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Chapter Twenty-Three

  I stare at Zoe’s lips, certain I heard her wrong. She holds her saber like it’s a real weapon, like she might drive the whip-thin blade through my body with a flick of her wrist.

  I suck a breath in through my teeth. “What did you—”

  “Shut up.” Zoe shifts her eyes to the side, pressing a finger to her lips. She stalks the length of the room, peering down each row of lockers.

  Satisfied, she turns back around. “We’re alone.” She crosses her arms over her chest. Waiting.

  Out with it, Charlotte. “How do you know about the serum?”

  One of Zoe’s thin eyebrows arcs upward. “So you did take it.”

  “You took it, too? Did Ariel give it to you?”

  “Ariel?” Zoe’s eyes narrow into slits. “You got the serum from Ariel?”

  “Where did you think I got it?”

  Zoe studies me. It takes an eternity for her to answer. “We got it from Mr. Byron,” she says, referring to Weston’s school nurse. “He told us it was a vitamin supplement.”

  “We?”

  “Ariel, Devon, and me.” Zoe sits at the edge of a wooden bench and folds her hands in her lap. “Byron’s assistant came and found us on the first day of school and told us we’d qualified for some new program. All we had to do was take the serum and record any changes we noticed. Like a drug trial. I figured it was zinc or vitamin C. I didn’t even feel different at first. And then …” Zoe trails off, looking into space. “My skin cleared up, like, overnight. I thought it was this new face wash I’d been using, so I didn’t put it together right away. But then my fencing started getting good. Really good. Coach was talking about college scouts. The Olympics … That’s how I know you took it. A week ago, you were a terrible fencer.”

  I ignore the insult. Instead, I think of Devon’s notebook, and the columns of record-breaking swim times scrawled across the pages. It wasn’t steroids—it was the serum making her better. And my hair, my skin—it all fits. “So it’s some sort of miracle drug?”

  “That’s what I thought, too.”

  A chill that has nothing to do with the temperature creeps over my skin. “What do you mean, ‘thought’?”

  Zoe doesn’t look at me. She folds the cuff of her sleeve, then unfolds it again. “Ariel started acting strange after about two months on the serum. Distant.”

  “Ariel was always distant.”

  Zoe shakes her head. “Not like this.”

  I think of Ariel’s red hair floating below the surface of the water, her blank eyes staring at the ceiling. “You think the serum did something to her.”

  “I didn’t. Not at first. I didn’t know Ariel that well. I figured she was disturbed, that she got into a fight with her boyfriend. Or you. It didn’t occur to me that the vitamin supplement the school nurse gave us might’ve caused her to …” She swallows, unable or unwilling to finish her sentence.

  “So what changed?”

  “Devon showed up at my dorm a couple of weeks ago, freaking out about some girl on her swim team. Hayley—”

  “Hattie Goldberg.” The name slips out of my mouth by accident. I press my lips together, like that might keep the rest of the story from coming out with it. I don’t want to remember Hattie, but I don’t exactly have a choice. She’s locked in my head much as I wish I could forget her. Blood blossoming across the surface of the pool. The sound of laughter bouncing off tile walls, growing sharper, turning into screams.

  Zoe stares at me. “I’ve only heard rumors.”

  “Devon broke Hattie’s arm.” I stare down at the toes of my boots so I don’t have to see the expression on Zoe’s face. “She’d been holding her under the water after practice. Hazing her, sort of. Hattie couldn’t breathe and she tried to fight, so Devon broke her arm.”

  I don’t mention that I was there, in the stands. One of Hattie’s bones tore through the skin on her wrist, spilling blood into the pool. It spread so fast, like a drop of food coloring hitting water. One second the pool was clear, and the next it was cloudy and red and girls were screaming. I don’t tell Zoe that I thought Hattie was dead. I thought Devon had killed her.

  Devon and I stood together after, while we waited for the ambulance with the rest of the swim team. We were shoulder-to-shoulder, me in my uniform, Devon still wearing her dripping swimsuit. She turned to me, and there was a kind of emptiness in her normally vibrant brown eyes. She said it had been easy. Like snapping a twig.

