Chapter 2. Lorena #2
I try hard not to roll my eyes.
A pale kid with glasses hangs near Curls, wearing the uniform’s optional red tie. A bulky camera hangs from a strap around his neck, and I watch as he raises it and captures the scene.
Salma’s gaze is still glued to Curls as he studies the room, until his roving eyes land on us. Panicked, she turns to me. “What kind of food do you think they serve here?” she asks, as if we were midconversation. “Hot porridge, boiled kidneys, blood sausage—?”
“These taken?” asks a low, husky voice.
The grin freezes on my face as I look up at Curls, who seems to be directing his question to Salma. When she shakes her head, he sits in the empty chair next to mine.
Glasses takes the fifth and final chair next to Tiffany. I’m not sure he’s even noticed Salma or me yet. “Hey, I’m Zach,” he says to our roommate.
Her eyes stray down to the camera he’s setting on the table as she says, “I’m Tiffany—”
“I knew it!” Zach’s face lights up as he says, “You’re Tiff Investigates, aren’t you?”
A smile overtakes Tiffany’s face. Not the flashy one she used to dazzle the guys earlier, but a genuine grin that makes her look even prettier and slightly more approachable. “You follow my channel?” she asks in disbelief.
“I get a notification every time you post,” he says, nodding reverently. “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you.”
“That’s unreal,” she says, still smiling. “I only have like three thousand followers—”
“For now,” he says with conviction. “You’re a really good reporter. You come up with great catch lines, and you have a strong on-camera presence—you just need a better filming setup.”
“I use my phone to record,” she says, looking at his camera again. “Is that a Canon EOS?”
He angles it toward her. “R7. Want to see some of the shots I got of this place?”
“Sure,” she says, leaning over as Zach shows her the display screen.
“What’s your name?” Salma asks Curls.
“Trevor,” he says, and I spy flecks of green in his brown eyes.
“Hi, Trevor. This is my best friend, Lorena.” She tips her head in my direction, and I nod in greeting. “I’m Salma.”
“Like Salma Hayek?” he asks.
“I was named after her.” A smile warms her voice. “My mom grew up on her movies.” When she says mom, the brightness in her gaze crystallizes, and she blinks the emotion away. I squeeze her leg under the table.
“Your attention, please.”
Tiffany and Zach look up from his camera, and we all stare at the staff table. Director Minaro is on her feet.
“Good evening. It is wonderful to see you all in your lovely uniforms.” Her dark eyes seem to suck in all the light as she scans the room, her gaze snagging on Salma.
“I suppose you have already found your class schedules in the envelopes we handed you earlier. Please note that all meals will be held in here, beginning with breakfast tomorrow morning, which will be offered from seven thirty to nine AM on weekdays. Curfew is at nine PM every night, and staff will be monitoring the halls. Anyone caught violating the rules will be written up. Three strikes will lead to expulsion.”
A hand shoots up into the air at another table, and I recognize the blue pompadour. Minaro nods in acknowledgment, and Fran stands up. “What about the Wi-Fi? When will it be fixed?”
There’s a murmur of agreement among the students, and I notice that even the staff members fix their gazes on Minaro, like they’re just as eager for an answer.
“A crew is coming to work on it this week. Until then, you can entertain yourselves with the thousands of books in our grand library on the third story, which is marked on your map. There are computers there that cannot connect to the internet at the moment, but they possess access to various encyclopedic databases. As I said earlier, the renovations to this manor are not yet complete, so we ask you to kindly stick to the labeled locations and not wander off into any forbidden areas.”
She looks right at me as she says, “The signs are there for your safety.”
I don’t know why she would think that out of everyone here, I’m the most likely to act out. Unless …
She saw the video.
Which of course she must have—that’s why the school parted ways with Ma in the first place.
“We now invite you to fill your plates and get to know your classmates!”
