The St. Ambrose School for Girls(82)

When she sees us, she focuses only on Strots. Then she looks at the duffel with satisfaction. “That’s a little much just for an away game, isn’t it.”

Strots only stares at her.

I walk over and stand between my roommate and Greta. “It didn’t work. She’s not leaving.”

I want to spray-paint the words on the wall above the bitch’s bed so that the neon drips onto her monogrammed fucking duvet cover and ruins it.

“Well, then, we’re not done,” she says softly. “Are we.”

There is a long pause and I search Greta’s face for any kind of hint about how she’ll escalate things. She is like a marble statue, however, nothing but a faithful representation of her features. I tell myself she must be seething inside.

I look back at Strots. She is also still, so still, in the manner of an animal. But not because she’s scared. Her stare is locked on the other girl like the sight of a gun.

I have a thought that Greta should watch what she says. And maybe where she goes after this. What is a game to her… does not look like hopscotch to my roommate.

Strots takes the cigarettes I was prepared to pose with to protect her, and as she crosses over and steps out of our room, she says something to me, but I don’t hear it.

Greta smiles as my roommate goes by her. “Going upstairs to see your girlfriend? Say hi to Keisha for me.”

Strots is already out of the scope of our doorway so I can’t catch her reaction. But Greta’s feigned look of innocence, as if she’s responding to a glare, makes me furious. I’m also worried about who might have overheard her.

Before I know what I’m doing, I am standing in front of the girl as my roommate walks off. “What is wrong with you.”

Those beautiful blue eyes shift over to me. And then she laughs. “This. Coming from somebody who’s certifiably insane? Hey, do they give you a little certificate when they tell you you’re nuts? Is that how the term got started—”

“Why do you have to do this to people?” Tears make my vision wavy. “Why do you have to be so cruel? Is it because your father spent all your inheritance?”

Her hitch of breath suggests that the cheap shot hit deep. “You don’t know anything about me.”

I think of the night I interrupted her and Nick. “Yes, I do.”

As her eyes narrow, she manages to look downright ugly, and I wonder whether she, too, is back at the nocturnal interruption that seemed to start it all between us.

“Like what,” she demands.

For a moment, I almost say it. But then I shy away. “You’re fucking mean.”

I just can’t do it when it comes to our RA. I don’t trust him. I don’t trust her. Unfortunately, I don’t trust myself.

“I’m not mean,” she says. “I just like playing with dominoes. The cascade is so much fun to watch.”

As she turns away, I put force in my voice. “Leave Strots alone.”

“Or what.”

“I’m going to hurt you.”

Greta stares over her shoulder. “Sorry, reject. Dominoes can’t fight falling. But go on and try. Let’s see what happens with that.”

I really want to reveal what I know about her and our residential advisor. But suddenly, my mind breaks free of the commonly experienced environment and takes me on a trip to an alternate version of our hallway, one where blood flows, red as the ruby studs in Greta’s earlobes, glossy and thick as maple syrup. As the girl takes her leave of me, the scent of copper floods my nose, replacing her flowery perfume, and I look down to find the carpet soaked with plasma. My sneakers schmuck-schmuck-schmuck through it as I turn and go back into my room.

I slam my door so hard, I make myself jump.

As I look around, I see walls running with blood. There is so much of it, there are pools forming on the floor, licking up the feet of our bed frames, swamping Strots’s still-packed luggage, seeping into our closets.

I feel the cloying squeeze around my ankles as the levels rise. I slosh over to my mattress, searching for higher ground. I open my window, so that it will run out and not drown me, a river’s worth of Greta’s blood flowing freely down the back of Tellmer, landing on the cars, making its way to the low point of the streambed in a tsunami that knocks over trees and consumes the straggly brush.

My last cogent thought is that I’ll bet Ms. Crenshaw never thought she’d have to roll up Nick Hollis’s windows against the likes of this.





chapter TWENTY-FOUR




When I finally return to my body and my version of normal awareness, I am sitting on my bed and it is dark out. In the glow from the security lights, I can tell that the walls of my room are once again white, the floor is dry, and my roommate’s packed things are not sponges to be wrung out for the benefit of the Red Cross. I lift my hands. There is no blood on them. I inspect my sneakers. They are free of the kinds of stains you have to call the police about. Likewise, my pant legs are clean.

As I go to close my window, I nonetheless have to double-check the parking area. Thanks to the outdoor illumination, I can see the faculty cars. The back lawn. The trees and the ground cover that obscure the river’s edge. Everything looks right.

I am so relieved that I begin to shake. I am also disoriented and weak, as if the hallucination required calories even though my physical body didn’t go anywhere.