“Uh-huh,” she mutters, fixing me with that look that all good lawyers, and future lawyers, have. “So what’s really going on with you guys? He obviously likes you and even if you don’t like him, you must have done or said something to make him think that you should be the person he comes to when he needs help.”
“Leanne,” I sigh, flopping onto my back, the feeling of my pillow more torture than comfort because all I want to do is close my eyes, but now I can’t. “There really isn’t anything going on between us other than that, yes, maybe he has some weird crush on me. I can believe that he has the emotional maturity of an eight-year-old and being a jerk is his way of showing affection. Really though, I don’t know that he does, and I don’t care if he does. I honestly don’t want his attention and I really, really, really don’t care if he has a crush on me. I took him to Health because it was obvious he was sick and I’m a reasonably moral person.”
“And you stayed with him there for”—she glances at the glaringly bright digital clock—“four hours because…?”
“I let them pump me with an IV bag to boost my immune system because I don’t want to catch whatever he has. I fell asleep on the cot they put me on for a bit and the nurse didn’t wake me. We were in separate rooms. I don’t even know what happened to him. I left without finding out, because I don’t have any particular interest in him.”
Her eyes narrow, fixed on mine, like she could dig up the truth with just a few more seconds of x-raying me. I don’t give her the chance. I roll over and close my eyes, “I have to sleep, Leanne. I have class in three hours and I’m going to be stuck at the Daily until at least midnight.”
She doesn’t say anything. I hear her sheets rustle. Her silence is weird. She must be able to sense that I am lying. Fuck. Tomorrow is not going to be fun.
I feel guilty for lying to her. I feel guilty for apparently being good at it. I feel guilty that, despite all of those feelings, within a few seconds sleep temporarily washes them away.
—
Wednesday
Time Until Tap Night:
2 Days
— Mia —
I get up in time to go to Julian’s class. For the first time ever, I arrive before him. The minutes tick by and he doesn’t show up. He did say he might cancel class, but he didn’t send out an email or anything, which is what usually happens when a TA knows they’re going to cancel.
Five minutes after class was supposed to begin, Aaron Ploense announces that university policy says that if a professor or TA is more than fifteen minutes late, it means class is canceled and we can leave. Ten minutes in people start to get really excited. The fifteen-minute mark comes and everyone else gets up to leave, happy to have a free hour.
I sit frozen as a bizarre fear I never would have expected grips me. Did something go wrong? Was Tristan not okay? My mind spirals into dozens of possibilities, ranging from Tristan dying in his sleep to waking up puking blue, to him going psychotic as a result of all the psychoactive chemicals he put into his system and doing something like stabbing himself, or Julian, or both.
I pull my phone out and text Julian. Hey, you’re not in class. Is everything okay? Then I send a second text, Medically, I mean?
I get up and let my legs automatically travel the path to coffee. I resist the urge to check my phone until I am in line. It takes me at least five minutes to walk to Atticus; five minutes is forever in texting time. I pull my phone out of my pocket, confident that there is a response waiting telling me everything is fine. There isn’t.
I stare at my phone…and stare, and stare…No response.
I order coffee. I find an empty table. I pull my laptop out of my bag. No response.
I check my email. I check my phone again. Nothing. I check the Daily site to see if anyone has commented on my editorial from yesterday. I read all six comments. I check my phone. Nothing.
I am actually considering going back to Julian’s apartment when that wonderful little buzz finally hits my pocket.
Things are fine. Got your note. I’ll text you when I can.
What does that mean? I think, a strange queasiness suddenly arising inside of me. He didn’t add a smiley face or anything. This is the kind of text you send when something is wrong or you’re trying to get someone to leave you alone—or both.
Fuck, I internally groan. What was I thinking last night? I really should have just gone home after I delivered Tristan to Julian’s apartment. Now I’ve opened up all kinds of doors to all kinds of feelings, and I don’t know what to do about it. Whatever state of mind I fell into last night could have handled all of these feelings. But now I’m not in that state of mind.
I’m so stupid. Tristan tugged at my heartstrings, Julian tugged at something in my gut that just wants to smile when I see him, and both of them tugged at my pants. I let it all happen because I am obviously a glutton for emotions that distract me from the things I should be paying attention to.
In a brash move of rebellion against my own feelings—and a quiet internal wisdom that suggests I take the time to listen to and even examine them—I turn my phone off, pull my earbuds out, and play online Tetris until it is time for my next class.
—
At dinner that night, I do not see Leanne, who has said hardly two words to me all day, but I do see Tristan. He is with a couple of guys on the tennis team. I am looking at him when he happens to look at me, but he quickly looks away. Later that night, we pass each other in the hall and he acts like he doesn’t see me.
I haven’t turned my phone back on, although I almost have dozens of times. I am glad I haven’t when this encounter happens, when our shoulders nearly brush and he pretends I am invisible. I am glad I haven’t talked to Julian, because Julian and Tristan come as a pair, and Tristan’s refusal to acknowledge me tells me everything I should never have forgotten.
