Leighton doesn’t tell us what the Royale is, but she doesn’t need to. I know the definition—an event in which a number of combatants fight it out until there’s one left standing.
She steps around us and walks back into the ballroom, shutting the doors behind us, leaving us in darkness. There is nothing to say between the five of us. Hawthorne nods once, gingerly holding Esme’s injured hand in hers. They walk down the corridor toward the left. Penthesilea takes off to the right.
Saint and I take the long way, walking down toward the main staircase and ascending.
No matter how far we walk, I can still hear the echoes of music and laughter and, if I try hard enough, imagine the sound of clinking crystal. A toast to the Remingtons. To the rich. To the continued impoverishment of everyone who’s not them. Meanwhile, our way is lit only by the stray candelabra on the walls, like this is some manor in some shitty budget eighties Gothic film.
My life is a horror movie.
Go figure.
But it’s almost peaceful, knowing that tomorrow is the day that I’ll die. I laugh to myself, my own voice echoing eerily through the halls.
Because even if I die tomorrow, I want to haunt these halls long after I’m gone. I want the Remingtons to remember me. Witness me. Never be free of me.
I open our door, content with this commitment.
Saint walks in and immediately drops her dress, tearing it off her body, the zipper popping. She kicks it off, standing there in her underwear. And then she stalks toward the wardrobe and tears it open, throwing aside the white lace dress from the first day in favor of the black fatigues Mr. Caine hasn’t taken back yet.
I shut the door behind me.
“Saint… Saint, what are you doing?” I ask, weighing each word carefully. She pulls her hair back in a ponytail, so tight that her eyebrows arch unnaturally.
Saint hops into the pants, breathing noisily, nostrils flaring. Then she tugs the jacket on and zips it up to her chin, like she wants to choke herself with the collar.
“I’ve seen enough. I’ve heard enough,” Saint says. “I’ve had enough. I’m done.”
I sober swiftly. I’m suddenly far too cold.
“What do you mean you’re done?” I rush to her side and grab her hands, trying to unfold her arms. She doesn’t resist, letting me grab them and squeeze as I look up at her.
“I’m going home,” Saint says decidedly. She nods, like it’s as simple as walking through the door, like me when I first tried to escape, no matter that she’s dressed for war. “I can’t be here anymore.”
I drop her hands, wounded. “You can’t… you can’t leave me,” I yelp. I look at her, wide eyed.
“I won’t,” Saint says firmly. “You’re coming with me.”
The words don’t make sense, they scramble in my brain.
“I… w-we can’t,” I stutter. Immediately, all the obstacles leap into my head in the form of a helpful itemized list. “One: there are guards. Two: we don’t know the grounds at night. Three: Leighton threatened my parents—”
“They can’t touch your parents,” Saint insists.
“And how do you know that?” I only realize that I’ve shouted when Saint takes a hesitant step back. I glance back at the door, terrified that Mr. Caine will show up. Or worse—Leighton. Lowering my voice to barely a whisper, I say, “I don’t have the same resources as you, Saint. My parents work at the school that they own. My parents are all I have, but they have nothing to protect them.”
“Not anymore. You have me,” Saint corrects.
I do have her. And… I might have someone else.
“You know that boy I was talking to at the Repartee? The Black boy?” I ask quietly.
Saint nods immediately. “Yes. What about him?”
“His name is Charles. He’s Pierce’s best friend,” I say, and I watch Saint’s transformation, the way her entire expression turns to the steel edge of a blade. I shake my head, waving my hands. “No, that’s not the important part. He’s my best friend Toni’s twin brother.”
Saint straightens, and she’s too smart to not figure out where this is going. “What were you two talking about?”
“When I called my mother, I asked her to give Toni a message. I told her this thing about Bath & Body Works and Suburbia. It’s shit I don’t talk about. Shit I would only talk about if I was uncomfortable,” I whisper, cautious of being overheard. “It means that something’s wrong. That I’m stuck. But it must’ve been too vague. So I told Charles to… to help me. To tell Toni that I need help. She’ll come and we can go to her family first. Figure things out from there. They’re not like my parents. They’re rich. Not like the Remingtons, but still.”
Saint hesitates.
“You just said he’s Pierce’s best friend,” she reminds me.
“But Charles doesn’t like this either. I could tell. He was scared, but he couldn’t do anything while he was here. When he gets back, though…，” I insist.
He’d tell Toni, but I realize that doesn’t mean anything. He’d have to convince her first. And then, he’s less impulsive than her. He’d stop her from returning without a plan. If he let her come at all. It would take time. Time we don’t have.
“If it weren’t for your parents, would you leave here?” Saint asks, interrupting my train of thought. “Can you honestly tell me another reason you wouldn’t?”
Once there might have been. Here, there is a promise of a future. Of rich foods and bubbly champagne. Of Ivy educations and long-standing careers. Power over everyone and anyone that could ever try to hurt me again.
Apply pressure, Leighton’s voice says. Become a diamond.
But it’s all fake. Rotten, just like Penthesilea said. It’s gaslighting and manipulation and casual racism and classism and never-ending total bullshit. Not to mention murder.
So, if my parents weren’t a concern, of course I would try to run again. There’s nothing to lose that I won’t lose more certainly tomorrow, nothing tethering me here. My loyalty is to Saint alone. Hawthorne will never change as long as Esme is around. Penthesilea is desperate. Graham is spineless. And Pierce is dangerous.
“No,” I whisper finally.
“Then we have to leave,” Saint insists. “I will protect them. My family can protect them. And Yale. You want to go to Yale? I’ll try to make that happen for you. I’ll even pay for it out of my trust fund.”
“Why?” I ask, but I think I already know the answer.
“Because we’ve gone through hell together in two weeks, and you got me through it. You have pushed me and taken care of me and made me feel like I wasn’t going crazy. You saw exactly what I saw. A family of psycho, power-hungry assholes,” Saint says plainly. “We both know that the Royale tomorrow is going to be winner takes all. And I don’t think we’ll survive it. At least, I won’t. These white people won’t pay for what they’ve done to us. America will protect them. So we need to go.”
“Do you have a plan?” I ask.
Saint nods once. “Yes. Not a good one. But it’s better odds than staying.”