Текст книги "Sublime"

Автор книги: Christina Lauren

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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

Chapter 1 HER

THE GIRL IS BENT INTO ODD ANGLES WHEN she wakes. It doesn’t seem possible that she could have been sleeping here, alone on a dirt path, surrounded by leaves and grass and clouds. She feels like she might have fallen from the sky.

She sits up, dusty and disoriented. Behind her, a narrow trail turns and disappears, crowded with trees flaming garishly with fall colors. In front of her is a lake. It is calm and blue, its surface rippling only at the edges where shallow water meets rock. On instinct, she crawls to it and peers in, feeling a tug of instinctive pity for the confused girl staring back at her.

Only when she stands does she see the hulking buildings looming at the perimeter of the park. Made of gray stone, they stand tall over the tips of fiery red trees, staring down at where she’s landed. The buildings strike her as both welcoming and threatening, as if she’s at that in-between stage of awake and asleep when it’s possible for dreams and reality to coexist.

Instead of being afraid, she feels a surge of excitement tear through her. Excitement, like the sound of a gunshot to a sprinter.

Go.

She slips down the trail and across the dirt road to where the sidewalk abruptly begins. She doesn’t remember putting on the silk dress she’s wearing, printed with a delicate floral calico and falling in wispy folds to her knees. She stares at her unfamiliar feet, wrapped in stiff new sandals. Although she isn’t cold, uniformed students walk past, wrapped in thick wool, navy and gray. Personality lies in the small additions: boots, earrings, the flash of a red scarf. But few bother to notice the wisp of a girl shuffling and hunched over, fighting against the weight of the wind.

The smell of damp earth is familiar, as is the way the stone buildings capture the echoes of the quad and hold them tight, making time slow down and conversations last longer. From the way the wind whips all around her, and from her precious new memory of the trees in the woods, she also knows that it’s autumn.

But nothing looks like it did yesterday. And yesterday, it was spring.

An archway looms ahead, adorned with tarnished green-blue copper letters that seem to be written from the same ink as the sky.

SAINT OSANNA’S PREPARATORY SCHOOL FOR GIRLS AND BOYS

GRADES K–12

EST. 1814 Beneath it, a broad iron sign lurches in the wind: And whosoever shall offend one of these little ones that believe in me, it is better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he were cast into the sea. Mark 9:42

The campus is larger than she expects, but somehow she knows where to look—right, not left—to find the grouping of smaller brick buildings and, in the distance, a wood cabin. She moves forward with a different kind of excitement now, like walking into a warm house knowing what’s for dinner. The familiar kind. Except she has no idea where she is.

Or who.

Of the four main buildings, she chooses the one on the left, bordering the wilderness. The steps are crowded with students, but even so, no one helps her with the door, which seems intent on pushing her back outside with its own weight. The handle is leaden and dull in her grip, and beside it, her skin seems to shimmer.

“Close the door,” someone calls. “It’s freezing!”

The girl ducks into the entryway, breaking her attention from her own stardust skin. The air inside is warm and carries the familiar smell of bacon and coffee beans. She hovers near the door, but nobody looks up. It’s as if she is any other student walking into a crowd; life keeps moving in the roaring dining hall, and in a blurred frenzy, she stands perfectly still. She’s not invisible—she can see her reflection in the window to her right—but she might as well be.

Finally, she makes her way through a maze of tables and chairs to an old woman with a clipboard who stands at the doorway to the kitchen. She’s ticking items off a list, her pen pressing and flicking in perfect, practiced check marks. Each new mark is identical to the others. A single question perches on the girl’s tongue and sticks there, unmoving, while she waits for the old woman to notice her.

The girl is afraid to speak. She doesn’t even know herself, let alone how to ask the one question she needs answered. Glancing down, she sees that her skin glows faintly under the honeyed light fixture, and for the first time it occurs to her to worry that she doesn’t look entirely . . . normal. What if she opens her mouth and dissolves into a flock of ravens? What if she’s lost her words along with her past?

Get it together.

“Excuse me,” she says once and then louder.

The woman looks up, clearly surprised to find a stranger standing so close. She seems a mixture of confused and, eventually, uneasy as she takes in the dusty dress, the hair tangled with leaves. Her eyes scan the girl’s face, searching as if a name perches near the back of her mind. “Are you . . . ? Can I help you?”

The girl wants to ask, Do you know me? Instead, she says, “What day is it?”

