by Sophie Lark
“Try again,” the professor says, enjoying our discomfort.
“Vague details?” Charlotte King ventures.
“Stuttering?” Jacob Weiss says.
Professor Penmark’s flat stare gives nothing away. I would never know if he were lying or being truthful. The only thing I can tell about this man is that he enjoys inflicting pain. Which is why I’m sure he was a very effective debt collector for the Las Vegas mob. You can’t get money from a dead man. But you can make a man wish he were dead . . .
“Subjects can display a lack or an excess of any particular behavior when lying,” the professor informs us. “They may sit still to avoid physical tells. Or they may squirm under your gaze. They may babble and include far too many details in their fictional narrative. Or they might speak in sentence fragments and fail to provide details when pressed. You cannot determine whether a subject is truthful or deceptive unless you first establish a baseline. Which is why you must ask questions to which you already know the answer, then observe the subject’s responses when they answer correctly, as well as when they obfuscate.”
I scribble away in my notebook, trying to capture every tip. I understood what the professor said, but it’s much easier said than done. Especially in real life, without time to think or plan.
“I need two volunteers,” Professor Penmark says.
No one raises their hand. When Professor Penmark asks for a volunteer, nothing pleasant ever follows.
“Lola,” the professor smiles, baring his crowded teeth. “Why don’t you come to the front of the class.”
Lola rises from her chair, wary but determined not to show a hint of nerves. She marches to the front of the room, her plaid skirt swishing around her long, shapely legs. Carter Ross gives a wolf whistle and Lola smiles as she spins to face us, making the skirt flare out almost high enough to show her underwear before it settles in place once more.
“Who else . . .” Professor Penmark muses, looking over each of us in turn, enjoying the way most of the students refuse to meet his eyes. I can’t tell whether I’d be better served to avoid him or boldly stare back. I go for the latter.
“Cat!” the professor barks. “Front of the class.”
Wrong choice.
I slip out of my seat, stumbling over my own feet before hurrying up to join Lola. Nobody whistles for me. A couple of students snicker until Rakel turns around and glares them into silence.
Lola faces me, knowing we’ll probably have to compete in some way. She’s smiling, pleased that she’ll only have to beat me, and not somebody intimidating.
Lola is intimidating. Her big blue eyes and soft southern accent don’t fool me for a second. She’s a killer.
Professor Penmark hands us each a plain envelope.
“Read your objective. Don’t show your opponent,” he says.
I crack my envelope, then scan the card within. The single sentence reads: Find out if their father has ever been in prison.
How in the hell am I supposed to figure that out in a subtle way?
“Each of you has a piece of information you must extract from your subject,” Professor Penmark says. “You must answer your opponent’s questions, but you are allowed to lie if you wish. When you think you’ve captured the intelligence, raise your hand.”
Lola purses her full pink lips as she reads her own card. She looks up at me, smiling with anticipation.
I’m sweating.
From what I’ve learned so far in our Interrogation classes, the usual methods to get someone to disclose information are threats, appeals to conscience, and incentives. It will be hard for me to apply any of those techniques against Lola.
Despite rooming right next to each other, I don’t know much about her.
Only that she’s beautiful and knows it. She takes great care over her appearance, waves of caramel-colored hair laying over her shoulders, subtle gold jewelry, and the wardrobe of a Manhattan socialite. Even on the island, she’s somehow managed to procure a professional-level manicure.
It’s curious, too, that she embraces this look of doll-like femininity when the rest of the Dixie Mafia are a rough, countrified bunch, partial to filthy, ripped jeans, cowboy boots, and necklaces of gator teeth. This includes Lola’s right-hand woman Dixie Davis, who, with her wild mane of ginger-colored hair, freckles like paint spatters, and harsh voice, is as crass and unkempt as Lola is refined.
What I infer from this is that Lola cares very much about controlling how other people perceive her. She’s prideful and vain. Justifiably so, perhaps. But that may be her weak spot.
