“Of course not.”
Cal paused at the door, tucking the comic book into his bag with a quick wink. “Thanks for the offer. It’ll give me something to think about after I finish this essay on Rhys’s postcolonial and postmodern response to Jane Eyre.”
Before the door closed entirely, he got to enjoy a glimpse of her bewildered expression.
“What? I have ears. Some things do get through.”
Fallon smiled and shoved a pen behind her ear. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Brookline basement. 7:00 sharp. Prof Reyes will let you in.
Cal scowled at his phone and the irritating text message glowing up at him. This was not new information. Roger had emailed him instructions that morning. Did he really think it was necessary to police his every breath?
Cal started typing, Stop worrying about me so much, you can’t afford to lose any more hair, then changed his mind and tossed his phone onto the bed. He and Micah shared a double in Brookline, which was almost awful enough to make him pledge a frat, if only to get a better room. He and Micah had ended up here after deciding to be roommates at the last second the previous year, but the irony was, Micah was hardly ever in the room now, since he and Lara had become inseparable. This was how it always was; things between Micah and Lara would be good for a few weeks and Micah would disappear. Then she would break up with him for a few days, or he would break up with her, and he would brood at his desk listening to weepy country songs until it drove Cal out of the room, to literally anywhere else.
Cal stared at Micah’s empty, made bed. You two are poisonous for each other. Hurry up and figure that out already.
The privacy was nice, he supposed, turning back to his computer and the open document on the screen. He had managed his name and “TITLE TBD”; then, a very long subtitle he planned to turn into a paper any moment now: “The descent into madness and cultural promises left unfulfilled—the true cause of Antoinette’s deteriorated mental health in Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea.”
It wasn’t bad, really, but that was all he had. One dynamite subtitle was not going to keep him from flunking out. Cal swore and saved the document, then let his black mood propel him like a missile to the shared mini-fridge. It was stocked with beer, as always, but crouching there and perusing the shiny cans didn’t give him the jolt of anticipation it usually did. He knew if he drank right then, it would just be to secretly flip the bird at his father.
Instead, he slammed the door shut and went to crack open his window. Maybe air would help get the scholarly juices flowing.
The old Brookline windows hadn’t been replaced since the sixties, when the building used to be an actual insane asylum. The school constantly closed and reopened the dorm, promising renovations that never seemed to materialize. The place felt like a tomb. The window shrieked as Cal forced it open, and a gush of moist air poured in. The lacrosse team was out on the quad again today—or had never left—their laughter drifting up to him like distant music.
“Hey! Kurtwilder! Over here, man, I’m open! Pass!”
Cal heard the words as if from a dream. He felt like he was only half-present—like he was watching the world below from somewhere that wasn’t the world at all, and the scene before him was visible but not tangible. He imagined saying those words aloud, to Micah, maybe, or to Lara, and hearing how stupid they sounded. His friends would probably run to one of the college counselors, who would then tell him he was depressed. Here, take this medication.
Maybe that would help, he reasoned, leaning closer to the open window. He wondered if pills would make that invisible barrier between him and the world thinner or thicker. He didn’t know which option scared him more.
As he stood there, he could all but hear the cursor on his screen blinking. Waiting. Ticking down the seconds he was wasting thinking about nothing. He could just drop out. That would be one way of handling all of this. Maybe he should call his mother, get her take on things. She had the kindness Roger didn’t. But she wasn’t exactly the best role model, either, since some of that kindness came from her nightly pills and vodka cocktail.
Cal glanced at his watch. Six thirty.
Half an hour. He could buckle down and be scholarly for half an hour, surely. He crossed from the window to his bed, where the book for his essay lay facedown and open, little Post-it flags indicating passages Fallon had highlighted for him. He flopped down onto the bed and grabbed the book, rolling onto his back and propping one knee on the other.
“‘There are always two deaths,’” he read, “‘the real one and the one people know about.’”
