Savannah's Chance

by D. A. Maddox

  Frantically, her thumbs hammered out, Listen, Tabby, no! You can’t be serious. If that email gets out it will ruin us all. I’m on the Commons. Get your ass out here so we can talk.

  Tabby: Shut the fuck up. I’m not done yet.

  …, …, …

  Veronica had to cradle the phone in both hands just to keep it steady.

  Tabby, don’t, she pleaded with her in her mind. I’m not a fucking sub!

  Tabby: Professor Krantz has wanted to make an example of you for some time, as you know. If he has his way, things will be worse. Much worse. Want my advice? Go home. Call your parents. Get a lawyer.

  …, …, …

  “No,” Veronica moaned into the empty night. “Tabby, noooo …”

  Tabby: If this plan meets with your approval, type, YES, MISTRESS TABITHA. If this plan does NOT meet with your approval, type, YES, MISTRESS TABITHA.

  Veronica clutched at her stomach. Oh, God, she was going to hurl.

  She steadied her breathing, closed her eyes, and waited it out.

  She told herself that it was a bluff. It had to be. Malcolm and Tabby wanted something out of this. Veronica only needed the time to figure out what it was, then spin the negotiations to her advantage. She could do that. In the end, Veronica Cruz always got her way.

  She typed, Fuck you.

  And thought, This means war. When your bluff fizzles out, I will destroy you.

  Immediately, she set to work on her follow-up text. In it, she identified several secret friends and allies among the Old Bones and Profs she didn’t actually have, and she enumerated the various consequences that Tabby would face if she was crazy enough to send that email. She had recorded their secret lottery. She had allowed Veronica to carry it out to completion before ratting on her. She—

  But Veronica never got to finish it. Before she could, she got a “new email” alert on her phone. When she opened it, she saw that Tabitha had not been bluffing. And when Veronica’s eyes trailed back up to the address line, she saw that her war, which she had only begun to plan, was already over.

  She had lost.

  Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She dropped the phone onto concrete. She collapsed onto her side on the park bench, curled herself into a ball, held both hands over her mouth, and screamed into them.

  ****

  “You’ve delivered me home safely,” Savannah said from the steps of the front porch, her hand still swinging in his. “Now kiss me goodnight, you fool.”

  He put his hand in her hair, thumbing an earlobe, and drew her to him.

  “You ruffian,” Savannah said, “you goddamned old school fucking country gentleman.”

  He kissed her. Held her. Breathed her. “If your dad hears you using language like that,” he said, “do me a favor and don’t blame it on me. I’m nervous enough about meeting him as it is.”

  “Did I mention he’s a cop?”

  “No,” Scott said, laughing. “Thanks for that. No pressure.”

  “We’re trapped here for a few weeks until Spring Break anyway. And if I love you, he’ll love you. He’s kind of a softball in that way.”

  “Tell me again,” Scott said. “Little music to the ears to walk home by?”

  Because the last time, I said it to you. Your turn.

  “I do love you, Scott. It’s crazy. It’s too soon. But I do.”

  “And I love you, Savannah,” he said, hugging her close.

  “You really do have a nice penis, you know.”

  “Stop. You’re making him blush.”

  “Really? Can I see?”

  “Later. Definitely, but later.”

  And, sweet as the moment was, the sound of a window being flung open from above brought an end to it. Alisha leaned outside, wearing a white nightgown and an expression of uttermost relief. She fairly howled down to them, “Thank God! You’re alive!”

  “And well!” Savannah called back to her with a wave. Then, to Scott, “Better than ever.”

  One last peck on the cheek. “Goodnight, Savannah,” he said.

  And walked off with a wink and a smile.

  ****

  God, it felt so good to be back in bed. She could fall asleep with the bat of an eye—and if she didn’t do it of her own free will, sleep would claim her anyway, sooner rather than later.

  But for now, she turned in bed and faced Alisha across their shared room, then yawned at her, unashamed.

  But Alisha looked dead serious.

