by Henry, Mia
I peek past the first few doors—a study, a marble-floored half-bath, an all-white guest bedroom—before I hear Dr. Goodwin’s friendly, booming voice echoing from the last room on the hall.
“And I told her: ‘Of course it isn’t! I bought the damn thing in Paris!’”
I find Dr. Goodwin in a large, casual living room decorated with modern gray loveseats and chairs, glass side tables, and cherry red accents. He’s standing next to the bar in the corner, entertaining a distinguished looking older couple. He glances up as I enter.
“Elle!” He smiles and waves me over. “I was just wondering about you.”
“Sorry, sir. The trip took a little longer than I’d planned.” I nod my hellos. Dr. Goodwin is an imposing man, with a wiry bushel of silver hair and sparkling blue eyes. While everyone else at the party is wearing cocktail attire, he’s dressed in a tuxedo, like the waiters. Weirdo. I want to hug him.
“Elle, I’d like you to meet Maria Estes, president of the Allford Academy Board of Trustees. And this is Julian Sayers, an alumnus and dear friend of our school.”
“It’s a pleasure.” I flash my canned party smile. I know enough to know what dear friend of our school means.
Cha-ching.
“Maria, Julian, I’d like you both to meet—” He falters, his eyes cutting to mine.
“Elle. Elle Sloane,” I say hurriedly. My heart revs in my chest.
“Elle’s father and I were pals at Choate back in the dark ages.” Dr. Goodwin announces.
I manage a nod, my throat closing at the mention of my father.
“Excellent.” The woman smiles kindly.
“If you’ll both excuse us for a moment?” Dr. Goodwin guides me toward the fireplace. It’s painted a bright, shiny red to match the accents scattered intentionally throughout the room. “How was your trip, my dear?” he asks gently.
“Long,” I admit. “But I’m excited to be here, sir, and I just want to say thank you for giving me this chance. I won’t let you down.”
“We’re lucky to have you. And how is… your mother?”
Softly, I offer the rehearsed response. “We’re all doing the best we can.”
He nods and stares into the distance. “It’s just horrible, isn’t it?”
I don’t answer, because he’s not really asking. And because I’ve sworn never to speak of it again.
“Well.” He clears his throat. “I want to assure you, Elliot—Elle—that I will keep your confidence. I know that you’re here for a new start, and I promise you: you’ll have it at Allford.”
“Thank you, sir.” He’s so gracious, I want to cry.
“You’ll find everything you need in your room at the cottage.” The school mailed me an address and a key to the cottage where I’ll be staying with other faculty who have chosen on-campus housing. “Until then, enjoy yourself.” He summons a nearby waiter and hands me an unsolicited cosmo.
“Oh, I already—”
“I developed the recipe myself,” he says proudly, thrusting the glass into my hands. “It’s gotten rave reviews, I hear.” He gives me a wink and walks away.
I sip my second cosmo dutifully. This one goes down even easier. As clusters of people I don’t know chat and laugh and drink, I stay parked near the fireplace, pretending to be absorbed in the details of the room. A gleaming acoustic guitar leans against the wall. Over the mantle is a painting that looks suspiciously like a Klimt I studied in my Intro to Art History course at Columbia. I take a step closer.
“Beautiful.” Warm breath grazes the back of my neck.
“What?” I whirl around, goose bumps pricking at my skin. Standing just a few inches away is a guy in flax-colored linen pants and a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Warmth surges through my body. I take a giant step back to get a better look, whacking my head against the mantle in the process. Half of my cosmo sloshes onto the glossy hardwood floor. Smooth, Elliot.
“Woah. You okay?” He reaches out and takes my elbow, drawing me away from the fireplace. When I tense, he pulls his hand away, running it unnecessarily through a wavy mop of jet-black hair. His skin is olive, but his eyes are a piercing light blue.
“Ow. Yeah. Fine,” I mutter, rubbing the throbbing spot at the back of my skull.
“You gotta watch the mantles around here. They’re vicious.”
