by Lucy Auburn
Then I realize he’s just pointing out that I’m a poor nobody. Anger burns down my throat, a close companion by now. I take a step forward, feeling no fear at the creak of wooden boards beneath me or the legends that the place is haunted.
I’ve only got eyes on the boy with the shaved black hair who took so much from me and doesn’t even know it, wouldn’t even care if he did.
“My mom liked churches,” he says. “She was always bringing me to them, even when it wasn’t a Sunday. They’re peaceful places when there are no people in them.”
There are long tallow candles on the altar, next to a carelessly-strewn set of hammers and nails, tool belts and dirty rags. Tanner passes the flame of the lighter near their unlit wicks, and as I get closer, I see that mischief is playing across his face, next to something that almost looks like grief but can’t be. Boys like Tanner don’t know loss or wanting or what it feels like not to have everything you desire. His life is the definition of bountiful.
“Why doesn’t your mom like churches anymore?” I ask, knowing that his mother is still alive. I’ve seen her on the morning talk shows, selling her line of “clean” skincare and haircare products for kids.
A shadow crosses Tanner’s face at my words. “Evangeline Connally is too busy to go to church more often than once a week. That's enough to show the good folks of Kentucky that their senator is still a praying man.”
The bitterness in his voice surprises me, but it’s gone as soon as it came. With a smirk, he reaches out and brings the flame so close to one of the wicks that the wax still covering it smokes a little. “Think she’ll get mad if we light one?”
“Who?”
He jerks his chin towards the mantle behind the altar, and I see the plain, undecorated urn sitting there. “She hates the altar, especially when the candles are lit. They say she’s cursed this place, and that’s why it keeps falling apart. Not that I blame her, what with it killing her and all. I’d curse it too. Dying alone like that—it wasn't fair. Someone should've paid for what those bullies did, but the world is blind to injustice. So she's had to take matters into her own hands as a ghost and tear down the place that killed her.”
My snake bite scar twinges with pain and discomfort, reminding me what I came here for. He needs to pay for what he's done, just like Martha Hayes’ tormentors should have paid for her untimely death.
“It’s probably just falling apart because it’s old,” I tell him, taking another step forward, until I can smell the light citrus scent of his cologne, can see the places in his swirling neck tattoo where the semi-permanent ink is fading. “Ghosts aren’t real.”
“Pragmatist, are we?”
“Believing in things is for children.”
Tanner turns towards me slightly, the lighter wobbling in his hand, a frown creasing his mouth. “Pretty sure we’re still kids, Brenna.”
I feel it. A shudder up and down me at the sound of my name in his mouth. Warmth pooling in my neck at his eyes on me so close.
I didn’t think he was paying attention before, but now he is, his light hazel eyes glowing slightly with the flame of the candle he’s just inadvertently lit.
“Watch out.” I look at the fire, then up at him, into the boldness of his sinner's eyes. “The ghost is gonna get you.”
"Oh?"
"Yeah." My eyes land on the urn behind the altar, and I pitch my voice loud to call out, "Martha Hayes! I summon you. Get the revenge now you were denied when you were alive. Punish the living for the sins of the dead."
If there’s any justice in the world, she’d be real. She would show up, making my joke summoning of her an act of retribution. Tanner Connally would piss his pants, that's how scared he'd be.
But there are no ghosts to carry out revenge from the beyond. Just the living. Just me.
"Are you calling the ghost down on me?"
I dare to tell him, "I am."
"Ghosts only punish sinners." Tanner sweeps the lighter out, igniting the other candlewicks in a few smooth motions. They flicker and dance as the wax coating them burns away, pooling and melting down them in drips. "What sins am I being punished for, New Meat? I want to know before I die."
"I don't know."
"You called the ghost." Tanner sweeps his hand above the candles' flames, dancing close to the heat of their fire. "Everyone knows Martha Hayes only does the bidding of poor little girls like her. So tell her why I should suffer at her hands, since you're the one she'll listen to."
