“How would I?” I ask. Not that I’d do it, but because I’m curious to know.
“Go down the stairwell between the dorms.”
The stairwell between the boys’ and girls’ dorms, behind door number one.
“It’s locked.”
“I have a key. I’ll unlock it from my side.”
A key to the locked stairwell door? I can hardly believe it. A key exists, and he has one.
“Where’d you get the key?” I ask him.
“Come down and I’ll tell you.”
I rock back on my heels. He’s baiting me, and the bait is good. He might be crazy. He might want to harm me, but if he has a key to the stairwell, he might have keys to other places too. He seems like someone I should know.
“Who are you?” I ask, but what follows is a long silence. Unlike the last time I asked him, this time I know he heard me.
“Go all the way down,” he says at last. “Turn into the third door on the right. You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”
I stop and think. Am I afraid of the dark? Not when I’m alone, like here in my room, but with a stranger—a strange guy? Maybe. Why does it have to be dark at all? What if this is a trap?
“No, I’m not.”
“So, you’ll come down?”
I could get caught by Sandra, the night safety, or one of the other girls, which means getting thrown into a time-out room. He might be some safety creep who lures girls down to the basement to rape and murder them. Or he could be just your average Sunny Meadows psychopath. The risk is high, but getting off the floor at night is the first step to getting out of this place. I can bring my sharpened comb. The potential payoff is pretty huge.
“I’ll be there,” I tell him.
“All right. See you then.”
I stand and stretch my legs, then stuff my money into one pocket and Tatters into the other. Just in case the opportunity arises. I glance at the digital clock on the dresser. Forty-five minutes until lights-out. In less than an hour, I could be free.
CHAPTER 5
I wait until Sandra makes her rounds, then creep silently to my doorway and peek across the hall to where Brandi is asleep in her bed, snoring softly with her mouth partway open. Slowly, noiselessly, I pick up one of my duffel bags and lay it across my bed, pulling up the covers and arranging it to look like a body, just in case Sandra does a room check. It takes forever to do it, measuring each movement so that it goes unnoticed. I grab my comb dagger from under my pillow, take a deep breath, and pad out into the hallway on bare feet, aiming for the stairwell door, which thankfully is catty-corner to my own.
I remember the last time I tried the door and found it locked. Maybe the voice in the vent is lying to me about the key. Or maybe it’s a trick and there’s a safety waiting on the other side, ready to bust me.
I push down on the metal bar and ease the door open. I wait for an alarm to sound but there is nothing, save for the rapid beating of my own heart. When the door closes behind me, it sounds like a tomb sealing shut. I grab the handrail to steady myself and follow the stairs down into the black belly of the dorms.
The basement is dark, except for the glowing red EXIT sign. I head there first and push down on the metal bar. Locked. But maybe he has the key to this door too. If I could get out of the dorms at night, I could climb the fence and make a run for the road, hitch a ride, and be long gone by morning.
I double back and find the third door on the right, our designated meeting place. What remains of my courage swiftly evaporates as I turn the knob and enter into total, blind darkness. I feel my way along a narrow passageway, which turns a sharp corner and seems to open up into a slightly larger space. The air smells like vinegar and mothballs, dank and heavy. I grip my comb tighter and rehearse the hard, jabbing motion Andy taught me years ago.
I trace along the wall with my fingertips until I find the light switch. I flip it on, but nothing happens. I flip it again. And again.
“It’s a darkroom.”
I jump at the sound of his voice; it’s so deep I feel the vibrations in my gut. My legs are weak and rubbery as I pivot slowly and try to determine exactly where he stands.
“For photographs,” he says.
“It’s really dark,” I say, an obvious statement, but it is really dark.
“I unscrewed the lightbulbs.”
I take a step back, my feet itching to run back the way I came. “Why would you do that?”
“In case you get caught. I don’t want them to know who got you off the floor.”
“I wouldn’t rat you out.”
“How do I know for sure?”
The dare in his voice makes me want to argue further, but I understand his logic. It’s something I myself would do. But to be this close to him, without knowing his name or what he looks like—I’m at a definite disadvantage.
“Are you a safety?” I ask.
He laughs. “No.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“You’re the new girl.”
The new girl. My dorm room must have been empty before I got here. Or not. What if he murdered the last girl? What if I just stepped into a real-life horror movie?
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, as though sensing my fear. He may as well have said, I’m not going to murder you, for all the good it does me. But I hear him moving away, and the next time he speaks, it’s from across the room.
“There’s a couch ten steps in front of you, if you want to sit.”
The idea of sitting down next to him, where he can reach out and grab me, does nothing to calm my nerves, especially after my last misfortune involving a couch. “I’m good here,” I say, and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark. I shut them and open them again—absolutely no difference.
“Have we met?” I say. “I mean, are you in one of my classes?”
“I’m not going to give myself away.”
That’s exactly what I was hoping he would do, but I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to make a habit of meeting him here like this. I just wanted to see if it could be done. And it can. But not without him. And not without his key.