The woman’s eyebrows move closer together as she looks the girl over. It wasn’t the right question somehow, but she answers anyway: “It’s Tuesday.”

“But which Tuesday?”

Pointing to a calendar behind her, the woman says, “Tuesday, October fourth.”

Only now does the girl realize that knowing the date doesn’t help much, because although those numbers feel unfamiliar and wrong, she doesn’t know what year it should be. The girl steps back, mumbling her thanks, and reclaims her place against the wall. She feels glued to this building, as if it’s where she’ll be found.

“It’s you,” someone will say. “You’re back. You’re back.”

But no one says that. The dining hall clears out over the next hour until only a group of giggling teenage girls remains seated at a round table in the corner. Now the girl is positive something is wrong: Not once do they look her way. Even in her moth-eaten memories she knows how quickly teenage eyes seek out anyone different.

From the kitchen, a boy emerges, pulling a red apron over his neck and tying it as he walks. Wild, dark curls fall into his eyes, and he flips them away with an unconscious shake of his head.

In that moment, her silent heart twists beneath the empty walls of her chest. And she realizes, in the absence of hunger or thirst, discomfort or cold, this is the first physical sensation she’s had since waking under a sky full of falling leaves.

Her eyes move over every part of him, her lungs greedy for breath she doesn’t remember needing before now. He’s tall and lanky, managing somehow to look broad. His teeth are white but the slightest bit crooked. A small silver ring curves around the center of his full bottom lip, and her fingers burn with the need to reach out and touch it. His nose has been broken at least once. But he’s perfect. And something about the light in his eyes when he looks up makes her ache to share herself with him. But share what? Her mind? Her body? How can she share things she doesn’t know?

When he approaches the other table, the schoolgirls stop talking and watch him, eyes full of anticipation, perky smiles in place.

“Hey.” He greets them with a wave. “Grabbing a late breakfast?” A blond girl with a strip of garish pink in her hair leans forward and slowly tugs his apron string loose. “Just came by to have something sweet.”

The boy grins, but it’s a patient grin—flexed jaw, smile climbing only partway up his face—and he steps out of her grip, motioning to the buffet against the far wall. “Go grab whatever you want. I need to start clearing it out soon.”

“Jay said you guys did some pretty crazy stunts in the quarry yesterday,” she says.

“Yeah.” He nods in a slow, easy movement and pushes a handful of wavy hair off his forehead. “We set up some jumps. It was pretty sick.” A short pause and then: “You guys might want to grab some food real quick. Kitchen closed five minutes ago.”

Out of instinct, the girl glances to the kitchen and sees the old woman standing in the doorway and watching the boy. The woman blinks over to her then, studying with eyes both wary and unblinking; the girl is the first to look away.

“Can’t you sit and hang out for a few?” Pink-Haired Girl asks, her voice and lips heavy with a pout.

“Sorry, Amanda, I have calc over in Henley. Just helping Dot finish up in the kitchen.”

He’s fascinating to watch: his unhurried smile, the solid curve of his shoulders and the comfortable way he slips his hands in his pockets and rocks on the balls of his feet. It’s easy to tell why the schoolgirls want him to stay.

But then he turns, blinking away from the table of his peers to the girl sitting alone, watching him. She can actually see the pulse in his neck begin to pound, and it seems to echo inside her own throat.

And he sees her, bare legs and arms, wearing a spring dress in October.

“You here for breakfast?” he asks. His voice vibrates through her. “Last call . . .”

Her mouth opens again, and what spills forward isn’t what she expects; nor does she dissolve into a flock of ravens. “I think I’m here for you.”

CHAPTER 2 HIM

A WEEK LATER

COLIN HOVERS NEAR THE DOOR, STARING down at the fingers sticking out of the end of his newly set cast. They’re big and awkward—some are crooked from the older breaks he’d never had set. His knuckles are wide, his skin scarred from cuts and scrapes left to heal on their own. Today his fingers look swollen. Abused.

He’s finally managed to get the door open when his boss confronts him.

“Colin,” Dot says, her face set in a grim line. “Joe called and told me you’ve been at the infirmary all morning.” She doesn’t need to add, Don’t bother making an excuse, or, I knew this would happen again.

He exhales a shaky breath, and it condenses in the cold air in front of him. “I’m sorry, Dot,” he says, letting the door close behind him.

“Why are you apologizing to me? It’s your arm in a cast.” She clears her throat, her expression softening as she touches the plaster. “Broken this time?” He nods. “So why are you showing up for work?”

