“Yes, Mistress,” comes the cry in unison.
“See?” Becca says to the screamer. “They’re fine. Listen to me, little darlings. You are about to embark on the most difficult week of your life. Not all of you will make it. And if you don’t make it, you will never amount to anything. You will be a laughingstock. You will be shunned. You will be cast out. Do you understand?”
Voices, stronger now, shout, “Yes, Mistress!”
“Yes,” I add, a beat too late.
“Look at your sisters. Look to your flock. You will carry each other when you are tired. You will work together. You will grow together. Who you were before no longer matters. Who your parents are no longer matters. We are your family now. Do you understand?”
She bellows, and we scream back at her, “Yes, Mistress!”
“Good. Strip.” The Swallows look around vaguely, then slowly, clothes start coming off. It’s hard to imagine things could be colder, but they are. Naked now, I am covered in gooseflesh. I cross an arm over my breasts. The other is meant to shield me, but I can’t get it into the shape of a fig leaf, so it dangles near my pelvis. Another giggle, this one from deep inside. Naked, in front of a group of strangers. This is the worst anxiety dream ever.
Becca says to the girl standing next to her, the one I’m having trouble focusing on—wait, it’s one of the twins—“Do you have it?”
“It’s in the bag.”
“Swallow!” Becca is screaming in my face now. She shoves me toward a trash bag sitting in the corner. We’re in a cabin, my feeble mind grasps at last. We’re out of the school. We’re naked in a cabin. What the hell?
“Pass it out. Down the line. Each Swallow needs a handful.”
“Yes, Mistress.” I pick up the bag. It smells of earth. I shuffle along, ignoring the variety in the body parts on display, trying to memorize the faces I see instead, as hands dip into the bag and draw out some sort of fall leaves. I recognize Jordan Swanson, the brunette junior in my computer class. Jordan is grinning, happy. All the faces in the line are happy in a sense, though some look scared, too.
It hits me, and I stagger a little under the knowledge of what’s happening.
This isn’t a joke. This isn’t a revenge play.
This is a tap.
I am being tapped for a secret society.
And Becca is the Mistress. That can only mean...
“Rub yourselves, Swallows. That’s right, rub the pretty leaves all over your sweet little bodies. Keep it away from your face, you fool, just arms, legs, and stomachs.”
I comply. The scent of the leaves is slightly spicy, and I like the feeling of it on my skin. Soft, fingertips caressing, the veins in the orange leaves so pretty, so pretty...
“Now put the leaves back in the bag.”
We do.
“Wash your hands.”
I smell bleach, feel the rough clammy washcloth against my skin. This is like a game I played as a child—Simon Says. Simon says hold your nose. Simon says touch your toes. Touch your nose—nope, Simon didn’t say it, you’re out.
I was always good at this game.
“Drop them in this.”
Another bag makes its way down the line. I divest myself of the stinky washcloth.
“Good little Swallows. Now, drink this.”
The bottle makes its way down the line. When it gets to me, I take a mouthful. More vodka. I am so thirsty. I want water, or tea, not vodka. My head is swimming, and my stomach feels funny. I am drunk now, but more. Drunk and high on something. The room throbs with energy; my eyes can’t focus. I stare at Becca, my Mistress, with one eye closed, then the other. It’s better with one eye. Easier to focus.
A chant now, building: “Drink, drink, drink, drink.”
The twins, a bottle to their lips, gulping and grinning. They pass it to Becca, who takes a long swallow, then another. Her teeth flash white in the gloom.
Swallow. Swallows. I snicker. I must have said it aloud, the whole line of us starts laughing.
And then there’s screaming again, orders, chaos. Girls are pulled out of line, interrogated, bossed, forced to their knees when they get an answer wrong.
“What is my name? What is my name, you worthless piece of shit?”
“Get my shoes, not those, the red boots. Are you a total idiot?”
