Mrs. Lattimer, the middle-?aged house mother of Billings House, approached me at a broken pace, her stride hindered by her skinny pencil skirt. Her dark hair was pulled back in a bun and her white shirt was, as always, buttoned all the way up, with three strands of pearls sitting on top. Mrs. Lattimer was skinny and pointy; her skin was rough as leather. She was never seen without a thick layer of eyeliner and mascara, as if she thought drawing attention to her watery eyes would cause the average person to miss the rather large birthmark on her chin. I had met her on my first night at Billings and she had looked me over as if confused by my very existence. I had avoided her ever since.
“Miss Brennan, I understand that you made all the beds this morning,” she said, her craggly hands clasped in front of her.
Wait a minute. She knew about that?
“You somehow, however, overlooked my own,” she said, lifting her chin. “I would appreciate it if you afforded me the same courtesy you have the other women of this dorm.”
She was kidding. She had to be kidding. Not only did she know about this hazing ritual, but she condoned it? She wanted in on it?
55
“Do I make myself clear?” she asked.
“Uh . .. sure,” I said.
“Good,” she said with a nod. We both stood there for a long moment. “Well. Go about your business,” she said, shooing me with her hand.
“Right. Okay.”
I shoved the door open, closed it behind me, and leaned back against it, wishing there was a lock. A bolt. Some kind of alarm system that could alert me to approaching heiresses. I couldn't believe our house mother was in on this. As if I didn't have enough to do already, enough to worry about.
Taking a deep breath, I sank down a bit, unable to move another muscle. My nerves were fried. All day I had been waiting for my classroom doors to open, waiting to be called to Hell Hall to talk to the police. I was completely unable to concentrate and had managed to shred no fewer than ten sheets of loose-?leaf into tiny squares. But nothing had happened. The day had ended without a single interruption and now a rumor was floating around that the police were starting with the senior class and working their way down, that they might not even get to us lowly sophomores until late in the week.
Personally, I wanted to get it over with. I felt like my blood had been replaced with pure caffeine. Why didn't they at least come get me? Hadn't the crack investigators found out yet that Thomas had a girlfriend?
I pushed away from the door and dropped down on my bed,
56
looking blankly around my new room. My new room. In all the insanity I'd had yet to have the time to fully appreciate the space. It was at least three times bigger than my old room in Bradwell, with a huge arched window overlooking the quad. My desk was immense, with a built-?in bulletin board and study lamp, and the double dresser near the wall actually dwarfed the smallish bed. It was also only half full and completely devoid of pictures, jewelry boxes, and knickknacks, unlike every other dresser in this place--which, by the way, were that much more difficult to dust and polish.
Yes, my side of the room was pathetically bare compared to Natasha's, which was replete with posters hung at exact right angles, perfectly organized books and papers, a clear plastic tackle-?style box keeping each piece of her incredibly expensive jewelry separate from all the others. But it was home. My home in Billings. I had to remember that. I was here. And all the chores they could throw at me were worth it.
I think.
Final
ly I shoved myself away from the wall and trudged over to my desk. Some of my books were still in a crate on the floor from when the Billings Girls had gathered them and brought them over. Might as well unpack now while I still had a sliver of energy left in me. I picked up a few of my extra history tomes, which had been assigned to me the first day of school, and lifted them onto the shelf above the desk. The middle one slipped out and fell with a thud to the floor, and try as I might to grab the others, they all slipped and slid and followed, one landing right on my toes.
“Dammit,” I said under my breath, dropping to my knees.
57
I leaned my back into the side of my bed and sighed as several bones cracked and a few muscles uncoiled. Wow, was it nice to be sitting. Maybe the unpacking could wait.
Using a minimal amount of effort, I slid a couple of the books toward me and stacked them in my lap. In doing so, I uncovered a small piece of white paper, folded up tightly, sitting on the hardwood floor. Huh. Where had that come from?
I picked it up and turned it over in my hand. Unfamiliar. Had it fallen out of one of my books? They had all been taken out of the library the first week of school. Maybe it was an old love letter someone had left in there. Intrigued, I unfolded the page. My eye went directly to the signature. The note was computer printed but signed in ink.
By Thomas.
“What?” I said out loud.
Instantly my pulse started to pound in my ears. In my fingertips. In my eyes. I pulled my knees up to my chest, scattering the books to the floor, and read, the page trembling in my hands.
Dear Reed,
I'm leaving tonight. I don't know what else to do. A friend of mine knows of this holistic treatment thing where they don't require parental permission. I'm not going to tell you where it is, because I don't want you or anyone else trying to find me. I want to get better. And I don't think I can do that if I stay in touch with the people in my life.