He was finally getting into the book when his phone buzzed right next to his head, making him start and drop the book on his face. Sputtering, he elbowed the novel out of the way and snatched up his mobile.
7 sharp, Cal. I mean it.
“Jesus, Roger, I get it.”
It’s like he can sense me procrastinating from afar. Saddest superhero power ever.
Groaning, Cal pocketed the phone and hunted down his book bag and shoes, a ratty old pair of Top-Siders his first boyfriend had given him in high school. Well, technically Cal had stolen the shoes, lovingly, and then Jules just hadn’t had the heart to ask for them back. Cal would wear the damn things until they had holes and then find someone to repair them.
Brookline’s halls were empty. It wasn’t a popular evening hangout spot. Most kids he knew went to the library or the gym after dinner, sometimes to rehearsals or study groups. Even in broad daylight and at peak hours of activity, the dorm never felt cheerful. Crowded, maybe, but not lively.
That figured. There were all kinds of creepy-ass rumors about what had gone on in the bad old days of Brookline, when it was still an asylum and not just another historic fixture on a campus choked with historic fixtures. As far as he knew, it was mostly campfire crap, stories that got told around Halloween to spook the first-years and visiting prospies. He couldn’t imagine what would actually be down in the closed-off basement. Certainly by now all of the important antiques and files had been secured and put away somewhere?
Cal whistled as he skipped down the stairs, determined not to spend the night in a dark mood. This was supposed to be punishment, but he would endure it like a champ. Hell, if he tried hard enough, he might even enjoy it. Maybe he could dig up a cool story or two for Lara to use in an art project. A lot of her work was about uncovering forgotten history.
He reached the main level and then continued downward, taking the turnoff toward the shadowy entranceway he had never given a second glance. Voices reached him from the alcove, and he passed a glass display case with some faded newspaper clippings, then took a sharp right, stopping short before he tumbled into someone’s back.
“Ah. Our fifth is here.” Professor Reyes poked her head around the human barrier directly in front of him.
Then Human Barrier turned, and Cal froze, squishing his toes nervously in his Top-Siders. It was Devon. Magical Lacrosse God Devon Kurtwilder, still sweaty from his game on the quad.
“Well, that’s everyone, then,” Professor Reyes continued. She was dressed in all black and half-wrapped in a glittery, beaded black shawl. About a dozen gaudy necklaces hung from her neck. “Let’s head down, and I’ll explain the rules as we go.”
“The rules?” Cal repeated. He didn’t recognize the other two students, but they looked older, maybe juniors or seniors, both girls. His dad had been on about how this was a “lucky group of students,” handpicked by the professor to rummage around in the basement, cataloging whatever old stuff was down there. An Exploratory Committee, he’d called it, which sounded way too official and smart for Cal to be involved in any real capacity. So now he was a tagalong. Great.
Devon ignored him, snapping a piece of gum and turning back toward the professor. His shirt wafted cut grass smell and sweat.
Professor Reyes reached into one of the many crocheted pockets on her tunic and fished out a giant key ring that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Hogwarts. She
swept them all with her dark, beady eyes and nodded solemnly. “There are rules to going down here, Cal. Rules to the basement. Rules to Brookline. There’s more than just dust and memory down there; there are instruments, rusted but dangerous. So we have rules, and if you follow the rules, this will all go smooth as glass.”
Cal hated the basement.
“How often do you guys come down here?” he whispered. It seemed important to whisper, as if the shadows lurking beyond the scope of the professor’s flashlight could spread and come to life.
“It’s a delicate process, beginning to catalog and sort the contents of Brookline,” Professor Reyes explained from up ahead. The narrow walls pressed in around them until the group reached a second door—this one with a glass window that looked into a lobby area. She used the keys to unlock this door, too. “I only feel comfortable taking a handful of qualified students down here.”
He didn’t miss or appreciate the slight emphasis on the word qualified. It sounded like she was smelling dog shit as she said it.
