Chapter Eight
CHAPTER EIGHT
We make it all the way to the dining hall before I realize I forgot the one thing that gets me in and out of every building on campus.
“You coming?” Hunter calls out over his shoulder as he taps his student ID on the scanner attached to the door.
The echo of my heart pounding in my ears has quickly become my soundtrack. I run my hands through my pockets even though I know there’s nothing to find. The memory of tossing the ID onto Solina’s bed before rushing out the door is seared into the forefront of my mind.
“Shit, forgot my ID,” I mumble, too frustrated with myself to remember that Solina hardly ever cursed.
Poppy stomps her foot from inside the hall, crossing her arms impatiently. “C’mon, the good stuff’s going to be gone.”
Hunter turns back to me with a sympathetic smile. “I can grab this one,” he offers, holding up his ID.
I shake my head, jumping at the chance to put some distance between us, even if it’s only for a few minutes. “It’s fine,” I reply, the blunt edge of my voice peeking through the cracks in my performance. “Save me a seat,” I tack on, the muscles in my cheeks aching as I give my best attempt at Solina’s signature smile.
The imitation feels cheap in comparison to her effortless confidence, but Hunter doesn’t see past it, leaning in to give me a (thankfully PG) parting kiss on the cheek.
Once he and Poppy are out of view, I dash back to Kincaid, desperate for a moment alone to collect myself. Halfway down the path, I look over my shoulder, making sure neither of them decided to trail after me. The coast is clear, but I wind up walking directly into something—someone.
“Shit,” I hiss as something warm trickles down my arm, nearly burning my skin. The person I walked into got the brunt of the damage, their uniform button-down almost completely drenched in what I realize now is coffee. Fresh coffee. As in, so fresh there’s steam rising off his soaked shirt.
“I’m so sorry,” I reply while searching my pockets for something to help mop up the spill.
The boy doesn’t say anything, shooting me a glare so red-hot it stops me in my tracks. It seems impossible for eyes like his, blue as the sky after a storm, to hold that kind of fire.
Before I can apologize again, he breaks the eye contact and wordlessly pushes past me, his shoulder colliding with mine so roughly it makes me wince. I’d been so stunned by the heat of his stare that I forgot to take a good look at him, commit his face to memory to know who to avoid. But maybe that’s how everyone at this school is. Plowing through the people who get in their way.
“Dick,” I mutter under my breath, and keep walking.
Rushing up the three flights of stairs is my second big mistake. There’s no way I’ll get used to the trek, or the way Solina’s blazer itches like hell the second I start sweating. My skin is scratched raw by the time I finally get to the fourth floor, my chewed-up nails doing more damage than I thought. Unlocking the door, I toss the blazer onto the desk chair and bury my face in Solina’s comforter. For a second time, I inhale until my lungs ache, and the scent of her surrounds me like a fog. Holding that breath until the tension in my muscles finally starts to thaw.
Once my racing heart has calmed, I reach for the ID, groaning when I accidentally knock it off the bed instead. Dust clings to my damp skin as I crawl on my hands and knees beneath the bed. Abandoned papers and cardboard boxes litter the cramped space. After I’ve tucked the ID back into my pocket, I pull all the debris toward me. Solina’s not stupid enough to keep something worth hiding in a box under the bed, but anything I can find to help me understand her life here is worth searching. Better to get a good look while I can, before her roommate shows up. See if there’s anything worth bringing up to Hunter and Poppy. The calculus notes and ripped stockings inside the box aren’t all that interesting, but something I spot out of the corner of my eye is.
A large crack runs through the wood closest to the wall. The gap separating it from the next panel is just big enough to stick the edge of your finger into. Testing my theory, I reach out and gently pry the wood with the tips of my fingers. The shift is so subtle I wouldn’t have noticed it if I wasn’t looking for something to give—a gentle click, like a key locking into place.
I grab the switchblade out of my pocket, flicking it open and shoving the blade beneath the crack. All it takes is a slight push for the board to spring free, revealing a small, dark nook beneath the floor.
“Well played,” I whisper, hoping she can hear me as I lean over the opening.
The excitement burns out as quickly as it was lit once I get a look inside the hole, dark except for a clear plastic baggie tucked so far down I almost miss it. Pulling the bag up, I drag my fingers along the dank, warped wood of the crevice, not pulling my hand out until I’m positive there’s nothing else left to find.
After I’ve crawled out from under the bed, I set the baggie down, carefully prying it open for a closer look. There’s not much to see. Just a dozen small peach-colored pills. No dust on the bag, so it hasn’t been sitting down there for long.
I run through all the bottles in the medicine cabinet back home, trying to conjure up a memory of a peach pill on Solina’s tongue, but come up empty.
She always complained about headaches , I tell myself as I pour the contents into the palm of my hand, running my fingers along them like I’ll find answers in the numbers carved into each pill.
But who keeps pain medicine in a hole beneath their bed?
Flashes of Papi’s eyes—red-rimmed with pupils the size of our tiny fists—echo through me as I tuck the bag into my pocket along with the switchblade. There’s no way Solina could have seen what drugs can do to a person and chosen to go down that road too.