“I’m fine.” I try to laugh it off. Yeah, fine. If you don’t count the dented pride and skull.
“Good. So I was just saying, it’s beautiful, right? The painting. I’m pretty sure it’s an original Klimt.”
“Okay.” He’s like the hot guy equivalent of a train wreck: I can’t look away. Not that I’m going to do anything about it. I’ve always been shy around guys. I haven’t been on a date in over a year. And besides, he’s too sexy to be a decent human being. The guy looks like he belongs in one of those black and white cologne commercials, where he’s riding a horse in a field or tackling a half-naked woman on the beach. Whispering words like forever and dry-humping the camera with his stare. Guys like him are never nice guys. They don’t have to be.
“Gustav Klimt? He was an Austrian—”
“Symbolist painter,” I finish. “Painted the female form. His works are noted for their… erotic nature. I know.” Shut up, Elliot. This guy doesn’t actually want to talk about Klimt.
“An art history buff? I’m impressed.” He cocks his head to one side. “You like his work?”
“His Golden Phase.”
“I like his University of Vienna paintings, myself.”
“The stuff that was called pornographic?” I snort.
“The art that made people think; that pushed them out of their comfort zone. Good art does that, you know.”
“Just because it’s radical doesn’t make it good.”
“True. And nothing earth-shattering happens when you play it safe.”
Nothing devastating, either.
He extends a hand. There’s a long slash of bright green paint on his index finger. “I’m Luke.”
“Elle.” I grip his hand, and hope he doesn’t notice that mine is sweaty.
“Elle. Pretty.” He says my name slowly, as if he’s rolling it around on his tongue. Savoring it. “Well, Elle the Art Historian, it was really nice to meet you. Seems like my break’s over. If you could just—” Luke glances down at our hands, which are still intertwined. Energy pulses between our palms.
“Oh. God. Sorry.” I jerk my hand away and wipe it on my dress. It leaves a sweat stain.
“Don’t be.” He smiles again, then turns to pick up his guitar.
I watch as he leans against the wall near the mantle and starts to play. He’s not a guest here; he’s the musician. The entertainment. The eye candy, carefully selected to fit in with the rest of the décor.
From my place just a few feet away, I watch him play. I have nothing better to do, and this way if anyone tries to strike up a conversation, I can pretend to be absorbed in the music.
He starts with an easy, bluesy tune. He’s actually… talented. When he begins to sing, I recognize the song immediately. It’s a Ray LaMontagne number. I love Ray LaMontagne, and Luke covers the song well. His voice is low and raspy like Ray’s, but it’s his own, and he’s not trying too hard.
As he plays, his chin drops to his broad chest. Dark waves fall over his eyes, and I have the ridiculous urge to brush them away. I squeeze the stem of my martini glass instead. No more signature cosmos for me.
His fingers move easily, expertly, along the fret board. He massages the strings, coaxing rich notes into the room. His music is soothing, drowning out the mindless chatter behind me. Working its way deep inside me, massaging the tension from the back of my neck, my shoulders, and my throbbing skull. I fix my gaze on his hands. They’re tan; strong. And he clearly knows how to use them to get what he wants.
“Is that not the strangest thing you’ve ever seen?” Waverly’s drawl in my ear makes me gasp.
“Huh? What?” I’m sure she
can see the color flooding my cheeks.
“The painting, obviously.” She swipes my martini glass and tosses it on the mantle. Next to the priceless masterpiece. “Come on. Dr. Goodwin’s about to make his opening remarks on the patio.”
“You know that’s a Klimt, right?” I say, disbelieving, as she nudges me toward the door.
“What’s that, Russian for uglier than sin?” Waverly giggles to herself.
As we step into the hall, I turn to see if Luke heard her. He catches me looking at him. Maybe it’s the booze, but I don’t look away. Instead, I raise an eyebrow, like, Seriously?
And I swear I see a smile play across his lips.
chapter three
Elle,
Fall in New York won’t be the same without you here. I know it’s kind of geeky, but fall always felt like a new start to me—new notebooks and pens and lockers and a chance to be the kind of person I always wanted to be.
