Chapter 18. Lorena
lorena
Saturday morning, I wake up to my first weekend at Huntington.
I can’t believe we haven’t even been here a full week yet, when these past few days have changed everything I thought I knew about the world. And myself.
I stretch my spine and rub my eyes, then I see Tiffany sitting up in bed, pink bonnet still on, reading Jane Eyre. She locks eyes with me.
“Salma’s still sleeping,” she says in a low voice. “Is something wrong with her?”
“Are you seriously talking shit after she’s been nothing but nice to you?”
Tiffany sets the paperback down. “I’m not talking shit, I’m being serious. She couldn’t move a chair the other day, and yesterday she used her period as an excuse to sit out the kickball game in PE.”
“So?”
“She doesn’t have her period right now!” Tiffany whisper-shouts, like that fact should be obvious.
“She and I are on the same cycle,” I inform her, “and mine just ended.”
“Well, the box of tampons she set on your dresser days ago is still unopened,” says Tiffany, rolling her eyes so hard, they’re completely white.
“But you’ve known her for longer, so I’m sure you would be aware if something was wrong.
It’s not like you’re so wrapped up in your crush that you don’t realize your best friend is going through something. ”
I don’t bother responding.
When I offered Salma a pad the other day, she told me she had her own. But that doesn’t necessarily mean she got her period.
What if Tiffany’s right?
What if Salma is—
I can’t even finish the thought. There’s no way. I mean, if there was even a possibility, she would’ve told me … right?
Fuck.
I hate that Tiffany has a point. I’ve been a shit friend to Salma since we got here. I’ve been leaving her behind, lying to her, not paying close enough attention—
“I guess Mommy didn’t get around to teaching friendship skills.”
My vision takes on a red tinge, and I forget to keep my voice low as I unclench my jaw. “That’s funny, I don’t remember you growing up in my house—”
“Are we late?”
At the sound of Salma’s voice, I turn toward the top bunk. She’s sitting up and looking disoriented. My voice must’ve startled her awake. “Did I miss breakfast?”
“No, but we should hurry,” I say, and as she gets down from the bed, I try not to notice how she clings to the frame like she might fall.
I need to talk to her as soon as possible—and privately.
When we get to the dining hall, there’s a printed list posted outside the entrance.
They’re all the approved clubs, and each one has a different meeting time today—including history club, which has been scribbled in pen at the top, like a last-minute addition.
As a result, we have the earliest time slot.
Trevor’s triumphant smirk tells me he did this. “Got here early and told Minaro about history club,” he says as he and Zach join us by the list.
I look away and spot William approaching from a distance, moving markedly slowly for an immortal.
I still can’t believe I challenged him to kill me last night. That was reckless and stupid and I’m lucky to be alive. I could see in his eyes that he was going to do it because he looked almost resigned—as if he’s always known this is how things would end.
If not for that video, I would probably be dead by now.
I can’t keep deluding myself that the vampire and I are allies, when I’m his prisoner. He’s proven repeatedly that his self-serving nature is the only thing that can save my life.
“Good morning, Jane.”
I look up at William, and even though I despise him, I feel my lips twitch. “Rochester,” I say.
While my roommates walk ahead to our table, I lower my voice and ask, “What do you do with the food you eat?”
“Throw it back up later.”
I wish I hadn’t asked right before breakfast.
Once the meal is over and the dining hall clears out, only the six of us remain. Club meetings are taking place in here all day, the times staggered so students can check out everything they want. Apparently, Trevor chose a boring enough name because no one else shows up.
“Where my history buffs at?” Ms. Floreville walks over to us with a gummy grin, and I have to lower my gaze from secondhand embarrassment.
William pulls out a chair from another table and brings it closer, holding it out for our teacher.
“Oh, thank you,” she says, her cheeks growing pink as he slides it under her. “Chivalry, quite the historical touch!” She chuckles at her own joke.
As she pans her gaze across us, she says, “I have to admit, I was excited when Director Minaro asked if I would be willing to be your faculty adviser. What time periods are you most interested in exploring?”
“Actually,” says Tiffany with a flash of her charming smile, “we were just saying how curious we are about the history of this place. What do you know about this manor and the family who owned it?”
“Oh, the Huntingtons were fascinating people,” says our teacher, her eyes lighting up in a way that makes me worry we’ve all just signed on for a double dose of history class.
