I Am Her Revenge Page 3

  I can feel Claire freeze up behind me. “You’re not really worried about it?” she repeats. “And your parents are okay with that? Mine would chain me up and torture me if I didn’t get into Oxford or Cambridge.”

  “My mother doesn’t care,” I say. My tone is clipped, and she takes the hint.

  “Well,” she says, bouncing off the bed and rummaging in one of her dresser drawers. “I’m going to take a shower. The bathroom’s at the end of the hall, and it’s for the whole half of this floor, so there are thirty of us sharing it. It can get rather crowded at night and in the morning.”

  I offer up a smile. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  As soon as she’s gone and I’m alone in the room, I sit on my hard bed and rub my temples.

  Before I can decide what I should do now, someone knocks on the door. I open it to find an unfamiliar brunette girl with a pixie cut and a bored expression. “You’re Vivian?” she asks, her tone matching her expression perfectly.

  I nod.

  “Your mum’s on the phone for you,” she says before walking away.

  I peek out into the hallway and notice a monstrously large black phone on the wall. I walk to it slowly and close my eyes as I pick up the receiver. “Hello, Mother.”

  “You were supposed to call as soon as you arrived.” Her harsh, icicle-laden tree branch of a voice crosses the Atlantic as clearly as if she were standing next to me, her cold gray eyes staring into mine with an almost tangible distaste. I can picture her face so clearly: the porcelain skin, with only the faintest hints of lines at the edges of her eyes and wide, thin-lipped mouth. The heart-shaped mole on her cheek. The prematurely gray hair curling at her forehead.

  “I had no time alone,” I say. “The hallway has been crowded.” I wince at the lie.

  “Then you should have figured out a way to get some privacy. You know the rules.” She speaks slowly, deliberate as always, her brutal words seeping through the telephone line.

  Her reproach is a birch switch on my back. “Yes, Mother.”

  “The report?”

  I hold my head up, trying to overcome the lump forming in my throat. I’ve disappointed her, and I hate myself for it.

  “Everything’s going great here!” I say brightly. There’s no one in the hallway, but I’ve already discovered how thin the doors and walls are, and I want to sound like a normal girl giving her doting mother her first impressions of her new school. My voice in its feigned cheerfulness bounces around the navy walls. “My roommate is really sweet, and I think we’ll get along great. And there was this very cute boy in English class.” I say this last sentence more quietly, though it’s innocuous enough.

  “Your impression of him?”

  “Popular and cute. I’m sure he’s got lots of girls swooning over him already. He seems very nice, though. Kind.”

  “What is your plan?”

  I laugh, a laugh that is high-pitched and clearly fake. I cut it off quickly. “Oh, I remember what you told me, Mom. But I think I might be a bit more vulnerable than you think I am.”

  “Fine. Play the vulnerable girl if you think it will work on him. As long as you are sure. If you are wrong, it could cost us everything. Remember, I want email updates every night and a phone call every Sunday. No exceptions.”

  “Of course, Mom,” I say, as if the lump in my throat is not growing larger.

  She clicks off before I can say anything else, and I dock the receiver back in its cradle.

  A hundred memories press down on me, and I stumble back to my room, sitting on the bed and closing my eyes tightly, hoping to push the unbidden recollections away. Still, these images of my mother flying into a rage crowd my thoughts. If I ever made even a whisper of a mistake, she would be overcome with anger so startling and violent that it would leave her almost incoherent. And it would leave me cowering in the corner of the room.

  I’m still struggling to control my breath when Claire comes back in pink cotton pajamas and a towel wrapped around her head. It makes her light brown eyes seem even larger, like the open, trusting eyes of a baby doll.

  I focus on that weakness and let a mask of nonchalance fall over my face. “I guess I should follow your example,” I say, getting up off my bed and hunting for my shampoo and towel.

  I let the hot water in one of the old marble showers ease the stress out of my shoulders, ignoring the long line of grumbling girls waiting for their turn. When I’m done, I saunter past their scowling faces with hardly a glance.

