Breaking Page 7

  I pull Ariel’s old locker open, but it’s empty, a coat of dust on the metal shelf where she kept her sports bra and tennis shoes. Devon’s locker still has her padlock dangling from the latch, but I know the code: 33-8-17. The lock falls open in my fingers.

  Devon’s locker is far from empty. Her gym bag lies on the floor, filled with clothes and shoes that are starting to stink. I wrinkle my nose as I poke through it, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. I turn my attention to the metal shelf and find a bottle of face cream, a pair of goggles, a small red notebook.

  I pull the book off the shelf and flip it open. Row after row of numbers line the pages: 4:30.02, 4:05.03, 4:02.40, 3:58.69, 3:42.40 … Devon swam the 400-meter freestyle for Weston’s swim team. This must be where she recorded her times.

  I study the last set of numbers she scribbled down: 3:42.40. That can’t be right. I was never a swimmer, but Devon talked about it constantly. The summer before our senior year I used to sit at the side of the pool, stopwatch in hand as she cut through the water, arms smooth and strong and straight. She was trying to take five seconds off her time so she’d be a contender for the state record—which was 4:44.40. I remember shouting that number at least a dozen times when she finally made it. She leaped out of the pool and wrapped me in a hug, neither of us caring that she soaked my clothes all the way through.

  I shake the memory out of my head, and refocus on the numbers scrawled in her notebook. It took her all summer to cut those five seconds, but this list makes it look like she was dropping time steadily: twenty-five seconds here, sixteen seconds there. Her last time was a full minute faster than what it was last summer.

  “That would be a record.” I pull out my phone and look up the world record for the women’s 400-meter freestyle. It’s 3:57.07—almost fifteen seconds longer than Devon’s last recorded time. Devon would have been winning medals and attracting college scouts. But she barely swam at all during those last few months. It was like she got bored of it.

  A locker door bangs open. I flinch and shove the book into my gym bag, pushing Devon’s locker closed with my elbow. Zoe stands at the end of the aisle. She’s already dressed in her fencing gear, but it doesn’t look bulky and awkward on her. She could be walking down a runway.

  “You have nice shoes,” she says, smirking.

  I look down at the clunky gray fencing boots. “What?”

  “Those black strappy ones you hide in the back of your closet.” Zoe makes an okay symbol with her fingers. “Very nice.”

  “You went through my things?”

  “You went through mine first.”

  It takes me a long moment to remember what she’s talking about. The pink pocketknife. The love note. “I was looking for something of Ariel’s,” I explain. “I didn’t touch your things.”

  “Whatever. Stay out of my shit.” She turns, slamming her locker door shut. The sharp crash echoes through the room, making me flinch.

  I have a sudden flash of a memory as I watch her walk away: Zoe sitting in the corner of the quad, hunched forward so that her long hair hid her face. She was watching something on her phone, and she had her headphones in so she couldn’t hear the crowd of upperclassmen a few feet away, making fun of her.

  I bet no one makes fun of her now that she’s nationally ranked. I bet they compliment her eyeliner and let her cut in front of them in the lunch line, hoping to get on her good side. Like talent is something that can rub off on them.

  I walk into the gymnasium with my helmet under one arm. Long, narrow mats stretch across the width of the room. The word “piste” pops into my head. The mat is called a piste. I may have skipped half the practices last semester, but I haven’t forgotten all my fencing training. The rest of the class has already paired up, two girls to a piste. I stop next to an empty mat, partnerless.

  Coach Lammly sweeps into the room. She’s built like a French bulldog—tiny with muscular arms and small, pointed ears. She wears her dark hair short and slicked back against her head.

  She raises an eyebrow as she walks past me. “Equipment, Gruen!” she barks, pointing to my helmet. I look around the room. Every other girl already has her helmet on.

  I tug mine over my head.

  “You’re going to need a saber, too,” Coach says, winking. A few of the other girls chuckle. I suddenly remember why I hate fencing. I cross the gymnasium, to the far wall where we store the practice sabers in large metal lockers. Behind me, Coach turns to address the class.

