Chapter 1. Lorena #2
“Settle down,” says Minaro, her voice deepening with authority.
She waits for everyone to quiet before continuing.
“We have maintenance crews coming to work on the issue. Yet until it is resolved, you will have to use the landlines by the administrative offices to reach your parents. Now, if you will open your packets, you will find your room location, your class schedule, and a map, among other things. You have also been provided with a calendar that marks every vacation, including a weeklong break for Thanksgiving, three weeks for the winter holidays, and one week in the spring. We now invite you to visit your rooms, deposit your things, and report to the dining hall for dinner promptly at six PM—wearing your uniforms.”
There’s something strange about the way this woman talks. Like she’s only studied books about social interactions but never actually socialized. The rustling of papers surrounds me, and I look at my phone screen to see that it’s already 5:15 PM.
“A word of warning.”
Minaro’s voice is low, yet every sound in the hall cuts out when she speaks.
“There are clearly marked parts of the school that are still under construction and considered unsafe.” Her dark eyes comb across us like she’s rooting out the troublemakers.
“I want to remind you that anyone who ventures beyond these roped-off areas will be expelled—no matter why you did it or who your parents are.”
She looks at me again, and now I’m sure I’m not imagining her distaste.
BANG!
I gasp, along with many others, as something heavy and metallic hits the front door. It sounds like someone is knocking.
Minaro goes over to open the door, and when she steps back, in walks a tall guy with a curly fade and hooded eyes. Judging by his broad shoulders and letterman jacket, he looks like an athlete.
I turn to Salma to see what she thinks, but she’s already ripping into her envelope. “Tower Three, penthouse,” she reads on the first page of her welcome packet. “And you?”
“Penthouse?” I arch my eyebrows. “Sounds fancy.”
Nerves flutter in my belly, and my fingers fumble as I unseal my envelope.
This is the part I’ve been the most worried about—not only am I going to be living at a school far from my city and all of civilization, but I’ll be sharing the experience with an absolute stranger.
The application form specifically said that rooms would be randomly assigned, and they didn’t take requests.
I inhale deeply as I pull out my packet, and Salma leans over my shoulder as I read the bold print:
TOWER 3, PENTHOUSE
Our stunned gazes meet.
“Damn,” says Salma. “They really wanted to get rid of Tía Viv.”
Sal and I already know that our acceptance was Ma’s consolation prize when Huntington decided to drop her as a consultant for the school and remove her from the foundation’s board.
She agreed to go quietly, under certain conditions—but I didn’t expect her to go this far, especially since Salma and I are the reason she lost the job.
“Why would she do this for us?” I muse out loud.
“Maybe it wasn’t for us.”
As I look at my best friend’s downcast eyes, I realize what she means.
Tía Elena’s was a yearslong, drawn-out death from a rare yet ruthless autoimmune condition that turned her body against her. And she spent most of that time thinking of how to make it easier on her daughter.
She made her own funeral arrangements and placed all her lifetime’s savings in a trust for Salma.
Elena was still alive when this school came on the news, and Sal was intrigued by it almost from the start.
A centuries-old manor that had been dead for decades was about to be revived—for Salma, it was an irresistible vibe.
Tía Elena encouraged us to apply because she didn’t want her daughter suffering in their old home after she passed.
Ma didn’t do this for Salma and me.
She did it for her best friend.
“Let’s check out our penthouse,” I say to distract Sal from her grief.
Now that the red ropes have been removed, we roll our suitcases deeper into the manor.
Instructors are pointing students in the direction of their rooms, and we overhear someone say, “For Tower Three, go to the end of the hall and turn left. Keep going until you reach the large sitting area with a fireplace. Your rooms are up the stairs.”
We lag behind a group of girls headed in that direction, and I notice the boys are going a different way. When we reach the sitting area, I spot a recessed fireplace, stone accent tables, and paintings of Victorian children in ornate frames.
The stairs are against the back wall, beside a burnt gold plaque engraved with the number 3. Next to the stairs is a door with its own plaque that says TOWER 3 RESTROOMS, sans gender designation.
“Hey, I’m Fran.”
Salma and I turn to see a student with a blue pompadour that makes me think of a tidal wave cresting a shoreline. They’re wearing a T-shirt illustrated to look like a tuxedo vest that they’ve paired with a checkered necktie.
“I’m Lorena, and this is Salma.” The three of us start climbing the steps, and I ask Fran, “Where are you from?”
“Normal.”
I frown. “What?”
“Normal, Illinois.” A grinning Fran stalls on the first-floor landing to gesture to their hair, eyebrow piercings, and outfit. “Obviously, I’m the town poster child.”
“Only because I’m not there,” says Salma, gesturing to her own Bride of Dracula fashion.
Fran chortles, and we keep lugging our suitcases up the stairs, our breaths growing steadily heavier.
Looking down, I can’t help noticing my own outfit—jeans, knitted scarf, round-necked sweater—and I feel a jolt of jealousy.
Not because I want to dress like Salma or Fran, but because at least they have their own style and don’t look like they shop straight from a catalog.
On every landing, we pass doors engraved with numbers: 2A, 2B, 2C, 3A—
“This is me,” says Fran, stopping in front of 3B. “See you around!”
“Later, Normal!” says Sal, and Fran’s loud snort makes us chuckle.
We keep climbing past rooms 3C, 4A, 4B, and 4C, until at last we reach the top of the stairs. There’s just one door on this floor, and it says PENTHOUSE.
Salma has already plucked the key from her envelope, and she inserts it into the lock. When the door swings open, we’re blasted with warm light.
A high-arched window takes up an entire wall, revealing a mostly violet sky pressing down on thinning bands of red and blood orange. The fiery sun has nearly set, its final rays reaching across an expanse of greenery that doesn’t seem to end in any direction. It’s giving fairy tale.
Salma closes the door behind us as we scrutinize the furniture.
Like the foyer, it’s all wood with golden accents, and the textured wallpaper glows with the same tone of burnt gold as the plaques on the doors.
There’s a set of wardrobes, three narrow dressers, a bookshelf, three desks with chairs, a bunk bed, and a third bed.
We turn to each other at the same time, and I’m sure we’re sharing the same thought: We have a roommate.
Then a key clicks into the lock, and the door opens.