Without Annette

by Jane B. Mason

  “Watch it!” Hank steadied me just before my bare arm grazed a pipe.

  “Total fail, Penn,” Hank said. “You didn’t give her any warning about the junction. She’s a freakin’ newbie, remember?”

  He lingered on the word newbie, and I rankled. I wasn’t the one who’d stopped short in the tunnel.

  Penn didn’t seem to be listening—selective hearing was clearly one of his well-honed skills. He’d pulled out the map and was consulting it in the beam of his headlamp. I’d barely gotten a gander back in the dorm, so I leaned in to get a closer look. It was a map of Brookwood. I recognized several dorms, the science building, the library, and the main hall—but that clearly wasn’t the point. The point was what was under the buildings. The point was the tunnels.

  “It’s this way,” Penn said, raising his head to throw light into a tunnel leading off to the right. It was narrower than the one we were in, with two rows of steam pipes instead of one.

  “Are you sure?” Hank questioned, blinding me with his beam. I shielded my eyes and watched Penn fold the map and stuff it into his back pocket before forging ahead.

  As I followed along behind, it occurred to me that we seemed to have a destination in mind—this wasn’t some general exploration adventure. “What’s this way?”

  “The library,” Sam’s voice replied from behind me.

  “We’re having a study session?”

  Sam chuckled. “The library basement,” he clarified. “The vault.”

  “Dude,” Hank said.

  “What?” Sam replied. “She’s gonna know anyway. She’s here, isn’t she?”

  “No kidding.” Was it me Hank didn’t like, or girls in general?

  Penn made a left-hand turn and climbed a short ladder. I hoisted myself up behind him, the rusty steel hot against the skin on the insides of my fingers. Up here the tunnel was wide—almost like a long, narrow room—and the floor was covered in cables. “Electricity,” Penn explained. “It’s insulated, but watch your step.”

  As we moved forward, a loud clanking erupted in the darkness, making me jump and tangle my feet in the thick wires.

  “It’s just the steam,” Penn consoled as he steadied me.

  “The two-hundred-and-eighty-degree steam,” Hank clarified.

  “I thought it was two fifty.” I swiped at my damp forehead with my arm. My entire body was covered in a layer of perspiration and another layer of grit, and I was dying of thirst.

  “It would be higher if the school would finish the system upgrade down here,” Penn said. “Some of these pipes are ancient. It’s a miracle they don’t explode.”

  “How reassuring,” I replied. The passage widened and we seemed to be going up. Then, all at once, it ended at a small metal door.

  “This isn’t right,” Hank said, ducking around me and plucking the map out of Penn’s back pocket. “Can I see the map?”

  Penn looked up and his headlamp beam flashed across Hank’s sweaty, squinting face. “Sure,” he said sarcastically. Hank had already unfolded it and was tracing his finger across several buildings.

  “This can’t be the library.”

  Our tunnel-traveling line became a lopsided circle as we gathered around the map.

  “We could be over here,” Hank offered, pointing to the tunnel that approached the library from the other side.

  “Don’t think so,” Sam said. “We didn’t take enough turns.”

  “Maybe the map is wrong,” Hank said. “We don’t know how old it is.”

  Ignoring them, Penn put his hand against the crack in the hatch door. “No draft,” he said. “Question is, are we going to pick the lock and see what’s on the other side, or not?”

  “I’m game,” Sam said.

  Hank shifted his weight and lowered the map to his side. “It’s not the library.”

  “I agree,” Sam said quietly. “But we wouldn’t be down here if we didn’t like exploring.” He held up his pick. “Ready and willing.”

  “Josie? What do you think?”

  Surprised to have a say, I shrugged. “I’m with you guys.”

  “All right, then,” Penn said. He took his headlamp off and slid it onto Sam’s head. “Pick away.”

  About twenty seconds later, Sam slowly pushed open the mini door, peeking around its edge. “Utility room,” he informed us in a low voice. “Medium size.” He was quiet for a minute, investigating, while we huddled behind him. A waft of cooler air hit my face and I suppressed the urge to dive through the opening. I was sweating like a pig. “And it’s empty,” he finally said, swinging the hatch wide. The room wasn’t that different from the tunnels, with a row of old furnaces, steam and water pipes, and cables along one wall. But it was bigger and, thankfully, cooler. At the far end, a staircase led up.