  “Good, I see you’ve all found a partner,” she says. I tug a locker door open and pull a saber off its metal hook. Right. One needs a partner to fence with. Crap.

  “I’d like you to focus on your footwork today, particularly your advance, retreat, and lunge. Some of you have progressed on to the saber flèche”—Coach Lammly’s eyes flicker over to Zoe—“and that’s fine. Just make sure you focus on your positioning as you practice. I don’t want to see any sloppy lunges in here.”

  Coach leans back and then shoots forward, knee bent, landing in a perfect lunge. “See where my feet are? That’s proper form.”

  She straightens and glances at me again. I’ve stopped beside the same empty mat, hoping she won’t notice that I’ll be practicing my footwork solo. No such luck. She jerks her head at the last piste on her right, where Zoe stands.

  “Miss Gruen, your partner is waiting.”

  I’m suddenly glad for the clunky fencing helmet. At least I know the rest of the class can’t see the blood drain from my face. I don’t bother checking the gymnasium to make sure every one else already has a partner. Of course they do. No one wants to fight Zoe. I force one foot in front of the other, until I’m standing on the piste across from her.

  She tilts her head to the side, her expression unreadable beneath the black mesh. “I was partnered with Coach every other day this week,” she says. “Now I have to babysit.”

  “I could surprise you,” I say.

  “Doubtful.”

  Coach blows her whistle. “On-guard position, ladies.”

  Zoe falls into a perfect on guard: feet spread, knees bent, saber held at a slight angle before her face. I mimic her, but my arms feel too long. I crouch lower, and my legs awkwardly jut out from my body. My saber sways in my hand. Zoe holds hers rod-straight.

  It doesn’t matter how you do, I tell myself. But then I think of those girls laughing when I forgot to grab my saber, the condescending sound of Zoe’s voice. Doubtful. Is this how it’s going to be now that I don’t have Ariel and Devon to watch my back? Because that’s pretty pathetic.

  Coach blows her whistle again, one sharp note. All around us, girls start moving. Boots pad and thump against the mats. Metal clashes with metal.

  Zoe stays still.

  “Footwork, ladies!” Coach barks.

  I shuffle forward—front foot, then back foot, leading with my heels. Maybe I don’t have to do well, but I’d like to get through this without looking like a complete idiot. I don’t remember much from the half dozen classes I actually attended. I think Coach said something about alternating the length of your steps. I take short, quick steps, then long, slow ones. Zoe retreats easily, saber still straight in front of her helmet. Okay, this isn’t so bad, but I can’t keep chasing her down the piste. I have to actually do something.

  I lunge, and she flicks her wrist to the side, blocking my saber with the edge of her blade. I start to pull back, and she taps me on top of my helmet. Point Zoe.

  “Fantastic parry-riposte, Zoe,” Coach shouts.

  “I thought you’d done this before,” Zoe says, her words muffled by her helmet. My cheeks flare. So much for not looking like an idiot.

  “Can we just get this over with?”

  “If you say so.” Zoe advances. Her movements seem too quick. Her front toes barely brush against the ground before she raises her back heel, her entire body slinking forward with animal grace. It’s almost like she’s floating.

  I stumble away from her, forgetting my footw
ork completely. My balance is off, my back leg cramped and awkward, my front leg jittery. I nearly trip over my own too-large feet.

  “Gruen, you look sloppy,” Coach shouts.

  I grit my teeth together. I can do this. It’s fencing, not dismantling a nuclear warhead. And Zoe may seem supernatural, but she’s not—she’s just a girl. I keep my front and back heels parallel and gently lift my toes. Back foot, then front foot, then back foot. Zoe cocks her head. She looks like a cat considering a mouse before eating it.

  She lunges, and I parry too late, my blade cutting through nothing but air. The tip of Zoe’s saber presses into my chest. Two points. I try to recover and get tangled in my own limbs. Zoe flicks her wrist, slapping her blade against my upper arm. Three points. Two more strikes and I’m out.

  I tighten my grip on the saber, and the handle groans beneath my gloved hand. This is ridiculous. No wonder no one else wants to spar with her. It’s like fighting the wind.