He's staring at me, daring in his honey brown eyes. A prickle of warning sets the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. There is something at the edges of his expression, a darkness that suggests he has little to lose, that he'd jump off a tall building if you gave him reason enough.
It reminds me of Silas that day he stood up to Papa and told him he was coming here—to this school, to the end of the line.
"She should punish you for... smoking." For my brother's death, I want to say, for the noose he put around his neck because you didn't care about the fallout of your little games. "And for trespassing."
"Petty crimes." His mouth curves up dismissively; holding his hand out, he cups his palm around the heat of the nearest candle flame. "No ghost will do your dark bidding if you don't put your heart in it."
I swallow. "I came here to retrieve you, not—not for this weird bullshit. We're supposed to be on a tour."
"The buildings aren't going anywhere." Reaching out, he snags my hand, his grip too strong for me to pull away from without a great deal of effort. "Tell the flame what you want, Brenna. Only the burned get to petition Martha Hayes."
"This is stupid." He puts my fingers near the candle, next to his. "Stop it, Tanner."
"You called the ghost."
"It was just a joke."
"Was it?" A tilt of his head. Sunlight filtering in from the stained glass turns his shaved black hair into a smudged painting, a riot of colors dancing on his brown freckled skin. "Jokes have punchlines."
He pulls my wrist, and the candle flame dances close to my skin. I feel the heat—not just of the fire, but of his body close to mine, his eyes staring down at me in wicked daring. A strange, wild desire courses through me: to bite his jaw, his lips, his cheek, until blood runs down his pretty mouth and pools in his chin, until I taste the salt and metal of his pain on my tongue. I want to see him hurt. I want to feel it, skin against skin.
So I stop hiding in the grass, waiting for a moment to strike. I've never been the weak girl—time to give up pretending that I am. Flipping my hand over, I grab his wrist and jerk it towards the fire.
His eyes widen as the flame licks at him. "Hey!" Hissing, he pulls back, taking me with him. "Goddamnit—you burned me."
My heart is racing. "You started it."
"I wasn't going to do anything. I was just joking—I wouldn't have actually hurt you." Tanner backs away from me, looking at me like I've got horns on my head. "You're a real sick girl, you know."
Maybe I am. Staring at the candle that burned him, I reach out my hand and cup the flame until I feel pain at the edges of my palm. My snake bite scar pulses as my skin turns bright pink.
Tanner is staring at me.
"There," I tell him. "Now we're even."
The flame feels oddly comforting. Something about the pain has gone over onto the other side now. I feel a visceral sense of satisfaction as I push my hand down further on the flame and the pain grows, radiating across my skin.
If I can survive losing Silas, I can survive anything. Including this.
"Enough!" Tanner jerks my hand back, then leans over and blows out the candles one by one. "I don't know what game you're playing, but congratulations—you freaked me the fuck out. I thought for a second there that you'd been possessed. We can go now."
I raise my brows at him, shaking off my hand as the burn heads towards a blister. "If I'd known scaring you a little was all it would take, I would've come in through the back and made boo noises at you."
"Y
ou're mental." He shakes his head, but he's staring at me with something like admiration. "Congratulations, New Meat. You cooked yourself."
As I follow Tanner past the rows of pews and towards the chapel doors, I feel a cool breeze lift the hair on the back of my neck, even though none of the windows in the chapel are open. Glancing over my shoulder, I look to Martha's urn, and I swear I can feel her presence for a brief moment.
Maybe it's just my imagination.
But I think she's on my side, helping me craft my plan for revenge.
Chapter 4
"She marked me," Tanner complains, holding his palm out towards Lukas. "Look—it's the symbol of the Beast."
Lukas peers at his open palm, pale brows raised doubtfully. "Sure that wasn't just you playing tricks with your lighter again? Because she doesn't seem like the sort."
Little Brenna Cooke, weak as a newborn lamb. That's how Lukas DuPont must see me—he thinks Tanner would eat me up if given the chance.