“Where’d you dig up this freshman?” Devon Kurtwilder asked. He was directly ahead, and Cal nearly ran into him again as they all waited for her to unlock the lobby door and go through.
“Second-year,” Cal corrected, irritable.
So much for making the best of tonight.
“Mr. Erickson is . . . a special case. For now he can just observe and pick up some of the preservation techniques we use,” Professor Reyes explained. “An eager mind is always welcome.”
“Pft. Erickson.” Devon swung around, glaring at him with dark-green eyes. “Now I get it.”
Cal didn’t bother defending himself. His throat tightened up—from the dust, he decided, and not from humiliation. The door opened with a sudden, cold scrape, and Cal jumped. Professor Reyes held the door open for the two girls and Devon, but she stopped Cal, holding him by the elbow of his checked shirt.
“You’ll have to forgive Devon,” she said in a whisper, but her eyes and her tone never softened. “He, Maria, and Colleen have completed several grueling prerequisites to get down here and work on the preservation firsthand. You can understand if they’re a bit . . . touchy.”
“I get it,” Cal said, taking his arm back. “And I can’t blame them. Hey, if it improves morale, I’m more than happy to zip right back up those stairs and—”
“Nice try. Let’s get moving; we’re wasting time.”
The other students waited in the lobby, their flashlights bouncing off the dusty surfaces of desks, low side tables, and abandoned chairs. It looked like a volcano had erupted, leaving everything covered in a thick layer of gray powder. Cal’s nose itched and his eyes burned from the stale air.
“Maria and Colleen usually work together, so you can join Devon in room three.”
Room 3. That sounded simple enough. Cal flashed his new partner a quick smile, but Devon had already turned down the corridor leading away from the lobby. Cal hurried to follow, suddenly afraid of being left without the light.
“And Devon?” The professor’s needling voice echoed down the hall toward them. “Be gentle with him, and remind him of the rules, please.”
Room 3 was small, little more than a cell, with a hanging metal lamp that had long since burst its bulb. The one high window was so grimy it didn’t seem possible that any light could have made it in even in the daytime. Bars striped the glass, and the dirt from above had eroded, trickling against the window and gathering there in uneven mounds. It was impossible to forget that they were in a basement—he could feel the subterranean cold seeping through the worn soles of his shoes, chilling him completely.
“So,” Devon said absently, kneeling next to an ancient, rusted cot. “The rules . . .”
“Sorry you had to get the tagalong,” Cal replied. He let his eyes trail across the filthy walls and floor and then back to Devon’s hunched shoulders.
The other student rummaged in a leather messenger bag, pulling out a notebook, camera, and a few pens, as well as a pair of white felt gloves. “Just don’t touch anything, all right? That’s rule number one for you.”
Devon had a thick New York accent, though time away from home had rubbed off the rougher edges of it. Cal said nothing, watching him scribble something on his legal notepad. Then Devon grabbed the flashlight and stood, turning in time to reveal Professor Reyes just outside the door. She knelt, setting up a battery-run light on a little pair of yellow plastic stilts. It looked like what construction workers might use at night.
The lamp came on and Cal threw up his hand, covering his eyes from the harsh glare.
“Happy hunting,” Professor Reyes said, her eyes lingering on Cal before she disappeared again.
Happy hunting. Like anything could be happy in this room.
“She was talking to me,” Devon said. He had moved closer to the cot, carefully peeling up the rotting blanket on it with his gloved fingers. “You’re just here to observe for now.”
“Thanks, I sort of picked up on that.” Cal crossed his arms, absorbing the withering look the other boy tossed over his shoulder.
“Oh, good. A smart-ass. Can you at least take notes?”
“What do you want me to write?” Cal asked, taking out his own notebook and pen.
7:05 p.m., he jotted down. Stuck in dank cell with sexy dickhead. FML.