  When I get back, Claire is on her laptop, hanging out with her Ava avatar. Her Ava, who has blonde hair in ringlets just like Claire’s, is picking out an outfit for her from some online shop, showing her how to pair a mustard-yellow wool jacket with a brown tweed skirt. I start combing out my long hair in the mirror, glancing at Claire’s reflection. “What’s your Ava called?” I ask.

  She meets my eyes in the mirror, startled. Then smiles. “I named her Victoria. After the queen, you know? Because she’s so strong and independent?”

  I nod, as if I find this fascinating. I don’t understand the obsession with Ava avatars. But those digital dolls that you can install on your computer or phone have become increasingly popular since I was a kid, and Mother made sure to mention them to me in her lessons.

  They serve many purposes. An Ava can model different outfits from shopping sites for you, showing you how to accessorize or the best poses to show off certain features. She can dispense advice about how to deal with bullies. She’s programmed with a plethora of clichés and positive can-do spirit. Everything she says or does depends on which model you buy—there’s an Ava for the glam girl, for the shy girl, for the lovelorn. A few years ago, they came out with a boy model so that shy boys could have best friends, too. They named him the Adam, which, though the name isn’t as catchy, sold just as well.

  But the most intriguing feature of these avatars is that they can have conversations with their human companions. The more you talk to your Ava, the more intelligent and custom-designed she becomes. Soon, she knows her companion’s secrets and crushes and troubles and can tailor her questions and responses and suggestions accordingly. She mirrors her companion’s attitude and becomes the best friend she ever had.

  It’s always struck me as a bit frightening.

  “This is going to sound pathetic, but . . . I didn’t have many friends in primary school,” Claire explains, “so Victoria became my best friend. She taught me how to open myself up to people and be myself. I guess I’m too old to keep interacting with her, but she was just such a big part of my life, you know?”

  “Sure,” I say encouragingly.

  “Do you have an Ava?”

  I shake my head. Aside from the fact that Mother was never very good with computers, she’s always hated Ava. She wanted me to interact with real people instead. Real people with secrets and facades and ulterior motives.

  “You know there’s a boy in our class whose father invented them? Ben Collingsworth?”

  “Oh, really?” I say, as if this means nothing to me.

  “Mm-hm.” Claire focuses back on her computer. “Goodnight, Victoria,” she says.

  “Goodnight, Claire!” Victoria says with an impressive amount of enthusiasm and a British accent. “Sleep well, and remember that tomorrow is a brand-new day! I’m sure your new roommate will see how fantastic you are in no time!”

  I try my best not to roll my eyes. “So you told her about me?”

  A blush is already staining Claire’s pale cheeks. “Yeah, I hope you don’t mind? I tell her everything.”

  I smile a tight smile. “Of course I don’t mind.”

  Later that night, I pull out my book of Tennyson’s poetry and begin rereading it. Claire is lying on her stomach reading a biology textbook, taking notes and kicking her feet in the air. At ten o’clock we turn off the harsh fluorescent light and leav
e only our desk lamps on, which creates a warm, hazy-rose atmosphere.

  Here in this room with Claire, I’m feeling something I can’t quite define, but I think it’s contentment. I snuggle in my sheets, pretending they’re softer than the coarse, cheap cotton Mother sent, and dive into the familiar pages.

  CHAPTER 3

  I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, I’m startled by some kind of rustling noise, followed by a decisive bang.

  “Claire?” I ask, pushing my way out from under the covers. “What’s going on?”

  “Come on!” she calls. “Put your coat on. You’re going to miss it!”

  I sit up to find her throwing on a pink coat and rubber boots, her eyes shining in the moonlight.

  “Just trust me,” she says.