Holding out my palm, which is burned more than Tanner's, I complain, "He threw the lighter at me, and it burned when I caught it." My mother gasps, grabbing my wrist and tugging my hand towards her. "I didn't know the safety band was off."
Mom murmurs, "That needs some antibiotic salve to keep it from scarring..."
"Here." Wally pulls a tiny first aid kit out of his jacket, because of course he's Boy-Scout-level prepared. "I've got a bandage for it. I can do yours too," he tells Tanner.
Eyeing me, a little smirk twisting up his lips, Tanner shrugs. "Oh, I'm fine. It's barely a burn. It's New Meat over here I'm worried about—she held that lighter so long I thought she'd wind up well done."
So he plays along with games. No surprise there: admitting why the candles were lit, why our hands were near them, would mean admitting that he tried to burn me first. That doesn't mean I shouldn't be careful next time—putting that tiny hint of a burn on his hand could've cost me, especially if he reported me to the administration.
But boys like Tanner don't tattle. They like their revenge up close and personal. If he gets back at me, he'll do it where no one's looking, and Daddy Senator will never find out.
Once my hand is properly disinfected and bandaged, the sharp pain dulling to a subtle roar, the tour is back on. Lukas shows us everything: boys' dorms Lawrence and Hadley Hall, girls' dorms Rosalind and Lovelace Hall, the Gladius Outdoor Space, the Scholars Hall, and the Coleridge Center where dining and most of the administration is kept, as well as the teachers' rooms, for those who sleep on campus.
Last, but far from least, is Carthage Library.
“There are two different architectural styles in the interior of Carthage Library, because in 1972, the entire structure was redone by prominent architects in the area." For the first time in the tour, Lukas DuPont seems animated instead of drolly neutral. This must be his favorite building. "There are over fourteen millions books here, many of them kept in archival condition. If you look to your left, you'll see a carved relief in the tradition of ancient Roman..."
I’m tuning him out, I realize, because Lukas Dupont’s obsession with architecture and history matters far less to me than looking at all the books.
So. Many. Books.
It’s like that scene out of the animated Beauty and the Beast movie, only better, so much better. The shelves go on and on, in front of me, to either side of me, above my head. The infamous stairs to the second floor, rebuilt in recent decades, are made of frosted glass, and there’s a cutout in the middle of the ceiling that turns the floor into one huge balcony. You can see up into rows and rows of more books, a seemingly endless supply, too many for one person to ever read.
For a moment I’m a child, full of wonder.
Then I turn to my right, instinctively, looking for Silas, wanting to share this with him—no. He’s dead.
He came here for this, was tempted to Coleridge by promises of nicer violins, better classes, and enough books to sink your teeth into. If he’d settled for Wayborne Public High School back home in Virginia, we’d be having our end of summer celebration right now, melting ice cream running down our chins, playing tag with Wally or turning Jade’s mother’s lemons into endless lemonade.
Instead, I saw him lowered into the ground in a casket, makeup over the bruises on his neck, pale and lifeless.
I’ll never get to share this wonder with him.
I let the emptiness wash over me, sharp pain in my right hand as I press down on the snake bite scar and burn on my palm. Experiencing life without him in it feels perversely unfair. Every moment of joy is something stolen that he’ll never have. It makes no sense that I'm even here when he never will be again.
It’s too much to dwell on, so I let myself float through the tour of the library, idly taking note of the layout of the shelves. I feel Wally’s eyes on me, his hand guiding me when I nearly stumble over stray obstacles, his voice a rumble in my ear. He keeps up a steady stream of chatter as the tour continues, not waiting for any response from me or seemingly caring if none comes.
“I think our tour is twice as long because of the charming European. He sure does like to chatter.”
We move through the foreign section.
“There are so many books here. D’ya think any of the less popular ones ever get lonely because all the other books are read but them?”
Here are the classics.
“I reckon this place is bigger than our whole school back home.”
This is the art history section. Graphic novels and illustrated books, Lukas explains, are up the stairs.