“I’ll let you know when I find something,” Devon muttered. Then he fell silent, absorbed in his work. Cal liked him a lot better that way. Tall, blond, with those dark-green eyes and lantern jaw . . . Not that it mattered. It was obvious Cal wasn’t even a blip on the edge of Devon’s radar. For the second time that evening he felt the invisible barrier rise; always on the outside looking in, just watching. Just an observer.
Well, screw that.
Cal turned to his right, wandering away from Devon’s careful inspection of the cot. The room wasn’t any less unsettling for the light of the work lamp. That lamp bleached the color out of things, turning the brown walls to a faded-photograph gray. How was this considered psychology stuff and not archaeology? What were they even hoping to turn up? A small table leaned against the wall opposite the cot, but there was nothing on it. This room was empty—couldn’t they see that?
Then Cal noticed something the work lamp had illuminated. He checked to see that Devon wasn’t watching, then approached the wall. The thing that had caught Cal’s eye was behind the little table, and he had to crouch to see it, squinting past one spindly leg.
It was writing—one cramped line of uneven text, scratched or carved into the concrete.
Ghosts, ghosts in the shadows, ghosts in the light, and now I am become one too
Cal stared at it for a long moment, hardly noticing that his hand had lifted pen to notepad and begun copying the words. His pen moved across the paper almost of its own accord. Then he felt a sudden cold breath against his left ear and, just as quickly, the absence of cold, of heat, of any temperature whatsoever, as if the air surrounding him had been sucked away.
He felt something. There. Just there next to his ear and slightly behind . . . Like someone was leaning over his shoulder, watching him write. His hand trembled, making a mess of the last word—too—the final o trailing off as if the letter itself had collapsed into a gasp.
“Hello?”
Cal froze. It was a little boy’s voice, soft and curious. He craned his head to the left, and for a brief flicker he saw the boy’s face, hovering beside him. Young—nine or ten—and his face was kind, but something was wrong with his head. It was lumpy, misshapen, as if he’d been in an accident.
“Are you here to help? Or are you like them, too?”
Cal shifted away from the face, the voice. It wasn’t just his hand that had lost feeling now but his entire body. Cal jerked toward the door, his back hitting the wall. He had to get away. But the instant he moved, the pale little face vanished, and the scant warmth of the room returned. The light shone brighter, and Devon . . . Devon was staring at him.
“Did you s
ay something?” Cal whispered. The face . . . The thing . . . It was gone, wasn’t it? Or it had never been there to begin with. He searched the room, but there was nothing out of place.
“What’s up? Did you touch something?” Devon stood, rounding on him. “I told you not to touch anything!”
“I didn’t!” Cal inched toward the door, nearly tripping over the lamp. “I heard . . . You really didn’t say anything? It’s not cool to mess with me, man. It’s creepy down here!”
“Professor!” Sighing, Devon tucked his hands against his waist and shook his head. “The newbie is spooked. You better get him out of here before he has a meltdown!”
That was just fine with him. Cal showed himself the door, plunging out into the corridor. It wasn’t any better out here. He couldn’t remember what it was like to take in a breath and not taste sour air. At least he could feel his hands again, and his feet, though he couldn’t banish the feeling that that little boy was somewhere nearby, watching him. Watching him struggle to shove his notebook and pen away. Watching him struggle down the hall toward Professor Reyes, who bustled up to him with her brow furrowed.
“Is this some stunt of yours to get out early?” she asked, drawing up too close for his liking. “I am trying to help you, Cal. I am trying to be patient and work with your father—”
“It’s not a stunt,” Cal said. Didn’t he look pale to her? He felt pale. “I heard something. I saw someone.”
Her brow relaxed and she took his arm, gently, leading him back toward the lobby. “You do look pretty shaken. All right, you can be dismissed early tonight. Get some air, Cal. It can be intense down here. I’ll just need to search your bag first.”
“Fine. Take it.” He pushed the bag at her. Whatever gets me out of here fastest.
Cal watched her rifle through the bag, look over his open notebook, pause, and then put it back. She closed the clasp on the bag and handed it back across to him.
The Scarlets Page 2