  “That makes sense,” Zoe says. “The serum makes you stronger, I think. Last week I was trying to close a window in the locker room, and the glass just shattered. I had to call the janitor to fix it.” She looks up at me, sheepish. “Devon never told me what really happened with Hattie.”

  Anger flares through me, but Zoe didn’t break anyone’s arm and Devon’s dead, so I don’t know where to direct it. “What did she tell you?”

  “She thought there was something wrong with her. Her emotions were messed up.”

  I frown. “Messed up?”

  “She said it was like they were behind a thick layer of glass, and she could see them, but she couldn’t feel them.”

  Bullshit, I think, disgusted. She just didn’t want to take responsibility for what she did, for the ugliness inside her. But then Ariel’s video crackles to life in my head. Can’t feel anything, she whispered into the camera. I’m numb. Did she record that video before she burned down my animal shelter? Or after?

  One of them claiming they did something terrible because they felt numb was easy to dismiss. But both of them?

  “Devon thought it was the serum,” Zoe continues. “She talked to Mr. Byron about it, but I guess he blew her off, so Devon wanted to sneak into his office and go through his things. She thought there’d be files or something explaining what he did to her. I didn’t want to go with her, so she said she was going to go on her own. That was two weeks ago.”

  I count the days back in my head. “Right before she committed suicide.”

  “I didn’t believe her then. But now …” Zoe stares down at her hand. She stretches out her fingers and then curls them into a fist. “It started happening to me, too, exactly like Devon said it would. I feel … different. Empty, sort of. It’s like I’m—”

  “Numb,” I finish for her.

  Zoe’s head snaps back up. “Is it getting you, too?”

  The bell rings, making Zoe and me flinch. I’m suddenly very aware that we’re having this conversation in the girls’ locker room. That we still have to explain the incident in the gym to Coach Lammly.

  The door behind me slams open, and students stream into the room, talking and laughing. I catch Zoe’s eye and she jerks her head, motioning for me to follow her down an empty row of lockers.

  “Listen,” she whispers when we’re alone again. “We could sneak into the nurse’s office together. See if there’s—”

  “But you said Devon already looked.”

  “I said she wanted to. She died before she could tell me if she ever got in, or found anything.” Zoe studies me. There’s something strange about her eyes. Like they’re not connected to the part of her body that feels and thinks and worries. “They really didn’t tell you about any of this?”

  I’m considering coming clean about Ariel’s video and the final, missing clue, when something occurs to me. “That’s why you volunteered to be my roommate, isn’t it? So you could spy on me?”

  “No.” Zoe’s jaw tightens. “I mean, sort of. That’s why I moved in with you at first. I thought Devon and Ariel might have told you something they didn’t tell me, but you were pretty clueless, so I left it alone. Then you almost got expelled and when you came back … well, you were different.”

  “So you started going through my things?” I say this too loud, and the muffled conversations around us go quiet.

  “Keep your voice down.” Zoe moves closer, and I shuffle away from her, slamming into a row of lockers behind me.

  “Is that why you told me to leave?” I
ask.

  “I was doing you a favor,” Zoe says through clenched teeth. “Devon died, Charlotte. Just like Ariel died.”

  This room feels small all of a sudden. The walls are creeping closer.

  “What are you saying?” I ask.

  Zoe shakes her head, irritated. “If you left when you were supposed to, you might have been okay. But now …”

  “You think we’re going to die? That this serum is going to make us commit suicide?”

  Zoe meets my eyes, unblinking. “I don’t know what I think. But we’re not safe.”

  “This is crazy.” I turn toward the door. Screw Coach. I need to get out of here. I need to think without Zoe and half of the Weston fencing team staring at me.

  “Charlotte, wait.” Zoe grabs me by the wrist. “This is happening whether you believe it or not. You could be next.”

  I jerk my arm out of her grip, and her fingernails leave thin red lines on my skin. “Leave me alone.”

  I stumble out of the locker room in a daze. People crowd the hallway, but I can’t separate their individual voices from the blood pounding in my ears, the air humming around me. I have calculus next period, but I walk right past the hall leading to class and push through the doors to the quad, dropping onto a stone bench.