  I nearly laugh at that but keep my lips pursed tightly together. I throw the covers off, intrigued, and follow her example, pulling a thin black coat over my white cotton top and black pajama pants. I add a slash of red lipstick, just in case, before Claire ushers me out of the room, a finger to her lips. We tiptoe down the hall to the top of the worn wooden staircase, where a group of seven girls have gathered, crouching and cautious in the moonlight streaming in from the windows. Their faces are pale and shadowed, almost ghoulish, and I swallow a lump in my throat before Claire pushes me forward into them.

  “What are we doing?” I whisper. My knee presses against the molding of the wall, painfully, as Claire shoves me back before I can peer down to the bottom of the stairs. Someone steps on my foot, but I can’t turn my head to see who did it.

  “Jenkins guards the halls at night,” a girl I don’t know says into my ear. “But she goes out for a smoke break every night at midnight and again at three. So we have a window.”

  I give her a slight nod to show that I understand.

  There’s a creaking below, and everyone tenses. Then footsteps. A woman, stocky and short, materializes. I can see only her back. She heads for the front door, twisting the knob. Then she’s outside, and the door is closing softly behind her.

  At once, everything is motion. We all patter down the stairs, taking a sharp right at the bottom and heading for a door in the back. Then we’re outside and scurrying to the stone wall. The girls line up in front of me, each of them placing their hands and feet in the same well-worn spots as they climb up and over the wall. Claire points the footholds out to me, and I’m soon sitting on the top, staring out at the wide expanse of the moors beyond. The other girls have already clambered gingerly down the other side, but I leap down, landing in a crouch in the mud at the bottom.

  We all sprint down the hill. The moon flickers in and out of the clouds, creating vanishing pools of light. The tall wet grass lashes against my ankles, left vulnerable by my tennis shoes. I’ll have to buy rubber boots like Claire’s. The valley below is bare, open to the eyes of the school, but up another hill and into another valley, we are hidden. And we nearly run over a group of a dozen guys.

  “You made it!” one calls as we catch our breath.

  I look around me, at the girls whose group I’ve somehow joined. We’re a coterie of pajamas and coats and broad smiles. Electric lanterns, the kind used for storms, light the scene, and the light they give off is harsh and white. Many of the girls drop onto the towels the boys have laid out, and I turn to find Ben standing next to me. I nearly recoil.

  “Hallo, Viv.”

  I do flinch at that. Only one person has ever called me Viv. Only one person is allowed to. I resist the urge to correct him, and glance down to the ground, hoping to look flustered. When I look back up at him, I make myself stare at him like he’s a puzzle I’m trying to figure out. He reflects that same look back at me, and for a moment, we stand there staring at each other. “Hi,” I say, hardly more than a whisper, settling down on the nearest swath of towel. The wet ground seeps through it unpleasantly, but I remain still, my head now bent away from his.

  I can feel him stand next to me for a moment, the air around him swirling in confusion, before he moves to sit with his friends across from me.

  I learn from snippets of conversation around me that, for some of these kids, this is an almost nightly ritual. They sneak out here to gather for gossip and alcohol and other illicit activities when the boys’ house guard goes out to meet Jenkins at midnight for a nightly smoke break.

  “And then he’s always checking the bathroom from three to four,” a friendly, dark-haired boy tells me with a snort, leaning much too far into my personal space. There’s some thread of a joke that I can’t quite catch, and I don’t bother to. I just glance at him, as if I don’t understand why he’s talking to me.

  The girl next to me, who would be pretty if not for her over-pronounced nose, introduces herself as Arabella. She has shucked off her coat and sits in nothing but pink silk shorts and a tank top, her freckled skin rising in goose bumps in the cool air. Someone should have told her that redheads shouldn’t wear pink—her face is washed out by the bright color contrast. But by the way the boys and girls buzz around her, I know she’s important. Maybe even the queen bee. “I need to paint my nails neon. Something noticeable, yeah? My Ava recommended it.” This is met with a chorus of nodding heads. As is “Meggie is such a slag. Right? She’ll flirt with anything that walks past her.”

  Then, later into the night, she turns to me and says, “New girl.” Her words meld together as if her tongue has grown too large for her mouth. “I don’t know you, but I think I could make a project out of you. If you looked not so—like, severe, you would be . . . brilliant, you know?”

