by Joanna Wiebe
“Forget it!” I whisper sharply. “Abort mission! We are not breaking into Ben’s house.”
But we break in anyway. Molly pulls the window open and pops the screen out. I can’t very well leave her alone to wander in there all by herself.
“Nobody’s home,” Molly says as she hops in, dusts herself off, and stares around the room. “Ben will never know.”
“How do you know his family’s not here?”
Nervously, I prop myself on the ledge, swing my legs over, and, with a deep breath, jump into the room. We’re in the library, the enormous curved walls of which are lined with mahogany bookshelves and filled with beautifully bound texts. A ladder travels up. A desk, presumably Dr. Zin’s, is on the other side of the room.
“It’s just Ben and his dad.”
“Well, how do you know his dad’s not here?” I ask.
“Dr. Zin’s always away. Recruiting all over the world. So, what kind of evidence are we looking for? Long blonde hairs on his bed?” Molly asks. “Or short little pubes?”
“That is so not funny,” I grumble, watching Molly disappear around the corner. “Don’t go far.”
“I won’t,” she whispers, peeking back in.
I have no idea where to begin. Here I am, nestled in the middle of a wealth of information, but none of it can help me—not the volumes by Goethe, Marlowe, Mann—because I haven’t got the foggiest idea what I’m looking for. Evidence of the existence of a blonde girlfriend, whatever that might look like. Love letters? Erotic photos? I hope not.
There are two elegant-looking urns displayed on the marble mantelpiece of the fireplace. A large, old-looking book labeled Ars Goetia on a side table. An ornate bronze cross hangs over the doorway; next to it is a glazed Serenity Prayer stamped with the Alcoholics Anonymous logo. Framed photos are scattered across the walls, organized in that designerly eclectic way: sleek chrome frames blended with thickly molded antiques, all in different sizes. Almost every photo is of Dr. Zin with some celebrity or politician from the eighties and nineties. Cher. Michael Jackson. That Eurotrash singer, Pete Burns. In one, Zin’s hovering over a smiling Geraldo Riviera, who’s obviously recovering from a nose job. Three with Joan Rivers. One of him with Donatella Versace at Bill Clinton’s second inauguration. Even one with Demi Moore.
As I wonder at the sort of life Ben and his dad have, a life of luxury so different from my own, I trail my fingers over the old book—Ars Goetia—that attracted me earlier. I lift its weighty, copper-flecked cover. The floor under me creeks, though the air is still and I haven’t budged. A wisp of cool air glides by me, and the curtains of the window we crawled through billow in large shapes, as if an unseen child hides behind them. Steadily, I return my attention to the book, a grimoire, which is an ancient book on demonology, and open it. Its pages are thick with centuries of dust clinging to the oil deposited by the fingers of people long dead. Dog-eared pages lure me. The first is a listing of the ranks of demons, from mere devils to marquis to dukes to princes, each fitting somehow into the legions—or armies—of Hell. The photos show tattooed and bejeweled men, many nude, some seemingly in a state of decay, most baring their teeth, slick with blood, inexplicably vulgar.
“Creepy,” I whisper, turning to another tagged page.
This one is an actual list of demons. One is named Paimonde—just like the name of the building where I have art class.
“That can’t just be a coincidence.”
A chime across the room startles me, shaking my bones in my skin. Panicked, I glance at the doorway but find it empty. I drop the cover of the disturbing grimoire, rubbing my hands as if that might wash away the eerie sensation flooding my body, and head to where the chime sounded from: the Mac on the desk. The chime was an email coming in. Dammit, why didn’t I just go to the computer first? Surely Ben’s got some photos of his girlfriend on here.
“Let’s just pray she’s not photogenic.” I sit and shuffle the mouse to wake it up.
The screen fills with color, bright and vibrant in contrast to the darkness of this library and of the book I’ve just read; a row of icons lines the bottom. I hover over the iPhoto icon and click. Disappointingly, there are just four photos. I click the first one.