  “What?”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “It was wild,” Savannah said. “A lot of it was terrible. But yeah. I am. Please don’t worry.”

  “And everything’s the same? Gonna be able to work me in with all your fancy new friends?”

  “Oh, Alisha,” Savannah said, sitting up, rubbing her eyes. “Nothing has changed. I’m not one of them. I never will be. You are my best friend. For life.”

  “And Scott?”

  “He’s … something else.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Yes. More than that, I think. Can we do this tomorrow?”

  “Well, yeah. I require details, Sis. So, did you pass whatever this thing is they got goin’ on over there? Because I’ve never known you to fail a thing in your life.”

  Savannah nodded. “No way are we joining them, though. Total freakshow.”

  “Okay, okay, enough with the tease. You’re going to spill all of this to me over breakfast.”

  “I’m supposed to keep it a secret, Alisha,” Savannah said, plopping back to her pillow. “I’m not allowed to tell anyone—like, not even family, Alisha.”

  “So, you’ll be giving me the full report, then?”

  Savannah sighed. Resistance was futile. “Naturally,” she said.

  And fell asleep before another word could be spoken.

  Part Four

  A Time of Reckoning

  Chapter Twenty-One:

  Plea

  Veronica didn’t belong to a sorority. She wasn’t a part of any officially sanctioned organization or club, and she detested sports. She had no boyfriend or girlfriend. Socially speaking, The Select was her entire universe. The only other thing that mattered to her was finishing her Media Productions degree with a 4.0 average, a virtual must for anyone who planned on winning an internship at any of the major TV or cable networks. She had no intention of starting small.

  Nevertheless, on the Monday following the disaster of the Origins Fete, Veronica found it difficult to focus in her senior level Sound Editing class. She sat in the back of the room with her note tablet propped up so that only she could see the screen. As the guest speaker—Bob Gravette, an audio mixer for World News at 9—carried on about filtering mouth noises, she again checked her sent messages.

  She hadn’t had any recent alerts—and yet, by compulsion, she checked anyway. She had to be sure. She’d messaged everybody, one by one. Surely someone would answer her.

  No one did. They were all ignoring her, much the same way she’d told Zeke, Rusty, and Corky to avoid Scott Lachance in the day prior to the Fete. There would come a time, no doubt today, when Tabitha would email her an official dethroning and punishment date, so she checked that, too. Nothing. Not that she planned on meekly surrendering herself when the summons ultimately came. They’d have to kidnap her if they wanted to put her through that, and none of them would dare go so far.

  Five rows ahead of her sat Zeke Chambers himself, who hadn’t responded when she’d tried to get his attention just before class had started. He wouldn’t even look at her. She was tempted to chuck a paper wad at the back of his head—but she didn’t. The last thing she needed was regular school drama.

  I’m sorry about the class disruption, Dean Blankenship, but all of my friends in the secret society we pretend doesn’t exist are plotting my destruction—and, worse, none of them will talk to me.

  She snorted, feeling a pang of regret she hadn’t just played the last party normal.

  No, Veronica. Don’t do that
to yourself. All you wanted to do was mix things up, add a little variety and spice to the party—and you were right. Those two were awesome, fucking perfect. Not your fault the others don’t get that.

  Still, she couldn’t help feeling a bit … lonely?

  No! Fuck these people. Seriously, they can all go to hell.

  From the front of the room, Gravette had moved on from pops, clicks, and inadvertent teeth whistles to voice isolation in adverse weather conditions. Veronica knew she should be listening, offering the occasional insightful question. That was a TV guy up there.

  She swiped her screen to her video collection, bypassing the ones she’d made as school projects and instead focusing on the three Tabitha had sent. The first, and worst, of these was the security cam footage. The other two—her final assault on Scott and Nurse Sustrick treating the wound—were more annoying than damning. Everyone had witnessed that inconsequential bullshit in person. No big deal. But how had those clips been shot in the first place?

  She played all three, several times, noting the profound dissonance of sitting through a lecture on sound while secretly screening three video clips that had no audio.