“Name every single headmistress since the beginning of Goode. God, you are so stupid.”
“We thought you were better than this. We thought you had heart.”
One of them is fighting back. Not smart. “How would you know what I am?”
“What, you think Westhaven picks the students? That is our job. We chose you. You’re such a fucking disappointment.”
“Why did you lie about your parents, Swallow? Why?”
This is directed at me, I realize.
“I... I...”
The girl who is yelling at me isn’t unfamiliar, but I can’t place her. “Quit stuttering. You need to learn how to speak properly. Stupid Brit. What is my name?”
“Erm...”
“How dare you not know who I am? She’s out, Mistress. This one’s too stupid to be Ivy Bound. They all are.”
Girls are crawling on the floor, crying, getting snot in their hair. One is throwing up in a corner trashcan, two furious seniors standing over her. “Ewwww, what did you eat tonight, Swallow?”
I hear the reply through the girl’s tears. “Raw cookie dough, Mistress.”
“I’m not your Mistress, she’s your Mistress.”
A slap across my face, hard. “Focus, you idiot. I said, what is my name?” The tone is edged with such fury I crumple to my knees. I strain trying to come up with the girl’s name, but my mind is mushy. It’s the drugs, whatever they are, making it impossible to think. Think, Ash. Think!
“Oooh, look. One’s starting.”
“Shelley!” I shout, triumphant. “Your name is Shelley.”
“Finally. Get in line, Swallow!” Shelley commands.
I do, accidentally rubbing up against the arm of the girl next to me. Oh, it feels good to touch like this. I do it again. It’s like scratching an itch, warm and good deep inside. I look at my arm. It is red, streaked with white where I’ve been running my fingers along the skin.
“God, no, don’t touch your face, dumb ass.”
Becca is sitting on a long oak table, calmly smoking a cigarette, and I want a hit so badly.
“They’re starting to scratch, you better do it now,” Shelley says.
“Yeah, we better. Eyes front, Swallows.”
It’s been days, weeks, since they started yelling at us. Suddenly it’s quiet. I feel myself swaying. God, my arm itches.
“Listen to me. I am your Mistress. I now run your lives. Anything I tell you to do, you do. Anything you need, you come to me. You are each assigned a Falconer, who will train you in our ways. Whatever your Falconer tells you to do, you do it. You will be at the Falconer’s beck and call. Any hesitation to fulfill a request, and you will be cut. Tell anyone what you’re doing, and you will be cut. Tell anyone, student or teacher, anything about this night, and you will be cut.
“You have been tapped. You are all Swallows of Ivy Bound now. Do me proud.”
She smiles benevolently at us, the line of itchy girls in front of her, meeting each one’s eyes as she goes down the line. Thirteen Swallows to be made into women. She has her job cut out for her this year.
The girl next to me starts to scratch.
“And for God’s sake, keep your stupid hands away from your eyes.”
36
THE IVY
We are taken back to the school through the tunnel, one by one, one Swallow to one Falconer, until Becca and I are the last ones in the cabin. I’m sobering up, I think, but my head feels like cotton wool. My arm itches, but I don’t dare sc
ratch. Becca hasn’t given her permission.
Becca says touch your nose. Becca says touch your toes.
“Swallow. Can you hear me?”
Becca holds out the last of the cigarette. I take a deep, grateful drag.
“I am your Mistress, but I am also your Falconer.”
“Why me?” is all I can ask.
“You will understand why if you make it through, little Ash. I hope I wasn’t wrong about you. Now, let’s get you back to bed.”
I don’t know what to say. “Thank you,” I whisper, and Becca laughs.
“Trust me when I say you won’t be thanking me tomorrow. Come on.”
We follow the last of the girls through the tunnel and back into the school. As we go through the door to the red staircase, I catch a glimpse of the hanging girl again. The hallucination feels so real.
My words are slow and deliberate. “What did you give us?”