It’s Ben and a dirty-blonde look-alike girl who can only be his little sister—thirteen, maybe fourteen. Ben looks exactly as he does now, except with a different hairstyle. The room they’re in is decorated with a towering silver-and-gold Christmas tree, with Andy Warhol on the walls, with distinctive barrel chairs, probably the originals Frank Lloyd Wright designed, flanking the tree. Ben and his sister are smiling broadly, their arms around each other’s shoulders; the formality that seems so characteristic of Ben now is nowhere to be seen.
“He looks happy.”
Maybe the blonde was his sister visiting, I let myself hope. I glance at the doorway—still empty—and click the mouse.
The second photo is of Ben’s sister by herself, smiling as she holds Taylor Swift’s Fearless CD, a Christmas gift. The third is of her again, this time wrapping a string of lights around Ben, who has a bow on his head; Dr. Zin smiles just at the edge of the frame. And the final photo is of Ben’s mom sitting between her kids in front of the tree. They all have bows on their heads. She looks so normal, so mom-like—not what I’d expected of the wife of a plastic surgeon—that it’s almost like looking at my own family photos, the way we used to be. Playful, normal, a family. I can’t help but wonder where Ben’s mom and sister are now. Still in California? Did the Zins divorce?
“You alive in there?” Molly shouts, poking her head in and sending me through the roof.
“Molly! Are you trying to kill me?” I hiss. “Have you found anything?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Bedroom’s clear.”
Dammit. I’d wanted an excuse to check his bedroom.
“Checking the kitchen,” Molly says.
“For what?”
She grins. “Snacks.” And disappears again.
Turning back to the computer, I bring up a search window. As much as I want to know about Ben’s love interest, I have more pressing questions to answer. I put my investigation into the details of Ben’s girlfriend on hold while I start a new one: researching Cania Christy.
Now we’ll see if this place really is a reform school. The school has no website, but someone must have written something about it at some point. Surely there’s a tweet, a Facebook status update, Instagram photos. The thought of finding this critical answer makes me feel stronger. Go, PT, go! I enter my search and, glancing at the doorway, wait.
No results found for “Cania Christy.”
I try again, this time without the quotes.
Did you mean Can I Christy?
Drum my fingers. On a whim, baffled that the school is so off the radar, I click on the Zins’ bookmarks in the hopes that they’ve saved something meaningful there. A long stream of saved pages cascades down the screen.
Understanding the Power of Demonic Charms.
Using Dark Powers to Bring Down the Dark Ones.
A Complete List of the Princes of Hell.
Overcoming Demons: Why They Cannot Be Slain.
Inter-realm communication…
Ars Goetia for Dummies.
I click on the overcoming demons link and wait as the page loads painfully slowly.
Suddenly, something bangs in the kitchen, right next to the library, and a cold sweat rushes over my body as I imagine Ben walking in. My eyes sweep the room for a way out. Quick Escape Route: door to the left leading into who knows what. Unless I can make it back out the window in time.
It bangs again. A cupboard door.
“That was me,” Molly whispers loudly. “They don’t have any good snacks, so I’m heading upstairs again.”
I can’t shake the feeling that we’re seconds from being caught. But I can’t leave yet. Because I would be crazy to go to the effort of breaking in only to walk away without any info—especially without some much-needed answers a
bout Cania Christy, the villagers, and this island. There may not be anything online about this place, but surely the head of admissions has plenty of revealing documents on his laptop. Though why he left it at home when he went on his recruiting travels is beyond me.
As I’m about to close the browser to search their desktop for files, I see that the top half of the page I’ve been trying to load has come in. There’s a curious illustration of a devil-like character flying over a city. In the bottom half of the page, a flash video is taking its sweet time loading.
Anxiously, I glance around the desktop while I wait and spy a notebook, which I reach for, brushing my thumb absently along the bottom of the pages. Flip it open. All of the pages are empty…except the back few, which are dark with pencil sketches. I know that trick: whenever I wanted to hide my drawings so my parents wouldn’t see them and start raving about my talent—and embarrassing the hell out of me—I’d use the back pages of a book. Where no one would look.
