by Yvonne Woon
“Miss LaBarge?” I whispered, staring at the spot where I thought I had seen her. The salty air blew through my hair, and I blinked. It couldn’t be, I thought, letting my eyes wander to the open casket on the other side of the boat. I was so disturbed by her death, and by the letter my mother had written to her, that I was seeing things.
“Renée,” a boy said from behind me, and I turned. Brett Steyers, a friend from Gottfried and Eleanor’s former boyfriend, stood there in a navy suit, his sandy hair blowing in the sea breeze. “Where have you been hiding all summer?”
I gathered my own hair as it tangled in the wind. “At my grandfather’s,” I said, forcing a smile.
“I bet,” he said.
I furrowed my brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” he said, tracing the lines in the wooden deck with his shoe. “So when did you find out about all of this?” His gaze drifted across the other Monitors, and I realized that he and I had never before spoken of the Undead.
“Last winter,” I said softly. “You?”
“Last spring,” he said.
“Are you still in touch with Eleanor?” I asked.
Brett shoved his hands into his pockets, shaking his head ever so slightly. “What about you and…” He let his voice trail off. Everyone knew that the Gottfried professors were searching for Dante.
Looking away, I watched a gull land on the deck and peck at a discarded hors d’oeuvre. “No,” I said.
“People are saying he and his friend Gideon killed the headmistress last spring,” Brett said.
I shuddered, remembering that night. Dante had been protecting me, while Gideon, another Undead, had taken the headmistress’s soul, her legs quivering before they finally went still. Gideon died after that; Dante pulled him underground, which should have killed them both. But I gave Dante my soul to save his life. I died for him, and then ten days later he gave my soul back to me. He wasn’t a murderer. I wanted to scream it into the wind until everyone knew the truth, until it sank into their bones. But how could I possibly explain everything, let alone prove that he wasn’t dangerous?
“And they say that Dante’s on the run. That he left for Canada.” He searched my face for an answer.
“Dante would never kill anyone,” I said defensively. “As for Canada, I wouldn’t know.”
A few paces behind him were April and Allison, the twins from my horticulture class, along with a few other kids I recognized. I waved at them, but instead of returning the gesture, they turned away. I frowned.
Brett followed my gaze. “Don’t worry about them,” he said, and took a crab canapé from one of the waiters.
The boat slowed, and the captain lowered an anchor into the water. The chain unraveled for what seemed like minutes, until it finally grew taught. My grandfather’s voice boomed from the back of the boat. “Would everyone please convene at the bow?” he said.
The crowd formed a tight circle around Miss LaBarge’s casket. Brett and I stood near the back.
“So, is it true?” Brett asked, his voice low.
“Is what true?”
“You know.”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t.”
Brett glanced around us. “That you’re some kind of…immortal?” He said it in jest, as if he didn’t believe it, but I knew his question was sincere.
My face grew hot. Now I understood why Brandon and the girls from Horticulture had acted so aloof. Is this what it would be like when I went back to school? “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
An old man in front of us turned around and scowled. Brett gave him a polite smile, and leaned over me. “All of the Monitors are saying that Gideon took your soul, and you died, but instead of reanimating as an Undead, you just woke up. Alive.”
I bit my lip. I couldn’t tell him the truth. I couldn’t tell anyone the truth, or Dante would be buried and I would become a specimen.
Brett studied me with wonder. “It is true; I can tell.”
Before I could come up with an appropriately vague response, my grandfather stepped into the center of the circle and cleared his throat. The boat grew quiet.
“Monitors! Friends. Thank you for joining us on this cloudy occasion.” His white hair waved in the wind. “Annette LaBarge was a mysterious woman. A solitary woman. A woman who wore many hats.” He paused, letting his words hang in the air. “Some of us are here because we knew Annette the philosophy professor. Others, Annette the student, Monitor, and later, colleague. Still others, Annette the caretaker and friend.”
