Chapter 3
I gasp awake, sweat-soaked hair plastered to my skull. I kick at the tangle of sheets, feeling the slick layer of perspiration at the back of my neck and knees, my forehead, upper lip, just—ugh, everywhere. Jolting awake covered in sweat isn’t a novelty, but my sleep shirt is extra damp today.
It takes me several blinks to realize two things: It’s far too bright in the room, and Remy’s covers are thrown back, her bed empty.
It’s the first day of classes, and I’ve slept in.
“Crap,” I yelp, leaping out of bed.
I scrub angrily at my wet cheeks as I half sprint, half march across campus, hunching hard into an unforgiving wind. I pull my thin hoodie, the same one I’ve been wearing for three days straight, tighter around me.
The wind picks up, harsh and biting enough that I have to shut my eyes. I duck into a brick breezeway between two buildings for some respite. It’s a longer path to the arts building, but I’m already so late, is ten more minutes gonna matter?
The crowd of students has thinned out, everyone now in their classrooms, in their seats, perfect and on time. There’s no one around.
Crunch. The loud sound of gravel footsteps right behind me.
“Rose,” someone whispers behind me. The voice is familiar. Why is it familiar?
“Rose,” the voice says again, closer this time, so I turn around.
The first thing I see is a dagger coming at my left eye.
I blink: This is my mistake. When the sharp tip pushes through the delicate skin of my eyelid, I scream.
The blade keeps pushing, and the thick, sharp metal is very cold and very painful.
I scream and scream as the knife plunges deeper, the wide blade filling my eye socket.
And then whoever is holding the dagger twists it.
I’m still screaming as I sit up in bed. I clap my hands over my mouth. Gasping for air, I register my sweaty sheets, the clean dorm room, my twenty-twenty vision.
My god. I was dreaming this whole time.
But my left eye is throbbing, aching. I still feel every inch of that cold metal inside my skull. So much so that I very, very slowly raise a hand to the left side of my face. When the tips of my trembling fingers brush against the unscathed lid of my eye, I slump forward on a huge exhale.
It’s still there. Thank god, it’s still there.
Then I realize: Remy.
I leap to my feet, rounding the partition to see if I’ve woken her up with my screaming. But she’s already gone.
“Oh, thank god.” I double over, wheezing a laugh, shaking my head. But then I actually get a good look at her bed. The mattress is bare. No fitted sheet, no pillow, no goose-down comforter with climate-sensor technology. Her charging cables are gone. All ten pairs of shoes.
Even her monogrammed taffy-pink AirPod case is gone. I rush to her desk and open the drawers. Empty.
There’s a loud knock on my door.
I’m still shaking my head and blinking madly when I answer it.
There’s a girl leaning against the jamb, arms folded. She tilts her head at me.
“Is someone being murdered in here?” Her voice is husky, like a jazz crooner off Turner Classic Movies. “Is that why your old roommate is moving out? Are you a secret serial killer?”
“My…um…”
The girl’s mouth crooks, her smile somehow both ironic and fond.
Or maybe it’s her mouth that’s ironic and her eyes are fond?
They’re huge and dark, and they make a very compelling argument that the color brown can totally be just as arresting—if not more so in her case—as blue or green.
Tall and slim with a high, sleek ponytail the same shade of white-gold as my parents’ wedding bands, she’s sort of dazzling.
Not that I’m hard to dazzle this morning, given that I slept terribly, I can still feel the ghost of a knife in my left eye, and I’ve got no clue where Remy went. I notice the matching set of chic luggage in the hallway, and what this girl just said fully registers.
“Sorry.” I shake my head. “Did you say my old roommate?”
“Ah.” Her face loses all irony, gentling into understanding. “I’m gonna guess you haven’t checked your email yet?”
“Ha, no, definitely not. Yet.” I pull my phone from my pocket, and sure enough, I’ve got one new email from the registrar’s office.
Dear Rose Shields,
We are writing to inform you that your current roommate, Remy Linklater, has withdrawn from classes and is no longer a student at Payen University.
Due to Coupland Hall’s extensive waiting list, you will be assigned a new roommate, effective immediately.
For any questions or concerns, please refer to Payen University’s Office of Housing website.
Regards,
E. Doddridge
Executive Administrator,
Coupland Hall
“Wow,” I say, blinking down at my phone.
I knew Remy was miserable. She made that very clear on her calls to her father.
I just figured it was a matter of time before the housing office got sick of fielding Remy’s and her father’s complaints before finding a way to switch her to a single.