“How’d you get that key?”
He chuckles. There’s nothing funny as far as I can tell. “Is that the only reason you came?”
“Why else would I come?”
“I thought you might want to see me.”
“But I can’t see you.”
“Hmm, I guess not. Why do you care so much about the key?”
I can’t tell him the real reason, that I’m trying to run away. And I can’t think of any other excuse that wouldn’t be completely transparent.
“I’m just curious.”
He’s silent for a moment, then says, “I’ll tell you, but you have to tell me something about yourself first.”
“Why?” I don’t know anything about him, but he wants to know more about me. I’m the new girl, and that’s all there is to know.
“I’m just curious,” he says, throwing my words back at me. “But I’ll make it easy for you. Tell me . . . what you had for dinner.”
Dinner? What a weird question. I can hardly remember.
“Some kind of meat. It was salty and mushy—I don’t think it was real—and mashed potatoes, instant ones. I bit into a part that hadn’t gotten mixed with water. It was pretty gross, actually.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Your turn,” I say, not losing sight of my mission. “Where’d you get the key?”
“I know a locksmith on the outside.”
“So you just—took it?”
“Ah, now it’s your turn again.”
I clench my jaw.
“Who do you miss the most?” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“From your life before Sunny Meadows. Who do you miss?”
“My grandmother.” I say it without hesitation, without even having to think about it. My answer surprises me. My grandmother’s been dead for six years.
“What do you miss about her?”
“It’s your turn,” I remind him. I didn’t make up the rules, but I catch on quickly.
“I borrowed the janitor’s keys to open the school gym,” he says. “I made a mold of the key.”
“How did you make it?”
“What do you miss about your grandmother?”
I really don’t want to talk about her, with him or anyone else. There is so much to miss—her voice, her hands, the smell of her kitchen, her stories and songs, all the games we used to play. I miss just being around her.
“Her garden,” I say. “It’s where I felt the most . . . calm.” I think about the summers we spent together—long, hot days that stretched on without beginning or end, all the time we spent outside pulling weeds, eating vegetables right from the ground, living on fresh air and sunshine. But that was a long time ago, and I’ll never get that feeling back. Not without her.
“How do you make the mold?” I ask him.
“I press the key into something soft, like plaster, something that holds the shape. It costs extra to do it that way, but it works. Most of the time.”
“How many keys do you have?”
“What’d you do to get into Sunny Meadows?”
My defenses go up like a wall around me. “What did you do?”
Silence is what follows. It seems this is a question neither of us wants to answer.
“I really just want to know about the key,” I say at last. “I didn’t know this was going to be an exposé on all the things that are none of your business.”
“A few.”
“A few what?”
“I have a few keys.”
“What about the basement door?”
“Why would you need that key?”
“So I can go for a walk outside. You could come too. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
He chuckles. “Is it because of a guy? You trying to meet up with your boyfriend?”
I snort. “Not quite.”
“Well, if you’re not running to someone, then you must be running from someone . . . or something.”
“Is this therapy? Are you playing psychologist or just doing it to piss me off?” My anger throbs like a fever. I need to move, but I can’t see anything.
“I’m not trying to be your therapist,” he says, “and I don’t have a key to the basement.”
“Could you get one?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”
“Why not?” What good is a key to the stairwell if it only leads to the basement? Maybe he has one and he’s lying about it. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll figure out who he is and tell on him.
“Because I’m not trying to go for a walk outside,” he says tensely. “One more question and then we’re done. Better make it good.”
One more question. What should I be asking him? What more is there to know?
“Where do you keep your keys?” I say, then add, “So the safeties don’t find them.”
It’s an obvious question, and he probably knows why I’m asking it, but he also seems cocky enough to answer me. But instead he’s moving across the room, coming closer and closer until he’s right in front of me. Definitely within reach. Maybe he has night-vision goggles, too.
“Do you think you could get them?” he says. He’s so close I can feel his voice in my bones and the heat coming off his body. His sharp, piney scent reminds me of the woods behind my grandmother’s house.
“Maybe I could,” I say, fighting to keep my voice from quaking.
“I keep them real close,” he says, and then he’s moving again, circling around until he’s standing right behind me.
But I don’t wait to see what he does next.
I dart away, scrambling sideways like a crab, and follow the hallway out of the darkroom. I stumble up the stairs and don’t stop until I’m back in my bedroom on the third floor, where I stand in the middle of my room, breathing hard.
After my fear and adrenaline fade and my brain starts working again, I know one thing for certain: I have to figure out who he is.
I have to get those keys.
CHAPTER 6
The next morning I stand in front of my smeary mirror and inspect my hair, which hasn’t just been cut, it has been severed, with loose strands dangling down and a strange slant going from one side to the other. I could probably convince Kayla to let me borrow some scissors to fix it, but that would feel too much like giving in.
Unable to do anything about my hair, I review the facts about my mystery man in the basement. Judging by our closer encounters, I figure he’s a good bit taller than me. Deep voice with a Southern accent, although accents can be faked. I’d say he probably likes to talk a lot too. Fairly smart and very sneaky.