  In her back jeans pocket, her phone vibrated against her ass.

  Veronica drew it out and checked it, disregarding the poor form of openly doing this while a guest speaker was presenting. Mom again. They’d spoken at length on Saturday, then texted back and forth several times on Sunday. She’d think of something. She was connected, and she, the great Jada Forsythe, was Select royalty going back twenty-five years.

  It was another text. Good. Veronica didn’t much like the thought of having to get up and leave the room to take a phone call—but for her mother, she would have done it.

  Mom: I’m here. I’ve brought help.

  Today? Really? That was a lot sooner than expected.

  Veronica texted back, What about Dad?

  …, …, …

  Mom: He’s upset. He doesn’t understand these things.

  Veronica frowned. Her parents had met the year after college. Dad had never much enjoyed being left out of the loop in terms of the secret society his wife had belonged to and his daughter had joined. But still—Veronica was in trouble. Her father should be here.

  Maybe, Veronica considered, her mother hadn’t allowed it. Possible. Dad was kind of the unofficial sub in their relationship.

  She fumed, gritted her teeth. Texted back, What do you mean, ‘help’?

  …, …, …

  Mom: You’ll see. Drop whatever you’re doing and meet me at your dorm. I’m already here.

  Veronica: Mom, I’m in class.

  …, …, …

  Mom: This is bigger than class, Veronica. You’ll be excused after the fact—but if we’re not in the conference room of the administration building in one hour, the whole deal will fall through.

  Veronica bit her lip. She typed, What are you talking about?

  Mom: Do as your mother tells you.

  Veronica packed her things, quickly. It was embarrassing, ducking out like this, where everyone could see. She was getting quite the scowl right now from Professor Dunn, who’d been talking up this session for nearly a month.

  “Sorry,” she whispered in passing, the word tasting like throw-up in her mouth. “Emergency.”

  Second row from the front, Zeke smiled at her.

  Her phone buzzed again. Veronica hurried from the room. She didn’t check her message until she was clear out of the building.

  Mom: Be brave.

  ****

  “I remember it like it was yesterday, wearing this,” she said, holding the skull badge up under the light, turning it over, her eyes wistful.

  “Go ahead,” Veronica said. “Put it on. I won’t tell anyone.”

  Nor would she. Stupid rules like the one that forbade her mother from redonning the skull, even for a moment, were made for breaking. If it made her mother that goddamned happy to wear the thing, she should just do it.

  But her mother only sighed. “That’s your problem, daughter of mine. That’s exactly it.”

  Veronica didn’t take the bait, if that’s what it was. She knew what her mother meant—she just didn’t agree with her. It was a rare thing, her disagreeing with her mother. For all important purposes, Mom was the one person—aside from a few teachers—Veronica really listened to, or obeyed. As she was doing now, without question, even as a creeping dread blossomed in her breast like heartburn.

  She slipped off her rings, her earrings, her bracelet. She changed out her fancy Gucci boots for tennis shoes. No jewelry, nothing flashy or expensive. We go casual, and we go humble, Mother had said. Just this once.

  “You’re going to lose this at the meeting,” she was saying now, tucking the skull into her Givenchy croc-embossed leather satchel. The casual and humble approach did not, evidently, extend to Mom herself. “Play this right, and that’s all you’ll lose. I will not have you cast out by The Select, Veronica.”

  So frustrating. It was irritating enough, watching her mother rummage through her things like she was a kid living at home. As of this moment, Veronica didn’t know who the “help” was—she suspected a faculty member still friendly to the family—or what the meeting was about. Professor Krantz would probably be there, though. She wouldn’t be surprised to see Malcolm, a Skull himself, or even Tabby.

  “No, Mom,” she said, turning a circle in front of her, wriggling her ringless fingers as evidence of her obedience. “Me, neither. We good?”