The thought is too heavy for me to linger on, my throat tightening with every second I hold on to it. They’re not hers, they’re not hers, they’re not hers, I chant to myself as I shove the pills under the comforter. My skull throbs, every emotion I’ve choked down for two weeks threatening to finally break free.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, pushing harder and harder until all of it fades—the memory of Papi, the pills, the thought of Solina playing with the kind of risk that ruined our lives—and all I can see is stars.
Minutes that feel like hours tick by slowly. The sky is darker when I finally look up from the cradle of my hands, but it was never that bright to begin with. A flicker of light in the window startles me back to attention, followed by the sound of footsteps and a startled gasp.
I whip around, hand on the switchblade in my pocket, ready to gut whoever came after me, but all I’m met with is a trembling girl surrounded by scattered papers.
She squeaks when I take a lunging step toward her, stopping myself before I can strike. She holds a hand to her chest as she struggles to catch her breath. “Sorry, I-I didn’t expect to see anyone.”
She looks familiar, but I don’t put my finger on it until I kneel down to pick up one of the papers she dropped and realize all of it is sheet music.
Claudia Bustamante, Solina’s roommate.
I know as much about Solina’s roommates as I apparently do about the people she called friends: next to nothing. The pool for potential roommates was small. All the scholarship students are exiled to Kincaid Hall, the cheapest living accommodations on campus at a whopping ten grand a semester. According to Solina, unless you wanted to live a few feet away from someone you couldn’t stand, you had to play nice. A task made even harder when scholarship students dropped like flies year after year, either because their grades slipped below the 3.0 minimum or because the pressure outweighed the promise of a successful future. Both Solina’s freshman- and sophomore-year roommates left by the end of the year. Last year one even left midway through the semester after bombing a physics midterm, and her GPA along with it.
Claudia, as far as I know, played nice enough. And even if she didn’t, it wasn’t like Solina had many options to choose from. Only five of the original twenty scholarship kids from their class had actually made it to senior year. Still, Solina didn’t seem too upset about landing with Claudia in the shuffle. A supposed cello prodigy from Spokane who spent more time at the concert hall than she did in her room. One of the last conversations Solina and I had was about her—about how she spent so much time rehearsing for some huge senior showcase that Solina had hardly seen her all semester.
“I thought you weren’t coming back …,” Claudia says with a note of shock, looking at me as though she’s trying to figure out if I’m really there. She takes me in slowly, lingering on my bandaged hand and the cut on my forehead.
“Well, I did …,” I reply warily, shoving my hand into my pocket. So, someone here does know something. Why Solina might not have come back this semester. Before I can think of a way to prod for more details, she drops the binders in her arms and launches at me.
I’m halfway to pulling the switchblade out when she wraps her arms around me, my body stiff against hers as I slowly realize that she isn’t preparing to attack.
She’s hugging me.
I’m not used to this. Friendship. Affection. The warmth of a body pressed flush to mine. It takes several seconds for me to relax into her hold—so long I worry she’ll pull away and see me for who I really am, but she doesn’t. She just stays there, face pressed to my neck like she’s trying to breathe me in. Hesitantly, I try wrapping my arms around her too. Pulling her closer. Leaning into the faint scent of apricots clinging to the collar of her blazer.
“Sorry, I just …” She pulls away seconds after my hands touch the small of her back, wiping at her rosy cheeks. Her eyes are focused on the ground, but I can still see the glossy sheen. The tears she’s fighting not to shed. It’s a look I’ve seen often, staring back at me in the mirror. She inhales deeply, like she’s trying to ground herself, before meeting my eyes again, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m just really happy you’re back.”
“Me too,” I reply without thinking. I’m not sure how close Solina and Claudia were, whether she’d be happy to see her roommate too, but it feels like the natural response. Not from Solina, but from me. Because it does feel good to see her—someone who doesn’t look like they’re hiding daggers behind their smile. Whose touch isn’t tight enough to bruise. Someone who might be a real friend.
Claudia’s smile fades as she takes in the papers strewn across the room and out the open door. “Sorry about the mess,” she says with a sheepish laugh.
While she scrambles across the floor, scooping up the delicate pages, I fully take her in. Bangs so long they ghost across her eyelashes. Chapped lips, red and scabbed where she must’ve bitten too hard. Nails chewed down to the beds, just like mine. She’s not at all what I’d expect for a Kingswood student, from her wrinkled blazer and button-down shirt to the calluses on the tips of her fingers.
I shake myself off before she can catch me looking. Helping her track down her sheet music at least covers up the heat in my cheeks. I focus on collecting the ones that have flown out into the hallway, one of them stuck beneath the door to the room across from ours. The door opens a crack as I pull the page out from beneath it. My heart stutters as I peek in carefully, hoping to catch a glimpse of the other girls on Solina’s floor, but there’s nothing to find. Despite the names on the door, Izzy and Laura, the room is empty. Feeling brazen, I push the door farther open to get a better look. A handful of boxes sit on the right-side desk, but there’s nothing else left but dust on the mattress covers.
Questions sit on the tip of my tongue, but I hold them. Solina would know what happened to the names on the door.
