Until Beth

by Lisa Amowitz

  When he finished, Xavier appeared exhausted and limp and needed to be led from the stage. The crowd was up on their feet and going wild.

  “Wow,” I said. “This guy’s amazing. It’s no wonder he’s here.”

  “Yes,” Vincent said without a trace of a smile. “Everyone adores Xavier’s singing. But I should get you back to your room. You’re not quite yourself yet.”

  “But the concert was only just getting started.”

  “It can get quite wild in here once things heat up. You’ve had a serious head injury with memory loss. The medical staff wants to have a look at you again. You need to rest.”

  My head did throb, but apparently it had healed during the lost week. There was no bump or cut, though my scalp was still a bit tender to the touch.

  Reluctantly, I let Vincent lead me out of the auditorium. Questions rattled around in my mind, and I was strangely wired, as if I’d just had my batteries recharged. The last thing I wanted to do was go back to my room. I wanted to explore and see what the High Step compound was all about.

  But I was tired. And I realized I had no actual recollection of my room. Obviously my things were there, since I’d been living here for a week. I wondered if it would seem familiar.

  We meandered through the halls, my arm in Vincent’s, and I was amazed how comfortable I felt striding beside him. It suddenly dawned on me that I might have known him better than I thought. I cleared my throat, color rushing to my cheeks.

  “Vincent. How well do we know each other?”

  The vibrant eyes went wide. “Pardon?”

  “I mean, the stuff I forgot. Did we spend a lot of time together? Because…” I stumbled over my words, embarrassed and confused. “You feel so…like I know you. But I can’t for the life of me remember a single minute we’ve spent together beside the audition and when I met you at Linford.”

  Vincent smiled and looked down. “I’ve been showing you around. That is all.”

  “Oh,” I said, and wondered if I was disappointed. If I wished there was more.

  We walked through the sconce-lit stone halls, paned windows overlooking endless drifts of mist-shrouded snow. The sun had gone down while we were in the showcase and now the moon peeked from behind wispy clouds. The High Step compound was vast, and since I didn’t remember seeing it from the outside, the interior seemed endless and changeable, an opulent labyrinth of halls and staircases.

  We stopped at an unfamiliar door in an unfamiliar hall. Nothing was recognizable except the pain that was slowly resurfacing in my awareness. Without warning, the song I’d auditioned with, “Forever Fragile,” sprang into my mind and the anguish returned full-force.

  Sam. How on earth could I have forgotten Sam?

  My expression must have registered my thoughts, because Vincent’s brow wrinkled. “Is something wrong, Bethany?”

  “No,” I said. “Nothing. I’m just tired.”

  “This week has been hard on you.” Vincent leaned toward me, lips parted, and I was suddenly not so sure that touring the High Step grounds was all we’d been doing. In the amber light, his eyes glowed like blue lava lamps.

  I turned away and Vincent stepped back, rebuffed. I felt as though I’d been dropped into someone else’s part in a play and was expected to know the lines. In fact, this whole experience had been surreal. I wondered again if maybe I was still unconscious and dreaming the whole thing up, Dorothy-style.

  “Good night then, Bethany,” he said curtly, nodded in his quaintly formal manner, then left.

  I entered my room to find my suitcases open, my amp plugged in, and my makeup collection and medication bottles strewn across the vanity in my usual slapdash style. The messy bed had been slept in. Obviously, I’d been here before. I’d left my stamp—utter chaos.

  Besides the mess, it was a beautiful room with vintage floral drapes, a marble hearth with a crackling fire, and a floral hooked rug over the stone floor. There were botanical prints on the whitewashed walls and the bed was an antique four-poster beauty.

  A powerful wave of longing grabbed me by the throat, choking me with its violence. The pain of loss crowded out all other thoughts. Hot tears sprang into my eyes.

  I tore at the curtains to get to the window so I could breathe. Just like the night in the Brewery, moonlight streamed across a pristine blanket of snow. I pried open the ancient casement windows and sucked in a lungful of the winter air, letting the razor-sharp cold cut into my lungs. But there was no escaping the emptiness that threatened to swallow me whole.

