Chapter 4
One: the landlord in question was actually Mom’s boyfriend, Ed, who did have plenty of reason to kick us out after he discovered Mom hooking up with one of her co-workers. It was a shame, too. Ed had an actual house, and he hardly charged us rent.
Two: It was the middle of winter.
…in Mobile, Alabama.
The record low that year might’ve been fifty-degrees.
But I don’t say either of these things. It’s easier to pity someone when they’re the only victim in the story.
“Just a reminder that college applications are coming up, Ms. Davis,” the Dean chides. “Perhaps next semester we’ll see some improved grades, an extra-curricular or two, and a college acceptance.” His voice is stern but his face belies pity.
Right now, I am the kicked puppy he’s found on the side of the freeway, and he’s not going to force me out.
I give him the widest smile I can. “I’m sure you will, sir.”
I close out the presentation by shaking everyone’s hands and accept their life advice graciously. Not that I need some greying alumni to tell me it’s all about “pulling yourself up by the bootstraps” while the shine of his thousand-dollar loafers nearly blind me.
I am pulling myself up.
Passing the SSAT with flying colors and getting a scholarship to Lionswood is the most I’ve ever pulled myself up by anything.
But that story – just like the one I told tonight – is missing a little bit of context too.
I'm seething on the way back to my dorm.
My thin, fraying jacket is no match for the frigid breeze rustling through the Red Maples that line the stone walkway, and it’s only the anger burning through my veins that keeps my teeth from chattering.
It’s still radio silence from Mickey. No apologies. No excuses. Not even a half-hearted: Hope it went well!
Another harsh gust of wind shakes the fall foliage. I draw my jacket close just as two laughing girls pass by, both decked out in sleek Moncler bubble coats.
Jealousy sparks before I can stomp it down.
I’d like to say I’m above envy, above desiring two-thousand-dollar jackets, but I can’t. Being surrounded by the wealth of Lionswood – both flashy and understated – hasn’t made me immune to the allure of nice things.
Just more suspectible.
I try shaking off the bitterness because, that disaster of a presentation aside, tonight is beautiful. Under the full moon, the Gothic Revival stone buildings that make up Lionswood’s campus look almost ethereal. Most of them haven’t been touched since the early eighteenth-century outside of renovations for electrical wiring and indoor plumbing. It’s the school’s limitless funding and dedicated alumni board that ensures everything on campus looks fresh out of a Dickens novel.
Leaves crunch under my tennis shoes as I round the familiar corner to the senior dorms, or the West Wing, as it’s known to most students.
It’s one big, blocky building with glass-paned windows and a historic clock tower, separated into co-ed sections with private suites. It’s still a shared dormitory, but it’s the first time I’ve ever had my own bathroom.
It takes some significant muscle to heave open the massive oak doors, but fortunately, there’s nobody hanging out in the common room to watch me struggle.
Or to watch me huddle around the crackling fireplace in the entryway and leech some of its warmth.
The shared space is relatively small, bisected by two narrow, winding staircases: one leading up to the girls’ dorms and one for the boys’.
The anger comes back full-force when I glance toward the latter.
I wonder if Mickey is in his dorm room right now.
He could be with friends. Or gaming. Or sleeping. Or any other number of activities that might render him blissfully unaware of the fact that he left me to the wolves tonight.
Fuck you, Mickey.
He can pretend I don’t exist in the cafeteria or the hallways like the rest of my classmates, but this is the one time he’s supposed to have my back. The one time we’re supposed to be in this together.
And I’m sure Dean Robins will get an artful apology by the morning, but I deserve one too.
The anger festers the longer I stare at the steps, and then – before I can talk myself out of it – I’m climbing the staircase, intent on getting the face-to-face explanation and apology I deserve.
The first set of steps open to another common room, larger than the previous, decorated in dark neutrals and sports team jerseys and posters. Another fire crackles in the hearth.
I’ve heard plenty of stories about the boys’ common room.
What and who’s been done in it, but I’ve never ventured up here before. I’ve never had a reason to. Four years, and I’ve never had a boy invite me up these stairs or sneak me into his room – which is a thought that I refuse to let sting right now.
Instead, I scour the room until my eyes land on the bulletin board pinned to the wall above a dark green couch, a shade lighter than the pea soup I had earlier today.
It’s identical to the one in the girls’ room. A list of all the students housed in this section of the building.
I find Mickey’s name listed in alphabetical order – room 504.
Of course, he has to live on the top floor.
My thighs are burning by the time I reach the top of the second stairwell, a kernel of my frustration reserved for whoever decided an elevator would compromise the historical integrity of the building.
Room 504 sits all the way at the end of the narrow, dim hall overlooking the back of the building.
I turn the corner, pausing when I catch sight of a male silhouette lingering by the door to the fire exit stairwell.
Mickey?
I squint, trying to make out some facial features and what looks to be a curly head of hair.
“Mickey?” I call out.
The silhouette startles, but instead of turning in my direction, they open the fire exit door and disappear down the stairwell. They move quickly, but for a moment, they’re bathed in the fluorescent lights of the stairwell and I see their – his – face.
Adrian Ellis?
I blink and he’s gone, but there’s no mistaking the aristocratic nose and sharp jawline that’ve found a way onto the front page of the school newspaper for four years.
I guess he lives up here, too.
Something like trepidation winds down my spine as I approach Mickey’s door.
Maybe this is a bad idea.
I could just turn back, go home, and demand an apology tomorrow. Coming all the way here might’ve been a tad overkill, but…
He’s the one who left me hanging out to dry tonight.
So I take a deep breath.
And knock.
There’s no sound on the other side – not the quiet chatter of the TV or music. He’s either sleeping or not home at all, but in case it’s the first one, I shout, “Mickey? Mickey, are you in there?”
Still no answer.
I sigh.
So much for my a face-to-face confrontation.
One last time, my knuckles rap loudly against the aged wood, and to my surprise, the door creaks open under the weight of my fist.
I open my mouth to spew apologies for entering his dorm unannounced, but the room is empty – and the large, double-paned window by the desk has been blown open.
Frigid air slaps me in the face, and I shuffle toward the window.
Unless Mickey likes to sleep at a crisp forty degrees with wind chill, there’s no way he meant to leave it open.
I grab the latch, but my body goes rigid as stone.
I blink once.
And again – just to make sure I’m not seeing things.
But that’s when the screams start and I know I’m not the only one who has spotted Mickey’s body lying five floors down, his head cracked open like a cantaloupe on the concrete.