“Wonder where the gay porn is.”
I look at Wally finally, blinking out of my fugue state, aware that Mom is strolling along with Lukas absorbing every word, that Tanner has disappeared into the stacks with some redheaded girl who flagged him down.
The look of concern on Wally’s face is unmistakable. “Was I that far gone?”
“Nah. I’ve gotten used to you disappearing on me.” He squeezes my shoulder and navigates me around the end cap to a tall bookshelf, eyeing Lukas’s path but keeping our distance from him. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Live his life.” There’s an earnestness in his eyes I don’t know how to accept. “Silas is dead, Brenna, but you’re still alive. You don’t have to slot yourself into the empty space where he used to be. You can live your own life.”
“I’m not living his life.” I don’t know how to explain it to him. Wally is all soft angles and easy forgiveness, simple charm and an old pickup truck. He doesn’t understand this world and doesn’t want to, for which I’m glad, but it makes him feel so far away. “I’m living my life. And... my life has brought me here. To Coleridge. I don’t expect you to understand it, Wally, but that’s the way it is.”
He’s studying me now, gaze sharper than I remember it ever being, seeing right into the heart of me somehow. “Are you here to figure out the truth?” Breathing in through his nose, he adds, “Because Brenna... you might not like it.”
I stiffen. Voice low, I hiss, “He didn’t rape that girl.”
“I’m sure,” he says quickly, though I sense some bit of hesitation in his voice, a quiet unspoken doubt. “But something bad did happen here. Something that didn’t sit right in... in his soul. And it killed him in the end. I don’t want it to kill you, too.”
I open my mouth to tell him that I’m not that weak, and stop short suddenly, feeling like I’ve been slapped in the face. I didn’t realize until just now that some part of me thinks of what Silas did, the choice he made, as weakness. I don’t want to think of him that way. I know it's wrong.
So I settle for saying, “I’ll be fine. I’m not... I just want to know, Wally.” I look up into his eyes, letting all the raw, empty desperation come out in my words. “I have to know. I can’t sit or settle until I do. If this is the last place he was happy, if this is the reason why he left us, then this is where I have to be. Maybe not for two whole years, but at least unt
il I feel... peace.”
Wally squeezes my shoulder. “Okay.” He pushes a stray bit of mousy brown hair behind my shoulder. “Okay.”
And that’s that.
Up ahead, Mom calls our names, sounding impatient. She’s waiting with Lukas by a low table covered in what look like little sculptures. As I get closer, I realize that they’re architectural models, tiny delicate pieces slotted together, little fake trees glued to them. A sign in the middle of the table announces that they’re designs for the new buildings, all submitted by legacies.
Legacies. That’s what so many students here are. It’s what so many of them leave behind: a ghost of themselves, a tall story or a rumor. Seldom do their dark high school pasts catch up with them in the real world.
“Tanner.” Lukas is calling for his best friend with annoyance in his voice. “Tanner, get over here. At least pretend like you care.”
Lukas catches my eyes and frowns for some reason. I look away from him, purposefully standing on the far edge of the table, feeling unsettled.
As Tanner slowly joins us, an errant smudge of lipstick standing out on his collar, Lukas clears his throat. “Alright. Next up we’re going to tour the study rooms, but first I wanted to talk about the new building coming to Coleridge by 2021...”
I tune him out yet again, letting my eyes wander across the group study tables, which are fairly empty on a day like today. The few students sitting at them mostly seem to be gossiping in low voices, their books strewn forgotten in front of them, heads together and shiny well-styled hair reflecting the overhead lights.
It would be a relief if part of the Coleridge tour includes walking by a hair salon, because it’s the only thing that explains how perfect all these girls’ blowouts are or how artfully tossed every guy’s hair is.
One student isn’t gossiping with anyone, though. Sitting all on his own, a book open on a clear stand in front of him, wearing white gloves to turn the pages of what must be a rare old tome, is a student whose face sends a surge of anticipation through me.