Chapter 12
12
Sonny
T he guidance counseling office is tucked down a long, practically hidden corridor of the original Landry chateau. Like the admissions office, the path is littered with memorabilia that’s been bolted into beautiful paneled walls. My gaze catches on each photo and trinket as the urge to touch them and feel the memories attached burns through my fingertips.
It takes me an embarrassingly long time to find my way through the maze of hallways. I’m almost ten minutes late to my appointment, which only makes me feel even more anxious. I make a mental note to study a building map in case I have another meeting here. It’s as if they’ve purposely made the building impossible to navigate.
When I walk through the heavy office door, I’m greeted by one woman sitting behind a large writing desk with another standing off to her side, wearing a beaming smile.
“You must be Penelope,” the second woman greets, rounding the desk with her hand outstretched toward me. “I’m Abigail Gracer, one of the guidance counselors here at Ravenshurst. The one you’ve been emailing.”
She’s much younger than I imagined. Probably only a few years older than me. Her straight, light brown hair hardly touches the shoulders of her dress, which hugs all her curves in the right places.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” I smile back, grasping her hand. “I’m sorry I’m late. I got a little turned around on my way.”
Abigail swipes her hand through the air dismissively. “It’s not a problem. Everyone has trouble finding their way the first few times they come.”
With a farewell nod toward the woman at the desk, she turns away and starts toward one of the doors lining the perimeter of the room, handling her heels with impressive ease.
“My office is right this way,” she explains over her shoulder, and I follow dutifully.
Her office space is surprisingly small, the walls covered in a collage of random old knick-knacks that gives it a soft, eclectic feel. The desk sits in the center with just enough room to fit her leather rolling chair on one side with a filing cabinet shoved into the back corner, and two beat-up wooden chairs across from it.
“We at Ravenshurst take a much more hands-on approach to our student’s academic success than most other colleges. It’s part of the reason we like to keep our admission numbers low. It’s also why we’ve got so many counselors on staff and such small quarters.”
She winks at the deprecating joke, then turns toward the laptop sitting on her desk when I twist my lips to the side, unsure how to respond.
“Right . . . I was looking over your transcripts this morning and came up with a couple ideas for how we can ensure you’re making the most out of your time here. The first thing I noticed was that you haven’t chosen any gifted courses or Societies of Legacy.”
“I’m not sure I understand what those are,” I admit, mentally calculating the hours I’ll be spending in classes and studying. I’m already enrolled with full-time credits. If I end up taking on a job like I had planned, I don’t think I can swing another time commitment, let alone two.
Her face falls. “You don’t know your gifted class?” she asks slowly, as if that’s the most ridiculous thing she’s heard, then turns toward her laptop and clicks around. “Ah, yes. Carmichaels are of the Valeria bloodline. Your father isn’t gifted, is he? I don’t recognize the Ellery name, but I’ve been wrong before.”
Facing me again, she stares across the desk expectantly, waiting for an answer that I can’t even fathom pretending to have.
What the hell is a Valeria?
“Uh . . . ”
She’s looking back at the screen with a scowl, shaking her head. “I’m not sure how admissions let you get away with this schedule.”
“I have no idea what you mean. I’m a psychology major . . . ”
Jerking her head back to face me, her brows disappear into her hairline, lips pursed in disapproval. “Yes, but you’ve also got to study courses for your giftedness,” she explains slowly.
“I promise you, I’m not gifted,” I assure with a nervous chuckle. Whatever that means.
Abigail kicks her head back. “Forgive me if I seem rude. I’ve never heard of a student who wasn’t aware of their giftedness. Most come to Ravenshurst ready to scream it from the rooftops.”
When I just shake my head, eyes widened dramatically to emphasize my confusion, she leans forward against her desk and uses her hands to explain it to me.
“There are six bloodlines of the gifted. Well, seven, if you include the Mirrane bloodline, but there hasn’t been a descendant from that one for over a century, so we don’t include it in our materials. That’s why Ravenshurst is legacy-only. In addition to being a highly esteemed, Ivy League university, we’re also a school for the gifted.”
“And you’re saying I’m this . . . Valeria?”
“An empath, yes. Psychology is the perfect choice, by the way.” She taps my arm and smiles again, scrunching her nose like it’s the cutest little coincidence.
If Carmichaels are part of this Valeria bloodline, I wonder what my mother’s would be. What my actual gift is.
I have a feeling it has nothing to do with empathy.
Is this why Aunt Divina has always kept me away from her social dealings?
And does Poppy have a clue about this?
The questions are swarming my head faster than I can register. I knew something was off about this place.
Swallowing, I tilt my head and point to the computer. “Do you have a pamphlet or something that I could look at with the rest?”
She hesitates, peering at me like I’ve just stunned her with the request. As if I’ve asked her to loan me a kidney or stab a pencil into my eyeball. I’m sure that under normal circumstances, this is information students are taught as soon as they can walk. No one needs an information packet about their own genealogy.