Her apron is drenched. She’s been doing dishes again, and Colin makes a mental note to kick Dane’s ass for not finishing before he left for class.

“I was coming to tell you I can’t work for the next two weeks.” The words burn as they come out. Working in the dining hall makes him feel less like a charity case.

“Only two?” She cocks her head and looks straight at him, catching the lie.

“Okay, four.” He fidgets, starting to reach to scratch his neck with the hand of his broken arm and then winces, working to not grunt some cusswords in front of Dot. She was his mom’s best friend and the closest thing he’s had to a grandmother for the past twelve years. The last thing he wants to do is upset her.

“And you haven’t been to basketball in three weeks,” she says. His eyes widen, and she nods. “Yep, I know about that. Talked to Coach Tucker a week ago; he says they cut you from the team.”

“Come on, Dot. You know that kind of stuff isn’t my thing.”

Dot narrows her eyes, considering him. “What is your thing, exactly? Defying death? Driving the rest of us to drink, worrying about you? I’ve always loved your fire, kiddo. But I’m not going to tolerate any more of this insanity.”

“It’s not insanity,” Colin says against his better judgment. “It’s biking.”

“Now, that’s a bald-faced lie. It’s tricks and props and jumping from train cars to the tracks. It’s riding on the train tracks and across bridges made out of rope over the quarry.” His head snaps up, and Dot nods forcefully. “Oh yeah. I know about that. You could have died out there. When will you realize you can only be so reckless before it’s too far?”

Colin curses under his breath. “Does Joe know?”

“No.” He hears the layer of warning in her voice, the unspoken not yet. “Slow down. The tricks, the racing. Everything. I’m too old to lose this much sleep worrying about you.” She pauses, considering her words before speaking. “I know seventeen-year-old boys think they’re invincible, but you more than anyone know how quickly people can be taken from us. I’m not going to let it happen to you.”

He bristles slightly, and Dot reaches for his arm.

“Just promise you’ll be more careful. Promise you’ll think.” When he doesn’t respond, she closes her eyes for a long beat. “I’m cutting down your spending account and revoking your state parks pass. You’re grounded to school property until I say otherwise.” She glances at him, probably waiting for him to explode, but he knows it isn’t worth it. Since Colin’s parents died, Joe has kept Colin under his roof and handled the official details of Colin’s meager inheritance, but Dot has the unofficial final say. The two of them give Colin miles of rope to proverbially hang himself and are always there to pick him up when he almost does. This has been coming for a long time.

He nods, hooking his bag over his shoulder before walking into the kitchen to cross his name off of his dining hall shifts. The marker squeals in the silence with a sound of finality, and he can feel the pressure of Dot’s attention on his back. He hates disappointing her. He knows how much she worries about him; it’s a constant, obsessive loop in her mind.

It’s why he hid in his room with a broken arm last night instead of going straight to the infirmary. It’s why Dot and Joe will never, ever know half the stupid shit he’s done.

Pulling his hood up against the wind, he grips the handrail as he climbs the steps of Henley Hall. The metal is cold and familiar beneath his palm, colder even than the autumn air that snakes around him. White paint has started to flake away, the surface marked with the scars of tires and skateboard axles—most of them his. The beginnings of rust bloom around the edges. What little sleep he got last night was broken up by stabbing pain; now he’s just sore and tired and not sure he can deal with today.

He pushes through the door, and emptiness greets him; the space ticks dully with the synchronized rhythm of the clocks at either end of the long hallway.

The halls don’t stay empty for long, though. The bell rings, and he turns the corner to find Jay pressing a girl against a locker outside class, a set of red-tipped acrylic nails running through his dirty-blond hair.

Jay looks back as Colin approaches, smirking at him over his shoulder. “About time you got here, slacker,” he says. “You missed the world’s most painful calculus class. I could practically hear my brain bleeding.”

Colin nods his chin in greeting, lifting his cast. “I think I’d have preferred calc over this.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Jay’s latest conquest reluctantly leaves as he and Colin walk into the classroom. Students continue to file in around them, and Colin drops his bag at a desk inside, bending to dig for his assignment.

“So you were right,” Jay says, motioning to the cast. “Broken?”

“Yeah.” As quickly as he can with one functioning arm, Colin finds his paper and stuffs everything else back in the bag.

“Joe and Dot read you the riot act?” Jay’s been at Saint Osanna’s as long as Colin has—since kindergarten—and knows just as well that Dot has never appreciated the two boys’ particular thirst for adventure.

