Chapter 2. Lorena
lorena
“You can leave those anywhere.”
The speaker strides in wearing bright pink pants, stiletto heels, and an open blazer revealing a lacy crop top. She’s followed by a couple of male students who appear to have brought up her set of matching pink suitcases.
“Thanks so much,” she says, flashing them a dazzling smile. They stumble out the door like they’re starstruck, and our roommate surveys the space admiringly, taking her sweet time to acknowledge us.
“Oh, hello!” she says, like she’s only just noticed we exist. “I’m Tiffany Carter.” She announces her name as if we should know it.
I’m not surprised those guys fell under her spell because she looks like a Barbie who’s come to life—long legs, high cheekbones, and dewy black skin that looks like it couldn’t grow a zit if it tried.
“Hi, I’m Salma Santos.”
Tiffany’s gaze drifts down, taking in my friend’s all-black ensemble. It’s impossible not to notice how polar opposite their styles are, and I smirk as I flash to Wicked ’s Elphaba and Glinda.
Tiffany looks at me, eyes narrowed, and I worry she thinks I’m laughing at her.
“I’m Lorena,” I say in a friendly tone.
She just stares back at me for a beat. “Is that a stage name, or don’t they have last names where you’re from?”
I turn to Salma, who raises her brow like she’s also taken aback. Tiffany went from sugary to sour as soon as those guys left.
Pick-Me Barbie.
“Her name is Lorena Navarro,” Salma answers for me. “Are we good, or do you need our social security numbers, too?”
I grin, but Tiffany’s expression stays tight.
“Come on, Lore, let’s unpack,” says Sal.
“Do you two already know each other?” asks our roommate.
“Our whole lives,” I say, and I’m pleased to see her expression slacken with disappointment. Then she shrugs, shaking off her displeasure.
“Guess that means this one’s all mine!” Tiffany drops her pink handbag on the solo bed, and Salma and I lock eyes before turning toward the bunk bed.
“I call top!” she shouts first, and I don’t fight her because I’m just glad to see her getting excited about something.
As Sal climbs up to test her new mattress, I set my book bag on the bottom bunk and roll my luggage closer to the bed. Tiffany is already opening her meticulously packed pink suitcase and rummaging through it. She plucks out a poster and extends it on the mattress so it flattens.
It looks like some kind of manifesting collage filled with handwritten quotes alongside photos of people, designer clothing, expensive cars, and fancy houses. I recognize Abby Phillip, Rachel Scott, and Gayle King, who are all on-air newscasters. Ma has been interviewed by two of them.
Since dinner is starting soon, I open my own suitcase to pull out my uniform, and I feel a sharp cramp in my uterus. “Bathroom,” I say to Salma, and when she says nothing back, I peek up at her. My best friend is fully asleep.
I think it’s a superpower of hers, the way she can nap at a moment’s notice.
“You better wake her up so she can change before dinner,” says Tiffany without looking at me. She’s buttoning the uniform’s white collared shirt over her lacy crop top.
“No need,” I say as I open the door to leave.
“Why not—?”
Since I’m not going to tell her about Salma’s mourning, I let the thud of the heavy door shutting be my answer.
The bathroom looks more modern than the rest of the manor, featuring black and white tiles, gold-brushed faucets, and frameless mirrors. There are four toilet stalls, four sinks, and four showers, but right now I’m the only one in here.
I lock myself in a stall, and as I suspected, my period has arrived a day early. Right as I sit down on the toilet, I hear the bathroom door swing open.
“No, no one else. I was the only one from my school who applied,” says a gently lilting voice. “What about you?”
“So was I,” says another girl.
“I was beyond ready to leave Whitefish, Montana: population one thousand,” says the musical voice as one of the shower faucets turns on.
“One thousand? Are you serious?” asks the other girl, who speaks in a slow drawl. A second showerhead gets going.
“That’s what it feels like, but it’s technically like eight thousand.” It’s harder to hear Whitefish’s lilt with the two showers going. “Where are you from?”
“Augusta, Georgia.”
I peel open a pad and adhere it to my underwear.
“Is that the only reason you applied?” asks Augusta. “To leave Montana?” Her voice dips so that I can barely hear her, and something about the way she asks the question makes my hand still on the flush.
“I … This is going to sound weird.”
“Try me,” says Augusta.
“None of my friends understood.” I can’t hear what Whitefish says next because it’s too soft, so I quietly shuffle toward the door and press my ear to it.
“… change schools right before senior year and go to prom and graduation without them.”