“Izzy dropped out. Over break. One of the guidance counselors was here earlier packing up her stuff. I guess she’ll pick it up later,” Claudia says from the doorway. When I turn to face her, she quickly shifts her attention to readjusting the stack of papers in her arms.
“Oh.” I pause, unsure whether I should say more or less. My memory is shit, but I’m pretty sure Solina never mentioned an Izzy. And yet, they both went home with no intention of coming back. Dropping out isn’t uncommon here, that I know for sure, but two girls who couldn’t stand this place so badly they left just steps from the finish line? There’s no way that’s normal. Not without a reason.
And if Izzy dropped out over break … what happened to Laura?
“That … sucks,” I say before I can think to keep my mouth shut. If I could kick myself in the ass, I would. Solina would have at least known how to have some type of grace around sensitive topics.
Claudia gives me a look that’s neither judgmental nor shocked, but lingering. Holding my gaze with an intensity that makes my heart race.
“We’re going to the dining hall in a few. If you want to come,” I say, half out of desperation to change the topic before she notices how red my cheeks have gone just from the way she looks at me, and half because Solina was always the type to go above and beyond to make others feel welcome.
Claudia’s shoulders lock as if I just asked her to go skydiving instead. Her grip on the stack of sheet music tightens until her knuckles whiten, stark against her light brown skin.
“I have to head to rehearsal.” She holds up the bundle of papers, as if it should be common sense. Which, I realize, it is. If Solina hardly ever saw her in the room they shared together, there’s no way they were casually hanging out at the dining hall either.
“Thank you, though,” she says, so quietly I almost miss it.
“Maybe we can do lunch this week,” I say before I can overthink it. They may not have been best friends, but they were on good enough terms for Claudia to look forward to seeing her. Sol was the social butterfly to my wallflower—inviting someone to lunch wouldn’t have felt as painful as pulling teeth for her, as it does for me. And Claudia clearly knows something. Maybe not much, but enough to know that there was a chance Sol wouldn’t be back this semester.
“To catch up about break?” I continue when Claudia still hasn’t responded, praying I haven’t already shot myself in the foot with the one person who might know why Solina was so afraid of this place.
My heart stutters when Claudia smiles. Subtle, but just wide enough for her dimples to appear. “I’d like that,” she says, soft and sweet as a song. No wonder she’s a musician—even her voice sounds like a melody.
Before I can meet her smile with one of my own, a chirp makes us both jump. She pulls her phone out of her pocket. A photo of her smiling with a woman who looks like a carbon copy of her and the word “Mama” light up the screen. Claudia gives me one last smile before answering it and rushing toward the stairwell, speaking what I assume is Tagalog, based on the bits I picked up from Dede’s second wife. In a blink, she’s gone, and I’m left alone in an empty room with nothing but silence, questions, and the fading smell of apricots.
When the door at the end of the hall clicks shut behind her, I snap into action. Locking the door behind me, I head straight for Claudia’s side of the room. I don’t have much time—Hunter and Poppy are probably wrapping up with dinner by now—but I don’t know when I’ll have a guaranteed window like this again. Happy to see me or not, Claudia could be as guilty as anyone else here.
There’s nothing tucked beneath her mattress or tangled in the sheets of her unmade bed. No secret cubbies hidden in cracks in the wood floor. No bloody knives stashed in the bins of torn jeans and snapped cello strings. No little peach pills in the drawers of her nightstand.
Her desk isn’t much help either—a mess of barely legible notes, tea packets, and sheet music. Nothing that tells me anything I didn’t already know. A photo sits on the edge of her desk of the same woman from the photo on her phone, her mom, pressing a kiss to her cheek in front of the Kingswood gates. Claudia’s cheeks are fuller, her smile as radiant as the sun as she beams proudly at the camera, dimples on full display. Her uniform is freshly pressed, the white button-down so crisp it could’ve come fresh out of the box. A pin attached to her lapel reads “Cello from the Other Side” written in cursive on banners wrapped around an illustration of a hot-pink cello. This must’ve been her first day.
How could so much change in so little time?
Wedged in the corner of the frame is a ticket stub, with a Post-it attached. Merry early Christmas nene ? is written in Sharpie. I lift up the note to glance at the ticket itself. A performance by the Spokane Symphony on December 20.
December 20. The day Solina died. An alibi.
Every part of me trembles as I scan the ticket a second, third, and fourth time to be sure that the date is correct. A buzz in my pocket zaps all the excitement from the moment. A text from Poppy.
sooooooo are yo u ever coming back?? or did you ditch us already????
I groan at the thought of trekking all the way back across campus to the dining hall, but quickly tap out a reply assuring her that I just ran into my roommate and am heading out now. As much as being around them sets me on edge, I can’t waste a chance to talk to the people Solina was probably closest to, especially somewhere as public as the dining hall.
My step is lighter, though, as I grab my coat and head for the door. The ticket isn’t much, but it’s progress. One step closer to putting the puzzle together. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved that Claudia was somewhere in Spokane with her mom instead of on the edge of Green Hills Park that night.
That the one kind smile I’ve seen since I got here might be one I can trust.