Chapter Nine #2
“That’s one of the guys I was talking about earlier.
Malachi. He’s the headmaster’s nephew. He inherited, like, an ass-load of money when his parents died last summer.
Moved his uncle and cousin into his house and went from normal, shy, hot jock to total depression-era emo with a motorcycle and a new girl clamoring—unsuccessfully—for his attention every week.
Honestly I can’t even blame them. If I weren’t a lesbian, I too would fall into his weird little trap.
It’s the Edgar Allan Poe-ification of teenage boyhood. ”
It’s strange that she doesn’t mention Lexie, and I wonder if the students here know, or if he’s kept some part of the tragedy to himself. If he’s hiding the truth of his pain beneath this change.
Because this isn’t the Malachi I know. The one who read Bridge to Terabithia, cried for two days, and then refused to use the rope swing to cross the creek; the one with ink-stained fingers and little leather-bound notebooks always tucked deep into his pockets.
The one that tethered Lucas and me to the earth.
The Malachi I knew was serious, sure, and sullen, usually, but he wasn’t this vicious, womanizing, motorcycle-riding, pretentious loser.
I don’t know how to feel about all this new information about him, so I say nothing. My mouth waters with the urge to scream, but I smother it.
The school has two dorm buildings, one for underclassmen and one for upper, with the “genders” separated by floor.
Boys on the first two, and girls on the third and fourth.
The upperclassmen dorm is called McDowell House, but there’s already a name tag slapped over the plaque by the entrance with “Acheron” scribbled over it, which feels especially appropriate as I wander through the lobby and onto the elevator with my cart full of stuff.
The building has the same dark-wood tones and maroon aesthetic as the others. Half-wilted plants adorn every corner; thick rugs and antique armchairs with plush, golden-velvet cushions make the space feel dated but cozy—and a little spooky.
Room 416 sits in a little alcove that protrudes from the building.
Inside, the bed is tucked against a large bay window.
I didn’t bring much from home, but I hang fairy lights across the headboard.
I put up a few pictures of my mom and Gigi, and I even shove my battered childhood bunny I affectionately named Lovey beneath my pillow. Because I’m an almost-adult, obviously.
And finally, when everything else is done, I take out Gigi’s letter.
I lean against my bed, the folded papers clutched between my fingers as I stare down at the slanted writing and wonder how she was feeling when she scribbled my name in purple ink.
Did she know the end was coming?
My heart thunders against my ribs as I flatten the first fold, my breath burning in my throat. It’s folded twice more, and I consider finally doing it. Finally reading the very last words I’ll ever receive from my grandmother as she was when she was here, warm and alive.
But my stomach is growling, and my head is starting to ache, and I can’t do it. I just can’t do it. So instead I shove the crinkled pages back into my pocket and head out of my room in search of food.
The second I step foot outside, I’m blinded by the way the setting sun glints off the stained-glass windows of the chapel, and I find myself clomping down the hill through the low-lying fog that gathers in the dips of the lawn.
It crawls across the grass and climbs the stone benches that line the walkway.
I can’t get the image of the burning school out of my mind.
I can’t stop wondering why they would build this place on top of the ruins.
The chapel door is as heavy as I remember, but it’s unlocked.
When I step into the nave, I’m near breathless, flooded with images and memories.
The feeling is so intense, I stomp right up to the sanctuary and turn, taking in the full breadth of the room that started it all, every summer after the summer I met Malachi and Lucas, and all the ways they built me, brick by brick, before they tore me down.
I remember the moment I first saw Kai, curled at the edge of the retaining wall outside the chapel, babying a bloody knee and sucking his snot straight into his mouth.
Lucas was peering over his cousin’s shoulder at the wound.
The second Kai’s eyes met mine, I knew somehow, way down deep inside, that he belonged to me. I used to think he felt the same.
I thought they both did.
But I was wrong.
Blinking back tears, I wander through the pews and down the long hallway. When I was little, the shadows here seemed to move, the grooves in the wood like eyes wide open and blinking at me. Watching. Just how Daisy described.
Now I glide my fingers across the paneled walls, my steps too loud in the tight space.
As I near the end, each rapping of my foot against the floor turns from sharp to hollow, like I’m standing above a trap.
For a moment my belly goes tight like it does at the top of a roller coaster plummet, and I slam my hand against the wall to steady myself.
When my palm hits the wood, I know something is wrong. There’s a give that shouldn’t be there, and a slight crack opens in a sliver along the grain. I press harder, expecting some secret hidden door to pop open—I mean, I can feel a cool breeze barely slipping through—but that doesn’t happen.
I follow the seam down to the floor. Stepping back, I examine the wall with more perspective, allowing the angled light from the thin windows behind me to illuminate it more.
There, flush against the wood, painted in a camouflage of swirling dark browns, is a keyhole.
It’s probably nothing, but there’s a part of me that can’t stand to turn around without knowing what’s behind this door. I jam my pinky nail into the hole and try to turn it, but it’s no use. There’s no way I’m getting in there without a key.
For all the years I’ve run up and down this hall, this place has never had this feeling before. Like dread. Like an omen.
Or maybe I was just too young to notice.
And more than that, it’s the smell. Thick enough to rock my empty stomach and make the back of my jaw sting with nausea. Like a thousand moldy apples. Like death.
Last month I would have taken this as a sign that I shouldn’t be snooping where I don’t belong.
But now, after everything that’s happened since Gigi died?
After the message she gave me in my dream?
There’s a part of me that feels obligated to follow my gut.
Like I would be letting her down if I didn’t.
I make a mental note of what the keyhole looks like, because after a few searches online for how to pick a lock, I’m just going to have to come back and take matters into my own hands.
In the interim, if I don’t get some food into my belly within the next fifteen minutes, I’m probably going to die from starvation or kill a man.