Colin looks at him pointedly. “Dot did.”

Jay straightens. “Did she ground your fun money?”

“Yeah. And I’m restricted to school property indefinitely. Thank God you took my bike to your parents’ house last night or she’d probably take that, too.”

“Brutal.”

Colin hums in agreement and hands his assignment to the teacher. What kills him the most is that this ride wasn’t even that dangerous. A week ago he jumped from the lip of the quarry onto a boulder at the base and came home without a scratch. But yesterday he couldn’t land even a rookie jump without wiping out.

“Hood off, Colin,” Mrs. Polzweski says. He pushes it off and shoves his hair back from his eyes as they move to their desks.

Just as the second bell rings, she walks in. The girl from the dining hall. Colin hasn’t seen her in a week, and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about what she said just before she ran out the door.

I think I’m here for you.

Who says shit like that? He’d tried to call after her, but she was gone before the words dissolved in the air in front of him.

She slips through the noisy room and takes the seat in the row next to his, moving her eyes to him and then quickly away. Her arms are empty, no books or paper, no backpack. A few people watch her sit down, but she moves so fluidly, she seems to already have joined the rhythm of the room.

“If you can’t ride for a whole month, we’re going to need a plan,” Jay whispers. “No way can you be stuck inside that long. You’ll go insane.”

Colin hums, distracted. It’s crazy; the girl seems otherworldly, almost as if a faint sheen of light surrounds the exposed skin on her arms. Her white-blond hair has been brushed free of leaves, and she has these badass black boots laced to her knees with a French-blue oxford tucked into the navy uniform skirt. Her lips are full and red, her eyes lined with thick lashes. She looks like she could rip through the wool of his trousers with only a dirty word. As if feeling him watching, she pulls her legs farther under the desk, her arms closer against her body.

Jay pokes Colin right above his cast. “You’re not going to let that little cast stop you from having fun, are you?”

He pulls his eyes from the girl to look at Jay. “Are you kidding me? There’s tons of other ways to get in trouble without leaving the grounds.”

Jay grins and bumps Colin’s good fist.

Mrs. Polzweski organizes her stack of papers at her desk, ignoring the flurry of hushed activity: books being opened, pages turning, and students grumbling, the occasional cough, a pencil being sharpened somewhere. The girl sits, staring ahead, looking like she’s trying as hard as she can to not be noticed.

Where has she been?

In the periphery, Colin sees her thin fingers reach for a pencil that someone has left on the desk. She turns it over and over in her hand, as if the movement requires practice, examining it like she suspects it’s a magic wand.

Colin doesn’t think he’s ever seen such light hair before. When she tilts her head slightly, inspecting the pencil, her hair catches a dusty sunbeam, making it seem almost translucent. The strands twist and spill over shoulders that are hunched forward and wrapped in a shirt that’s too bulky for someone so delicate. She looks like a shadow of a girl. A shadow wearing a cap of sunshine.

As if she can feel him staring, she turns, an involuntary smile lifting the corner of her mouth. Her dimple makes him think of giggled pleas, mischievous promises, and the taste of sugar on his tongue. Gunmetal eyes meet his, and the color is alive, churning like an angry ocean, pulling him in.

He lets himself drown.

THE ONLY PERSON LOOKING AT HER IS THE same boy whose face has haunted her all week, with wild dark hair that needs to be cut, an arm in a new cast, and eyes that pierce her, amber and fierce. “Hi,” she rasps, tucking away her smile. Her voice is rough because this is the first time she’s used it in six days.

The first time she used it since she spoke to him and then burst from the dining room, intending to run into town to find the police and tell them she needed help. She could get only as far as a hulking metal campus gate a half mile down the gravelly road. Each of the three times she tried to escape, one step past the gate put her right back on the trail where she woke up, as if she’d stepped into a skipping song.

The boy’s gaze narrows and slips across her cheeks, over her nose, pauses at her mouth. He blinks once, slowly, then again. “Where did you go?”

Nowhere, she thinks, envisioning the empty shed she found in the middle of a barren field beside the school. It was as deserted as her memory bank, after all, and seemed the perfect home for a girl who has no name, no past. After being inexplicably drawn to this school building every morning for a week, she finally grew brave enough to steal a uniform, walk inside, and sit down.

“You disappeared,” he says.

She shifts in her seat, glancing at his mouth. “I know. I wasn’t quite sure how to follow up my stunning opening line.”