  The furnaces hummed quietly, a welcome sound after the hissing, clanking pipes.

  “Going up?” Hank asked.

  Penn stashed the headlamps in his backpack while my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room. Looking down, I saw that Annette’s grandmother’s dress was covered in black smudges, and trails of spiderwebs crisscrossed over the front. Oh shit.

  I was still gaping at my filth when Penn started for the stairs. Swiping at a couple of webs, I followed.

  The concrete stairs zigzagged up to a higher level. A closed metal door—complete with handle—greeted us at the top. Penn put his ear to the door and turned his grin to us. “And behind door number three?” he asked playfully.

  “No idea,” I offered, my heart pounding with too many things to keep track of. I looked down at Grandma Ruby’s dress again, wondering how I would ever get it clean.

  “Science building,” Sam guessed.

  “Just open the door,” Hank gruffed from behind me.

  “All right, then.” Stepping back, he pulled open the door with a flourish, and I raised my head.

  Oh. My. God.

  Standing approximately fifteen feet from me was the infamous Lola No. Who, for whatever reason, I’d never had a face-to-face encounter with. I wasn’t even sure she knew my name.

  We could have been anywhere on campus but had ended up in my dorm, where Lola No was not only on duty but front and center. And staring right at me. What were the odds of that?

  I stepped forward fast, letting the door close behind me and praying that the boys had ducked behind it quickly enough to go unnoticed.

  Lola No looked me up and down, her blue eyes glinting. She was unusually short, I suddenly noticed. Under five feet for sure.

  “Ms. Little,” she said. “Are you going to tell me what you were doing in the boiler room, or should we make our way to Dean Austin’s office so you can tell him instead?”

  I kept as much distance between us as possible and tried not to squint in the bright light. The boiler room, I thought, relieved. She thinks I was in the boiler room. Then I realized that being in the boiler room was apparently enough of a crime to warrant a trip to the dean’s office, on top of which I was suddenly overcome with wooziness and utter stupidity. I had absolutely no idea what to say or do.

  I was standing there like a filthy mute idiot when Roxanne appeared out of nowhere, dressed in a pair of paint-splattered jeans and a T-shirt. It appeared she had skipped the dance and spent the evening working on her art.

  “Josie!” she singsonged, stepping up to us with a meaningful look I didn’t understand. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere.” She planted herself next to me and slung an arm around my shoulder like we were best friends. “You won the round for sure,” she said. “Nobody could find you.”

  Trying to look casual and grasp what was happening proved nearly impossible, but at least Roxanne was propping me up. Find me, I repeated in my befuddled head. Find me …

  “She was hiding,” Roxanne explained when I didn’t.

  “Yes,” I seconded. “I was hiding … in the boiler room. Not a very bright idea, obviously. The place is filthy.”

  Lola No wasn’t listening. Like a cheetah stalkin
g its prey, she slinked over to the basement door and threw it open.

  “Shit,” I whispered, feeling a wave of sticky panic. But the landing at the top of the stairs was empty—no boys in sight. Lola No switched on the light and peered over the railing to the lower level, which required tiptoes despite her two-inch clogs.

  She is really short, I thought as she flicked off the switch and marched back to us like a miniature general. “And would you care to tell me where the other hide-and-go-seek players might be?” Her question was punctuated by the slam of the door behind her.

  “Still searching,” Roxanne said boldly.

  Lola No turned to my roommate. “I don’t believe I was speaking to you, Ms. Wylde.”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, trying to sound appropriately submissive and half hating myself at the same time. I didn’t want to provoke Lola No, but I wasn’t the kind of person who rolled over, either. Plus, there was my breath to worry about, Life Savers aside. (Roxanne was right: Altoids worked better.) “Still searching for me?”

