Their Vicious Games(13)
I mean it. I want to memorize every piece of this moment, of this time, brand it to my brain stem so that it feels real and lived in, even decades later, instead of fuzzy around the edges like an old, ill-kept photograph. The moment that changed my life forever.
“You be good, Dina,” Dad says.
“I will. I’ll be the best,” I promise.
I’ll be twice as good, is what I mean, and they know it. They know I have to be, like they taught me. I wrench open the back door and climb out, tugging my duffels over my shoulders.
I leave behind our sedan and wonder if the girl still by the doors will turn around and look at me, but instead she sashays forward in her black Balenciaga sock sneakers that should only look good on Instagram, but that she makes work in real life. I bite my bottom lip as she slips between those front doors before I catch up to her.
This is the start.
I could do anything.
Be anything.
All I’ve ever needed is access, and finally… the doors are literally open.
When I enter the foyer, I expect to find myself amongst the eleven other girls. Instead, only the girl from outside and I are there. Briefly, I wonder if we’re late. The girl doesn’t seem too concerned, but she does finally notice me, and I notice her right back.
Her long glossy thick hair spills down her back in a river. The sharp jut of her chin is intimidating, and she’s taller than me, even in her weirdo expensive sneakers.
The eyeliner on her eyelids is sharp, like she used a knife to apply the straight lines. There’s something about her stance that makes me stand even stiffer and taller. She looks out of place here, but not in the way that I do.
“Oh, good. Someone who isn’t the color of copy paper,” she says in a stiff, almost British accent.
I drop my bags as I burst into a surprised round of laughter and her mouth twitches too before she turns to face forward, toward the sound of clicking heels. I just manage to smother my laugh as an unfamiliar figure appears on the grand staircase.
She moves with practiced grace, each step deliberate. Her strides aren’t very wide, hindered by the tightness of her black pencil skirt, but she manages to make them feel like a power walk anyway. There are three strings of pearls of varying lengths dripping from her veiny neck, which is so thin and birdlike that her head looks in danger of falling off her shoulders. I wonder how long it takes her every morning to form the perfect blond waves that are swept over her right shoulder.
She has to be a Remington.
“Welcome to the Finish,” she says, her voice deeper than I expected, and very New England. “You must be Liu Ruolan, and you must be Adina Walker.”
“I go by Saint. It’s easier,” the girl says; the for you is heavily implied. “And you are?”
The woman doesn’t answer, just looks each of us up and down, and I wonder if she finds us wanting. She circles us, her gaze picking apart every inch. Saint looks bored with it, but I squirm underneath the incisive gaze. It feels more cutting than the stares of my peers, like she can see my insides and knows them well. And then the woman stops directly in front of me. When I meet her gaze, I am nauseous with a familiar eagerness for this woman to like what she sees, of wanting to be up to standards.
“Interesting,” she murmurs, like she’s confirmed something with her own eyes.
I immediately feel lighter.
“My name is Dr. Leighton Remington,” the woman says proudly, finally answering Saint’s question. “I am Pierce’s aunt. By marriage. I’ll be the Game Mistress of this Finish.”
It’s an odd title to use. Game Mistress. Not coordinator or director or judge.
“Nice to meet you,” I manage finally.
Dr. Remington doesn’t seem upset by my hesitation. “You’ll have a chance to change before we have a program rundown. Come this way. You’re the last girls to show up, so you’ll be rooming together. Don’t worry, you’ll see that you have an ample amount of space.”
I glance over at Saint, wondering if she’ll be upset with sharing a room, but her face is still coolly unaffected. I go to grab my duffels and Dr. Remington pauses on the stairs, as if she’s sensed my movement.
“Leave your personal items, dear girl; someone will bring them up after you.”
The moment she says it, three servants appear, each one in a crisp black uniform. One of the men grabs my bags while I follow her upstairs.
I can’t keep my eyes off the walls. Everything is dark wood and cedar, the banisters gleaming so much, I can almost see my own shape reflected. I drag my fingers over the wood, wondering if they’ll come away with polish, but they don’t. It’s as if it’s brand-new. Above us are enormous two-story windows, and on each one the Remington crest is emblazoned in yellow and royal-purple Tiffany glass, a snake winding its way through the center, its mouth open wide to reveal the outside world, as if the snake is preparing to eat everything in sight.
Beyond the windows, the grounds look like they could swallow me whole too. The gardens are an explosion of multicolored flora, with winding paths leading to an enormous hedge maze that looks like something you’d find in a movie. The groundskeepers move about, clipping and trimming at the edges, making sure there isn’t even a weed out of place.
“You’ll grow quite familiar with the grounds soon enough,” Dr. Remington says, her voice low and lilting, weirdly soothing.