by Kirsty McKay
Vaughan pulls a face. “I don’t consider those odds significant. No, a shower death equals male Killer, I have no doubt.” He walks over to the cubicle and screws off the showerhead. “You saw the whole thing?”
I move closer to him, nodding, looking at the showerhead. There’s only the slightest trace of red in there now.
“But the question of access is a problem. You’re girls with body odor paranoia; most of you have showers at night too, am I right?”
I roll my eyes at him but don’t disagree.
He continues, “In that case, the Killer must have been here in the early hours, filling the showerhead up with paint.” He looks at me. “Where’s your room?”
“What?”
“Can I look at the windows in there?” He opens the door and starts off down the corridor.
“Vaughan!” I hiss at him. “We can’t just walk around up here! Why my room anyway?”
Some weird sixth sense is guiding him in the right direction. He gets to the corner of the corridor, right by the door to my dorm, and turns around, looking at me. “In here?” Before I can answer, he goes inside. I follow, shutting the door quickly.
“Oh.” He beams. “This is your room. Hello, Wuffy, old mate.”
Argh. My ancient stuffed puppy is perching on my pillow. Hideosity.
Vaughan walks up to the bed and sits, reaching out for Wuffy. “How have you been, Wuff? Long time no see.”
“Vaughan.” I try to muster some kind of dignity. “You need to go. You’re not even in the Game. There’s no point in getting into trouble over this.”
“Yet.” He looks at Wuffy, places him carefully back on the pillow.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not in the Game yet.” He sniffs, still sitting on my bed. “You haven’t answered my question. How easy is it for boys to sneak in here at night?” One hand strokes the top of my duvet. I try not to flinch. I think it’s subconscious on his part, but it’s skeeving me out.
I bite my lip. “Well, you just did. How easy was it for you?”
He shakes his head. “This is the middle of the day. Different story.” He lies down on my bed, feet up. “Comfy.”
“Hey!” I walk over to him, grab his hand, and try to pull him up. But he doesn’t move, holding my hand, staring up at me.
“Are you telling me that boys never come up here at night, Cate?”
I pause. It’s almost like he knows about Alex, but there is no way in hell that he can.
There was a night last term when Marcia had food poisoning and slept in the sick bay. Alex and I hung out in his study because we were partnered up for a joint psychology class project. We were doing these psyche quizzes, and it was kind of awkward but also kind of a laugh. I’m still not sure how it happened, but after a while, we slipped into some pretty heavy convos. We talked mainly about our families, and I got to see another side of Alexander Morgan, stuff about how he feels he’ll never live up to his genius brother, how underneath it all he is struggling just like the rest of us. It made me feel special that he’d told me, he’d chosen me—of all people—to unload, to share that with.
At curfew he walked me back here via the woods, and by that time it was obvious there was something in the cards. He held my hand underneath that big oak with the tree house, and he kissed me. I kissed back, totally, in spite of the fact that I was rapidly realizing that “sensitive Alex” back in the study was probably a big fat line designed to play me like a fiddle. It all felt dangerous, and I let it happen because—well, Alex. Alpha male. The one everyone wants. Ultimate acceptance of me by the leader of the gang.
After the oak tree I turned in for the night, feeling kind of giggly, switched off the light…and just as I was going to sleep, crazy Alex slipped into my room, nearly gave me a heart attack. Don’t worry. I kicked him out. Nicely but very definitely. As he left my room he acted so cool, like it was no big deal, but his eyes in the weak light of my bedside lamp gave him away. He looked angry, a bit embarrassed…but there was something else too. I think it was panic. Probably the first time in his life someone told him no.
The memory of that night, and now Vaughan’s hand in mine, is making me flush so hot, and I hope it’s not showing on my face.
Suddenly, there’s the sound of a door slamming somewhere down the corridor. I swear, Vaughan leaps to his feet, and as one we move to the door, listening for footsteps, side by side, our ears pressed to the wood. No footsteps come. Vaughan looks at me after a minute.