  I just nod and roll my eyes. She somehow takes this as encouragement and hugs me close to her with one arm.

  I stiffen and pull away as soon as I can.

  The whole night, as a cloud settles over us—a mixture of fog and cigarette smoke—I pretend to take long pulls from the bottle of rum being passed around and let the boredom show on my face. I’d inadvertently joined a three-hour session of sitting on damp ground, getting drunk, and flirting.

  I keep my eyes firmly pointed away from Ben but still try to keep track of his every move. He smokes a joint with his friends but declines the pills being passed around. I listen to his laughter and to the unsubtle attempts of several girls trying to flirt with him.

  There’s one girl, though, who plays it a bit smarter than the others, and I’m soon watching her closely. She has long reams of golden hair cascading down her back, which she tosses and twirls in elegant coils with her fingers. She smiles knowing smiles at Ben whenever anyone around them makes a joke, and she keeps making a point of passing him the joint she’s just taken a hit from.

  Her efforts pay off toward the end of the night, when she rises and totters to him a touch unsteadily. Then she falls, gracefully, landing neatly in his lap with her arm slung around his shoulders. He looks amused but not surprised to see her there, and when she lifts her lips to his, he complies. But only for a moment. He pulls away with a friendly smile and pats her on the back. Then he looks up. He looks for me. I let him catch me staring.

  The coat Mother sent me here with is too thin, and without the warmth of alcohol, I’m shivering. I hug my knees closer to my chest and bury my face in them, breaking my eye contact with Ben. I open my mouth a touch to keep my teeth from chattering and take a few warming breaths.

  Suddenly, something heavy is covering my shoulders, settling around me. I twist my neck up to see that Ben has covered me with his coat. He looks down at me, his hazel eyes pale in the moonlight, with nothing but a long-sleeved gray tee and navy pajama bottoms on. The tee is molded to a chest that has more muscles than I would have predicted. I snap my eyes back to his.

  “Thank you,” I say softly.

  The expression in his eyes is full of something so soft that it takes my breath away.

  Our gazes stay locked for a long moment, until finally he nods and steps back. Without a word, h
e returns to his friends. Everyone is watching us, some more openly than others. Arabella stares at me with an undisguised look of confusion and distrust, and the girl who has been deposed from Ben’s lap is glaring at me with such intense hatred that I half expect my skin will start boiling.

  I pull Ben’s coat closer to me. It smells of the sticky sweetness of his joint, but also something spicy, like cologne or shampoo. I have to stifle a sneeze.

  Then the pointless conversation of a wasted night resumes around me.

  After a while, when I’m sure it must be time to go back to the dorms, the dark-haired boy from earlier nudges my shoulder. “Pretty boring, huh?” he whispers into my ear, his breath reeking of alcohol.

  I shrug at him. I haven’t talked to this boy much tonight, but I’ve learned that the others call him G-Man and slap him on the back, laughing heartily at his frequent jokes. He seems pretty popular, though his face is too tiny for his head and his ears stick out.

  “I’ve got something that will make it more fun for you, if you’d like.” He opens his hand beneath my gaze, revealing two small white pills on his palm. And suddenly his popularity makes sense.

  I snap my eyes to his. “What are they?” I ask, breathless and feminine, as if I don’t know.

  “Molly.”

  The version of Ecstasy that’s so popular at ritzy boarding schools. Perfect. I open my hand for him to drop those little illicit pills into. “I think I’ll save them for a rainy day,” I murmur, letting my arm brush against his. I lean even closer to him, my breath caressing his ear as I whisper, “Can I come to you for more?”

  He looks into my eyes, suspicion touching his gaze. But I give him my most innocent, admiring expression and watch as the suspicion fades. “I’m your guy,” he says, his voice artificially low. “I’ve got anything you could need: Adderall, Oxy, name it. Everything to make boarding school in the middle of fucking nowhere bearable.”