by Arden, Alys
I was surprised by how much the fight with Isaac had affected me, and equally surprised by how eager I’d been to let it all go. I think I’d been waiting for it. Deep down, I knew he’d been a ticking time bomb ever since that day at the attic. In a way it felt good to have one less secret out there in the world. Brigitte’s was enough for me.
Now, to just patch up things with Dee.
“Is that Adele Le Moyne?” a familiar voice called out. “My favorite downtown girl?”
I turned to the right. A dusty-haired, bronze-skinned boy was walking toward me from the parking lot.
“Thurston Gregory Van der Veer the third,” I said. “My favorite socialite. Fancy running into you here.”
We hugged. Annabelle wasn’t here to kill me for it, and none of her little shark-swarming minions were here to spy.
This was a step down for a Van der Veer, but I knew he hated going to Sacred Heart as much as I did. Thurston might have lived in one of the biggest mansions on Audubon Place—a cul-de-sac off St. Charles so exclusive I’d never been so privileged as to drive down it—but before the Storm he’d gone to Holy Cross, an old prep school in the Lower Ninth now decimated. Who knew why he went to school so far from uptown; probably something to do with his family’s fraternity traditions . . . I was also pretty sure there was one other reason he wanted out of Sacred Heart, and that reason was approaching us now.
“Hey, Adele,” Georgie said. He kissed me on the cheek and nodded casually to Thurston.
They avoided each other’s gaze, but I could tell they were both beaming from the inside and doing their best to hide it.
“Yo, lab partner!”
We turned toward Esplanade to find another familiar face approaching: Tyrelle Laurent, physics curve popper, one of my fellow displaced juniors, and probably the only person who I think hated the Academy more than I did. Despite him being the heir to one of music’s biggest hip-hop fortunes (which also spanned fashion, liquor, and sports teams), I don’t think his nouveau-riche-ness was very accepted by some of the other kids. Last semester, uptown, Tyrelle would have walked past me for consorting with the establishment elite, but today his outward smile was as big as Georgie’s inside smile.
We hugged. The three of them did some kind of bro-bump, and it was clear that things were officially different. It was all so high school normal it almost felt weird.
Then the son of a rapper, the sons of oil tycoons, and the daughter of a bartender crossed the street to the convent together like old friends. And the strangest part was I didn’t even wonder, Whose life is this? It was mine. Things were going to be different downtown. How could they not?
As we walked through the open gate, I felt it shake with magic. Was it excitement for my return? Susannah Bowen’s protection spells? Or was it just my nerves starting to rattle as I entered a new world beneath the vampires?
Looking around the garden, I joked, “Did they bring over the landscaper from the Academy?”
The boys laughed.
The formerly Storm-ravaged, junglelike labyrinth was now a maze of perfectly sculpted hedges and weed-free brick paths. I’d never been here pre-Storm, so I’d never seen how beautiful the garden could look. A mix of palm trees and banana plants framed the edges of the yard, and in the corner where the main building met the church was an elaborate iron gazebo that caged a giant bell with swirling metalwork—my dad would have loved it.
The ever-present Norwood family magic made me feel like Susannah’s spirit was here wandering the school grounds with me. I liked not feeling alone, like someone was watching. Not that I was planning on doing anything stupid, but I’d scared myself that day I came to the attic. Not that I’d ever admit that to Isaac.
There was something ironic about the convent being Nicco’s place of eternal slumber and also so strongly bound to Isaac’s family magic. I wondered if Isaac hated that or got off on it. Both, probably.
A giant white cross topped the center roof gable, and a series of French and Louisiana State flags hung from the pulpit-like balcony above the entrance. Between them was a hand-painted banner that read, WELCOME STUDENTS.
My eyes crept up to the shutters, and the lingering memory of yesterday’s unsolicited psychic reading made my heart skip.
Control, Adele. You are in control of your powers. Not the other way around.
I hustled inside with the boys.