I look up at the girl, give her a hopeful smile. “So…does that mean you’re—”
“Delia West, your new roommate.” She ticks off her fingers. “I won’t microwave any fish in the room, I make a devastating cup of Earl Grey, and”—her eyes twinkle—“I haven’t murdered anyone. Yet.”
Oh my god, I could hug her. “You’re totally hired.
” I wave her in. Delia’s smile goes full Hollywood as she gracefully rolls her suitcases into the small room.
I can’t take my eyes off her as she inspects the room with delight, running her fingers over the leather chesterfield against the window, her breath fogging the glass as she presses against it, marveling at the view.
“This room is beautiful.” Delia sighs, drawing a heart on the foggy window. “I’m really happy to be here…” She glances back at me, smirking. “You got a name?”
I jolt. “Oh! My name is Rose.”
Delia flops onto the couch. “I’ve been on the damn waiting list for campus housing for months.
They kept giving me the runaround, so I showed up at the Housing Administration Office this morning.
First thing. Wasn’t gonna leave until they gave me some answers.
I’m at the front of the line, waiting for them to unlock the doors, when this girl pushes past me and starts banging on the glass.
” Delia snorts. “Mrs. Dodd-ridge herself poked her head out, and this girl’s all, ‘I swear to god, Edith, if it doesn’t happen today, my father will pull me out.
He’ll send me and his money to Harvard!’ And what does our queen, Mrs. Edith Doddridge, say?
She looks your old roommate dead in the eye and says, ‘Knock yourself out,’ then turns to me and says, ‘You’re the one who keeps emailing about housing, right?
A spot just opened up.’ ” Delia leans back on the couch, smirking. “And now here I am.”
“Wow,” I breathe, grinning like a dope.
She pulls out an orientation packet like mine, starts shuffling through the papers. “So, my schedule’s not quite finalized yet. I can’t figure out which class to take for my humanities requirement.” Delia glances up. “Which one are you taking?”
Oh my god. With everything, I’d totally forgotten.
“A painting class,” I wail, rushing over to my chest of drawers.
“And I have to be there in thirty minutes!” Delia chews her lip thoughtfully as she watches me rummage through my clothes.
I find my favorite sweater and hug it to my chest, relieved.
I duck behind the partition and rip off my sleep clothes, yank on some jeans, and wrestle on the sweater.
“Methodologies and Methods?” Delia says. “Is the class number PRT 1010?”
“Sounds right,” I grunt from inside my sweater. In my rush, I’ve accidentally tried shoving my head through the sweater’s armhole. “I’m not sure if— Crap.”
“Here.” Delia’s voice is next to me. I catch a whiff of perfume, something sophisticated and floral, feel a few tugs on my sweater, and am suddenly face-to-face with Delia. “There you go.” She pats my head. “I love that sweater. Also? I now have my humanities requirement all squared away.”
“You do?” I blink at her as she shrugs on a peacoat and shoulders her messenger bag.
“Yup.” She grins. “Now come on, we gotta go now or we’re gonna be late to class.”
—
Turns out, today really is unseasonably cold. Delia and I huddle close as we make the trek across campus to the arts building. I know there are underground tunnels connecting the buildings on Payen’s campus, but I haven’t figured how to get to them yet, and I can’t afford to be late.
“Brr!” Delia pulls a camel-colored scarf from her bag and wraps it around her neck. “It’s freezing.” She sighs happily. “This is exactly how autumn should feel. I love it.”
“Same,” I say. “California had zero seasons.”
“So you grew up in California?” Delia raises a brow. “Northern or Southern?”
“Southern,” I say. “About two hours south of LA?” I wait for Delia to gush about the glories of Laguna Beach and palm trees. Instead, she groans.
“Man,” she says, “you’ve never had a real autumn in your entire life! It’s hot as balls there.”
“Exactly!” I say, grinning.
“It kills me, dude. Were any of your crew pumpkin spice freaks? I just can’t imagine drinking a pumpkin spice latte and being like ‘Ah, fall,’ as sweat from my upper lip drips into the foam.” Delia glances at my face. “Or were you the PSL lover in your friend group?”
“Ha, right.” I kick at a passing leaf. “Actually, I was more of a…lone wolf kinda girl.”
“Right on,” she says. “Wolves were always my favorites.”
“What about you?” I ask, deeply curious about this new girl in my life. “Where’d you grow up?”
“Where didn’t I grow up?” She shakes her head.
“My mom’s a stage actress. I was born backstage at a community theater production of The Winter’s Tale.
The sperm donor, some loser on the tech crew, ditched, but the director of the play had fallen madly in love with his Hermione, aka my mother.
So they married, he adopted me, and we traveled the country doing theater together. ” Delia says theater like THEE-ah-tah.