Since everyone makes a mad dash for the food, a line forms. Once I reach the buffet table, I partition my plate into four sections: mac and cheese, Caesar salad, chicken wings, and French fries.
As I’m heaping on an extra serving of fries, Tiffany leans over my shoulder and says, “Cholesterol isn’t a food group. ”
Her plate features a familiar salad: Spinach, tomatoes, and tofu, with a side of fries. Salma’s been vegan for ethical reasons since ninth grade, when she saw a documentary about the meat and dairy industries. This salad plus fries is her go-to meal.
“At least my dinner’s not a knockoff,” I say before joining Salma at the drink station and filling a glass with lemonade.
“Hello, Miss Santos.”
The deep voice makes my blood run cold, and I look up to see Minaro addressing Sal.
“I received your father’s request to excuse you from wearing the uniform. My deepest condolences for your loss.”
“Um, thank you,” says Salma, her gaze on the plate in her hands.
“Unfortunately, I cannot allow you to wear your current wardrobe to class.” My best friend’s head snaps up to meet the director’s eyes in anticipation of a fight. “That skirt is too short, and those stockings are ripped.”
“I will only wear black,” Salma insists, her thick eyebrows nearly touching, and my grip tightens around the glass. I know that when she uses that tone, she’s immovable.
We may not be at this school much longer.
“I understand,” says the director. “That is why I ordered you an all-black version of the uniform.”
The frown fades from Salma’s features.
“It is presently being delivered to your room, so that you can wear it to class tomorrow. Are we in agreement?”
Sal nods in assent, and I follow her back to our table, where the others are already seated. No one asks us what that conversation was about, and we eat in silence.
I’m not a fan of the wings, but I finish everything else. Salma scarfs down her fries first, loses interest in her salad after she’s finished all the tofu, and eventually goes in on my fries.
“Where’s everyone from?” asks Zach.
“New York City,” Salma answers for us.
“I’m from Miami,” says Tiffany.
“I know,” says Zach, then he stiffens, like he realizes how creepy that sounds. “I mean, from your reporting. I’m from Chicago.”
Looking far from concerned, Tiffany tips up her chin, as if she’s proud to have a fan/stalker.
“LA,” says Trevor.
“I love Los Angeles,” says Salma, even though I know for a fact she hates it. The last time we flew there with my parents, she complained the whole time about the constant driving and the clogged highways and the “lack of weather.”
“What made you apply here?” It’s unclear if Zach is asking all of us or just Tiffany.
“We don’t have places that look like this in Miami,” says Tiffany with a shrug. “When I saw the pictures, it seemed … special.”
“The photos got me, too,” says Zach. “I felt like … this school was calling to me.”
“Oh my God, me, too,” she says, looking at him with wide eyes.
I flash to the girls I overheard in the bathroom, and how they used that same word. Could it be coincidence that at least four people felt called to this school?
“I felt it, too,” says Salma, and I turn to her in astonishment. I knew she was intrigued, but I thought it had more to do with getting away from home.
“I didn’t,” says Trevor. “My parents made me apply.”
“Why?” asks Salma.
He flashes her a smirk flanked by adorable dimples. “Probably hoping I could be reformed.”
The corners of my best friend’s mouth curl. Nothing she loves more than an unrepentant bad boy.
“Attention, students.”
Minaro is on her feet again.
“When you are finished with your meal, you may leave everything at the table and exit the dining hall. Feel free to study your map by walking around the manor and becoming familiar with the locations of your classes, but make sure you are back in your rooms by nine PM. The rules are already in effect—anyone caught venturing about after curfew will receive their first strike.”
Students at other tables are on their feet, and as I push back from my chair, Trevor says, “Wait.”
He pins me with his greenish gaze, and I slowly sit back down. Then he looks at the others. “We should figure out our plan before we go.”
“What plan?” asks Salma.
“You know the plan,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows as he stares into her eyes. “The one where we sneak out after curfew to explore this manor’s forbidden parts.”