  I hear Ariel’s voice in my head. Can we keep her? Jealousy flares through my chest. I imagine Ariel watching this, embarrassed for me. Poor little Charlotte. So nice. So mediocre.

  Zoe shuffles forward. This time I see her advance as a series of tiny movements. It’s like she’s moving in slow motion. She cocks her knee before taking a step. Her shoulder twitches as she starts to raise her saber. The noises around me fall silent. I no longer hear the other girls breathing, or the click of metal hitting metal. Without thinking, without making any kind of a plan, I kick my back leg out and lunge forward, jabbing at Zoe’s chest with the tip of my saber. The blade bends as I hit my mark. I got a point. I’ve never gotten a point before.

  Zoe’s shoulders tense. She advances, and I lift my saber a second before she brings hers down on my shoulder. A voice whispers at the back of my head, Parry-tierce. I don’t have time to marvel at myself for remembering the term. Zoe lunges. I bring my sword across my chest and metal slaps on metal. Parry-quarte.

  “Much better, Miss Gruen,” Coach calls. I hesitate for a second, the compliment warm in my chest. Zoe darts forward. I feel the prick of her saber through my layers of protective clothing. I raise my saber and Zoe parries, her blade tapping the top of my helmet.

  “You’re out,” she says, falling back. She whips her saber to her side, the blade whistling as it moves through the air. I shuffle backward, trying to remember what I usually do with my arms when I’m standing. My own saber feels like a lead weight in my hand.

  Zoe studies me like I’m some new organism she doesn’t understand. “Let me give you some advice,” she says. My entire body tenses. Sweat pools between my fingers and my heavy fencing glove.

  “Yeah?” I say. “And what’s that?”

  “Leave,” Zoe says. “You don’t belong in this class, in this school. Do yourself a favor and go home before you end up like your friends.”

  Her words slam into me. Leave. I open my mouth, but Zoe turns and stalks across the gymnasium before I can say a word.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The rest of my classes pass in a blur of quadratic equations, Japanese vocabulary, and intense discussions on the themes of Ulysses. I have vivid memories of raising my hand, reading chapters, answering questions. But I don’t feel like I was there for any of it. I existed in a shadow world, watching myself play the part of high school girl.

  Meanwhile, Zoe’s voice plays on a loop in my brain. Do yourself a favor—I shake my head, pushing the words away.

  I still haven’t turned in my Brave New World essay, so Ms. Antoine sends me to the library to work on it. The room, usually filled with cramming students, is nearly empty. I push open the heavy doors and drop my books at the nearest table. They thud against the wood, the sound echoing off the walls.

  Our library is a little famous. It’s been featured on about a million best-of lists and blog posts, their headlines all reading something like “20 Libraries Every Book Lover Has to See to Believe” or “100 Libraries to Visit Before You Die,” which is a little morbid. Brass chandeliers dangle from the arched ceilings. They were originally made for candles, but the school updated them. Electric lights flicker behind their yellow panes, illuminating a marble floor and row after row of gleaming wooden bookcases. Long study tables stretch across the width of the room, each outfitted with dozens of top-of-the-line laptops that look out of place against the backdrop of wood and marble.

  I pull a laptop toward me and key in my password. I open a Word document and stare at the blinking cursor, trying to come up with something to write about. I purse my lips and type a few words into the Internet browser: Brave New World essay themes. I check over my shoulder to make sure no one’s watching my dubious study methods, and then press Search.

  Thousands of results pop up, and my eyes glaze over as I scan them. “Freedom vs. happiness in Brave New World.” “Discuss the importance of the World State’s motto.” “Is it possible to manufacture happiness …” I rub my eyes with the palms of my hands, groaning out loud. I don’t know how I’m supposed to write an essay about this. I couldn’t possibly be impartial—if someone offered me a drug that would make me blissfully happy, I’m pretty sure I’d take it. It’d be like steroids for your emotions.

  Steroids. The word flashes through my head in neon. I sit up, blinking, and pull my backpack onto my lap. I dig around inside until I locate Devon’s tiny red notebook. I flip it open.