  Through my tears, I saw a figure made of shadow move at the edge of the woods. I blinked and it was gone. There was nothing there at all.

  I pulled the window closed. I wanted this, I told myself. I wanted to run away and make a new start. My memories of the past week were Swiss cheese, but the pain was fresh and raw as always. Talk about baggage. If anything, Sam felt closer than ever in this place, the guilt over abandoning my disabled brother and harried mother as sharp as an open wound.

  I drew the curtains closed. There would be no wandering around tonight, though. I had no urge to call anyone. I wanted to escape the pain, not pull it closer. In fact, I realized, I had no idea where my phone was.

  I turned to face the fire, and let the dancing flames soothe my tattered nerves.

  And there, lying on the braided rug where I was dead certain it hadn’t been a minute before, was Sam’s Blast Mahoney button.

  8

  I WOKE BEFORE SUNRISE, DRAWN TO THE WINDOW where predawn light had cast the woods in a bluish haze. I pressed my face to the glass. Tree trunks faded into grey-blue nothingness. Though the property was bounded by mist, the sky above the woods was a deep clear blue, with a shimmer of pink fringing the horizon.

  I stared at the woods, heartache and loneliness crashing down on me, and wondered if escape had been such a good idea. I missed Shelly and wished I could remember our goodbyes, how she and the band had reacted to my sudden departure. But it was all a blank. I clutched the Blast Mahoney button hard, until it made an indentation in the flesh of my palm, determined not to lose track of it again.

  The figure made of shadow slipped between the trees at the edge of the woods, then went still. I swore it was looking straight at me.

  Without hesitation, I threw a coat over my pajamas and tugged my sheepskin boots over my bare feet. Beneath my window there was a narrow ledge, then a drop to the sloping roof of the floor below. I didn’t remember seeing the compound from the outside, but I’d glimpsed a large wraparound porch through some windows, and I hoped it was also directly under mine.

  I pinned the button to my jacket, pushed open the casement windows, and slipped out to the ledge. The cold bit viciously into my face and hands. I told myself that I wouldn’t get in trouble for this because they’d figure my head injury was making me do nutty things. Maybe it was.

  Easing myself down, I landed on the roof of the lower floor, but there was no traction and I skidded gracelessly to the edge. Clinging to the gutter, I prayed it was too early for anyone on other side of those curtained windows to witness my idiot moves.

  My hands were frozen by the time I dangled from the roof’s ledge and found my footing on the porch rails. I fell to the snow with a soft thud, the cold already invading every crevice of my body. I didn’t know what I was thinking, or how I’d get back inside if the front entrance was locked. I quickly realized that I could freeze out there because of my stupidity.

  At the edge of the woods, the shadow figure was gone. I waded through knee-high snow that caked the insides of my non-waterproof boots. Shivering, I made a circuitous path to the woods so my tracks weren’t so obvious to a casual observer. Sunlight streamed through the thick fog, turning the woods into a mystic wonderland. Beyond the fringe of trees, the fog was dense, the trunks obscured in a solid haze. If I wandered into that, I might never find my way back. The figure had vanished without a trace and I had to wonder if this, too, was a result of the head injury or a hallucination. Maybe the
stress really was causing me to lose my mind.

  There was no point in going any further. The icy air crystallized in my lungs, and my feet and fingers were numb. The sun was up and soon someone would notice I’d sneaked out of the building by way of the roof. I had worked hard to get into the High Step Program. I didn’t want to get kicked out before I’d even started.

  I turned to go, but something made me pin the Blast Mahoney button to the trunk of a gnarly old oak whose bare branches grasped for the sky like arthritic fingers. I’d remember that tree, I was sure of it. And I was certain my precious button would be safer outside. It was crazy, I knew. But I was sure no one would disturb it there.

  Frozen to the bone, I trudged back to the High Step building, finally able to see it from the outside. It was a sprawling fieldstone mansion, one that had probably once belonged to some robber baron family from the Gilded Age. It stood about four stories high with turrets and a widow’s watch at the top, a stately porch wrapped around its full length. Beautiful. I was momentarily filled with pride to be a member of such an amazing establishment. That I was sought after and had been chosen to be here.