A red rope hung across the old winding staircase—the route to the attic—indicating it was off-limits. Symbolic, much? I almost wondered if Isaac had come this morning and planted it.
The stairs were empty, but the hallways were full of kids. The property, which hadn’t functioned as a school since the 1930s, was now full of lonely, wandering teens in mismatched uniforms, hoping to see someone in a familiar plaid. The school had mandated we all wear uniforms, but as a sign of welcoming and compassion, they hadn’t demanded specific Ursuline threads. The parents of the new crop of students were the kind who could afford to send their kids to Catholic school but who were also now living in FEMA trailers, trying to figure out how to get their insurance settlements, not how to get new uniform cardigans monogrammed in the post-Storm city.
We walked straight through the hall to another set of doors that led to the backyard, which was also freshly landscaped and looked even more gorgeous than the front. Palm trees and banana-plant leaves hid the bordering concrete wall. Citrus trees filled the spaces between the buildings, dangling lemons, oranges, and limes from branches, despite it being the dead of winter. Combined, it all created a bizarre sense of privacy, a hidden oasis in the middle of the Quarter—the exact opposite feeling I usually got when thinking about the convent and its curses, vampires, and bloody battles. Now I could picture the cloistered nuns in prayer and service, finding a peaceful way of life despite being two blocks from Bourbon.
“Over here,” Thurston said, leading us to a patch of grass so green it got me wondering about Susannah’s magic, and her love of plants.
He plopped down in the middle of an arc of white marble statues that gleamed blindingly in the morning sun. Their hands were folded in prayer, their chins slightly turned up.
Thurston pulled me down next to him. We’d arrived.
A girl I didn’t recognize walked over, but we were wearing the same plaid skirt. I smiled, and she joined us, tension vaporizing from her shoulders—her worry that she wouldn’t know anyone and would have to eat lunch by herself, that she’d be the “new girl loser.” Basically, the worry that she’d be me. Or maybe it was the old me?
With a thankful smile, she dove straight into the conversation Thurston, Tyrelle, and Georgie were having about an upcoming Saints game; I gazed around the yard. Two by two and then by threes and fours, people matched themselves up, plaid to plaid. Kids that might never have spoken to each other at their previous schools were now hugging, and the strays found each other with awkward waves and shy hellos, but with the same look of relief, to have found someone.
I was in a mutt coven, and now I was at a mutt school.
Heads turned toward the entrance—my back tensed as Désirée walked into the courtyard, kicking up whispers about the mayor being her father and a couple of low wolf whistles from an obnoxious group of guys near the door.
Suddenly every cold look or harsh thing she’d ever said to me echoed in my head, out of fear that we were about to be back there.
Should I have even sat here with her friends, knowing she’s mad at me? Did I just make a bitch-move without even realizing it?
Just as the anxiety rushed me, the rules of high school social hierarchy relieved it. Her long legs strode straight to the group, whose hellos she hardly acknowledged, and she sat down next to me just like we hadn’t gotten into an epic fight yesterday. Because this was her place and her group and her plaid, and this was where she was meant to be.
“Hey.” Her tone was despondent, but it didn’t feel cold or bitchy. It just felt like Dee.
“Hey . . .” The silence became awk
ward, surely more for me than her. My words rushed out. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I’m sorry about everything. Most of all . . .” I took a breath and slowed down. “I’m sorry for not telling you.”
“I know,” she said, and lowered her voice. “Did you take the job?”
“Yeah.” And with that, I knew the fight was done. “I’m starting this afternoon.”
“You have to call me, stat. You’re going to find this descendent, Adele.”
“Thanks for having so much faith in me.”
“I have faith in magic. The location spell.”
“Right.”
Her gaze went up to the roof, to one of the shuttered windows protruding from the attic.
“I’m not going to open the freaking attic.”
“I know. I just hate that he knew and I didn’t.”
That was the last thing I expected to hear her say. “Désirée Nanette Borges, are you jealous of Isaac?”
“Maybe. He’s like the gross older brother I never wanted.”