Really, his voice is the best thing I have to go on. All I have to do is hear him talk and I’ll know. But if he wants to remain anonymous, he won’t talk to me or within my earshot. I need to be listening without appearing to be listening.
During walkover, I spy on the boys’ line to see if any of them are looking my way. A few of them are, but it doesn’t really count because I’m already staring at them like a crazy stalker.
In first period, Mr. Chris passes out worksheets on American Revolutionaries like Paul Revere and the notorious traitor Benedict Arnold. Sulli’s my partner for the assignment, but instead of helping me answer questions, he’s retelling that stupid rumor—the one where I’m the psycho and the Latina Queens are the victims of my homicidal rage, which by now feels like old news.
“So that’s why you stole that sharp,” Sulli says to me, like he’s Sherlock Holmes having an aha moment.
“Your psycho girlfriend stole the sharp,” I say, glaring at Brandi’s back because I know she’s listening. “And you can tell her I’m going to get her back. If I’m lucky, it’ll be bad enough to get me kicked out of this place.”
“I like it,” he says, reaching over to pick up a piece of my hair, letting it drop against my cheek. “Short and sexy.”
“Don’t touch me.” I scoot my desk back to where it was before we teamed up—I’ll finish this assignment myself. I’m fairly certain Sulli is not my man in the basement, unless he’s incredibly good at faking accents. I stop and listen to the voices of the guys all around me, but it’s impossible to get a good read with everyone talking at once.
First period ends, and I continue my search in Algebra II and English, but no likely suspects surface. By lunchtime I’m ready to tell Margo about my secret meeting, if only to see whether she might have a lead. But then I’d have to tell her about the key. And if people find out there’s a key to the stairwell door, the safeties will come looking for it, and it might be lost to me forever.
I have to think long-term.
We stroll out to the pen, and Margo walks over to Victor, who is standing, as always, with A.J. I follow her over even though it’s a little weird, the way they’re always together and we’re always together, like some forced double date.
I stand off to the side while Margo pretends to be flirting with Victor, but really she’s narrating the girls’ orders in French. From what Margo has told me before, they’re mostly candy and cosmetics. Nothing gets written down. Not included on their list is one road map of Georgia, but I’m not bitter. I gather from this exchange that Margo is the girls’ liaison for their smuggling ring, and she takes orders from everyone except the Latina Queens, which might be part of the reason they hate her. I’m still not sure about A.J.’s role in this operation. Then I realize I haven’t yet profiled him. I glance at him sideways. He’s big enough, but I’d need to hear his voice to know for sure.
“Pretty sunny today,” I say to him. The weather isn’t much of a talking point. It’s always sunny here. Sunny, Sunny Meadows.
He indulges me by squinting up at the sky and nodding his head in agreement. But he still doesn’t speak.
“How was your lunch?” I ask. He shrugs and makes an icky face. “I think I ate an armadillo, or maybe it was a
bilge rat. Very gamey.”
He smiles at my weak attempt at humor. He looks almost friendly when he smiles, but why won’t he talk to me? I need a question he can’t dodge or answer yes or no to.
“I’ve got automotive next. How about you?”
He stares at me, in my eyes, so deep and penetrating I forget I’m waiting for an answer.
Victor taps him on the shoulder. “Onward and upward, my friend.”
A.J. nods once at me and turns away. I grab Margo by her elbow. “Why won’t he talk to me?”
“Who?”
“A.J.”
“He doesn’t talk to anyone.”
“What?”
“I thought you knew that.”
I stare after him. He doesn’t talk to anyone? “Why not?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “He used to talk when he first got here. Then one day he just—stopped.”
The bell rings, and I watch A.J. pass by us on his way inside. He gives me an almost smile and I return it. I want to know what made him stop talking. I realize that makes him an unlikely candidate for my basement friend, but just because he chooses not to talk doesn’t mean he can’t. I won’t cross him off the list just yet.
I continue on to automotive therapy, which is my only elective class. All the electives here have a therapy twist to them—art therapy, dance therapy, team sports therapy, woodshop therapy, and on and on. I figure with automotive, I’ll at least have access to cars, even if we’re not allowed to drive them. I know because I asked the guidance counselor when he was signing me up. “No driving,” he said, and made sure I heard him.
I walk into class that afternoon for the first time to find twenty guys in their undershirts, two other girls, and no Latina Queens. I could do a lot worse.
The garage smells like car oil and grease rags and a bunch of sweaty dudes, but I kind of like it. It reminds me of the warehouse, and with all these guys in close quarters I have a good chance of finding my mystery man. For the first few minutes I stand there with my eyes half-closed, listening to them talk, trying to find a match.
Several of the guys have Southern accents, but none seem to fit just right. And the harder I concentrate, the more unsure I am of what his voice really sounds like. It isn’t the same alone in the dark as it is in the daytime with all these other people around.
Counting Backwards Page 5