  Then I remembered I was on the verge of hypothermia and probably breaking rules I wasn’t even aware existed. I hurried across the snowfield, hoping desperately that the back entrance was unlocked.

  Mercifully, there was a path cleared through the snowfall, so I trudged up to the back porch and told myself that, out here in the boonies, what would be the reason for locking a door in the first place? I jiggled the brass doorknob. It was locked. I was about to scurry around to the front entrance and beg for mercy when the door creaked open. Standing in the doorway in pajamas and a robe, tousled black hair in his eyes, the singer from last night regarded me sleepily.

  “Who are you, and what the hell are you doing?” he snapped, twitching the messy hair from one startling blue eye. What was it with the blue eyes in this place? I was about to snark back at him when I realized how I must have seemed—a frozen stranger trying to break in at the crack of dawn.

  “I—I’m Beth. Bethany Collins, the new girl? I woke up and I just got this—I don’t know—urge to see the sunrise in the mountains. You’re Xavier, right? I saw you perform last night.”

  The boy regarded me in silence. The one eye that I could see was the dark cold blue of a winter lake, totally different from the warm glowing blue of Vincent’s. A corner of his mouth curved into a sardonic smile. “I heard about you. People say you have brain damage.”

  I glared at him. “Very nice. Are you going to let me in, or let me to freeze to death out here?”

  He stepped aside to let me pass. “I guess it’s true, then. Only someone with brain damage would be out in the woods on a morning as cold as this.”

  I huffed past him. I was starting to understand Vincent’s tone when I’d asked about this guy. On first impression, he really did seem like a rude prick. “Yeah? And what were you doing up at this ungodly hour?”

  The single blue eye, fringed by dark lashes, regarded me. His gaze may have been hard, but his lips were soft and well formed. There was hint of dark stubble on his jaw. He was a little older, from the look of him. Eighteen, I figured, maybe nineteen. I wondered why he was here and not in college.

  “I don’t get much sleep,” he said, his chin thrust forward. With one hand, he pushed the hair from his face again. Before it fell back, the silky strands parted to reveal the blotchy skin of scar tissue that started at the corner of his right eye and continued down along the side of his face, ending at the jawline. I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help noticing that the uneven skin continued along the side of his neck, disappearing under the collar of his robe. I knew he’d seen me staring, but all he said was, “You should get those wet things off,” before he turned abruptly and strode away.

  9

  AS CURIOUS AS I WAS TO HAVE A LOOK AROUND the High Step grounds, I decided that the risk of getting caught was too great. I was already the girl with brain damage and I didn’t want to add any fuel to that label.

  Instead, I scurried back to my room to dress for breakfast. It wasn’t long before Vincent came to get me, looking fresh and bright as the morning sunlight that streamed through my window. He greeted me with a sunny smile, and I returned it.

  “I hope you are hungry. Breakfast at the compound is epic.”

  I smiled at his adorable attempt to sound American. It didn’t quite work. “Hell yeah!” But my enthusiasm quickly gave way to apprehension. “Crap. The kids at breakfast all know me already. His Royal Highness called me brain-damaged.”

  Vincent’s lips pulled into a scowl. “His Royal Highness?”

  “You know, the singer guy? What a jerk.”

  “I tried to warn you. Xavier has no grasp of social etiquette, as you may have noticed. It’s as if he carries a grudge against the world.”

  “If he’s so miserable, why doesn’t he leave or go to college or something? Isn’t he old enough?”

  Vincent sighed. “How I wish he would. But this is a college, Beth. High Step is not only a preparatory academy, but a world-class conservatory. And His Royal Highness is smart enough to know that he will never find a better education anywhere else.”

  I peered into the glowing blue eyes, so filled with conviction and spirit. “You don’t care much for Xavier. But you really like this place, don’t you? How much do they pay you for such loyalty?” I said, laughing. “And where are all the other college kids?”