“Mostly just vodka. A touch of Molly. Just enough to make you happy and lovey. And Benadryl,” Becca replies absently. “Damn, where is that key?”
“Molly. Ecstasy. That’s why I feel so good. But Benadryl? Why?”
“You’ll understand in the morning. Ah, here it is.” She locks the door to the red staircase, pockets the key.
“Dean Westhaven knows about the cigarettes.”
“What?”
“She questioned me today. Smelled it on me. I told her they were mine.”
Becca’s eyes are huge in the darkness. “You covered for me?”
“Yes.”
“You lied for me?”
I feel the warmth of Becca’s voice, approving, caressing my body. “Yes.”
“Thank you. Now, off to bed with you, but wash up first. Do not touch your face, or your cooch, and make it a good, hot, soapy shower. Remember, don’t tell a soul.”
She pushes me out the door, down the stairs to the sophomore hall.
“Be waiting at the door to the seniors’ hall at 7:00 a.m. Don’t be late, Swallow. You won’t like the punishment for tardiness.”
And then the warm, sweet Becca is gone, back to her world in the attics, and I am alone, standing naked in the stairwell. My arms itch.
Ivy Bound.
The variegated leaves. Three to a stem. Itching.
Oh, bollocks!
I burst through the door and sprint to the hall’s handicap bath. I push the button with my elbow and dart inside. The sudden burst of light—the overhead is on a motion sensor—makes me wince, but not as badly as when I see myself in the mirror.
I am streaked in red.
They’ve made us rub ourselves with poison ivy.
“Those sadistic bitches.” I start the shower and jump in to wash. It’s not going to help, the leaves were crushed into my skin, the juice is already making blisters form.
Benadryl. To help counteract the itching.
Devious, and smart.
The hall is empty and quiet as I head back to the room. Out of habit, I look at the door across the hall. It is closed. But that means nothing. I try the knob, surprised to find it locked.
We don’t have locks on our doors. It’s part of the Honor Code.
I look closer at the knob. There are scratches in the fresh paint and a keyhole.
Someone must have reported that the door wouldn’t stay closed and one of the janitors changed the knob. The lock was certainly for safety’s sake—all that paint and raw wood, nails, all things that could hurt an unwitting student.
So why does it feel like someone is standing on the other side of the door, holding their breath?
Okay, now I really am wigging out. I move quickly toward my door. As I turn the knob, a voice bleeds into the night, and I can swear I hear my name being called. It is far away, though, and I shake my head and enter the room. I’m being paranoid. I’m still half-drunk and high, and have spooked myself. The drunken image of the dead girl in the stairwell, the red stairs, the murdered girl in the arboretum, the very heart of this school is its great ghost stories. But they’re stories. That’s all.
The room is still a mess, and Camille isn’t back. She must have decided to bunk with another girl, or maybe she’s been tapped for a secret society, too. No, probably not. They say sophomores never get tapped.
But I have been.
I’m special.
I open my wardrobe door and smile in the wavy mirror. I am Ivy Bound. Becca Curtis is my secret friend. There is a handsome boy in town who flirts with me, and the dean thinks I’m a weak little sobby snatch.
I have played this all perfectly.
On my mussed-up bed is a small brown lunch bag sitting atop a T-shirt with a picture of a small bird on the front. I put it on with a smile, then open the bag to find a whole kit—cortisone cream, calamine lotion, cotton wool, Benadryl, packets of Aveeno oatmeal tub soak. Nail clippers. And a note:
Go to the nurse, and you’re cut. Sweet dreams, Swallow.
They are serious about their torture, but at least they’ve given me the remedy. Despite years tromping through field and forest, I’ve never had a case of poison ivy. How bad can it possibly be?
I cut my nails almost to the quick, take some of the Benadryl, spread cortisone cream on my arms, stomach, and thighs, then climb into bed. Set my alarm for 6:00 a.m. I’m not going to get much sleep, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything.
I’ve been tapped.