“He’s not gross.” I had to restrain myself from laughing at her melodrama, and then so did she.
She cracked a smile. “Fine. We can keep him.”
“Merci beaucoup.”
“I just didn’t think we had any secrets,” she added.
Then I got it. She wasn’t pissed that I didn’t tell her about the attic; she was pissed that I’d never told her about me and Isaac. Everything about this scenario felt like a dream—that I even had a boyfriend in the first place, and that Désirée Borges cared about it.
“Dee, I’ll be sure to tell you evvvvvvery single thing in the future.”
“Ew. No. Refer to previous brother comment, please.” She looked at me, finally. “You know, sometimes you surprise me, Adele. I really thought you were going to end up with the dark and broody one. Not that Isaac doesn’t have that sullen-artist-in-the-corner thing down, but compared to Nicco Medici, he’s a sunburst.”
My smile became more nervous than I wanted it to be, and I knew she noticed, but then Thurston asked me a question about Drew Brees. I had no idea what he was talking about, but Dee, surprisingly—and yet, not surprisingly, because she’s Dee—rattled off something about record yardage.
For ten more glorious minutes I felt like my life was going to be different. That school was going to be different. I didn’t think about vampires, or dead mothers, or magic, or witches. We were swapping schedules, and talking about what we did over Christmas break, and debunking Storm horror stories. Thurston confirmed that it was not a rumor that his neighborhood association had hired Blackwater to patrol his street with helicopters a mere twenty-four hours after the Storm. As the rest of us were giving him shit, a new voice arose, and all of the rays of happiness crashed at once. I didn’t need to look up for confirmation, because the look on Georgie’s face told me everything.
Thurston swallowed his shock like a pro, quickly stood to greet his girlfriend, and then lied for all of us. “And I didn’t think this morning could get any better. What are you doing here, Annabelle?”
Everyone looked up with smiles that had taken years to perfect. Smiles that hid every shred of emotion and replaced them with the truth as society dictated.
“What can I say, babe,” she said. “I got spoiled having you around.”
He leaned down and kissed her—a move I couldn’t imagine ever doing in the middle of the schoolyard, or even in front of all of our friends.
Tyrelle looked at me, the only one willing to outwardly show how much this sucked. I smoothed my skirt. Order had been restored.
Annabelle took a seat in the circle, underneath Thurston’s arm, as if we’d been saving it for her the whole time.
Désirée was the only one with the guts to actually say something about it. “Annabelle Lee Drake willfully giving up her place at Sacred Heart Prep? The next thing we know she’ll be renouncing her position in the Comus junior court and giving away her cotillion Vera.”
“Dream on, Dee.” Annabelle peeled herself away from Thurston and crawled between us. “I’m not heartless. You’re my bestie, and if you and Thurston have to suffer out the rest of the year here, I can do it too. And then we’ll all be at Vanderbilt before we know it. Well, most of us will,” she added, looking directly at Tyrelle. Her tone had an edge that I would have thought a little too overt for Annabelle.
He got up to leave.
“No, Ty, don’t go,” she said. And then to everyone’s shock, but mostly his, I think, he sat back down.
I hate her.
She smiled at him, pleased as punch, and took my schedule from my hand. “Adele, we have second period together. History. Yay for quality time. We should really spend this semester getting to know each other better. You’re one of us now.”
I took the little card back, staring down at the words, instantly dreading second block. I got up, lifting my bag.
“That’s the thing, Annabelle. I’m not.”
I walked away.
Alone.
As I entered civics, a familiar voice nearly made my stern frown dissolve.
“Seeing you in that uniform is so weird,” said Veronica Bergeron, one of my former classmates from NOSA. Johnnie West, another familiar NOSA face, was sitting on her desk.
“Tell me about it,” I said.
They both laughed. We hadn’t really been friends, but now I found myself hugging both of them.
“Did you manage to get a mentorship?” Veronica asked. “Or do you have to stay in this prepfest all day?”
