Enthralled: Paranormal Diversions (Wicked Lovely 5.50)

I can’t believe I almost said it. My Breather parents left me behind, a baby with a blood-bruise. One little purplish spot inside my elbow and they were good as gone.

“I see.” I guess it was the right answer, because now her red lips stretch across her yellow teeth. “What a wonderful opportunity you’re giving yourself.” She sighs, and I can’t help but flash on the face of Natalie Anne Rutledge. I grab the carved mahogany fists of my chair arms to keep from punching her. My hands are shaking, but I don’t know if it’s from hunger or fear.

What are you doing, Wren Lola Lafayette?

You have to be more careful.

Your whole future—four years of fat-faced undergraduates— depends on this Breather woman.

You could be one of them.

More meals than you can count. More anonymity. More opportunity.

They’ll never track you here, and if they do, they’ll never be able to do anything. Not at the oldest school in the country. You’re right in the heart of Breather territory now. Breathers take care of their own.

“You haven’t had any trouble in your area, have you? We’ve been hearing some of the schools around you have fallen on . . . harder times.” She sounded hesitant.

“No, ma’am. Just stories, I guess. I’ve heard them too.” I don’t look at her.

“Well. It’s the South, right? We’ll have to thank Anne Rice for that.” She laughs, and I laugh, but I have no idea what we’re laughing about or what she’s talking about.

I mean, not about the Anne person. The trouble, that I’m pretty clear on.

She seems relieved, and gives the mouse on her computer a few extra clicks. “All right, then. I’ll be honest with you.” I wish she wouldn’t. In my experience, when folks are honest, it’s never a good thing. But I nod anyway.

“Like many of our first-generation applicants, your scores aren’t the strongest.” I hold my breath.

“Though your transcript is amazing.” I breathe.

“And your teachers truly seem to care about you, which is a good thing.”

“Yes they do, ma’am.” I think of Hop’s face as he signs the letters. “Thank you, ma’am.”

I start to feel better. I let my eyes drift over to the picture of the Charles River behind her desk. Mr. Skrumbett pointed it out when our bus drove over the bridge. I read the caption. I am wondering what a regatta is and what it has to do with all those little boats in the photograph when I hear the break in her voice.

“But . . .”

She pauses, like a cobra about to strike. My heart thumps and almost as if on cue, the boats and the river and her red smile fade away.

“But, I have to say, from your application, I didn’t get a good sense of who you are as a person. I felt like you were being less than forthcoming with me.”

Who I am is a Drinker. I want to bite your head off at your neck, right above the pearls. . . .

I force my eyes back up to her face. “I don’t understand.” My voice sounds strange in this dark little room, and I am startled to realize that I am actually here. I must be, because I’ve imagined this one room so many times, and this isn’t at all how I imagined it.

She is still talking, as if I haven’t said a word. “You know, who are you? What’s your hook?”

“My what?”

“Your hook. The one thing that sets you apart from the thirty thousand other applicants. Musical instrument? Scientific research? Internships? You’re not letting us see who you are. What have you been doing all this time, Ms. La-fay-ette, aside from studying? What can you bring to our school community?”

I close my eyes, but it’s too late. I know my hook. The memories come, a thousand flashing squares of Breather skin stretch in front of me, a checkerboard of pale, naked necks and wrists and ankles. It is as if I am looking down from the window of a plane, taking in a vast expanse of some kind of sea-to-shining-sea farmland. The sun reflects, glinting from rivers that turn to streams that turn to tiny creeks, though I know they aren’t rivers at all, but a web of spreading veins. . . .

“I keep busy.”

“Yes. I imagine you do.” She clears her throat. “Ms. La-fayette, let me be perfectly clear. On a scale from one to five, which is how we score these interviews, I would have to give you a one. And that would be generous.”

I’m not feeling her generosity. I’m too busy feeling like a one. I swallow. “So you’re saying . . . ?”