Are you getting a fresh start there, or do people ask you about Dad all the time? My friends don’t say anything about him anymore. But I know they’re thinking about it constantly. I can tell.
Maybe none of us gets a real fresh start. Maybe we have to do the best we can with what we have.
Love you for infinity,
A
When I wake the next morning, my head is pulsing. It feels like my skull isn’t big enough to contain everything inside it: the details of my new identity. My nearly naked pre-party run-in with Gregory. Dr. Goodwin’s assurances that my secrets were safe with him. The notes flowing from Luke’s guitar. All shrouded in a boozy fog.
I groan and roll onto my side, angling the digital clock on the bedside table in my direction. 7:08. A grand total of about three hours of sleep. Last night I’d followed Waverly back to campus after the reception ended, only to realize that we were housemates. She’d helped me unpack a few essentials before declaring that with any less than five hours of sleep, she’d turn into a total “bi-yotch”. Then she’d disappeared for the night.
I’d stayed up late, putting some of my clothes away and strategically moving my possessions around the room like chess pieces. Writing a quick Email to Aria.
Sitting up, I rub my temples and yawn. My new room is nothing like the lavish suite I called mine in New York. The home I didn’t deserve. This room is small and ultra-modern, with stark white walls and dark, shiny hardwood floors. There’s not much furniture: a platform bed, low dresser and matching bedside table, and a full-length mirror in the corner. Next to the bed sits an Allford Academy itinerary for the next few days, printed on creamy stationary with two gold scripted A’s intertwined at the top. My open suitcases are scattered around the room, spewing buttery leather flats, tailored jackets, and flowing maxi-skirts. Even my wardrobe doesn’t have an identity.
I collapse back onto my pillow and stare up at the ceiling, not ready to face the day. And if I can’t face the day, how can I face a whole new life? Sure, there’s something really freeing about getting what Aria called a fresh start. But what if I screw up my second chance? What if someone recognizes me, or if I slip up and use my real name? My heart throbs in triple-time. I can’t afford that kind of mistake.
“Elle? Knock knock!” A voice singsongs on the other side of the door.
Before I have the chance to answer, Waverly hip-bumps her way inside, dressed in perfectly tailored white skinny jeans and a blousy, electric peach tunic. She carries two plastic grocery bags. A girl I’ve never seen before trails in behind her.
“Um, come in?” I croak, running a hand through my tangles.
“We brought you a little welcome breakfast!” Waverly chirps. “Oh. This is Gwen.”
“Hey. Gwen Markley. English Lit,” Gwen yawns. “And I help with the school paper.”
“Elle. Econ.” I like Gwen instantly. She’s tall, almost lanky, but moves with an easy kind of confidence. Her long brunette waves are piled in a messy nest on top of her head. She wears no makeup, and the tiny diamond stud in her right nostril is her only piece of jewelry. She’s dressed in ripped jean shorts and a t-shirt that says something about commas saving lives.
“Cool.” Gwen’s eyes flicker over my face. “Elle, did you say?” She pauses, squints at me. Is that a flash of recognition in her eyes? Not possible. I’m just tired. Paranoid.
“Yeah.” I reach for my glasses.
“Gwen lives in the other room down the hall,” Waverly informs me. She unloads the contents of her grocery bags onto my dresser: bagels, cream cheese, and plastic knives. Then orange juice and cheap champagne. My head starts to pound again.
“We got paired together last year when we were both new teachers,” Waverly continues. “And at first, I was thinking we might not get along all that well, you know? Because it’s not like Gwen was somebody I would have hung out with in college.” She whirls around. “No offense, Gwennie.”
“None taken, bitch.” Gwen rolls her eyes at me.
“But then I told myself, ‘Waverly, you have to work on expanding your horizons’. And it actually worked out, and we requested to live together again this year.”
“It’s been magical,” Gwen deadpans.
“Please. You love me.” Waverly mixes mimosas in plastic flutes, then hands us each a drink.
“Thanks.” I accept mine gratefully and take a long sip. It’s strong. My headache evaporates.