  “Mainly at another location. Xavier mostly just boards here.” For a moment Vincent’s eyes clouded with hurt before he brushed it away with a smile. “It’s only a small stipend. But there is no place like this anywhere. For that, I am loyal and grateful. And no, I don’t dislike Xavier, though I would not call us friends. There are reasons he is the way he is, I suppose.”

  “Does it have something to do with those scars?”

  Vincent shrugged. “Possibly. It’s said he does not sleep. Which would make anyone irritable, wouldn’t it?”

  We finally entered the dining room, a sprawling affair of floor to ceiling windows overlooking a lake I hadn’t known was there. Above the seven or so round tables packed with students hung flying-saucer-sized chandeliers. Each table was heaped with steaming platters of food. Students busily talked and stuffed their faces.

  “I don’t recognize anyone,” I said glumly. At my words, the din quieted and the students all turned to face me. As one, they stood and applauded. I felt my face heat to cherry red and fought the urge to run the other way.

  “What are they doing?” I hissed between my teeth.

  “I’m sorry. I should have warned you. Usually, we do this on a student’s first day to welcome them. But because of your memory loss, we decided to start over.”

  “Great,” I mumbled. “Now they all think I’m a freak.”

  Vincent took my arm and led me to an empty space on a bench. “No one thinks you are a freak. High Step is a tight and supportive community, as you will learn. We do not taunt or abuse each other. Anyone who does so faces severe punishment.”

  I rolled my eyes. “So they’re being forced to be nice to me. That makes me feel so much better.”

  “That is not what I meant to imply,” Vincent whispered into my ear. “We are charitable and forgiving. No one will judge or label you. It is not our way.”

  We squeezed onto the bench and my mouth watered at the plates of French toast, bacon, scrambled eggs, and muffins. There were also hash brown potatoes, five kinds of jam, dishes of whipped cream, and giant plates of sliced fruit with berries. I didn’t know where to begin. My stomach growled like I hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  At the other end of the hall at a table, I spotted Xavier, eating in silence, hair hanging in his eyes. There was something strange about the way he was eating, but I made myself look away.

  I turned to find the girl on the opposite side of the table staring intently at me, eyes sparkling, a half-formed smile flickering across her dark red lips. “Y
ou really don’t remember me, do you? I’m Lila. We met the first day you were here.”

  Lila had a petite doll-like face with dark bird-bright eyes. Her milk-pale skin, black blunt-cut hair, and red lipstick gave her the look of a 1920s flapper. When her smile erupted full-strength, I knew I must have liked her right away, because I liked her now.

  I reached over to shake her hand. “I don’t remember you. But I’m sure we can catch up in no time. How well can you get to know a person in a week?”

  Lila smiled and shrugged. “You’d be surprised at all the gossip I’ll need to recap for you. Not a problem, though.”

  The breakfast was delicious, and I felt surprisingly comfortable with everyone. They were open and friendly and, like Vincent promised, seemed willing to accept me despite my blue hair and vacant mind. I was introduced to a Demetri Priskin, a Dawn Waverly, and a Roddy Zuber, as well as others in such rapid succession I could barely keep them all sorted out.

  Again, because I couldn’t really help myself, I glanced to where Xavier was sitting, and wondered what it was about him that intrigued me so much. Despite the scars, he was lithe and graceful and amazingly nice to look at. Still, I didn’t understand why the sight of him stirred up so much emotion. Thoughts of Sam crept in and eroded my happiness. I thought of the button I’d left stuck to a tree. If the angst he radiated was not enough warning to steer clear, I didn’t know what would be.

  Yet, I looked back again. Xavier was gone.

  If Vincent had noticed my fascination, he didn’t let on. He leaned over and whispered in my ear, and my distress dissolved, his fingers warm where they brushed the skin on my arm. “Gideon wants to meet with you after breakfast to evaluate if you’re ready to attend your classes.”

  I swallowed. Classes. What an idiot. I was at a school. Of course there would be classes.

  I heaved a deep sigh. “Sure.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” Lila said. “Classes here are nothing like the kill-and-drill sessions you’re used to. Everything at High Step is strictly hands-on, right, Vincent?”