I knew her current preferences were due to other factors—like wanting to put thousands of miles between herself and everything she wanted to forget—but the discussion would have to wait until later.
“It’s almost time,” I said. “Be right back.”
She raised her mug. “I’m getting a refill. Do you want one?”
“Please. Thanks.”
As she stood and started for the counter, I took my backpack from the floor and weaved through the small tables and chairs crammed in the tiny coffee shop. The only restroom was all the way in the back and occupied when I reached it.
I leaned against the wall to wait and wondered how much I was going to have to lie in the next half an hour. I considered trying to get out of the interview, but I knew Ms. Mulligan would’ve just rescheduled for a time when she could attend, too. And as much as I didn’t want to feign enthusiasm and try to talk myself up, I wanted even less to be critiqued afterward.
Two minutes passed, then three, then four. After five minutes, I knocked lightly. When there was no answer, I stepped closer and brought one ear to the door. It was hard to hear anything over the buzz of people talking and laughing, but I thought I could make out the sound of running water. I waited another few seconds and knocked again, harder.
No answer.
I turned to flag down a server and ask if the restroom had been locked accidentally when a faucet squeaked and the quiet rush stopped.
“Sorry,” a guy said, opening the door. I didn’t recognize him, but he was wearing a Hawthorne uniform, which was about as wrinkled as my own. His eyes were red. Before leaving the restroom he ducked back inside and yanked a wad of paper towels
from the dispenser.
“No problem,” I said.
He blew his nose and shuffled past me. Sinking into a chair at a table near the coffee shop’s entrance, he placed his head in his hands and stared at the screen of an open laptop. The only times he released his head were to wipe his eyes and dab at his nose. Not wanting to be among the customers who might make him feel worse by watching curiously, I darted into the restroom and closed and locked the door behind me.
The room was tiny; there was barely any space between the toilet and sink for my feet. I balanced my backpack on the edge of the sink as I removed the clothes I’d packed that morning.
This is your chance! a recent e-mail from Ms. Mulligan had declared. Stand out from other applicants and show this Bates alum the wonderful, unique individual you are. I’d suggest wearing something mature and memorable (i.e., ditch the school uniform). Knock ’em dead!
Another e-mail had followed a minute later.
My apologies for the well-intentioned yet highly insensitive encouraging phrase. I wasn’t thinking. Good luck!—KM
I didn’t need luck. What I needed was someone else’s life. But since that wasn’t going to happen, I’d decided to make the best of a bad situation and at least try to be presentable, if not memorable. This wasn’t in hopes of being accepted to Bates, but of making a nice enough impression on Ms. Mulligan’s contact that he or she gave a good report and she eased up. I could always come up with some reason not to apply later.
I changed quickly, putting on a black pencil skirt; a crisp, white button-down shirt; and a fitted black cashmere cardigan with pearl buttons. I gathered my school uniform and sweat-shirt and shoved them in my backpack, redid my ponytail, and reached toward the sink.
I’m so sorry… I hate that I’m writing this….
I’d just leaned down to splash water on my face when my eyes fell on what looked to be a printed-out e-mail. It sat folded on one corner of the sink, the paper thin and wrinkled with wear.
I wish things could have been different…. We’re simply not meant to be….
The guy who’d used the restroom before me. This must be his note, its message the reason he’d seemed so upset. Feeling guilty for unintentionally intruding on his privacy, I looked away and dried my face with a handful of paper towels.
There was a knock on the door. I lifted my backpack, then refolded the note so that the paper’s blank side was exposed, and tucked it behind the soap dispenser. It would be harder to see for someone who wasn’t looking for it, and easy for someone who was.
Back in the coffee shop, my heart sank when I saw the man sitting with a maroon Bates folder on the table in front of him. In between checking his BlackBerry, he glanced up and around the room.
My interviewer was male. For some reason, when I’d practiced my responses to the anticipated questions earlier, I’d imagined a woman doing the asking. Even worse, he was fairly young. Talking to a grandfatherly type might be manageable, but this guy, dressed in trendy dark-wash jeans and a tan wool coat, appeared to be in his early thirties.
Heading toward him, I tried to get a look at his hands. The best I could hope for now was that he was married and completely, hopelessly in love with his wife.