“Just like old times,” he whispers. “Having fun?”
“You should go.” Being close to him like this is having a weird effect on me that I don’t want to think about. Plus, I really don’t want detention.
He nods. We wait a minute more, and then I slowly open the door, looking up and down the corridor for anyone who might be lingering.
“Stay here. I’ll check the side staircase,” I say to him.
I run down the corridor and skibble down the stairs lightly. No one. I run back up and back into the dorm. “Coast is clear,” I say.
He smiles. “Thanks, Catey-Cate.”
I mock frown at his use of my nickname, and he giggles and the eight-year-old comes back. It breaks my heart. Suddenly I want to tell him I’m sorry for getting into that car all those years ago and never looking back. And I want to tell him that I like this weird, funny person my best friend turned into. But of course, I don’t tell him that. I give him a brief, tight grin and tap his shoulder lightly like I’m patting a dog.
And he’s off. I follow him down the corridor and then partially down the stairs and let him go.
On my way back, I get the urge to duck into the shower room again—but not to do anything more useful than check out my reflection. Do I look all right? Hair OK? Face OK? I redden. Like it matters. Like I care what Vaughan thinks.
We left my dorm door open. I leave the bathroom and walk back up the corridor to shut it. When I get there, there’s something off, and I stop at the door. What’s wrong here? I can’t place what it is exactly—is the door open a little more than we left it? The air feels different, fresher, like someone opened a window and closed it again. I walk in slowly, eyeing my window. It is shut, and there are no indications that it has been open anytime recently. I’m about to leave when something catches my eye on the pillow next to Wuffy.
My watch.
I walk up to it slowly, as if it’s going to explode. Was that there before? Surely not. I would have seen it while I was dying of embarrassment over my furry friend.
Who put the watch there?
I swing around, looking behind me, back at the door. I’m alone. I glance over to Marcia’s bed. Has she been in after Vaughan and I were here? I lean over to pick the watch up. There’s some sand in the rubber strap, but it’s not scratched, and still ticking. I see something half sticking out from underneath Wuffy: a small white strip of paper. I drop the watch down onto the crumpled duvet and pick up the paper. There are words in bloodred ink:
YOU ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME.
Blood rushes to my head, making me dizzy. I sink onto the bed, reading the piece of paper again, as if it’s going to suddenly change. Whose handwriting? None that I recognize.
I force myself to stand and run to check the window again, run to the door and check the corridor, even crouch down on the floor and look under the bed. But no one is there.
“Hello?” I call out, my heart beating.
But of course, no one answers. Finally, I scrunch the paper up and shove it in my pocket and run all the way to high tea.
Chapter 8
The days pass, and in spite of the fact that I am “running out of time,” Thursday dawns and I’m still alive. I hide the note in my study, in a psychology textbook. No chance of anyone finding it there.
Thursday means games, rather than the Game, unfortunately, and even
worse, it means swimming. Umfraville has a wonderful outdoor pool. At least, it would be wonderful if the school was on an island somewhere hot, but as we’re in the middle of the Irish Sea, it’s a frigid nightmare.
Ezra decided we needed an Olympic-size pool, just in case we ever got ourselves an Olympic swimmer. The water’s heated, so on any given day between the months of April and October, we can find ourselves being ushered into the wet. What they forget, of course, is that the air is not heated. The pool is high on the cliffs, the perfect place for maximum exposure to the cruel wind. Ezra didn’t think too hard about that when he told the pool people where he wanted it built. It’s probably the world’s coldest infinity pool, as one side blends in perfectly with the sea below. Very picturesque. There’s a full-on grandstand for observers and built-in locker rooms below, where we scurry after the lesson, dripping, indignant, and freezing to death.
Marcia has somehow managed to wangle her way out of this ordeal. Newspaper deadline probably—it affords her many privileges. I shuffle out of the locker room in my flip-flops and baggy hoodie, towel wrapped around my waist. The keen swimmers are warming up around the pool; no one is allowed in until a responsible adult arrives, obviously. A group of kids—mainly Guild—are sitting on the grandstand, almost at the top. I start the climb toward them.