Laughing, he says, “Here,” and pushes his open textbook closer to her.

She blinks, the phantom trace of a pulse racing inside her throat at the way his eyes move over her face, the way he purses his lips slightly before smiling.

“Thanks,” she says. “But I’m okay. I can just listen.” He shrugs, but doesn’t move away. “I think we’re covering the history of labor-management relations today. Wouldn’t want you to miss out on the full experience.”

The girl isn’t sure what to do with his attention. She suspects, from the way her skin seems to be aching to move

closer to him, that he’s the reason she’s drawn here every morning, just as she found herself in the dining hall that first day. But he seems so sweet, almost too open, like she’s a strip of paper dragged through poisoned honey and this perfect boy flies innocently around her. How good can a girl be when she doesn’t need to eat or sleep and keeps finding herself snapped back to school grounds every time she tries to leave? He continues to stare, and she shifts her hair over her shoulder, lowering it like a curtain between them. “Colin?” It’s a woman’s voice, clear and authoritative. The pressure of his gaze on her lifts. “Sorry, Mrs. Polzweski,” he says.

Now that the girl knows his name, she wants to whisper it over and over.

“Who are you, honey?” the teacher asks.

The room is a vast bubble, silent and pulsing with expectation, and the girl realizes this Ms. Polzweski is speaking to her. But with the question hanging in the air, a man’s voice speaks in the girl’s mind.

“I bet you didn’t know your name means light,” he whispered, lips too close to her ear.

“I did know,” she wanted to say, but the hand on her throat made it hard to even draw breath.

“Lucia,” she remembers in a gasp. “My name is Lucy.” The teacher hums in acknowledgment. “Lucy, are you new?” Something inside Lucy stirs at the sound of someone else saying her name. For a heavy moment, she feels real, as if she’s a balloon and someone has finally weighted her to the ground. Maybe a girl with a name won’t float off into the sky. Lucy nods, and a phantom heat burns across her cheek where Colin’s gaze settles again.

“You’re not on my roll, Lucy. Can you go to the office to check in?”

“Sorry,” Lucy says, fighting panic. “I just started today.” Ms. Polzweski smiles. “You need to make sure to pick up your add card. I’ll sign it.”

Lucy nods again and slips away, wanting to disappear like a shadow into black.

Lucy knew she’d be told to go, but she doesn’t even know where the office is and isn’t quite ready to brave the outdoors and the winds that weigh more than she does. And here her feet seem grounded anyway, keeping her from leaving. She sits at the end of the hall, knees to chest, waiting for the next tug of instinct to pull her up and forward.

A door opens and closes shut with a quiet click. “Lucy?” It’s one of the only two voices in this world that she’s connected to a name—Colin—and it’s hesitant and deep and quiet. It cuts straight down the hall, and his lanky figure moves just as smoothly, straight to her. “Hey. Do you need help finding the office?”

She shakes her head, wishing she had something to gather to take with her so she could look purposeful and less like a lost girl sitting on the floor. Instead, she stands and turns, watching the lines of wood flooring weave a path in front of her as she walks away. She knows how it would go, anyway: He would walk with her, notice how she fights the wind, ask if she’s okay. And how would she respond? I don’t know. I only remembered my name five minutes ago.

“Hey, wait.”

She reaches a door, but it’s locked. She tries another beside it. Also locked.

“Lucy, wait,” Colin says. “What are you looking for? You can’t go in there. Those are janitor closets.”

She stops, turning to face him, and he’s looking at her. Really looking, like he wants to capture every detail. When their eyes meet, he makes a strangled sound, narrowing his gaze and leaning closer to look. Her eyes are murky greenbrown; she’s stared at them for hours in an old mirror hoping to remember the girl behind them.

“What?” she asks. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He shakes his head. “You’re . . .”

“I’m what?” What will he say? What does he see?

He blinks again, slowly, and she realizes it’s just something he does: an unselfconscious, unhurried blink, as if he’s capturing an image of her and developing it on his lids. “Intense,” he murmurs.

With that word, the other man’s voice appears in her head again, an echo from the same intrusive memory, “You have to know how intense this is for me.”

She stumbles back, eyes wide.

“Are you okay?” Colin reaches for her arm, but she’s already turning, hurrying away.

With lips wet and pressed to her ear, he asked, “Are you afraid of dying?”

“Lucy!”

A flash of her reflection in a crisp blade of silver. Breath smelling of coffee and sugar, cigarettes and delight. Cool water lapping near her head. A knife, drowning in her own blood, the feeling of being pried open.