  The numbers scrawled across the page seemed impossible. But if Devon was on something …

  Blood pounds in my ears, blocking out the sounds of students turning pages and tapping their pencils against their desks. The mood swings. The cruelty. The secrecy—it all fits.

  I stick my books into my bag and duck out of the library. Ms. Antoine will be pissed when she finds out I skipped, but I can’t just sit here trying to focus on a stupid essay when this new info is rattling around inside my mind. This is the first lead of any kind I’ve gotten since coming back to Weston. I have to find out if I’m right.

  I head into the quad. Icy air creeps up from the frozen ground and rubs its face against my ankles. I tug my sleeves over my hands, shivering. Frost winks from the windows lining the enclosed courtyard. I hurry down the cobblestone path, past the windows, and through the dormitory door, face ducked to keep anyone from recognizing me if they happen to look outside.

  The door falls shut with a soft click. Devon’s dorm is the first room on the second floor. I take the steps two at a time and round the corner, so focused on being quick that I don’t prepare myself for what I’m about to see.

  It hits me like a punch to the gut. I stop in the middle of the hallway.

  Her message board still hangs from her door, same as when she was alive. It’s one of those half-corkboard, half-wipe-board things. The corkboard holds all her old stuff: the cardboard D covered in chunky glitter, photographs of me and Ariel, dried flowers from one of her old boyfriends. I move forward until I’m directly in front of it. I run a finger along the edge of a photograph, letting the sharp corner dig into my skin.

  Me and Dev and Ariel in the woods, tribal-print blanket spread below us, vodka hidden in plastic water bottles with the labels peeled off. Ariel is lying on her back, hair tangled and wild around her, dress hitched up to show off her long, pale legs. Devon flips off the camera, dark eyes narrow and bored. She’s pulled a floppy felt hat low over her forehead, casting half her face in shadow. I’m the only one smiling, which means Jack must’ve taken the photo. I’m leaning forward, grinning like a fool. My hair is long and sun-kissed, almost white-blond. It curls lazily around my bare shoulders. I’m wearing Devon’s leather halter, my hands spread wide in front of me to hide my exposed midriff. I look beautiful in this picture, almost as beautiful as Devon and Ariel. I look happy.

  I close my eyes, and there’s Devon’s voice in my ear: You’re skinny as all hell. Show it off. I think I threw her halter into one of my suitcases. The leather is probably creased and wrinkled now.

  I turn the doorknob. It creaks open b
eneath my hand.

  Devon’s room is a time capsule. I heard her parents are stuck in an airport in Tokyo, which is why they haven’t been back to collect her things yet. She was always neat, the kind of girl who never left anything out of place, whether it was a stray hair tie, or a stack of color-coordinated books, or her bloodred silk duvet. I step into her room and push the door closed behind me. The walls muffle all outside noises. Everything goes still.

  The air still smells like her—she wore Flash by Jimmy Choo, the scent all pepper and flowers. Spicy and sweet. I consider opening a window so I don’t have to smell it, but the thought of the scent being gone forever makes something inside me clench. No window, then.

  I move around the room with my hands clasped in front of me. I don’t want to disturb anything. Her bed is neatly made, the duvet tucked in at the corners, her black-and-gray pillows freshly plumped. I pull open a dresser drawer and feel another sharp pang as I stare down at Devon’s uniforms, folded and stacked in rows. I run my finger along the edge of one of her skirts. She took them all to a seamstress to have the hem taken up two inches. The bottoms of the skirts barely grazed the tops of her thighs.

  I grin. Devon was taller than Ariel and me, but her skirts still looked like handkerchiefs. I remember holding one up in her dorm room, joking that it wouldn’t even fit over one of my legs. Ariel said it was scandalous, which made Devon that much more proud of herself. My smile fades with the memory. I slide her dresser drawer closed.

  Stop, I tell myself. I’m not here to reminisce. I move over to her desk. I pull open the bottom drawer, and a row of hanging file folders slides toward me. I drop to my knees to sort through them. They’re arranged by year, and then by subject. From what I can tell at first glance, it looks like Devon saved every single assignment she ever completed.