Chapter 5. Lorena #2
Or what if the coffin was another quirky—albeit morbid—invention, like the reading armchair? It could’ve dispersed a type of hallucinatory gas, and since I was the last to leave, I inhaled it. Or it infected my blood when I cut my hand.
All these explanations sound far more plausible than a—monster.
I sit up, brushing my fingers across my neck. The skin there feels smooth and unhurt. I look at Tiffany’s bed. Her sheets are messy, and she’s gone, along with the toiletry kit that was on her dresser.
“Sta-a-arving!” I hear Salma say above me, mid-yawn. “I could eat Girl Scouts for breakfast.”
It’s a Wednesday Addams line. She climbs down to my bed and slides under the covers with me. “How are you feeling?”
The concern in her voice and the comfort of her proximity—and the fact that we’re finally alone—makes me want to spill everything. If anyone would believe me about what happened last night, it’s Salma.
As kids, when I wanted to play with dolls, she preferred her Ouija board.
When I was reading Goosebumps, she was reading spellbooks from a local occult shop.
I know if I tell her about the undead guy in the basement, she won’t do the sensible thing and run in the other direction—she’ll race down to meet him.
And this time, I won’t be able to save her.
“Was it cramps?” she presses when I don’t answer. “Is that what slowed you down yesterday?”
I feel myself nodding before I’ve even made the decision to keep lying.
“I could tell you were in pain,” she says, her voice fuller now that she’s identified the problem. “On the drive here, you said you thought your period was coming early.”
“Yours, too?” I ask, trying not to dwell on the fact that I’ve just doubled down on lying to her.
She shakes her head.
Weird. We’re always on the same cycle.
The door swings open, and Tiffany sees us together in my bed. “You two need some privacy?”
She’s already in uniform, with her face perfectly made up. I wonder how early she had to wake up to do that.
“I was just talking to these girls, Janelle and Rachel,” she goes on. “They say if the phone service isn’t fixed by the end of the week, they’re transferring back to their old schools.”
“Maybe you should go with them,” I mutter under my breath.
“Insecure much?” she asks. Guess I didn’t speak softly enough.
“Media pesada,” I say to Salma.
“I’m from Miami, so I understand Spanish.” Tiffany crosses her arms. “And I’m not heavy.”
Pesada is a word our moms use to mean annoying, but the literal translation is heavy.
“Let’s go,” says Salma, and the bathroom is nearly empty by the time we get there. Like Tiffany, she opts for the skirt version of the uniform, only hers is all black, including the button-down shirt.
Sal gets a lot of stares when we enter the dining hall, but she’s used to her outfits drawing attention. While she and Tiffany strut to our table like models on a runway, I lag behind, pulling my heavy wet curls into a sloppy bun on my head.
There are only fifteen minutes left before first period, and the boys have finished their meals. Zach waves us over, and I’m surprised our chairs are still available, considering how many admiring looks Trevor is getting.
“We saved your seats,” says Zach.
That explains it.
The bags under their eyes are as pronounced as Salma’s and mine. If Tiffany has any, they’re buried under layers of foundation.
Once the three of us have stocked up on food and returned to the table, Zach leans forward. “Anyone get any sleep?”
“Not much,” says Salma, spearing a strawberry with her fork.
“How are you?” Zach asks me, and my stomach clenches.
“Fine.” I scoop a spoonful of milky cereal and bring it to my mouth as an excuse not to talk.
“What did you see?” Trevor presses me.
“Nothing,” I say after swallowing. “I just tripped, and when I got up, I ran.”
When Salma rests a hand on my back, guilt sizzles in my stomach like battery acid, and part of me wonders if the demon’s mind control is at work on me still. If I wanted to tell the truth, could I?
“Then how can anyone explain the coffin opening?” asks Trevor.
“Maybe it was a gimmick,” says Salma. “Like the love seat.”
“Then explain this.” Zach removes the strap from around his neck and sets his camera on the table. “Look at the photos and videos I took last night.”
We all lean forward to stare at the screen, except for Trevor, who seems to have already seen this. Zach clicks through the files, but the screen remains dark.
“I don’t see anything,” says Tiffany.
“They all came out like that,” says Zach. “Pitch-black.”
How is that possible?