The boat swayed. Two women in the front were weeping.
“As Annette would say, ‘We cannot control the actions of others. All we have are our reactions.’ So I implore you: let us learn from her death. Let us react. Let us find the Undead who killed her and put that creature to rest.”
My grandfather took the pocket square from his jacket and wiped his temple before continuing with his eulogy. I gazed at the open casket, which was close enough for me to see the tip of Miss LaBarge’s nose. Was death ever fair? If Miss LaBarge had died naturally, would that have been easier to bear? Or would it always feel as if life were being taken from us?
A gust of wind blew a stack of napkins into the water, speckling the surface with white squares. Above us, a flock of seagulls cawed.
My grandfather opened a prayer book and read a passage in French as I looked at the swells of water sloshing against the side of the boat, at the seagulls roosting on the mast, and at the sky, which seemed larger and more dramatic over the ocean. I thought about how all these details seemed that much more beautiful, knowing that Dante still existed, and that he loved me.
My grandfather closed the prayer book and motioned to two men, who hoisted a barrel of soil up from below the deck and set it beside the casket. My grandfather touched Miss LaBarge’s forehead with his thumb, and then, grasping his trowel, he plunged it into the barrel of soil and sprinkled the dirt over her body.
A line formed along the side of the boat, and, one by one, everyone followed. Brett stood behind me, and we inched forward until it was my turn.
I hesitated before stepping up to the casket, where Miss LaBarge was resting with two coins over her eyes. They made her look expressionless and somehow inhuman. Soil and flower petals were sprinkled across her body.
“Go on,” Brett said, giving me a little nudge.
Dipping my trowel into the barrel, I leaned over her, my hand quivering, and touched her forehead.
Surprised by how cold her skin was, I jolted, spilling the soil everywhere. Everyone looked in my direction, and I bent down, mortified, and tried to scoop the soil up from the deck.
“Just leave it, Renée,” my grandfather said, pulling me up by the arm.
I walked to the edge of the boat, feeling lost. On the bench across from me sat Eleanor’s mother, hugging her knees as her blond hair blew around her face. Our eyes met for the briefest moment, before we both looked away. After my parents, after Dante, I still didn’t know what to do when confronted with death. That’s the thing nobody tells you. It never gets easier.
The captain opened a latch, pulling open a gate in the handrail at the edge of the deck. With some effort, my grandfather and three other men shifted the lid onto Miss LaBarge’s casket, closed it firmly, then lifted the sealed box to the edge of the deck and slid it into the water. The splash was much smaller than I had expected, and I leaned over the railing and watched as the casket trembled on the surface for a moment before sinking into the sea, a tiny trail of bubbles rising behind the box as if Miss LaBarge had let out one last breath.
That night my grandfather and I returned to the mansion in silence. I tried to sleep but kept being shaken awake by the prickling presence of Dante, as if he were in the room with me, his cold breath tickling my lips. Kicking off the covers, I went to the window, my head throbbing with distorted images: the tip of Miss LaBarge’s nose as she lay in the casket; Brett chewing a crab canapé, the crumbs clingi
ng to his chin as he asked me about Dante.
I pressed my fingers against the pane of glass, now cool from the night air, and imagined I was touching Dante. Cracking open the window, I let the chilly air flutter against the top of my nightgown. Outside, the trees that lined the driveway flexed and bowed in the wind, their shadows shifting across the pavement. I watched them, waiting for Dante’s face to emerge out of the darkness, until the sun rose over the horizon.
The mail arrived early. I jolted awake at the chimes of the doorbell. Through the window I could see a lanky mailman standing on the front stoop, adjusting the bag on his shoulder as he admired the façade of the mansion. Downstairs I could hear Dustin shuffle to the door and greet him.
After pulling on a cardigan, I ran downstairs. Dustin was standing in the foyer, signing something on a clipboard. When he was finished, the mailman handed him a single letter.
“What is it?” I asked, watching Dustin turn it over before shutting the door.