We have this petty routine to keep us out of the water for the longest time possible. It goes like this: the gym teacher, Mr. Churley, will pop up out of some underground tunnel or wherever they keep him and call us all down to get into the pool. We’ll plod down, drawing it out as long as we possibly can. It might shave a minute off actual swimming, but mostly it’s about control in a place where we have none. As I climb up, I see that most of the boys are balancing on the benches, Rick telling some joke and beating his bare chest in the wind. The girls and the rest of the boys are a little ways off, huddled and whispering. I notice that Becky has her lovely, long hair in a swimming cap—probably not risking exposure to any more chemicals.
Daniel is up there on his own, looking miserable. Violinists really shouldn’t be made to endure any kind of physical exercise; it’s just cruel. He’s Goofy-tall, wearing a long, green-and-red robe, thin, hairy legs stretched out. He doesn’t see me as I climb but gazes out to sea and taps an intricate rhythm, his long index fingers beating like drumsticks on his knees. Maybe he does see me, but he doesn’t want to engage. There’s that conversation we have to have at some point, and I’m dreading it even more as time goes by. I wonder if he’s already buried it and replaced it with low-level disinterest. Boys can be very good at that.
OK, so in lieu of Daniel, let us talk about the awkward. I might be holding out on him, but I’ll give it up for you.
Every year at Umfraville there’s a summer party. It started off as a senior-class thing—a way to find a release after exams, legitimizing the partying that would find a way to surface regardless of whether the staff actually allowed it. However, after a few years, there were some complaints from lower down the school, and in the spirit of equality, Ezra decided to extend the party to everyone.
Last term’s shindig was a classic. It was a rare hot night, and there was a tent on the lawn so that any teen not totally self-preoccupied could enjoy the sun setting over the water. School bands played; there was food and even swimming in the pool. Someone spiked the fruit punch, and I felt woozy. I was feeling lonely and full of self-doubt after the Alex hookup, and Daniel was there, and something was done that could not be undone. We kissed, right here, on this grandstand. At the time, I felt careless; now, it bothers me greatly.
Like I’ve said, I don’t fancy Daniel. I’ve tried to, because it would be easier, but he’s a friend. He makes me laugh, and we have the most ridiculous, tangential conversations that blow my mind because he’s so clever and random and off the wall. We like the same sad music (apart from the violin stuff, which I’m not so big on), and we both get a kick out of anime and sci-fi movies. We are dweebs together, and it’s comfortable. But normally I don’t want to kiss him, and unfortunately for both of us, that is not mutual.
Oh, I don’t know what I was thinking on the grandstand. Summer madness, yucky punch, and a stupid attempt to get rid of Alex Aftertaste, that’s all. Daniel and I didn’t talk about it the next day, and we haven’t said much to each other since, which is phenomenally sad. As Marcia so kindly pointed out, he knows I don’t want to boyfriend/girlfriend-up, and he also knows that I know he does. That’s awkward to say but even more awkward to live.
So I park my behind on the benches a few rows down from him, on my own. It’s getting to the point where all this ignoring is just stupid. Which of us is going to be the bigger person and get this friendship up and rolling again? I look out at the cold, slate-gray sea, then down into the warmer, pale-blue pool. Not either of us today.
“My, this is bracing!”
I jump. Vaughan has plonked himself down beside me. He’s just wearing a Speedo, the teeny-tiny kind, not even the bike short one. Oh, bloody hell.
“Although, when I saw swimming on the timetable, I thought we’d all be greasing ourselves up and heading for Ireland. Disappointingly tame, really. I hear the jellyfish are invigorating.”
“Wait till you get out of the water,” I quip. “It’s cold enough. And we’ll probably be doing this until midterms.”
Vaughan slaps his thighs. “Hoorah for that!”