“But how?” asks Tiffany, echoing my thoughts.
“Maybe there’s a strange electromagnetic energy,” says Salma, sitting at the edge of her seat. “Like paranormal activity. We should try a séance!”
I know I should speak up. I need to warn them of what happened to me. If there’s a predator here with us, they need to know.
“Attention, students.”
Saved by Minaro.
“It was brought to my attention that I forgot to mention laundry yesterday,” says the director, addressing us from the staff table.
“Fabric bags will be placed outside your room, each with its owner’s name.
There will be large hampers in your bathroom where you can deposit the bag with your soiled clothes on Tuesdays and Saturdays.
Your clean clothes will be delivered to your room the following day. ”
A bell goes off, and we all look around.
“You have five minutes to find your first class,” she says, and there’s a flurry of movement as we all rise from our seats and march out.
The whole school is headed in the same direction, so I’m just going with the flow as we arrive at a grand staircase and climb to the second story.
What kind of power could prevent images from imprinting?
I picture the fanged face and shiver— If he could control my body, can he also control technology?
We cut down a hall punctuated by parallel doors featuring small vertical windows, each classroom bearing a burnt gold plaque with a number engraved.
Salma and I already compared schedules, and we share four of six periods.
We’re only apart for math and science. Since every class but physical education is located in this hall, it’s easy enough to figure out where we’re going—which is a good thing because my memories of last night are making focusing impossible.
All day, I barely register my teachers’ names or the topics they introduce. I can’t stop feeling the ghost of those fangs on my neck. I feel caught between the current of the present and the pull of the past.
In PE, I’m last to finish the mile run because it keeps triggering memories of escaping the demon last night.
In precalculus, the teacher asks us to go around and say our names and share an interesting fact about ourselves, and when it’s my turn, I say, “Pass.” In American history, I am so sure the monster is spying on me through the window in the door that I suffer a minor panic attack and have to squeeze Salma’s hand until it goes away.
Last period turns out to be the only one all five of us share.
Just like every classroom I’ve seen so far, there are two long tables with five chairs each across from a teacher’s desk.
Yet unlike the other rooms, this one is outward facing, and the back wall bears twin arching windows that let in a flood of sunlight, overlooking a garden with stone benches and sculptures.
Only one person is already seated, and she’s in the front row. Salma leads us to the back table, where we take up all five seats. Our teacher isn’t here yet.
A couple of guys trickle in, and they check out Salma and Tiffany before taking their seats. I’m on Salma’s left, by the aisle, and Tiffany is at the center of our row. I watch her mouthing to Salma: Double date.
I shift in my chair to gaze out at the view. The garden looks like a maze of foliage and flowers, enclosed by plants tall enough to be reedy trees. I wonder if I’ll ever manage to summon enough mental peace to park myself on one of those benches and read a book.
“Welcome to English class.”
I straighten at the sound of that deep voice. Director Minaro stands behind the desk, surveying us.
“I am your teacher, but you will continue to refer to me as Director Minaro. I thought that considering the setting we find ourselves in, it would be fitting to commence our studies with books from the 1800s.” She collects a stack of papers from her desk and hands two copies to everyone in the front row, and they hand the second sheets back to us.
There are a dozen books listed, three per quarter. I skim the first set of books on her syllabus:
Jane Eyre
Pride and Prejudice
Dracula
The last title sets my hair on end, but Salma looks at me and says, “Yes! Both our favorite books are here.”
Minaro opens a box on her desk and starts handing out paperback copies of Jane Eyre the same way she distributed the syllabi. This is the only one of the three that Salma and I haven’t read yet.
“Jane Eyre is a Gothic novel as much as it is a feminist social critique of its time,” says our teacher, her gaze slowly scanning us.
“It is also one of the earliest successful examples of the intimacy produced by a first-person narrative. I want you to begin reading now, and tomorrow we will discuss the opening chapters. There will be no need for speaking.”
Salma and I trade stares. We’ve never had a teacher assign us a whole class period to read a book. Especially not on the first day.
Still, I’m not complaining. I open the text and settle into the story from the very first line: There was no possibility of taking a walk that day …
I barely notice the bell when it rings, and Salma has to wrench the book from my hands. “We’re free!” she says, and when I look up, even Minaro has already left the classroom.