He jumped. “Oh, Renée,” he said, composing himself. “How convenient. It’s for you.”
Hoping it was from Eleanor, I took the letter from him and immediately knew it wasn’t. The envelope was made of a heavy paper, the color of bone. My name was inscribed in fine print. The return address read: Gottfried Academy. I tore the seal open.
Gottfried Students and Parents:
We are deeply saddened to report that the Gottfried community has lost another one of its members. Annette LaBarge, alumna and celebrated philosophy professor, has passed away. She was a friend, colleague, and mentor to many of us at the Academy, and our hearts go out to her family and loved ones.
This tragedy has forced us to evaluate the larger picture of our recent history at Gottfried. After the unfortunate loss of a student, Gideon DuPont, and Headmistress Calysta Von Laark in an accident last spring, along with the unsettling events of two years ago when we lost an esteemed member of our student body, Benjamin Gallow, we no longer believe that Gottfried Academy can provide a safe and healthy learning environment for our students. After careful consideration, we have made the difficult decision to close Gottfried’s doors. The Academy will only remain open to provide services to a small number of students with special needs.
Should you have any questions regarding matriculation at our sister school, Lycée St. Clément, or lingering thoughts about the recent losses to our family, I encourage you to contact me or any Gottfried staff member. Individually and as a community, we remain committed to the health and future success of all our students.
Sincerely yours,
Professor Edith Lumbar
I looked out the windows at the mail truck disappearing behind the trees. Somewhere inside me I had known that Gottfried would have to close; I just didn’t think it actually would. But when I looked down, the letter was still there in my hand, and none of the words had changed.
Dustin glanced at me before picking up a tray with coffee and scones. “I’m so sorry, Renée.”
“Did you know about this?”
Dustin’s face dropped. “Oh, no. I—er—why don’t you talk to your grandfather,” he said, and hurried into the hallway, carrying the platter to my grandfather’s study. I followed him.
Dustin knocked. “Come in,” my grandfather said, taking off his reading glasses when he saw me.
“Is it true?” I demanded, handing him the letter.
He took it from me and skimmed it.
“Yes,” he said. “And no.”
I shook my head. “What?”
“You will not be returning to Gottfried,” he said, tossing the letter aside. “But I will be.”
I must have looked confused, because he continued. “I will be resuming my position as headmaster. Gottfried is going to be a disciplinary school for the Undead, where we can monitor them in privacy, and, as necessary, put them to rest without risk of exposure. The Academy is returning to its roots—the way it began, under Dr. Bertrand Gottfried and his nurses.”
My chair creaked as I sat back. So that’s what the letter meant by “special needs.” But where would I go? Where would everyone go? I couldn’t return to a normal school now. Not after everything I knew, after everything I had seen and done. I thought about Eleanor, about the Board of Monitors and the chimneys and Grub Day. They were the only things that had helped me rebuild my life after I’d lost my parents. They had become my life. How could I move on from Gottfried now?
“You will continue on to Lycée St. Clément, Gottfried’s sister school, and an academy solely for Monitors.”
From the foyer, the clock chimed nine times. “A Monitors’ academy?” I repeated. How would I see Dante? How would I tell him what was happening or where I was going? It would be hard enough to see him at Gottfried, but at least there, he knew where I was. And there was the distraction of other Undead students. We could have met off campus. We could have found a way. But at a Monitors’ academy, there wouldn’t be any Undead to muffle Dante’s presence, and the entire student body along with the professors would be able to sense him. Would be training to sense him.
“Many of your classmates will move to St. Clément with you. People from your horticulture class…It won’t be a difficult transition,” my grandfather continued. “Of course, those who are Undead will remain at Gottfried. And the rest, well, who knows. I suppose they’ll go to a normal school—”
I cut him off. “Where is it?”
“Montreal, Canada. It’s just across the border, really. Not far at all.”