  “Far from it,” Mom said, checking her ebony hair—nearly identical in style and color to her daughter’s—in the vanity mirror. “I’ve done everything I can do to protect my only child from her enemies. For two days, I’ve done little else. I am beside myself with distress, but I am resolute. Now it is time for the child to show courage on her own. Does she understand?”

  “Mom, I—”

  “Answer properly, young lady.”

  God, they hadn’t done this shit in forever.

  “Yes, Mama. The … child understands and will do her best. The child thanks her mama for protecting her.”

  Mom, AKA the dreaded and worshipful Jada Forsythe-Cruz, then turned from the mirror to face her again, burning her with cobalt eyes that cut like the blue flame of a blowtorch. “They will not let the child off without some penalty. But she will finish school with no tarnish on her record. She will stay in The Select. One day, she will become Old Bones, herself. This storm will be forgotten in time, but first, the child must weather it. Does she understand? Will she obey?”

  Veronica brushed a tear away. Fucking hell, her mother could still reduce her to nothing in seconds flat—and she was also scaring the shit out of her. Couldn’t they just go to the damned meeting, already?

  “Yes, Mama. The child understands. The child will … obey.”

  “Good,” her mother said, leading their way out the door. “Let’s get this fucking over with.”

  ****

  The admin building was four stories tall, but the conference room was on the first floor. Veronica knew it well. She and Malcolm, along with favored representatives from the Neutral and the Submissive, had often met with delegations from the Old Bones and Profs in there, for various reasons. On one occasion, as Veronica now recalled only too well, they’d arranged a punishment ceremony for a Neutral who had blabbed about The Select to an old girlfriend back in his hometown.

  Stepping out onto the parking lot from the passenger door of her mother’s Vance Revelry, she was bemused to note Brandy and Colt were standing right there in the courtyard, speaking casually to one another as if they both had business there at the same time. Also odd was the presence of a camera crew, three people strong, unidentifiable but definitely for TV. The two police cruisers parked at the curb, however—engines off, and with a gruff-looking, portly old man-cop standing outside of one of them—were downright ominous.

  Mom had made her leave her purse at the dorm. She had nothing of any value on her whatsoever. Piec
es started to click together, most unpleasantly, in her mind.

  “Mother—what’s going on?” she asked.

  “Do not say a word,” Mom told her. “Follow me. Look straight ahead. Quick march.”

  And it was, indeed, in power-walk mode that Veronica trailed after her, feeling her blood pressure rise with each step. Passing Brandy and Colt, she never turned her head the slightest bit—and yet she still saw, through her peripheral vision, Brandy bend over, giggling, and swat her own ass, all while pointing at her.

  Mom, she thought, passing through the tall, glass double doors of the admin building, outwardly betraying nothing of what she inwardly felt, tell me this is not what I think it is.

  “You’re to say nothing at the meeting, either, unless asked a direct question,” her mother said. “If you do, they may find you unsuitable for their program, and that would be a catastrophe. The negotiations are over, Veronica. Your input was neither required nor welcomed. It is yours only to listen, and then either to sign the consent form or not to sign it. And you will sign it. Am I understood?”

  Veronica struggled to keep up, hand over her chest.

  Don’t answer that.

  “Veronica, this is your mother speaking to you. Am I understood?”

  “Y-yes, Mama.”

  They arrived at the conference room doors, which Mother took by both handles and pulled wide.

  ****

  Inside, as expected, awaited Professor Krantz, seated at one end of the long wooden table. He was dressed in his best tweed and with his salt-and-pepper hair only recently gelled to a severe widow’s peak. But there was no Shusterman, no Sustrick—not one of the other Old Bones and Profs, unless she counted her own mother. There were, however, three complete strangers, including a fifty-ish woman with close-cut blonde hair and an open business satchel laid out in front of her on the table, and two police officers: also women, neither of whom looked older than their mid to late twenties.

  And one celebrity: Officer Alejandro Garcia, with the crewcut and the slight paunch and the arms that rippled with muscle. Alejandro Garcia—of the age-restricted cable program Consequences, Live!.