Chapter 2 #3
Pink flooding her cheeks, Mallory stalks past Ezra to snatch her prescription slip, waving an awkward goodbye to the receptionist. She gulps at the foggy September air as she hurries outside.
Laughter drifts toward her, and Mallory traces it to a trio of students on a dirt path a few feet ahead.
The walkway splits in front of the health center, turning one way toward the underclassmen dorms, the other toward the library.
A wide stretch of brick looms to the north—Vaughn Row, a series of interconnected buildings with classrooms and faculty offices, peppered on either side by two raven statues.
There are supposedly seven ravens on campus, Mallory recalls her tour guide saying at orientation, symbolizing death and wisdom.
They honor Shore’s past as a sanitarium, and its future as an institution of learning.
It’s tradition to try to find them all before graduation, but no one ever has.
Mallory starts down the path but only makes it three steps before Ezra’s voice cuts through the crisp afternoon breeze.
“I didn’t know students were allowed in the health records office.”
Mallory flings a startled glance over her shoulder. “I took a wrong turn.”
“Really. So that’s not a medical folder in your bag?”
She halts, boots skidding in wet leaves as she looks at her half-open bag to find her mother’s records peeking out. Her lungs suddenly feel too tight, ballooning with the distinct claustrophobia of being caught in a lie.
Mallory turns, silently scrambling for an explanation.
As Ezra descends the stone steps, she can’t help but notice his height, the way he has nearly a foot on her, even in her boots, making him at least six foot five.
His rings catch the glare from the sun, illuminating the symbols on each.
Sharp angles and curves, dashes and lines.
“It’s information that belongs to me,” Mallory finally says, meeting his eyes. Jewel-toned green in the ashy daylight. “I’ll put it back when I’m done.”
Ezra seems to consider this.
“If it’s yours,” he replies, “maybe you should keep it.”
Surprise flickers through her, but before she can respond, he nods at her bandaged hand.
“How is it, by the way?”
“What?” Mallory blinks at the sudden change in topic. “Oh. It’s fine.”
“Is that a lie, too?”
She bristles. “Excuse me?”
“You told that nurse you cut your hand in the dining hall,” Ezra says, pointing. “A bagel wound. Right?”
Mallory narrows her eyes. “How could you possibly know that?”
“I’m obviously stalking you,” he says, and Mallory’s stomach flips. Ezra’s lips twitch in an amused smirk. “Kidding. I overheard the nurse talking to the receptionist about your prescription.”
Mallory exhales between her teeth. “So much for HIPAA.” She glances at her watch. Ten minutes until theater history. She needs to call that doctor.
“In all seriousness, though,” Ezra continues, “why did you lie?”
For a brief, nonsensical moment, Mallory contemplates giving the real answer. Because if I told her what really happened, I’d have to explain why I was distracted enough to stab my own hand. That I think something happened to my mom at this school and the same thing could happen to me.
But instead of saying any of that, Mallory forces a shrug. “It was an easier explanation than the truth.”
Ezra holds her stare, as though debating whether to ask the next logical question: And what is the truth, exactly?
“I really need to go,” she adds, turning.
“Wait,” Ezra calls before she can leave. “Just so you know—I’m good at keeping secrets. I won’t tell.”
She looks back at him, unsure what they’re even talking about now. The folder? Her hand? This entire conversation? “Thank you,” she replies carefully.
Ezra gestures to her bandage. “But if that gets worse, you should really quit lying about it. It looked painful.”
Mallory nods, instinctively cradling her palm against her chest. Ezra’s stare follows, and she can’t be sure if his eyes are lingering on the bloodstained gauze or the dip of her blouse.
An unexpected warmth blossoms inside her, and she tugs on a swell of chestnut hair to hide the blush creeping into her cheeks.
“I should get back in there,” Ezra says abruptly. As if realizing she caught him staring. “Chronic migraines. Needed an appointment for medication—sorry, you didn’t ask.” He starts for the health center but pauses with one boot on the steps. “By the way—cast list went up. Congrats, Jules.”
“What?” Mallory scrunches her nose. “That’s not my name—oh. Oh.”
Jules. Juliet.
The lead? She got the lead role? How? Her audition wasn’t the best—she knows she could have performed better if her hand hadn’t hurt so much.
Still, a sugary grin cascades across Mallory’s face, and she holds on to the feeling.
It reminds her of casting day in high school, how everyone would gather around the drama teacher’s door waiting for The List. There would always be that moment of suspended hope as she scanned for her name, and when she’d finally spot it, everything else would become quiet.
It’s why she fell in love with theater in the first place: the way she can slip inside a world that isn’t her own, like an escape, a drug. A lifeline.
“See you at the read-through tomorrow.” Ezra gestures toward her bag. “You should probably hide that before you go to class.”
He disappears into the health center, and his words drag her back to reality. She looks at her watch again. Shit.
Mallory shoves the folder farther into her bag and breaks out into a run for the theater. Her mother’s medical history will have to wait until tomorrow.
On the heels of that thought, her chest clinches with a distinct and palpable fear.
What if tomorrow is already too late?