  Sunlight filters through the trees, illuminating the blue veins stretching across my wrists. I trace the spidery lines with one finger.

  We’re not safe, Zoe said. You could be next.

  “She’s wrong,” I whisper. But I can’t deny that I’m changing. My skin and hair are healthier. I’m doing better in all my classes. I’m suddenly the best fencer in school.

  And two days ago, Jack kissed me and I felt nothing. I thought there was something wrong with me. But what if …

  I spread my fingers and then tighten them into a fist, watching my veins fade and bulge. I imagine I can feel the serum moving just below the surface of my skin, seeping into my blood. Changing me.

  I slam my fist into the bench, and the stone splinters beneath my hand.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jack’s family limo pulls into the roundabout in front of school, headlights flashing.

  I pick a piece of lint off my dress and straighten my headband. I went for a classic look tonight: black shift, single strand of pearls, low heels. I check my reflection in the glass door to make sure my hair is still lying flat.

  Normally, I’d be nervous that I chose the wrong thing to wear, but not tonight. It’s unnerving. I’ve spent the last hour trying to feel anxious or afraid or a little bit timid. But it’s like the emotions have been deleted from my memory.

  I pinch my palm, reveling in the flare of pain. I can still feel things. I’m just psyching myself out. Like when you’re certain you’re about to get sick so you imagine you have a sore throat and a stuffy nose.

  Footsteps thud down the staircase. I turn, and Jack stands behind me in a slim-fitting charcoal suit, paired with a creamy white shirt. He doesn’t wear a tie, and he’s left the top buttons of his shirt undone at the collar, allowing a triangle of skin to peer through. His cognac-colored shoes and belt gleam under the dim lights.

  “You look beautiful.” Jack leans in and kisses me on the cheek.

  I feel … something. It’s not quite the weak-in-the-knees, stomach-flip, light-of-breath rush of emotions I used to feel whenever I saw Jack. But that’s just because we kissed. Because he’s mine now. It’s natural that I wouldn’t be giddy anymore.

  “You, too. Lovely as a summer day.” I straighten Jack’s collar, and he smiles with the left side of his mouth.

  “Shall we?” He offers me his arm and then leads me through the double doors and down the steps to the waiting limo. A man in a stiff black suit opens the back door, revealing an interior of sleek leather, tinted windows, and walnut trim. We slide inside, and Jack produces a key from his pocket. He unlocks a cabinet beneath his seat, removing a miniature bottle of champagne.

  I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not getting drunk on the ride to your parents’ house.”

  Jack pops the cork, and fizzy gold liquid spills over the mouth of the bottle. He catches it with his tongue.

  “Trust me, you’re going to need this to get through a night with the Calhoun family.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and offers the champagne to me.

  “Oh really? What horrible things are they going to subject me to?”

  “I don’t want to frighten you … but there might be baby pictures involved.”

  I don’t laugh, and Jack’s smile dims. To cover, I lift the bottle to my lips to drink. I didn’t laugh because the joke wasn’t funny, I tell myself. But Zoe’s warning circles my mind. You could be next.

  I shake my head, and the words pop like bubbles. I weave my fingers through Jack’s and squeeze. He looks at our clasped hands and then up at me, grinning.

  For tonight, at least, I’m not going to worry about the serum.

  The limousine pulls off the main highway and turns down a tree-lined road. There are few houses here and they’re set so far back from the street that you can barely see them. I catch glimpses of white brick and climbing ivy, but otherwise, there’s only meticulously trimmed bushes, and the odd Lexus SUV.

  The limo stops at a tall, wrought-iron gate. The gate creaks open.

  “This is where you live?” I ask as we pull toward the house at the end of the drive. It’s old and Victorian, but impeccably maintained. Arched bay windows stare out from the front of the home like eyes, and intricately molded cornices crown the door frames. A portico juts out from one side, the porch lined with white columns.

  “It’s like the Addams Family mansion, isn’t it?” Jack says. It does look creepy in the twilight, with the bare trees towering around it. But beautiful.

