Chapter 52. Lorena
lorena
My roommates and I head to the dining hall early for Time Period Day, wearing the long black frocks that are our uniforms for today.
The light fixtures in our tower are off, and the only illumination comes from lanterns strategically placed on certain steps. In the common room, the fireplace has been lit, and as I look at the flames, my stomach muscles clench with guilt.
We meet the guys on the way, wearing black breeches and jackets. Trevor is the only one of us who carries anything with him—his bag with the flamethrower inside.
Something is different about Zach, and it takes me a moment to identify it’s the missing camera around his neck. Minaro must have nixed it in the spirit of the event.
None of us says a word in greeting. It feels like we’re attending our own funeral. I wonder if William has encountered the vampires yet, and whether any of them are listening to him.
Even though it’s morning, the sky is dark and gloomy, so it still looks like night outside. When we enter the dining hall, the chandeliers are off, and candles cluster together at the center of every table. There are also tall stands with lit candles along the walls.
“Congratulations on all your hard work!” Director Minaro greets us. She’s wearing a blouse with a floor-length, high-waisted skirt, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. “I look forward to everything you have planned for us today.”
We remain silent, and I wonder if my friends feel the same way I do—like my body is desiccated, all my organs shriveled up, and I couldn’t produce a sound if I tried.
“We should get the newsletters,” Zach manages to say.
“Good idea,” says the director, and as he and Tiffany take off, I look at Trevor. But he’s busy scanning the room and gripping his bag tightly, like a soldier on a battlefield.
As our classmates pour in, the place starts to look and feel more and more like some weird death cult. Salma, Trevor, and I stand in front of the buffet table, waiting for everyone to take their seats.
My stomach feels like it’s trying to digest an anvil as I wait for Tiffany and Zach to discover what we’ve done.
“You can begin your presentation,” says Minaro, and I realize the place has filled up.
Salma nudges me. I’m supposed to talk about the breakfast customs of the mid-1700s, and what these dishes represent, but my vocal cords are in knots.
“Breakfast,” I begin, my voice crackly from the drought in my mouth, “will be bread, milk, porridge…”
Tiffany and Zach run into the hall, looking out of breath.
“Scones, butter, jam…”
Tiffany’s searing gaze finds me, and she looks almost deranged with rage as she and Zach approach us.
“Um, eggs … and fruit.” I can’t say anything else. I can barely keep upright.
“Thank you,” says the director when she sees that I’ve finished. “You may begin eating.”
As people get up to fill their plates, Tiffany says to Minaro, “We need to talk to you.”
“Let’s move to the side,” says the director, and we all follow her to a corner of the room.
“Lorena undermined our project,” Tiffany announces. Zach says nothing, but he watches me warily, like he blames me, too.
“What the hell are you talking about?” asks Salma in my defense.
“I believe that is my question to ask,” says Minaro. “Please explain.”
“She stole our newsletter!” says Tiffany. “We printed out a hundred copies last night and left them in the newsroom, and this morning they’re all gone.”
“Why do you blame Lorena for this?”
“Ask her.”
Now the director looks at me, and so do all my friends. “Lorena, did you do this?”
“No,” I say as firmly as I can.
“Then how did one hundred newsletters vanish overnight?” Tiffany demands of me.
“Can you just reprint them?” asks Minaro.
“The file is gone, too,” says Zach.
“That is strange indeed,” says the director, and I can feel Salma’s gaze burning a hole in the side of my head. “We can look into this later. For now, please proceed with the rest of your plans.”
“But—”
“That is all,” says Minaro, cutting off Tiffany’s protest. “Go sample the food the staff has been hard at work preparing for you.”
The five of us do as she instructs, and as soon as we sit down, Tiffany practically hisses at me. “I can’t fucking believe you.”
I butter my scone even though my stomach is already full from feasting on my emotions.
Guilt, fear, regret, dread, shame—they’re all roiling in my belly, making me sick.
Zach sits quiet and still beside her; Trevor hasn’t even looked at his plate, too busy surveying our surroundings; and Salma rests her forehead in her hand while picking at her fruit plate.
There aren’t many vegan options for her today.
“You need help,” Tiffany says to me. “You’ve been brainwashed—”
“It was my idea,” Trevor cuts in, and now he is the center of all our attention.
“What?” The look of utter disappointment on Zach’s face must hit Trevor hard because he finally stops looking everywhere else.