  Lola No nodded and turned to look at the clock at the end of the hall. “Let’s hope they’re finished with their search in the next seven minutes, shall we? We wouldn’t want anyone to be late for curfew.”

  “Of course not.” I was feeling dirtier and more idiotic by the second. “I’m sure they’ll be here any moment.”

  Lola No’s gaze didn’t falter as she wrinkled her nose, suddenly smelling something foul (me). “I suggest you shower and change your clothes, Ms. Little. They’re rather …” Her voice trailed off as Becca, Annette, and Marina sauntered through the front door, their arms linked together and their heads tilted back in laughter. I remembered our moments of perfect after the Full Moon Party—the feel of Annette’s arm linked through mine, the slight stick of her skin from the warm night. Now her arms were linked with Marina on one side and Becca on the other.

  Becca spotted us first. I saw her turquoise eyes take in everything and judge it, saw her make a split-second decision to keep on walking. Marina was less astute.

  Oh crap, I thought with a jolt. Did Marina tell everyone about the kiss? Had Annette and I been outed? Actually, that might be something to hope for, I considered as Marina sauntered up to me. That might make things easier.

  “Josie, you’re a mess!” Marina said. “Where have you been?”

  “Hiding,” I said quietly. I glanced at Annette, tried to get a read. Were we broken up or not?

  Guilt flashed across Annette’s face, quickly replaced by shock when she noticed her grandmother’s beloved dress. Her eyes narrowed in anger for precisely two seconds before they widened with sadness and disappointment. I wanted to rip off the orange knit right there and leave it in a pile on the Cortland floor, a pathetic impulse to distance myself from the evidence. It was oh so too late.

  “She’s been found,” Lola No said. “By me.” She ran a palm over her wavy hair as if to smooth it and turned to the newly arrived trio, who were nodding in unison. “And duly informed that the boiler room is off-limits now and forever. I trust you ladies had a nice evening?”

  “It was excellent,” Marina cooed as Roxanne squeezed my arm in annoyance.

  “Good. Now I suggest you find your rooms—curfew is in four minutes.”

  “All righty, Coach,” Becca said with a casualness that surprised me. I expected Lola No to rebuke her, but she just nodded as Becca nudged Marina and Annette forward. They glided down the hall, a single unit of legs and arms and torsos moving forward like figure skaters, disappearing into Becca and Annette’s room. I watched them go, feeling strangely numb as my legs followed involuntarily …

  Roxanne tugged on my arm. “Let’s go,” she said, pulling me toward the stairs. Her grip was firm, and I was too tired to resist as my roommate led me up the three flights and down the corridor to room 316, which looked nothing like it usually did. The floor was covered with giant, brightly painted pieces of paper the size of bath towels. “Sorry,” Roxanne said. “I’m working on a project, and the art room isn’t open late on Saturdays. Some of the pieces are still wet.”

  I made my way gingerly across the room and slumped onto Roxanne’s bed.

  “No rest for the weary,” Roxanne said, stacking the dry pieces of paper next to the wall. She held out a hand to pull me up. “You need a shower.” She shoved me through the bathroom door. “Use soap!” she added, slamming the door.

  I smiled in spite of myself—I’d heard my mother use that refrain for years on my brothers—especially Toby, who had a tendency to collect dirt. First things first, I told myself as I plugged the sink and turned on the water. I took off the dress, wincing again at the black streaks that dotted it. Toby and I obviously had filth in common.

  A section of the chenille trim had been torn from the hem and was missing. From the tree, probably. Was that really just a few hours ago? My second Saturday night at Brookwood was a lot like the first—totally bizarre. I was about to shove the dress into the sink full of water when I stopped myself. I did not possess my mother’s stain-eliminating magic, and this was not some T-shirt I had spilled catsup on.

  I hung the dress on a hook, turned on the faucets, and stepped into the steamy shower, facing the spray and catching the water in my tender palms. I’d narrowly escaped getting busted by Lola No, thanks to the smart thinking of my roommate. But what about everything else? Had Marina blabbed about the kiss? And what had happened to the boys after I walked through door number three to face Lola No? Had they gone straight back to their dorm or taken a detour?