“Canada?” I should have been upset, but instead, all I could hear were Brett’s words: People are saying he left for Canada. Was there a chance that they were right, and Dante was already waiting for me in Montreal?
“You’re upset,” my grandfather said, leaning back in his chair, his wrinkled knuckles turning white as he gripped the armrests. “The limiting of Gottfried to only Undead students was not my decision. But the events of last year are impossible to ignore when the welfare of both students and professors is at stake.”
Trying to compose myself, I looked up at him. “Fine,” I said, my voice weary as I grasped on to the only hope I had: that fate was on my side and Dante was somewhere in Canada. “When do I leave?”
SIX LETTERS, ENDS WITH RY.” Dustin tried to write it out for me, but his pen was dry. He shook it and then tried again. We were on an airplane, traveling to Quebec.
I blinked. While he dug through his bag, looking for a replacement, an image of a bird flashed into my head, as if it were engraved on the underside of my eyelids. Without knowing why, I was overwhelmed with the desire to find this bird. To have it for my own.
“Ah,” Dustin said, emerging with a pencil in hand. He hovered over his crossword puzzle. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, number seventeen across—”
The answer seemed so obvious that I didn’t even let Dustin finish his sentence. “Canary.”
He counted the letters, and threw down his pen. “Now how did you know that? I hadn’t even read you the clue yet.”
“I don’t know. I—I guess it was just on my mind.” I averted my eyes to the little window, where I gazed at the clouds below.
“You must have inherited that gift from your mother. She was a master of crossword puzzles. Always used to sneak them under the table during breakfast.”
“What was the clue?”
“Blank in a coal mine.”
“Was I right?”
Dustin let out a laugh. “Yes, of course.”
“A canary in a coal mine?” I said, turning the words over in my mouth. The saying sounded familiar, though I couldn’t remember where I had heard it. “What does it mean?”
“You don’t know?” His face wrinkled with surprise. “Miners used to bring canaries down into the coal pits to test for poisonous gas. Canaries are very sensitive to that kind of thing, and if there was any gas, the birds would die immediately, alerting the miners to evacuate.” Dustin tilted his seat forward and back. “Isn’t it marvelous?” he said. “At
this very moment we’re thousands of feet above the earth, shooting through the air!”
Despite how gloomy I felt, I couldn’t help but smile as I watched him fiddle with the buttons on his armrest. Dustin loved airplanes. The compartmentalized meals, the in-flight magazines, the flight attendants in their prim outfits, pointing front, back, side, side.
“Beverage?” an attendant asked, pushing a cart down the aisle.
“I’ll have a club soda, please,” Dustin said, and then changed his mind. “No—make that a cranberry juice.” As she filled a cup with ice, Dustin interjected, “Actually, could you change that to a tomato cocktail?”
He turned to me, looking pleased. “Lovely,” he said, as if the flight attendant couldn’t hear him. He shook a bag of peanuts with delight. “Everything is in miniature!”
Picking up Dustin’s magazine, I flipped through it, glancing at the ads until I stumbled across a map of North America. I spread it out on the folding table “Have you ever been to Lake Erie?” I asked, staring at its blue shape.
The smile faded from Dustin’s face. “Yes.”
“What’s it like?”
“Cold. Wet.”
“Were they close?” I asked. “My mom and Miss LaBarge?”
He loosened his seat belt. “When they were your age they were inseparable. Except when your father was around, of course.”
Finding Montreal on the map, I laid my hand down on the page. The width of one index finger—that was how far away my grandfather’s house in Massachusetts was from the city. Two index fingers—that was how far away from Montreal Miss LaBarge was when she died. Four index fingers —that was how far away my parents were when they died. I spread out my hand across the page—that was where Dante could be. Anywhere. And every day we were apart felt like a lifetime lost.
“Do you ever feel like you’re running out of time?” I asked Dustin.
He stared at the ice cubes in his drink. “Always.”
“So what do you do about it?”