I belong.
I am quite literally wearing the fruit of my labors on my body.
The spark of pride, of excitement, almost drowns out the incessant itching of my arm, and the creepy, crawly feeling of my name being called out, carried on the mountain breeze.
Almost.
I run the evening through my mind, over and over, the screaming, the instructions, who was there. Some girls I didn’t recognize, some I did. No matter, we’ll be marked tomorrow. All I need is to find the most miserable-looking faces and I’ll know my flock mates.
“I am a Swallow. I am Ivy Bound.” I whisper the words over and over until I fall asleep.
37
THE TRAGEDY
Rumi comes to Ford tonight without texting first, ravenous. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles that come-hither grin, slams the door behind him, and takes her in his arms, kissing her deeply.
“Good day?” she asks when they come up for air, but he whispers “No talking,” grabs her hand, and leads her to the bedroom, where he flips her on her stomach and takes her from behind.
While he makes sure she’s fully satisfied, tonight is clearly about him. When he finishes, shuddering against her back, he simply pulls up his jeans, gives her another long, soulful kiss, and starts for the door.
“Wait. Don’t you want a cocktail?”
He grins and shakes his head. “I only wanted you. Goodnight, Ford.”
He saunters off into the night. Ford closes the door behind him with an exaggerated sigh of pleasure.
Good grief. He certainly knows how to push her buttons and leave her wanting more. Where did he learn all his tricks? For someone so young—it has to be online porn. She doesn’t think he’s sleeping with anyone else, but what does she know? She’s never asked, and he’s never offered.
Besides, dating is reimagined now. With Tinder and Grindr and swiping, sex is free, built to resist commitment and responsibility, often completely disengaged from the act of love. It plays well for her purposes, it’s not like she wants a true relationship with him, for heaven’s sake, but she feels sorry for the girls of Goode as they make their way out into the world. They won’t know any other way. They will let strangers into their bodies and call it freedom.
Ford has had a few serious boyfriends and a few romping partners. She knows the difference between lust and love. She’s resisted marriage, fearing that inexorable slide into the status qu
o. She was not built for two point three kids and a dog, a house in the suburbs, a nanny for her children. She prefers the writer’s isolation, the romantic aloneness that will allow her observational access. One needn’t experience things firsthand to be a writer, one must only be a keen observer of setting and human nature.
She pours herself another whiskey—it might help her sleep, and she needs her rest to face the alumni association meeting tomorrow. The usual agenda was amended this afternoon to include a fund-raising update. She hopes to hear that a new endowment has been made.
Despite Rumi’s ministrations, she’s still upset about her meeting with Ash. She needs to get it off her mind and move on.
Something about the girl makes her uncomfortable.
She sits down at her desk, reads the few pages she’s written since term started. She hasn’t been working enough. At what point is she going to have to consider a sabbatical to finish the book?
Her phone begins to vibrate. She gives the screen a dirty look, then sighs heavily, pressing the speaker.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Ford, darling! How are you? Not in bed, I hope?”
“Why would I be in bed? It’s past eleven on a school night.”
“Sarcasm has never become you, Ford.”
“Sorry. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter, darling. I’m in town and I thought we could have lunch.”
Ford sets her whiskey down with a thump. “You’re in Marchburg? Why?”
“Do I need a reason? I wanted to see you.”
“Are you staying at the house?”
“Where else would I stay? It’s my house.”
Perhaps that explains Rumi’s sudden appearance. The house sits on the edge of town quite near his cabin. He must have seen the lights. He could have warned her, though.
“I thought it would be fun to come for Odds and Evens weekend. I haven’t been here for an event in a long time. I miss it.”
“Really? That might not be the best idea, Mom.”
“Of course, it’s a good idea. I am a Westhaven, and I am still an alumnus of this institution, if you recall. It’s always been open to any alumnus who wishes to join in. Unless you’ve changed the rules?”
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