Only Ben, with his artist’s hand, could have drawn these images. A devilish man dragging another man by his ankle; something I can’t decipher is written at the bottom. The next page shows a similar-looking man, but this time with a hoof for a foot; again, a scrawled phrase, but this time I can read it.
“Call me to do your bidding by name. And we shall craft a fitting exchange.”
The next page is covered in tiny sketches that blend into one—all featuring a demonic hoofed man. Ben had spent some time on the words on this page, dressing each letter with Gothic flair. I squint to make out the words. Something about writing in blood. Something about craving security.
That’s when I hear it.
The squeal of a door opening and the click of it closing down the hall. It sends a fresh ripple of fear under my skin. I freeze. Goose bumps spread over my body. My breath catches in my throat.
Someone is whistling. And it’s not Molly.
There’s no doubt about it: Ben is back. I thought I’d hear his Ducati pull up but obviously not.
Gulping audibly and immediately cursing myself for it, I inch away from the desk. But, at once, music sounds near me, swelling through unseen speakers and overtaking Ben’s whistling. I don’t know where it’s coming from. In a panic, I look all over, flustered. And then I pinpoint it.
“The computer,” I whisper. The video on that page has finally loaded and is now playing.
Ben’s whistling stops abruptly. “Hello?” he calls.
I have one reaction and one reaction only. Run!
No time to consider how sick I feel! No time to think of how scared, how stupid, or how my heart is racing at rocket speed. It’s the Quick Escape Route or bust.
Molly’s upstairs, blissfully unaware that we’re both about to be caught, and I have to get her. I boot across the library. I can hear Ben in the hall outside the library.
My escape route didn’t seem quite so far away when I was standing at the desk. But now it feels as distant as California.
I can’t get caught here. No. I can’t live with Ben knowing what a stalker-freak I am.
I push myself harder and, sensing Ben nearing, bolt through the far doorway, into total darkness.
There I pause for half a second—just to beat myself up. You are never hanging out with Molly again! Protected by the darkness, I lean toward the doorway to listen into the library. The music playing on the computer stops short: Ben’s in there now, and he’s paused the video. Any second, he’ll see the room’s open window and the absent screen, and he’ll know someone’s broken in.
“I’m so screwed,” I mouth.
Hands shaking, I feel my way forward. I touch a banister and, trading mouse-like silence for speed, motor up the narrow staircase. I burst at last into a hallway on the second floor. My chest is heaving. Did Ben hear me? Is he behind me now?
“Molly!” I whisper as loudly and quietly as I can.
The door next to me creaks open. I have to bite my tongue to keep from screaming. But it’s just Molly. Standing in the shadows of a linen closet. Her eyes as bulging as mine.
“Ben’s back?” Molly mouths.
There’s no time to talk. Grabbing her sleeve, I drag her to the nearest door and fling it open. We’ll have to climb out a window and down the trellis.
But we don’t even make it to the window. We stop short.
Dr. Zin smiles at us from a chair on which he is leisurely reading admissions documents. We’ve just barged into his master suite.
“Girls,” he says coolly.
“Dr. Zin,” Molly chokes out.
She thought he was gone; I had a strong gut feeling he wasn’t. This is one time I’d love to have been wrong.
I don’t even let the door bounce against the wall before I’m yanking Molly out and dragging her to the main staircase. Our feet can’t fly down the stairs fast enough. Can’t cross the marble foyer with anything close to the speed we need. Our hands can’t grip the door handle to the huge front doors and throw them open without fumbling for what feels like half an hour before, at last, we tumble out into the foggy early evening.
And, just like that, we’re racing full-force toward Gigi’s. Heaving. Panting. Pushing as hard as we can. Molly pulls me past the house and into the woods that lead to the village. We keep running. We run until we both collapse breathlessly, panicked, kicking ourselves.
“Why did we run?” Molly says between gasps. “Why didn’t we make up some story?”
“I’m sorry. It was instinct. I know there’s no way Dr. Zin will just forget that a Cania girl and the village girl were snooping through his house.”