“So I saw you at the reception last night but didn’t get to say hi.” Gwen kicks off her sneakers and settles into a cross-legged stance on my bed. “Have a good time?”
“Definitely,” I nod. Instantly, my thoughts find Luke, the musician. I’ve never met a guy who knew that much about art before, and was still all man. He’d looked like he could sit on Dr. Goodwin’s loveseat and talk about Monet over cocktails one second, then rip your clothes off and pin you down on that same loveseat the next. The thought makes my skin tingle.
None of the guys I knew in Manhattan cared anything about art. Aria and I had a name for the type of guy who ran in our social circle: PERVs. Pretty. Entitled. Rich. And Vapid. The kind of guy who asks for your number while searching the crowd for someone better.
But Luke seemed different from the kind of guy I knew back home. Stronger. Definitely smarter. And when we’d talked, he’d actually looked at me. With those piercing eyes, it had felt like he was looking into me, like he could see through me.
I shake the thoughts from my head. Thinking about him, about the way he’d felt familiar and exciting at the same time, is useless. I’ll never see the guy again. And staying unattached is vital in my situation.
“—remember I was pretty blown away by the way they do things at Allford,” Gwen is saying. “I mean, I spent two years with Teach for America before this.” Her eyes darken for a brief moment. “In a really poor school where I barely had the supplies I needed, and then I get down here and it’s like, Surprise! Johnny’s dad is actually a direct descendent of Shakespeare, so if you want to take a field trip to the Globe, you can just hop Johnny’s private jet!” She looks impressed and disgusted at the same time.
“So, the school has resources. The families have resources. That doesn’t mean teaching here is any less important than teaching up there,” Waverly argues, passing out paper plates piled with bagels. “You can’t blame people for being rich.”
“Did I say that?” Gwen squints at me. “Ellie. Did you hear me say that?”
“Up where?” It’s sweet, the way she slips so easily into a nickname. Like we’ve known each other forever. I swipe a bagel half and take a giant bite. Warm blueberry with honey cream cheese. “Where were you teaching?”
“New York. Queens.”
Queens. I swallow, almost choking on my bagel. At least choking would be an effective subject change.
“Ever been up there?” Gwen asks me.
“Not Queens, really.” I shake my head. Don’t screw this up, Elle. “I went to NYU for undergrad, though. I graduated this year.”
“Ohhh. Okay.” Gwen nods. “I k
now this sounds weird, but I was thinking you looked familiar. I lived in the city for a summer. Maybe we had a mutual friend or something.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” I can feel the heat in my face, on the back of my neck, spreading through my body. I’m jittery; restless. Does she know? Maybe not. Maybe it will come later, when she’s in the middle of teaching a Dickenson poem, or about to fall asleep. Suddenly, she’ll realize why I look so familiar. She’ll remember my picture from The Times, or recall a news clip of me headed up the courtroom steps, head bowed, trying to avoid the lightening strike of flashbulbs. And everything will fall apart.
“Why’d you leave New York?” I ask carefully.
“Well, my gig was up. And there was this… guy. I thought things were gonna work out, but they didn’t.” She takes a deep, fluttery breath. “Basically, I needed a new start.”
That makes two of us. The look in her eyes is familiar. I’m not the only one who’s running from something.
“We’ll have to play the name game sometime,” Gwen smiles.
Waverly snorts and swipes a bit of pulp from the rim of her glass. “Hey, Elle, do you know Nature, my psychic yogi friend who grows her own weed and makes mumus out of organic hemp and positive energy?”
Gwen turns to me. “Hey, Elle, have you met Waverly, my incompetent princess of a roommate who bleached an entire load of clothes when she first got here because she’d never even had to do her own—”
“Hey! Laundry is hard,” Waverly protests. Her expression twitches as she tries to remain indignant, but eventually she and Gwen both dissolve in laughter. I laugh too, but it sounds forced.
“Anyway.” Waverly raises her champagne flute, and Gwen follows. “We hope you have an awesome year, girl. Cheers.”