She bursts through the side exit, sucking in a huge gasp of sharp, autumn air.

So that’s who she is. She’s the girl who isn’t alive anymore.

CHAPTER 4 HIM

THERE’S THAT NEW GIRL,” JAY SAYS THROUGH a mouthful of sandwich. Colin follows his gaze and grunts, noncommittal, as Lucy glides across the soccer field. When she’s alone, she’s statuesque, long lines and slim profile. When she gets closer to the other students, she shrinks in on herself: shoulders pulled in, head down.

She reminds him of himself after his parents died and he didn’t and the sadness and guilt felt like a crushing weight under his ribs. He didn’t know how he was supposed to weather it. When people tried to talk to him at first, it made him wish he could turn into air and disperse in a thousand different directions. Lucy carries that same kind of bewildered fragility.

It’s been three days since she showed up in his class, offered the most achingly vulnerable smile he’d ever seen, and then ran away again. Nobody talks to her. Nobody looks at her. She has no books, or even a backpack. She looks at every building as if she’s trying to see through its walls to what lies inside. She always touches the outstretched arm of the statue of Saint Osanna Andreasi as she passes through the darkest corner of the quad, pulling back as if she’s been burned before reaching out to touch it again, carefully. No one ever touches the statue—it’s said to be haunted—but Lucy does. Colin has never seen her with anyone. Lucy doesn’t even go to the same classes every day. She kind of hovers around campus.

He feels like a total stalker for knowing these things when everyone else seems content to let her be. Most new students get a schedule of classes and let the tide carry them. Lucy seems determined to remain disorganized.

At least she looks more peaceful today, as if she’s enjoying the weather before it all goes subzero. It’s still a bit on the cool side, but she never wears a jacket. Thin blue fabric wraps down the length of her arms. How can she be warm enough? She must live off campus, he reasons. Maybe she left her coat at home.

“She seems weird, though,” Jay says. This catches Colin’s attention, and he looks over at Jay, wondering what he means. Two nights now Colin has fallen asleep thinking about Lucy’s mood-ring eyes. Does Jay notice too? “Weird, how?”

Jay shrugs and takes another bite, propping his feet on the wall of the arts building. His dirty sneakers blend into the gray concrete. “She’s been in my English class a few times. Doesn’t talk much.”

“And her eyes, too.”

Glancing at Colin, Jay asks, “Eyes?”

“Never mind. They’re . . . I don’t know. Different.” “Different? Aren’t they, like, brown or something?” Colin mumbles, “Maybe gray,” but his heart is thundering.

He’s pretty sure if he says, “They’re like melted metal,” Jay will actually have a T-shirt made for him with the words I AM A DELICATE POET printed across the chest.

“Brown hair, gray eyes,” Jay says as if reciting the ingredients for average. Colin pauses with his sandwich partway to his lips. He turns to Jay and follows his gaze again, making sure they’re both looking at the same girl. They are.

“Brown?” Colin asks, motioning to where she’s reached the edge of the field. “That girl over there?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jay answers. “The same one you’ve been staring at for the last twenty minutes.”

Lucy’s hair isn’t brown. It’s not even close. Colin watches her again and shivers, pulling his hood up.

Colin wonders if it should freak him out that Jay sees brown hair when he sees almost white-blond. But, with a strange rush of warmth in his limbs, he finds he likes that he sees her differently. It feels strangely surreal, and it occurs to him that this reaction might come from the same part of his brain that turns on when he looks over a cliff and instead of thinking, Back off, he thinks, Pedal faster.

“Amanda said they saw her walking down by the lake,” Jay says.

“The lake?”

“Yeah. She’s new; wouldn’t know the stories, would she?”

Colin nods. “No, she wouldn’t know any of that.”

The stories are as old as the buildings here: Walkers out in daylight, wandering lost and confused. A man in military uniform sitting on the bench near the lake. A girl vanishing between two trees. Sometimes a student will claim a Walker tried to talk to them or, worse, grab them. But it’s all ghost stories, a legend built on the morbid history of the school. The Catholic institution was built on grounds where children of settlers were buried before the survivors made their long trek through the mountains, but in the first week the school was open, two more kids died in a fire that burned down the chapel. For years, students claimed to see the two lost children standing by the newly erected statue of Saint Osanna, or sitting in a pew in the rebuilt chapel. The legend lived on, and over time, the population of Walkers grew in the students’ collective imagination.