I’m trying not to look at him. Considering the last time I saw him semi-naked we were probably running under a hose in somebody’s garden, it makes me nervous to see him in all his Speedo-ed glory. But out of the corner of my eye, I’m absolutely checking him out. In spite of his height and slender build, he doesn’t have the unappealing lankiness of most tall teenage boys. Daniel leaps into my mind, and I hate myself for making the comparison. Vaughan’s no muscleman freak like Rick, but there’s certainly…tone. As we sit, I’m becoming aware of the attention he’s getting from above—a ripple of approval from the girls. Wait till the boys spot him. He’s going to get annihilated.
Mr. Churley appears below.
“Get your lazy arses down here!” he yells up at us. I think he likes it. If he ever appeared and there was no one sitting on the grandstand, I’m sure he’d be disappointed. Shouting at us is his idea of a warm-up.
“Duty calls.” Vaughan smiles, standing up. I look at him—eyes strictly on his face—and he blinks at me. “Chop, chop!” he barks at me, sternly, just like Mr. Churley. “Hurry up and take your clothes off!”
I gulp, not knowing if that little glint in his eye means that he’s making fun of me or flirting…or if it’s all in my horrible little head.
At this precise moment, Daniel troops down the steps past our row. He obviously overhears. He looks at me, as doleful as Droopy, but behind the sad is fury. It shocks me just as much as what Vaughan just said. I think about organizing my features into a picture of innocence, but it’s too late. He’s gone.
“I promise I won’t splash you.”
Snap back to Vaughan, smiling that weird smile. Does he think he’s flirting? Do I think he is? Blimey, this was never a problem when we were eight. As I pick my jaw up off the floor, the girls schlep down the stairs slowly, and as they pass, they are sure as hell checking out Vaughan with none of my subtlety.
“Move it!” Mr. Churley yells from below.
The Guild boys bound down the benches on the other side from us. Vaughan glances at them, and his eyes twinkle.
“Want to know a secret? They let me in!”
“What?” I falter.
“I’m Guild now.” He beams. “Or good as. Alex and the other Elders came to my study last night. There’s going to be some kind of initiation—of course! I’d be disappointed if there wasn’t!—and naturally, the rules have to be bent a little because everyone will know I’m not the Killer.” He barely pauses for breath. Below us there are splashes and yells from the first swimmers
entering the water. “But I can be Killed, so that’s exciting!”
“I’m…pleased for you.” It’s all I can think of to say, and it’s true at least.
His green eyes narrow. “But not pleased for you?”
I switch my gaze to the swimmers, because I can’t look him in the face, and I certainly can’t afford to look at any other part of him. Below me, almost everyone else is in the pool, swimming up and down in lanes. Only a few stragglers are still disrobing or talking to Mr. Churley, trying to distract him so they get a few more precious moments of dry.
“You don’t want me to play with you, Cate?” Vaughan pouts, mock hurt. Then again, maybe not so mock. I feel a hot face coming on.
“No, I do…” I wonder if I’m brave enough to be honest with him. “It’s just weird seeing you again. It’s nice”—my face must be burning—“but weird. Mixing friends, past and present.” I stutter, the words sounding so formal. “And the Game is a big deal, you know? Being chosen. I’ve kind of worked my way up to it…”
“And I waltz in, so easily?” He’s looking at me intently, examining my every pore. “I can understand that.”
I bite my lip. “I still don’t know why you want to be in the Game so badly,” I mutter. “I mean, let’s face it, you haven’t told me why you’re here, how come you know all the stuff you know about the island and everyone here and the Game.” He looks away, suddenly focused on the pool. “But even more than that, why do you care?”
He doesn’t answer for a minute. Well, maybe it’s thirty seconds, but it seems like the full sixty. Clouds cover the sun. Any second now, Mr. Churley will upgrade his yelling to screaming at us standing up here on our own. Just as I think Vaughan isn’t going to speak, and I might as well jump into the deep, he answers me.