“Kind of. It’s with my dad . . .”
“We’re both at the Marigny Opera House. The place hasn’t been condemned, but it needs to be gutted. We’re basically free manual labor for the semester.”
The bell rang, and my shoulders relaxed as our teacher walked in: a petite woman in a white blouse, navy-blue skirt, and matching habit. A large silver cross hung from a chain around her neck.
“Welcome to civics. I’m Sister Carla. In this class we’re going to examine the structures of different types of government, not fight over the decisions made by the poor excuse of an administration currently in office. I encourage open debate but will not tolerate disrespect.”
We all looked at each other. Even the nuns downtown were badass.
When the bell rang, I crossed the hall to history class and took a seat by the window.
As my fellow juniors trickled into the room, I doodled in my notebook—fantasizing about dropping out of school and working with Isaac. A girl in brown-and-gold plaid sat next to me. More seats filled.
I felt Annabelle’s energy as soon as she walked in the room.
She came straight toward me, smile beaming. I held her gaze so I didn’t seem intimidated. Her perfect auburn hair held perfect Hollywood finger waves. I’d been so jittery about the convent, I’m not sure I’d even brushed my hair this morning before I tied it up into a bun.
“Hey! Where’d you get off to earlier?” Annabelle asked as she, of course, took the seat behind me.
I prepared myself for backlash after the incident in the quad, but then I remembered this was Annabelle, and her MO was to kill you softly like a boiling frog.
“I have something for you,” she said.
Before I could turn around, a metal chain was slipping across my neck.
She clicked it shut and adjusted the clasp to the center. I didn’t have to look down to know a flat silver heart was resting against my throat—her whole clique back at Sacred Heart wore them. Tiffany. The thick links felt heavy, especially compared to the thin chain that held my charms. I envisioned her choking me with it from behind.
“Every girl needs a little love in her daily wardrobe.”
Everyone in the room was looking at us like it was the kindest, coolest thing they’d ever witnessed. But it felt like the opposite, like she’d just branded me—that she’d claimed me as one of hers. This was her letting me know that she was going to run this school. Downtown or not.
“Merci beauco
up, Annabelle,” I said, sinking into my seat, the tips of my fingers on the heart. What she didn’t realize was that I couldn’t be bought off with silver like Judas Iscariot, even if it was Tiffany. “C’est beau. J’aime.”
“Avec plaisir,” she responded sweetly. And it absolutely was her pleasure. “We should hang out after school today.”
“Oh, I have to work. Maybe some other time.” Like never.
“I’ll come by the café.”
“Actually.” I turned around. “I’m starting a new job. Isaac’s covering my shift at the café.” He’d offered as part of his apology last night because he knew how much it meant to me.
“Well maybe this weekend, then. We should plan a party.”
As the second bell rang, a man in a houndstooth vest and mustard-colored corduroys walked into the classroom. I’d never been so happy to see a teacher. He set his satchel on the desk up front and pulled his glasses from the top of his head, wiping them clean as he spoke.
“This is a remarkable time, people. Look around at your neighbors.”
Our eyes moved to each other, not wanting to move our heads in case he was being rhetorical.
“Look around,” he said, and we did, as he huffed on his glasses and wiped them some more. “Remember this moment, because we are living in a time of historical significance. Of epic calamity! When Mother Nature will go down in history, and when the magnitude of government failure will go down with her. Academics will write theses, book deals will be inked, films will be shot, and records will be recorded. And you are the witnesses. So look around the room right now and remember this moment, because in ten, twenty, thirty years, someone will still be asking how you were able to live through this humanity-testing time.”
Finally satisfied with the state of his lenses, he put the glasses on and looked out to us.
“Graham Noah. World history. Louisiana history. Gentilly. Formerly of Brother Martin High School. And who are you?” He looked straight at a girl in the front row.
“Uh, Miranda Jackson. Lakeview. Formerly of Mount Carmel. We just got a FEMA trailer last week.”