Is Lola’s objective the same as mine? Is she going to ask about my father? Maybe her question is completely different.
God, this is brain-bending. I can’t be sneaky in five different ways at once.
Should I start asking about her family? Is that too obvious?
What if she lies? Will I be able to tell?
“Don’t be nervous, Cat,” Lola says, giving me a smile that shows all her gleaming white teeth. “We’re just having a friendly conversation.”
“Right,” I murmur. “It should be fun.”
“You’re from Spain, aren’t you?” She says, resting a hand casually on her hip and cocking her head at me.
I’m already tensing up, thinking I shouldn’t answer any questions honestly. But Lola already knows the answer to that—and it wouldn’t be the objective on her card because it’s common knowledge.
“Yes,” I say, carefully. “I’m from Barcelona. And you’re from Biloxi.”
“That’s right,” Lola says, lightly.
I suppose we both have a baseline for honest answers now.
“Any siblings?” I ask her, hoping to ease around to the topic of parents.
“Just me,” Lola says, still smiling.
Now that one’s a little trickier. Lola certainly has the pampered look and confidence of an only child, but she’s not in the Heirs division. So either her father isn’t a boss, which would be strange considering her standing amongst the rest of the Dixie Mafia, or he has a different successor in mind—an uncle or older sibling of Lola.
Fuck, I don’t know which it is. I don’t think I’m very good at this.
“I know you have a sister,” Lola says, softly. “Zoe . . . she’s gorgeous, isn’t she? It’s hard to be the ugly sister.”
Carter Ross snickers from the front row of desks.
I can feel the dozens of eyes watching us, none more than Professor Penmark, who feeds off my discomfort and Lola’s malice like a psychic vampire.
The gloves are coming off—Lola took that shot at me to stoke my emotions. She wants me upset and incautious.
“I always thought Zoe was the prettiest girl at our school,” I reply, calmly.
It’s a subtler jab than Lola’s, and more effective. I’m used to being second to Zoe. Lola doesn’t want to be second to anyone. I see the slight narrowing of her eyes—she didn’t like that at all.
“Zoe ran off with Miles Griffin, didn’t she?” Lola persists. “That’s quite the upgrade from Rocco.”
My hands twitch involuntarily. I really don’t want Lola to pursue that line of questioning. Her card can’t possibly have something on it about Rocco Prince, can it?
Lola sees me flinch. She pounces like a cat on a mouse. “You aren’t jealous, are you? Zoe’s living the dream in L.A., and you don’t even have a boyfriend yet?”
There it is.
I think I know her objective.
“I’ve had plenty of boyfriends,” I lie.
Lola giggles, not believing me for a second.
“Plenty of boyfriends?” She scoffs. “Come on Cat, you’re going to have to do better than that.”
I’m going to have to switch tactics, because if Lola’s objective is to suss out my sexual history, she’s going to figure out that I’m a virgin in two seconds flat.
It’s time to go on the offensive.
“Carter Ross might think you’re dressing up for him,” I say to
Lola, “but your aesthetic has Daddy’s Girl all over it. That’s who it’s really for, isn’t it? The pink blush, the strawberry lip gloss . . . I bet if I checked that gold locket you’re wearing, it’s a gift from dear old Dad.”
Lola’s big blue eyes narrow into slits. I’ve already learned that particular tell—it means I hit her in a sensitive spot.
No time to fuck around—I have to press the advantage.
“You don’t have any siblings. And yet you’re not an Heir. Which means no matter how hard you’ve tried to please Daddy, he hasn’t named you his successor.”
The color rises in Lola’s cheeks. She hasn’t answered back.
I’m making wild assumptions, one after another, but I think I’m right.
“Is it plain old sexism? Did you fuck up somehow? Or maybe he just doesn’t know you well enough after his time away? He still sees you as his little baby. Maybe if you try really, really hard, you can prove you’re all grown up now . . .”