I am not mad at Tristan, I’m not hurt, I don’t feel used or tricked or lied to. In fact, my perspective on his behavior really has transformed and I still feel empathy for him, just like I did last night, but now I also feel heavy and frazzled and I don’t need those feelings in my life.
I head to the Daily’s Writers’ Room, and stay awake until two a.m. writing an editorial about the perils of our generations’ trend toward participating in undefined, uncommitted sexual relationships. I scrap the entire thing without re-reading it, because after it’s all poured out, I don’t want to actually think about it.
—
Thursday
Time Until Tap Night:
1 Day
— Mia —
Leanne and I do not talk until Thursday night. I wake up at three a.m. and I have to ask her to go work in the living room because I need the light out so I can sleep. She jumps when I say her name and her eyes look a touch crazed when they meet mine. “Sorry,” she hurriedly says, “yeah.”
As she picks up her laptop to move it I see what she is looking at—Facebook.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” I ask, trying to sound as far from confrontational or combative as possible. I would really like us to return to being friends without me having to tell her the truth—whatever that elusive thing is.
“I’m just checking some stuff,” she replies, her eyes still on the screen.
“Like what?” I yawn. “Did someone get married or have a baby or die?”
“So you can have secrets and I can’t?” she shoots back, not exactly in a nasty way, but definitely not in a friendly way. It’s still enough to feel like a cut.
“I didn’t mean it that way.” I sigh. “I’m just trying to be friends. I’m sorry you don’t believe me about Tristan, but really, ask him, he’ll tell you the same thing.”
Actually, I’m not sure about that although the first chance I get I’ll email him all the main information points. Regardless of the fact he’s ignoring me right now, he’s invested enough in keeping his relationship with Julian a secret that I am confident he will go along with it.
“Fine,” Leanne s
ighs. “I don’t really want to be mad or anything, I just feel like we haven’t really talked or hung out in a long time and it makes me feel like there’s a bunch of stuff I don’t know but maybe there isn’t. Sometimes I think you must be having a secret relationship because you’re so much busier all the time than you used to be.”
As she deflates and opens up, I feel like such a terrible person. At some point, I became a really good liar and I started doing it a lot, and now, despite feeling gross about it, I’m going to lie again. Why am I keeping Tristan’s secret when it’s hurting my relationship with someone who I call my best friend?
“I just want to be editor in chief next year, and with Ashley quitting the paper out of the blue last month, successfully picking up all of that slack will help demonstrate that I am editor in chief material. It’s kind of the perfect opportunity.” The only part of that that was technically a lie was the just. The rationalization that omission is not technically lying is at work again.
“I get that,” she says, her eyes flicking back to Facebook. She scrolls to the top and refreshes.
“So what has you all crazy-eyed?” I ask, trying to pack as much humble humor into my voice as possible.
“Tomorrow is Tap Night,” she says in the confessional whisper of an embarrassed sinner, “and I heard a rumor that the secret societies tip you off the night before by having three of their members all like random pictures.”
I nod, and that’s all it takes for the dam around her basin of nervousness and desperation to pour out. “Well, Corrine Miles and Jesse Buckley both liked the picture of me from when we went horseback riding for Azzi’s birthday, and that was like, last May, so why would they both do that tonight, you know? And they’re both in Wolf’s Head, which is not like my ultimate hope, but, still.”
“That is a really weird coincidence,” I concede—and not just because it’s what she wants to hear, it really is.
“Exactly!” she gushes. “So, yeah. I know I should just sleep, but I can’t stop refreshing. I feel neurotic.”
“You look neurotic.” I laugh and throw a pillow at her. She protectively cranes over her laptop and it snaps shut. She stares at me in shock for a second and then bursts into huge wonderful laughter—laughter I haven’t heard in weeks. It’s enough to send me into my own silly fit of glee, and I throw a second pillow at her.
She catches it and then tosses it back at me with her softball arm. I duck and it slams into the wall. “Shit,” she giggles, because our suitemates are sleeping on the other side of that wall. Then I erupt into giggles too.
—
Tap Night
— Mia —
I wait with Leanne all evening for a knock at the door. Jenna and Whitney, our suitemates, are seniors and neither is in a secret society, so they have nothing but scorn hidden by feigned indifference for Tap Night. They’re out at a bar, so Leanne and I have the place to ourselves, and we set up camp in the common room.
Leanne is a nervous wreck. When she checked Facebook this morning there was no third “like.” I reminded her it’s just a rumor that secret societies do that, and there’s no reason to believe it’s true.
“It’s too much of a coincidence that they both liked it though,” she moans. “It’s like a mean joke or something since everyone knows that rumor.”
“They’re friends,” I try to soothingly reason. “Corrine probably liked the picture and then if, Jesse is following her, that would cause it to pop up in his feed, so he liked it too.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.” She sighs dramatically.