“He won’t tell Villicus,” Molly assures us both. “He won’t. He can’t. He won’t. Do you think he might?”
“I’m sorry. He’s Villicus’s right-hand man,” I whisper to her, gasping for air. “Now you’re going to have to go to school here.”
“No, I won’t. My gramps wouldn’t ever let that happen,” she says, struggling to breathe, choking up. “I guess this is what I wanted anyway. You don’t break Villicus’s rules without expecting punishment.”
“All that hassle, and we didn’t even find anything.”
“I’m sorry. I knew we wouldn’t,” Molly says, her breath coming slower. “I guess I just wanted a little excitement. And escape. More than anything, escape.”
“How’d you know we wouldn’t find anything?”
“You guys aren’t allowed visitors. Just your parents. And only on Parents’ Day.” Chest heaving, Molly cocks her head. “Wait, they didn’t tell you that, either?”
ten
IN THE DARK
THAT NIGHT, I TAKE A MOMENT TO DO A QUICK TALLY OF the amount of sheer Crazy—with a capital C—I’ve already encountered at Cania Christy.
One, signing school forms with blood. Two, living on an island with a red line across the middle of it, an island where the villagers think I’m dangerous. Three, being graded constantly, even when I sleep and eat, by my uber-creepy Guardian, who peered into my soul. All in an effort to be valedictorian. As if that’s some sort of brass ring. Four, crashing the villagers’ top-secret cremation ceremony, where I learned that the villagers are being paid to look the other way. That, and getting bawled out by the village shaman just seconds later. Five, passing out in class and the recurring cold, woozy feeling I get at the same time every morning. Six, breaking into Ben’s house. And getting caught. Seven, no visitors allowed except on Parents’ Day.
That’s more than enough Crazy for one lifetime, never mind one week. But something tells me it isn’t half of it. How could it be that my former life spent worrying over my mom could seem like an extended vacation compared to this place? Even if Cania isn’t reform school, it definitely isn’t the school my dad was lead to believe it was. The only good news is that it’s finally Friday night, time for Teddy to replace the cord on Gigi’s ancient rotary phone so I can call my dad and ask him about this place. Of course, all good news comes with bad news in my world: Teddy will be standing over my shoulde
r throughout my call, listening to every word. So I’ll have to be cryptic and hope my dad reads into the subtext.
“Fifteen minutes,” he says as he dials the number.
“Generous.” I take the receiver. I plan to bait my dad with questions like, “What did you think of the movie Girl, Interrupted?” Stuff like that. Things that will get him to confess that I’m in a nuthouse.
But, of course, things do not go as planned. There will be no such conversation tonight. Why not? Because my dad takes Crazy to a whole new level the moment he gets on the phone: he actually freaks out at the sound of my voice.
I can’t believe it.
A man who works in isolation with dead or grieving people, my dad is normally the epitome of calm, collected, reserved. Right now, though, he sounds like a hyperactive child who’s just dined on a dozen pixie sticks.
“Are you okay, Dad?” I ask for the thousandth time, watching the minutes tick by as he repeats how happy he is to hear from me. For a second, I worry he’s confusing me with my mom. Maybe all that time spent alone in the funeral home has been screwing with his head. “Take an Ativan.”
“I’m fine. I’m good. It’s just so good to hear you say that, sweetheart.” His exuberance doesn’t even sound right on his voice. I can’t imagine the expression on his bearded face because I’m sure I’ve never once seen him so delighted. “I hope you know how much I’m looking forward to Parents’ Day next weekend. I’ve bought my tickets and booked my dorm room.”
“Booked your what?”
“My dorm room.”
“I thought the dorms were all taken. That’s why I’m at Gigi’s.”
Immediately, Teddy grabs the phone from me and, pushing me away, whispers something to my dad as I protest. When he’s done, he hands it back like it’s normal behavior to shove me out of the way.
“Sorry about that, Dad,” I say.
“Listen, honey, it’s okay. It’s my fault. But, sweetheart, it looks like I won’t be able to stay overnight next weekend after all.”