Unfortunately for me, I don’t come from normal circumstances.
I blink at her expectantly. “Or can you point me in the direction where I might find something like that . . . ”
She shakes her head, breaking whatever trance she was in. “I’m sorry . . . Yes, of course. There’s a section in the Landry library dedicated to bloodlines. Only upperclassmen are permitted there, but I’ll write you a note for them to make an exception.”
Ripping off a lined sheet of paper from the pad in her desk drawer, she scribbles a note and signs the bottom before handing it to me. “I know your mother and I just . . . I find it quite unbelievable that she left you in the dark about this. I’m so sorry, Poppy. That was such a cruel thing for her to do.”
I dip my chin, accepting the note. It is cruel, but I’d expect nothing less from Divina. This is why she predicted Poppy would regret the decision not to include her in her time here.
Such a self-righteous snake.
“Anyway, back to your schedule. We recommend at least two courses focusing on your gift. Since you’re so behind on studying yours, I would recommend you fill both of those spots. Maybe we can even squeeze in a third.”
“I’d love to. Maybe we can just add one this semester and make up for it later?”
Like, perhaps when I fully absorb the mindfuck this all has turned out to be.
“I’m positive we can add at least two, even if we eliminate one of your psych classes. I’m sure I can speak to Dr. Whitlock about working something out. He’s a little uptight, but I know how to handle him.” She winks, her lips spread into a Cheshire grin that makes my stomach turn.
I slip my gaze toward the computer to escape the wave of awkwardness she just crashed over me. This meeting is turning out to be straight from a nightmare. “It’s just . . . I planned on finding a job in town and I’m not sure I’ll have time between all these classes.”
When her expression falls again, I hold my hands up and add, “Nothing too serious to distract from my studies. Just something to put a little extra cash in my pocket.”
“Ah, I see. We’ve got work studies available as well. Most of the favored ones have been picked off, but I can print you off a list to choose from and get you started with that.”
“That would be amazing, thank you.”
Once she finishes typing a note into her computer, she swivels her chair so she’s fully facing me. Her green eyes flick toward the open door before she leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice to say, “I’m not sure if anyone has explained the rules for leaving campus yet. Our goal, first and foremost, is for our students to keep their focus on their schoolwork. It’s for that reason that we’ve implemented things like weeknight curfews and restrictions on outside jobs.”
Raising my brows, I nod my head. Perhaps that was mentioned during orientation when I was busy panicking about my bags or being caught.
“Students are not permitted in the woods or on the beaches at all, and we have restrictions on when you can go into town. Upperclassmen are only permitted to leave the grounds to visit Nocturne Valley on weekends. Lowerclassmen are given one weekend per month. You can do any shopping or browsing during that time, but we don’t allow any students to take on jobs in town.”
It feels like a rock has settled into my stomach.
I can’t leave the school grounds?
So, no hiking in the woods . . .
No visiting the beach on a nice day . . .
No walking around town . . .
All the things Poppy and I talked about during those late nights when we were plotting our grand plan.
I’m stuck on this campus. Imprisoned by the fancy iron gates and picturesque landscape. Apparently, with a bunch of gifted people.
“It’s not meant to scare you,” Abigail assures, reaching across the desk in a feeble attempt to comfort me. My panicked thoughts must be showing clearly across my face.
“Are you sure?” I blow out a humorless laugh, my eyes darting around the room for something— anything —to make this trapped feeling let up.
“Absolutely. Ravenshurst has everything you could need. And technically, by next semester, you’ll be considered a junior with your credits. We’ve only implemented this rule to prevent students from taking jobs away from the people of Nocturne Valley and to prevent any residents from trying to take advantage of our students.”
None of this makes me feel any better, but I force myself to smile and nod—if only to get out of her suffocating office.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her brows pulling together in concern.
“Yes, yes. Sorry.”
“Okay, good. Let me grab that work study list and we should be all set. We can discuss everything else another day.”
Mercifully, she returns to her laptop and I get a moment to regain my composure. I have no idea why the rules have affected me so much. I’ve been here for days now and it’s been so busy, I haven’t thought of venturing into town once. But there’s something about this campus that unsettles me. Perhaps it’s the proximity to the woods or the constant sounds of the black ocean waters. It may even be Nocturne Valley itself. I haven’t felt right since my taxi broke through the wooded road and revealed the quaint little community for the first time.
Whatever it is, I don’t like it. And I don’t like being given rules for where I can be or when. Not when I’ve spent most my life caring for myself.
“It looks like Professor Whitlock has an open student assistant position,” Abigail announces excitedly, hitting one last button before her printer roars to life. Slipping the sheet of paper toward me, she offers a broad smile—all the awkwardness from before is completely forgotten. “We may be able to get you into something good, after all.”