“Same!” says Augusta. “My boyfriend even said he’d break up with me if I left, and I did it anyway. As soon as I heard about this place, I felt like—”
“A pull,” says Whitefish, completing her sentence.
“Yeah! Like…” Augusta’s whisper is so low, it’s hard to distinguish from the rushing water. “It was calling to me.”
AFTER CHANGING into my uniform, I head back to the room, where I find Tiffany hanging her clothes in one of the two wardrobes.
“You two are already sharing the bunk bed,” she says when she catches me watching, “so I figured you wouldn’t mind sharing a wardrobe.”
Ignoring her, I approach Salma’s mattress on my tiptoes.
“She’s still asleep,” says Tiffany, stating the obvious.
I nudge my best friend’s shoulder gently. “Sal?”
She blinks her eyes open in confusion, and I notice the bags under her eyes. I didn’t realize she was so tired—especially since she slept both on the plane and in the car on the way here. “Time for dinner,” I say.
“Ready.” She sits up with a sudden burst of energy and swings her legs over the ladder to join me on the ground.
“No, you need to change,” says Tiffany.
Bossy Barbie.
“Actually, she doesn’t,” I say, looping an arm around Salma’s elbow.
“You’re going to get in trouble—”
“My mom’s dead.” Salma’s voice catches, and I scowl at Tiffany for making my best friend have to say the words out loud. “I’m grieving, okay?”
I’m surprised she shared that because, before coming here, Sal warned me that she was going to keep her situation to herself.
She felt that at our old school, where everyone knew Tía Elena from her years of volunteering, she would be the girl whose mother just died—but here, she could just be Salma.
“I’m sorry,” says Tiffany, her voice deepening with sincerity. “That’s awful.”
“I know,” says Salma, and I squeeze her arm, pulling her closer to me.
“It’s a good thing black looks so lovely on you.”
I roll my eyes at Tiffany’s flattery, knowing Salma won’t fall for it—but when I look at her, my best friend is giving Tiffany a small smile.
Doors start slamming across the tower, and it’s clear our neighbors are on their way to dinner. Tiffany darts ahead to open the door, and Salma unloops her arm from mine to go first. The two of them must be the same height—almost half a foot taller than me.
I step forward next, but Tiffany skips ahead of me, shutting the door in my face.
Bitch Barbie.
WE TRAIL our tower-mates down a passage that winds deeper into the manor. I can make out Fran’s blue pompadour ahead, leading the way.
All of us—minus Salma—are in the same deep-blue blazer with gold buttons and the Huntington crest on the chest pocket, which is a golden silhouette of the manor.
Under our blazers, we’re wearing white button-down shirts.
And while most of the girls went with the gray pleated skirt option, I’m one of the few who opted for the pants.
As we walk, my eyes dart everywhere to take in our surroundings.
The wallpaper and furniture change in rhythm with the rooms, from a cream-colored study area with cubicles through a wood-paneled activity room with billiards tables and lounge chairs and across a dimly lit common space with green walls and velvet seating.
The common room’s low lighting makes it hard to see the full space as we cut through it. Squinting, I spy a shadowy corridor at the far corner that’s been cordoned off with a sign:
UNDER CONSTRUCTION. KINDLY DO NOT PASS.
I squint harder into the darkness, but I can’t make out what lies beyond.
“Wow,” murmurs Salma, and I swing my gaze forward as we approach a festival of lights.
The grand dining hall could be the centerpiece of this whole construction, with its golden domed ceiling, network of multi-sized crystal chandeliers, and polished floor that alternates wooden patterns.
The space is littered with small round tables that seat five people each, and at the far end is a long table weighted down with food.
The only other long table is for the staff. Even seated, Minaro is a head taller than the rest.
Salma pulls out a chair at an empty table, and Tiffany and I sit on either side of her, leaving two spots open. I notice a lot of our classmates are looking in our direction, and I’m pretty sure it’s because Salma is the only one not in uniform.
“These plates must have come with the manor,” muses Tiffany, running a finger along the golden rim, then lifting hers to feel its weight. “Kind of expensive for a school.”
I lift my plate, and it’s heavier than my laptop. Why would they trust us with these?
“There he is,” whispers Salma, and I follow her line of vision to the hot guy with the curly fade who showed up late. She acted like she didn’t notice him earlier, but I’m not surprised she’s interested. Despite her edgy style, she’s drawn to an athletic and clean-cut look.
He’s popped the collar of his white shirt, and his gray trousers hang a bit lower than the other guys’, bunching up a little around his Timberlands.
“Ooh, good find,” says Tiffany, nodding as if Salma needs her approval. “If I was into high school boys, I would totally go for him—but I prefer college men.”