“Vanessa?” He stood as I neared and held out one hand.
No wedding band.
“Matt Harrison.” We shook, and then he pulled out my chair, hitting the back of the one behind it. The seated young woman gave him a look before scooting forward, but he didn’t notice. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
“You, too.” I sat, feeling ridiculous in my mature and memorable outfit.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Muffin?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” I caught Paige’s eye across the room. She still stood at the counter, waiting for her order. When she saw me, she gave me a quick thumbsup.
“So,” he said, sitting down and crossing his arms on the table. “Senior year.” He looked at me expectantly, like I was supposed to elaborate.
“Yup.”
“Kathryn says you’re an excellent student.”
“I do okay.”
“Modest, too. That’s refreshing.”
The table was small, and he sat so close I could smell his aftershave. I tried to lean back, but the tables and chairs were so near to each other I didn’t have far to go.
“Why don’t I tell you about my experience at Bates?” he asked. “Then you can ask me any questions you may have, and we’ll go from there.”
“That sounds great, Mr. Harrison.”
“Matt. Please. Mr. Harrison is the old guy filling my parents’ house with Revolutionary War memorabilia.”
I half listened as he talked about admissions, lecture size, accessible faculty, and job-placement rates. Not that it mattered, but he didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t already heard from Simon. The monologue, however, relieved me of having to speak, which I appreciated.
“What do you need?” he asked twenty minutes later.
I tuned back in. “I’m sorry?”
“As far as I’m concerned, Bates would be privileged to have you. I’ll do everything I can to make sure you’re confident that if you enroll with us, you’ll want for nothing. Financial assistance, your own dorm room, off-campus housing… all are possible.”
He talked as though I’d already been accepted, but that decision was up to Admissions, not him. Plus, this interview was just one small part of the application process—and I hadn’t said more than ten words. Which meant Matt Harrison thought Vanessa the siren, not Vanessa the student, would be a great match for Bates.
“Paige,” I said, catching her eye across the room.
“Excuse me?”
“My best friend.” I gave him the best smile I could muster. “She’s also a senior at Hawthorne. If I attend Bates, I’ll need her to as well.”
He sat back as Paige approached the table and pulled up an empty chair. Sensing I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of interviewing, she’d asked earlier if I’d like her to come in case I needed backup or an excuse to cut the meeting short.
“Paige is an outstanding student,” I said. “She just transferred to Hawthorne from the Winter Harbor School in Maine, and she’s already all caught up.”
“It’s no big deal,” Paige said, easily
jumping into the conversation without knowing where it was going or why. “The curriculum wasn’t that different.”
“It’s a huge deal. Harvard’s already knocking on her door. And Yale, and Brown.” I looked at her. “What did they offer again? Full tuition? A furnished apartment?”
“Two bedrooms,” she said with a nod. “Jacuzzi tub.”
Matt glanced at me, and I smiled. Then, as my draw made him more interested in my wants than those of his alma mater, he picked up his BlackBerry and started typing. “I don’t know that Bates has ever awarded such a package, but let me see what I can do.” He stopped typing and looked at the phone’s screen. A second later, he stood and started backing up, toward the door. “Be right back,” he said, bringing the phone to his ear.
“Thanks,” I said when he was outside.
“He must’ve been really grilling you,” Paige said.
“Not terribly. I just needed a break from the spotlight.”
“Is that why you’re sweating like you just sprinted the Boston Marathon?”
I brought one hand to my forehead; it was hot and damp. So was the rest of my face and neck. Blotting my skin with paper napkins only made a fresh layer of perspiration appear.
“Why don’t you go have a drink and regroup?” Paige asked. “If you need more time, I’ll ask for a private jet or a petting zoo or something and get Mr. Bates back on the phone.” She paused. “By the way… why am I making such hijacker-like demands?”
I improvised quickly. “I think straight-A Simon gave a glowing recommendation, because I’ve pretty much already been accepted. And Bates alumni who come from Hawthorne must make some sizable donations, because Matt seems very determined to bring me on board and keep me happy. But I told him there was no way I was going without you.”
“Does Bates have a satellite campus in, like, San Diego?”
“Two, actually. You’ll have your pick.”
“Fabulous,” she said as I retrieved my backpack from the floor and stood up. “Oh, you might want to go say hi to your friend.”