  I tip the last of the champagne into my mouth. “Maybe,” I say, swallowing. “If the Addams Family suddenly came into a lot of money.”

  The driver lets us out at the front door and we make our way inside, handing our coats to Roseanne, the maid Jack’s family has had since he was little. The front hallway features a carefully curated blend of gilded mirrors, crystal chandeliers, and marble statuettes. Jack leads me around the corner, into the main sitting room.

  Oil paintings hang from the walls, and ornate carpets cover the gleaming hardwood floor. A velvet settee sits at the far corner, flanked by walnut side tables holding identical Tiffany lamps.

  I take it all in. It’s like walking into a dream I only half remember. Ariel described all this to me. I closed my eyes while she re-created this room, down to the brass birds engraved on the fireplace pokers and the tassels hanging from the silk pillows. I listened to her talk, and I wanted to be here so badly that I could taste it on my lips like salt. But now …

  I force my mouth into a smile. “Wow,” I murmur, turning in place. “It’s like we’re in a play.”

  “I know.” Jack scratches the back of his neck. “My mother attended the Oscar Wilde school of interior design.”

  “I heard that!” a voice calls from the other room. Mrs. Calhoun herself rounds the corner a second later.

  I don’t know what I expected Mrs. Calhoun to look like—Ariel just said she was a snob—but I can safely say that the woman in front of me is the opposite. She’s tiny for one thing—I don’t think the top of her head clears my chin—and she looks, well, normal. She’s dressed casually, in dark pants and a camel-colored sweater with delicate gold bracelets twinkling from her birdlike wrists.

  “Some people have no sense of style,” she says, shaking her head at Jack before pulling him into a hug. Jack smiles with his whole mouth when he’s with his mother, like a little kid showing all his teeth.

  “Missed you, too, Ma,” he says, planting a kiss on the top of her head. She pulls away, turning her attention to me.

  “And you must be Charlotte,” she says.

  I offer my hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Calhoun.”

  “Nonsense. You’ll call me Babs.” Babs waves my
hand away and goes in for a hug.

  Physical contact usually sends a shrill, sharp feeling zipping over my skin, like electricity. I go stiff during every hug or handshake or kiss on the cheek. But hugging Babs is easy. Her body is small as a girl’s. Her sweater feels soft beneath my fingers. Cashmere.

  I’m still hugging Babs when a man walks into the room and claps Jack on the shoulder. “There he is!”

  Jack stands up straighter. “Sir,” he says, shaking the man’s hand. And then to me, “Charlotte, this is my father, Jack Calhoun Sr.”

  Jack Sr. offers me his hand, but it’s a moment before I reach out to shake it. I’ve seen photographs, of course, but it’s still strange to see Jack and his father together. They look exactly alike, down to the dimples in their chins and the way their smiles tilt too far to the left.

  “Wow,” I blurt out, and Jack Sr. releases a roaring laugh. Jack smiles, too, but he still looks stiff.

  “We get that a lot,” Jack Sr. explains. He drops one hand on my shoulder and the other on Jack’s, leading us from the room while Babs follows a step behind. “Now, Charlotte, I’m afraid Jack neglected to mention how beautiful you are.”

  “That’s not true,” Jack cuts in. “He’s trying to get me in trouble.”

  Jack Sr. winks at his son. “I guess my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  We make our way into the dining room, Jack Sr. and Babs sitting across from each other at the ends of the table while Jack and I settle in the middle.

  “He’s going to spend the entire night flirting with you,” Jack explains under his breath as he pulls out my chair. “He isn’t being creepy or anything. It’s just leftover politician charm.”

  “It’s fine,” I whisper back. Jack lets his hand linger on my back for a moment longer than necessary. I wait for the tingle of heat, the flurry of emotion. But it just feels like a hand. My smile stiffens as I slide into my chair.

  “It’s great to have you here, Charlotte.” Jack Sr. says. “You’ll have to tell your mother hello for us when you see her next.”

  “Jack and I have been very impressed with the work she’s done at the Med Center,” Babs adds, smiling. “She’s such a visionary.”