“Yes, it does,” I insist, poking her with my foot. She swats at it, so I just shove my toes closer to her face, until at least I am laughing hard enough that it forces her to crack a smile.
“Look,” I say once I catch my breath, “everyone knows that the societies are really based more on who your friends and family are than on academic merit or the belief that you’re going to grow up to be crazy successful…And since Alec is supposedly in Key and he’s been hanging out with you so much, chances are—”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three long, hard knocks resound through our suddenly quiet apartment. They are way too loud to be coming from any door but ours.
Leanne jumps out of her seat, then freezes. I stare at the door, then at her. She’s gone pale and seems to have temporarily lost her ability to close her jaw. Then in the blink of an eye she reanimates—running her fingers through her hair, slapping her cheeks, spinning around and grabbing her phone then putting it back down, glancing in the mirror, biting her upper lip, frantically, wordlessly pleading with me to support her, then whipping her eyes back to the door, and freezing again.
I weave my arm through hers and walk to the door with her, trying not to laugh. It’s not that I find her ambition or even how seriously she’s taking this funny. It’s just that it’s funny to see my friend, usually so cool and professional and focused, acting like a little kid who is overcome by the joy and fear of potentially winning a trip to Disneyland.
So I lead her to the door and open it for her, then hide behind it and watch as her eyes go completely wide in shock. She goes from shocked to elated. The smile spreading across her face is exactly that Disneyland smile, her eyes flutter down—looking for the objects that will be presented to her to show her which society has chosen to invite her, and then…
Then her spreading smile pauses. Her eyebrows sink and curve and her eyes grow dark.
She takes a step back. Her eyes meet mine. There is so much confusion, so many mixed emotions in them, and her smile is completely gone.
“What?” I whisper, instantly worried.
I step out from behind the door and she pushes it all the way open. There is indeed a masked, cloaked figure standing on the other side. His—judging by the height—hands are hidden in the robes, undoubtedly holding the objects of revelation.
“Mia Winters,” he whispers, solemn and quiet.
Oh no.
I step fully in front of the door. Leanne is staring at the space between the masked man and me, frozen. I lean out and whisper imploringly, “You’re not here for me, you’re here for Leanne.”
He shakes his head without words. Across the hall, I catch a glimpse of another cloaked figure and hope one is about to arrive for her. But the other figure stops across the hall and three doors down. He knocks.
In the time it takes Tristan to open his door, the masked figure in front of me has pulled out his hidden object. A large, heavy iron key.
Across the hall, another masked figure presents the same object to Tristan. Tristan’s eyes are fixated and the minute it is held out to him, he takes it.
“Do you accept?” the figure in front of me asks.
I think about everything I’ve recently learned about Skeleton Key—hallucinogenic ceremonies and favors people will call in for the rest of your life. I think about Julian’s sureness that nothing good would have come of him joining the Keys, and that nothing good will come of Tristan joining them. I think of the fact that I’ve never even particularly wanted to join a secret society. The answer is obviously no...
I look from the masked man to Leanne behind me. She looks shocked, even speechless, and then the twinges start to creep into her expression. Betrayal, self-hatred, jealousy…and those are only going to compound into anger. Anger that will be directed at me whether or not I take the damn key.
“Do you accept?” he asks again.
“I…” It’s happening again. The sensation of being pulled back from my body, forced to watch it do and say things while I am stuck helplessly observing.
Tristan’s masked figure leads him down the hall. They are coming toward us, only steps away. My eyes meet his, and his shift down to catch a glimpse of what is being held out to me, then shift back to mine. There is shock in his eyes, as I’m sure there is in mine, and something like respect, and something else…Relief? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.
“I w
ill only ask one more time,” the masked figure says to me. “Do you accept?”
And then, because I am a complete idiot making a serious decision I never thought I’d be faced with making…because I am making it without actually considering anything that matters…because what I’m basing this decision on is not conscious and certainly not something that I can or want to consciously acknowledge… instead of saying no, I hold my palm out.
The key is placed in it. I can hear the empty space where Leanne has stopped breathing. Then the echo of the door shutting behind me after I step through it. Then, all I can hear is my heartbeat reverberating between my ears like drums as I march off into a world I never intended to discover.
End
To Be Continued
Acknowledgements
A book is never born solely from the efforts of one person. This series would not exist without the endless and tireless mental and emotional support of my sisters; the sunshiny encouragement of my very good friend, Azzi, who leant me her namesake; my oldest friend, E, who reads everything; or my husband, who doesn’t read anything, because he understands I need to quietly, secretly whittle away like a crazy person and not talk about any of it until it’s finished. Thank you all.
Also, thank you to my beta reader, Eagle, for pointing out things that ought to have been obvious, and to my editor, Madeline, for everything, especially dealing with all my dashes. Thank you to Logan, for letting me keep you up until 2am.
Lastly, and most of all, thank you to everyone who reads—if authors are trees, you are our soil. Without you we would have no ground to grow in.
Blackmail (Skeleton Key Book 1) Page 20