Invitation Only (Private 2) - Page 20

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.

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