“I understand why you wanted to do this,” Trevor tells him, “but that newsletter wasn’t about reporting the truth, it was just retaliation.
If you’re serious about getting the real story out, do some digging and tell it the right way.
With proof. If you make it easy to dismiss you now, no one’s going to believe us later, when their lives could depend on it. It’s not responsible journalism.”
Everyone just stares back at him in silence, and Trevor turns to me with an expression of surprise that would be comical under other circumstances. “Fuck, I sound like my father.”
From the way Salma keeps stepping on my toe under the table, I know I owe her an explanation as soon as we’re alone. Then the bell rings, and Minaro stands up.
“I now turn things over to your history club.”
She waves us over, and the five of us seem to be moving extra slow as we make our way toward her to address the room.
We face our classmates in an awkward silence, and when it grows noticeably long, I look at Tiffany.
We’re all waiting for her to give her presentation about the history of Huntington, building up to the big reveal that the reason the theme of the day is the mid-1700s is there’s evidence the manor dates back to that time. But she keeps her mouth sealed.
“Okay,” Trevor swoops in, “up next, we’re going outside for some games. So, head to the locker rooms, doesn’t matter which one, and pick up a cloak.”
Teachers and students get to their feet, and we all march together to the back of the manor, splitting up at the locker rooms to pick a black cloak in our size, and we fasten it around ourselves as we pour onto the field.
I hear a few people gasp as an ice rink is revealed for curling, and I can’t believe the staff went to these lengths for us.
The main field has been turned into a soccer field, despite Ms. Floreville’s protests of anachronism.
For those in the mood for a mental workout, tables have been set up with a variety of games, including chess, backgammon, and playing cards.
Off to the side is a small tent that says POST OFFICE with a stack of papers and envelopes.
There is a blue wooden box with a slit for inserting the letters, which will be delivered to people’s rooms throughout the day.
There are also easels set up near the post office, right next to a sign that says: FOR ANYONE HOPING TO CAPTURE THE VIEW—OR SOMEONE’S PORTRAIT.
Both of these were William’s ideas.
Even though it’s a blustery gray day, the heat lamps installed all around offer protection from the worst of the chill. Everyone starts heading in different directions, except for the five of us.
“Wanna write a letter?” Salma asks me, and I know it’s more of a summons than an invitation.
“Yes,” I say, and the two of us break away from the group toward the empty postal stand. I grab a piece of paper and one of the pens that’s chained to the tabletop, pretending to write.
“What are you doing here?” demands Salma, and I turn to see that Trevor’s followed us.
“You can’t leave my sight,” he says.
“What about Tiffany and Zach?” she challenges.
“They went to the chess tables, so I had to make a call. Since they’re less likely targets, I followed you.”
“Who are you, Jack Ryan?”
“Okay, look,” I say, just wanting to get this over with. “We burned the newsletters last night in one of the fireplaces.”
“And you didn’t include me?” she asks, and I know she’s thinking it’s because of what she said to me yesterday.
“It was my plan,” says Trevor. “I didn’t include you.”
“I didn’t mean what I said,” Sal says to me, ignoring Trevor. “Not the way it came out.”
I don’t want to talk about it, so I just say, “Trevor asked me to meet. I had no idea what we were about to do.”
“Tiff’s never going to forgive you now.” Salma shakes her head sadly. “I was really hoping you two would be friends.” It’s not what she says but how. The way her voice dips like she’s sharing a deathbed regret.
“She really has a good heart,” Salma goes on. “I know you can’t see this right now, but she’s coming from a place of integrity. Promise me you’ll give her a chance.”
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” asks Trevor. He sidesteps me so he’s face-to-face with Salma. “You’re talking like Beth fucking March.”
“Really?” asks Salma, finally acknowledging him. “Little Women?”
“What, the March sisters aren’t good enough for you? Not goth enough?” He chuckles at his own joke, and despite her best efforts, a grin breaks through Salma’s blackish-purple-painted lips.
“You’re such an idiot.”
“But I made you smile,” he says in a gentle tone that makes me feel like I’m intruding. “I wish you’d let me be your friend. I’m not asking for anything else. Just talk to me.”
She swallows, and I start backing away slowly so they can have their moment.
“Hit the brakes, Third Wheel,” he warns me. “You’re not going anywhere.”