  I didn’t have answers to any of these questions, nor would I tonight. So I turned around and let the warm water run down my back and eventually, remembering Roxanne’s advice, reached a grubby hand for the soap.

  Sunday brunch was different from any other meal at Brookwood. The buffet was open from ten to one, which meant the tables in the dining room were never completely full—people ambled in and out as they pleased (and some, especially the PG jocks, students who had already finished high school and came to Brookwood for a gap year of sports, came more than once). There were no classes or practices or games, and students and faculty alike seemed to treasure this little bit of freedom. It was the one day that allowed you to determine your own schedule, a schedule that invariably started with brunch.

  Roxanne and I were silently wolfing down our Nutella and strawberry crepes that Steve had made for us. I hadn’t offered any explanation about the night before and she hadn’t asked, which was weird. Weirder still was the fact that it didn’t feel weird to just let it sit there between us. Maybe because we didn’t know each other well enough for it to really be between us? I wasn’t sure.

  “Good Sunday morning, ladies,” Penn said, pulling out the chair across from me with his foot. He and Hank had appeared out of nowhere, their plates heaped so high I wondered how the stuff on top didn’t slide off. I tried to read their faces, eager to know how their journey back to HBT had gone, but they revealed nothing and I knew better than to ask.

  Roxanne looked decidedly irritated by their arrival. “Who are you calling a lady?” she huffed.

  “Josie,” Penn replied. “Just Josie.”

  Since when did he call me Josie?

  “Ladies is plural.”

  “I was just trying to be efficient. Would you rather I ignore you completely?”

  “Maybe.”

  Penn unwrapped his fork and set his napkin on his lap. “All right, then. Consider yourself invisible.”

  “Being ignored and being invisible are not the same thing,” Roxanne pointed out.

  Hank sighed and shoved a giant bite of scrambled eggs into his mouth, chewing madly. “Dude, give up,” he said, his mouth half-full. “You’re not gonna win. She’s merciless.”

  Roxanne shot Hank a look of death. Whoa, what was that about?

  “Who’s competing?” Penn wanted to know. “I’m just here for food.” He rolled up a pancake and ate half of it in one bite.

  I was wondering what was goi
ng on when Becca showed up with her fruit, yogurt, and egg-white omelet, Marina and Cynthia and Annette right behind her. Annette’s tray matched Becca’s exactly, right down to the color of their coffees, but Marina had a giant bowl of fruit and some cornflakes. Her eyes met mine as she sat down.

  Had she said anything to Annette about the argument, or the kiss? I wondered yet again. Maybe she’d been too drunk to remember, though it seemed unlikely. She’d shown no signs of being out-of-control wasted.

  Maybe girls kiss girls all the time here, I mused while I sipped my juice. Though from what I could tell, that seemed even more unlikely. There had to be at least a handful of lesbians here, but nobody appeared to be out.

  “Mind moving over?” Becca asked, setting her tray down before anyone could answer. Maybe the question wasn’t actually a question. Maybe it was rhetorical.

  The word rhetorical reverberated in my brain, and I remembered the English essay, a compare and contrast of Shakespearean sonnets, that was due at seven forty-five the next morning. Just remembering the assignment, along with the dozen math equations I had to solve and my anthropology reading, made me a little sick to my stomach. Or maybe it was sitting with but clearly not sitting with Annette. Or the half cup of Nutella I’d just consumed. Regardless, it wasn’t pretty.

  “Invisible and ignored,” Penn said. “What’s the difference?”

  “They’re the same.” Becca poked a fork into a strawberry.

  “I don’t know,” Marina offered. “If you could choose to be invisible, that might be good. But feeling invisible sucks. And being ignored is no fun, either.”

  Surprisingly thoughtful. And it was not lost on me that Annette was ignoring me as she busily picked apart her mushroom-and-egg-white omelet.

  “I could use some invisible,” Hank said.

  “You were invisible all summer.” Roxanne’s voice was sharp, but her eyes were sad. It was becoming apparent that I wasn’t the only one at the table with a wounded heart.