“You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” Lola snarls at me.
That’s not a denial.
In fact, that’s what people say when the facts are correct but they don’t like your interpretation.
I raise my hand.
“You think you have the intel?” Professor Penmark inquires.
“Yes,” I say. “Lola’s father was in prison.”
Lola’s mouth drops open. Her whole face is now the color of Dixie’s hair.
“You filthy little cunt!” She shrieks.
Before she can slap my head off my shoulders, Professor Penmark steps smoothly between us, plucking Lola’s card out of her hands. I can just make out the single typed sentence:
Find out what age they had their first kiss.
I’m deeply relieved that Lola failed to reach her objective. I’d rather jump out the second-story window than have the entire class find out that I’ve never been kissed, not once in my life.
My satisfaction ebbs away when I catch sight of Lola’s shaking hands and livid face. I just embarrassed her in front of the whole class. And she’s not exactly the forgiving type.
“Not bad,” Professor Penmark tells me. “You didn’t get verbal confirmation from the subject, but implied affirmation can be useful.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever received a compliment from Professor Penmark. I can’t say I enjoyed it—it’s quite unpleasant having him stand this close to me, looking into my face with those dead black eyes.
“Thanks,” I mutter, hurrying back to my seat.
I can practically hear Lola fuming behind me. Waves of loathing radiate in my direction.
Oblivious, or just not giving a shit, Rakel says, “Nice job! I thought you were fucked for sure.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I was betting on you,” Joss Burmingham says, leaning across his desk to give me a little fist bump.
Joss has never spoken to me before. I’ve got to admit, it feels good to earn some admiration outside of our programming classes.
Until Lola hisses at me, “You think that was clever?”
“It’s just an exercise,” I say. “No hard feelings.”
“Get fucked!” Lola barks, only quieting down when Professor Penmark shoots her a look telling her to pipe it so he can continue with his lecture.
I pass the rest of class wondering if I should have just answered Lola’s questions. I could have let her win—it would have been easier.
The other half of me rebels against that idea.
Why does Lola get to be aggressive and cruel, and I just have to roll over and take it?
I saw my opening and I went for it.
Was it a little mean?
Maybe. But that’s why we’re here—to learn how to get what we want.
And in that moment, I wanted to win.
Class ends, and Rakel and I gather up our bags.
Dixie Davis slams into me as she passes, almost dislocating my shoulder.
“Watch it,” she says.
Lola tosses her hair over her shoulder, still fuming.
“Gonna hold onto that one, isn’t she?” Rakel says, watching them stalk off down the hall.
“Apparently,” I sigh.
“Well, good thing we only have pretty much every single class with them,” Rakel laughs, giving me a friendly punch on the very same shoulder Dixie just tried to destroy.
I follow Rakel down the stairs, already losing any sense of pleasure earned by my win.
Fuck me. I’ve gone and made another enemy.
Why can I not go five goddamned minutes without getting myself in trouble?
I’m so consumed by my own thoughts that I run right into Dean Yenin waiting for me outside the Keep.
I know he’s waiting for me by the way he grabs the front of my shirt and lifts me up off my feet, totally unsurprised by my appearance.
“Watch where you’re going, Cat,” he hisses into my face.
“Let go of her,” Rakel says.
“Fuck off, Black Death,” Dean snarls at her.
“Eat shit, Zack Morris,” Rakel sneers back at him.
“Rakel!” I gasp, half-choked by Dean’s grip on my collar. “Just . . . go on without me.”
She stares at me like I’m speaking Swahili.
“Please!” I wheeze. “Just go.”
She looks between Dean and me for several seconds. Then she narrows her eyes and says, “Fine. If that’s what you want.” She heads off to the dining hall without me.
Dean releases his grip on my shirt so I can breathe again.
“That’s better,” he says softly.
Actually, I’m sure it’s about to get worse.