“They settled this land before it was the United States. They became spectacularly wealthy once they got here, but it’s unclear where their riches came from.
There’s no record of any of them ever working, but they were noted philanthropists and patrons of the arts.
They were also collectors of rare objects, most notably early peculiar inventions. ”
“What can you tell us about this house, specifically?” asks Tiffany with the casual ease of a seasoned interviewer.
“Actually, there is a bit of juicy gossip—”
All of us, even William, lean perceptibly forward in our chairs to listen, and Ms. Floreville looks taken aback, like she’s never had students hanging on her every word.
“Wow, you really are interested in this,” she says. “Mr. Torres bet Mrs. Chang that I was being punked.”
“Well, you can tell Mr. Torres he was wrong,” says Zach.
“And that no one says punked anymore,” adds Salma.
Ms. Floreville’s gummy grin returns, and I wonder if we should tell her no one says juicy gossip, either.
“According to official records,” says our teacher, “this manor is a Victorian construction that dates back to 1852. But there’s evidence that it goes back even earlier than that.”
“How much earlier?” asks William.
“Hard to tell. What I know is that it was a smaller structure then, and the Victorian manor was built around it.”
“What kind of smaller structure?” presses William, with none of Tiffany’s finesse and way too much intensity.
“I-I think it was also a home, but a smaller one,” answers our teacher, frowning, probably because she’s uncomfortable with the authority in William’s voice.
“Did the Huntingtons own it then, or did they only buy it in 1852?” Even my friends hear the entitlement in William’s voice because Salma shifts uncomfortably in her seat and Trevor scowls at the vampire.
“Ms. Floreville,” I hear myself say, the words coming to me as I speak them. “I was wondering, well, how can we be sure it existed before 1852? You said something about evidence?”
“Great question,” she says, and there’s a tangible easing in her tone as she looks away from William. Tiffany glares at me like I’m stepping on her territory.
“There are the archeological clues in the structure itself,” says our teacher. “And there’s also the letter that was found among the Huntingtons’ personal effects. It’s addressed here but dated in the late 1700s.”
“Where is that—?”
“A letter!” I say, cutting across William’s commanding voice. “That’s so cool!”
William shoots me a glare, and I can practically hear his warning: If she doesn’t answer him, he will compel the information out of her.
“Do you remember what year the letter was sent?” asks Zach, and I realize that both he and Tiffany are taking notes.
“I think it was 1769.”
William’s eyes grow round like that means something to him.
“It’s addressed to Mr. Huntington,” Ms. Floreville goes on. “It just mentions a parcel being on its way to this location and asks him to remember their agreement.”
“Could we see the letter?” I venture.
“Unfortunately, no. Director Minaro has locked away all the interesting items we uncovered in the renovation so we can get them appraised.”
“Thank you for giving us so much to think about,” says William, switching to his more seductive velvety tone. Our teacher looks at him so intently that she doesn’t seem to blink.
William is holding her gaze, and something flashes in his purple eyes.
“Everything is in the director’s office,” blurts our teacher.
She looks confused after volunteering that information, as if she doesn’t know why she did it.
She shakes her head like she’s trying to clear it.
“Okay, why don’t you all check out the other clubs, and let me know on Monday if you’re still interested in this? ”
She looks a bit lost as she stands up, and once she exits the dining hall, Trevor leans in and says, “We need a plan.”
William rises like this doesn’t concern him, and if I had to guess, I’d bet he’s off to root through Minaro’s office.
“We need to see that letter,” says Salma.
William sits back down, confirming my suspicions.
“Why don’t we go call our parents?” asks Zach carefully, like he’s implying something else.
We all get up, and as he leads us down a new direction, I realize with a jolt of guilt that I haven’t been to this wing of the manor yet.
There are only two phones wired into the wall, with no seating options. It makes me think of films I’ve seen set in prisons.
Directly in front of us are windowed double doors with a sign overhead that says MAIN OFFICE. Through the glass, I see a few people moving around. I can make out Mr. Torres, Coach Frankel, and Director Minaro.
Zach picks up one of the phone receivers but doesn’t dial a number.
Trevor does the same thing with the other phone, and the rest of us line up behind them. “Anyone know where her office is?” he asks without looking at us.