“What friend?”
“The one who works here.”
I looked across the room. “I don’t know anyone who works here.”
“Well, someone who works here knows you. I didn’t get her name, but she was asking all sorts of questions—including how you were feeling, like she’d heard you were sick or something.”
The counter was lined with stools, all of which were occupied. I could make out only one employee through the crowd: a young guy who ran the counter’s length between trips to the cappuccino machine.
“I’ll say hi,” I said, wanting to get out of there before Matt returned. I leaned down and gave Paige a quick hug. “And thank you again. You’re the best.”
Back at our table, I took my sweatshirt from my bag, put it on over my clothes, and pulled up the hood. The additional warmth only made me sweat more, and I had to squeeze the iced-tea glass with both hands to keep it from slipping out of my grasp.
The cool liquid tasted so good I struggled to drink it without gulping. It wasn’t until I’d swallowed the last drop that I realized that this iced tea was different from the one I’d finished before changing in the restroom.
It was salty. My last drink hadn’t been because I’d run out of salt earlier in the day.
Keeping the hood pulled low, I peered over my shoulder. If Paige had put salt in my drink after noticing how often I added the secret ingredient to anything I consumed, she wasn’t watching for my reaction. She was chatting away, probably rattling off additional demands to Matt, who had returned and was taking notes on a legal pad.
I turned back and flipped through the packets in the ceramic bowl in the middle of the table. Raw sugar, Equal, Splenda.
I went to the counter, wedged myself between two female customers, and waved for the barista’s attention. It took a few tries for him to see me, but finally he came over.
“Iced tea, please,” I said.
“Sweetened or unsweetened?”
I hesitated. “One of each?”
He opened a refrigerator under the opposite counter and took out two pitchers. He filled two glasses and returned to me.
“How much?” I asked, reaching into my sweatshirt pocket.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“What? But—”
I stopped when he spun away and darted toward the hissing cappuccino machine. After he’d moved on to his next customer and it was clear he wasn’t coming back, I put a ten-dollar bill on the counter, then took a sip from each glass.
Neither was salty.
“Your friend told him not to charge you.”
The low voice was near my ear. I turned and pressed my back against the counter, relaxing only slightly when I recognized the sad Hawthorne student from the restroom. He stood inches away, holding an empty plate with one hand and wiping his eyes with the other.
“What friend?” I asked.
“The woman who works here. She told him she’d cover you.”
I scanned the room, then craned my neck to check behind the counter and peer into the kitchen. Besides the barista, the only visible employees were a dishwasher and a baker. Both were male. “Did she say why?”
Before he could answer, a splitting pain shot from one ear to the other, passing through my skull like a bullet.
I struggled to keep my eyes open. Somehow, in the reflection of a glass muffin dome, they locked on another pair that shone like sunlight glittering across the ocean’s surface. When those eyes found mine, a new source of pain burst in the center of my head and stayed there, pulsating.
I didn’t have to turn around to see who watched me.
“Zara,” I breathed.
And then I collapsed onto the floor.
CHAPTER 13
THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY morning, I lay in bed with the comforter pulled over my head, listening. For Zara and Raina. For Justine and Betty. For someone to tell me something, anything about what was going on.
But all I heard was music coming from my old bedroom. Dad singing somewhere downstairs. Mom banging pots and pans in the kitchen.
Giving up, I threw off the covers and reached for the water bottle on my nightstand. I’d been thirstier than usual all night and had refilled the bottle four times before dawn. It was almost empty again now, so I finished it off, went to the bathroom for another refill, and then followed the loud country music down the hall.
My old bedroom door was closed. I knocked, but the sound was lost in the strumming and singing coming from the other side. I tried again, louder.
“Paige?” I called out. “Can I come in?”
No answer. No change in music volume either.
Still knocking, I cracked open the door. Paige was sitting at the desk with her back to me. I said her name again, but her head remained lowered. Guessing she was working on college applications—though not sure how she could concentrate with the music so loud—I crossed the room and tapped her shoulder.
“Vanessa!” She shot up in the chair. One hand flew to her chest, the other over the open book before her.
I pointed to the iPod dock station on the dresser. When she nodded, I reached over and turned down the music.
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