Dean looks anything but cheerful. His face is heavily bruised on the left side. He’s got a cut on that cheek and a nasty black eye, the purplish marks especially dire against his fair skin. He looks like an angel stripped of his wings and fallen all the way to earth.
“What happened?” I say without thinking.
Wrong question. Dean’s top lip pulls up in the snarl that I’ve quickly come to recognize as the harbinger of his most intense aggression.
“Never mind that,” he growls. “Where the fuck have you been all day?”
“Breakfast. And class,” I stammer.
“Why weren’t you waiting for me outside the Octagon Tower this morning?”
“I . . . why would I be?”
“Because you’re my slave, Cat,” Dean says, in a tone of stating the obvious. “What good are you to me in the dining hall and at class?”
“But . . . I have to go to class,” I squeak.
“Yes, you do. And you’ll walk from class to class with me. Carrying my books. Every single day.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Dean’s eyes are fixed on mine, steady and unblinking. His pupils are so large that the irises comprise barely more than a thin halo of violet.
“Why do you . . . I mean, okay,” I say, knowing better than to argue.
“You mean, ‘Yes, sir,’ ” Dean corrects me.
My cheeks flame and I feel an intense impulse to tell him to fuck off. But that would be suicidal.
“Yes, sir,” I hiss through gritted teeth.
“Good girl,” Dean says softly.
His low purr sends a thrill through my body.
Am I completely fucked in the head that I feel a flush of warmth at his approval? Maybe it’s just relief that he might not have me murdered in the immediate future.
His smile of satisfaction quickly turns to a scowl.
He seizes my chin in a steel grip.
“What the fuck is on your face?” He demands.
“Makeup,” I say, trying to twist my chin out of his grasp.
He pinches it all the harder.
“I hate it,” he hisses. “Wash it off.”
“What? No, I just—”
“Clean that shit off your face,” he barks. “Do it now, then get your ass over to t
he dining hall.”
He lets go of me so abruptly that I stumble back.
I want to scream with frustration at this fucking maniac and his ridiculous demands. But I can’t do it. I can’t say one damn word to him, and he knows it. All I can do is spin on my heel and march off toward the bathrooms in the Keep, where I wash all Rakel’s expertly applied makeup off my face.
What the fuck is his problem?
Since when does he hate makeup?
Anna Wilk wears a shit-ton of product on her face, and it never seemed to bother him any.
I don’t think he hates makeup at all. He just relishes my misery.
With my face freshly pink and shiny, I walk back to the dining hall, dragging my feet the whole way.
I don’t want to go in there.
I don’t want to experience whatever new humiliation Dean has been dreaming up.
But I’m hungry. So I join the line of students waiting for their portion of pesto chicken pasta, then I carry my tray toward the tables.
I see Leo, Anna, Chay, and Ares already eating, laughing together at some joke. They look so lighthearted and comfortable. God, I wish I could join them.
I can feel Dean’s cold stare fixed on me. When I turn to meet his eyes, he jerks his head toward the empty seat he’s saved right next to his own.
Please God, let the ground swallow me whole.
I feel like the entire hall of students is staring at me as I turn toward Dean’s table.
Anna has spotted me. She calls out, “Cat!” thinking I didn’t see her. I have to give her an awkward shrug before resuming my hateful journey over to Dean.
Bram Van Der Berg, Valon Hoxha, Pasha Tsaplin, and Motya Chornovil watch me approach, silent and unsmiling. I dislike every one of them. They’re a bunch of spiteful bullies who delight in tormenting weaker students. I feel like I’m voluntarily lowering myself into a den of vipers as I drop down into the only empty seat at their table.
If they’re vipers, then Dean is the king cobra. He strikes with lightning speed the moment my ass touches the seat.
“Where’s my milk?” he demands.
“I didn’t know you wanted milk,” I mutter.
“Go get it. Now.”
Biting back the retort I’d like to give him, I stand once more.
Valon Hoxha sniggers.
“Get me a milk, too,” he says.