to channel our inner chaos gremlins in platform heels and extra-thick eyeliner.”
“Oh my god, exactly!” she agrees. She suddenly veers toward the far wall and presses her palm against one of the panels. It looks just like all the others, until it swings open.
“Oh, wow,” I breathe, surprised. Then I giggle. “This is so Scooby-Doo.”
“What?” Sam frowns.
“Nothing. Forget it.”
Inside the hidden doorway, a stone staircase winds downward into blackness. The air that spills up is cool and stale, smelling like old candlewax and secrets. Sam grabs a flashlight from a nearby drawer, then leads the way.
Together, we descend.
At first, we walk in silence, lulled by the hush of the stone walls and the soft thud of our feet against the worn steps. The passage is narrow, just wide enough for us to walk side by side. Every so often, our shoulders or arms brush.
In the dark, my imagination runs wild.
I picture the girls who came before me. Their white nightgowns bunched in tight fists to keep the hems from dragging on the dirty floor. Loose hair tucked into nightcaps. Candles held high. Eyes wide, but mouths shut.
I wonder what they felt as they walked these same steps. Excitement as they hurried to their beloved? Fear as they trudged to an abuser? Resignation, knowing this was the only path allowed to them?
Thinking about that reminds me of something else, something I’ve been wanting to talk to Sam about.
My voice is overloud, echoing against the hard walls that surround me.
“I’ve been thinking about that girl, Staci.
” What I say is true, I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind.
I keep seeing those bruises, wondering what exactly they mean.
Wondering if what happened to me with Preston, if that’s what’s happening to her too, but every night? The thought drives me insane.
Samantha’s footsteps falter for just a second. “I know. Me too.”
“We have to do something,” I say, my voice insistent. “It’s not right, what’s going on with her.”
“That’s nice that you care,” Sam offers.
“I do. I…” I hesitate, wondering how much I should reveal to Sam.
We’re closer now, but I’m still not sure I can trust her.
I also want to impress on her how important this is.
How much it means to me. In the end, I decide to let the words go, to give her a fragile, vulnerable piece of myself.
It’s a risk, but worth it if I can help someone else.
“I know how that feels. To be forced to do something you don’t want to do.”
Sam’s head jerks my way. “Wait…are you saying that you?”
She doesn’t have to finish that question. We both know.
I nod, swallow against the lump in my throat. “Just once,” I whisper, my voice scratchy, as if the fact that I had to endure that one time somehow makes it better, easier.
It doesn’t.
“Jesus,” Sam breathes. The wavering flashlight exaggerates the fury in her expression, deepening the shadows under her eyes, highlighting how her lips draw back like she’s ready to bite. “What the fuck is wrong with men? What makes them think that’s okay? That they can just take like that?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, feeling bleak.
It’s something I’ve asked myself as well.
Why are women always the victims? The ones who suffer, who bear the worst of the world’s cruelties?
“Because men are bigger, stronger? Or something left over from caveman days? Or maybe,” I continue, “maybe it’s something we teach them, without meaning to, from the time they’re little. ”
“Whatever it is, it’s wrong,” she spits out. “It’s messed up, and it’s got to stop.” I glance over, surprised by her ferocity, how she doesn’t sound like the usual obedient sister.