The Liar Society (8 page)

After Maddie left, I decided to head home. I couldn’t go back to the courts. By now the matches would have already begun, and all the girls, plus my coach, were probably planning an intervention to save my crazy ass. Besides, I was itching to do a little research on Station 2 after my discovery in the grass the night before. I hoped that the clock tower would lead me to the meaning behind the crest and its connection to Grace.

I took the long way back to the locker room to avoid the tennis courts, hopped on a late bus, and ten minutes later was home. As soon as I walked through the door, I headed straight for the answering machine and hit Play. Coach Schafer’s frantic voice filled the kitchen, and when I heard someone walk into the kitchen behind me, I hastily hit Erase and turned around.

“Deleting incriminating messages?” my dad asked, the lines around his mouth and near his eyes deeper than ever.

“Uh…no. That was an accident. You scared me,” I said, searching for an excuse.

“Don’t bother, Kate. I’ve already spoken to your coach. She called me on my cell. You ran off before a match? Two demerits? What the hell is going on?” He grabbed a drink out of the fridge and sat down.

The thing is, I would have loved to sit down next to him and tell him the whole unbelievable story, but I couldn’t. Telling my dad would only confirm my parents’ suspicions that I was completely insane. Instead of seeing Dr. Prozac, I’d probably be stuck in the freaking psych ward.

Dr. Prozac’s big theory was that I avoided getting close to people for fear of losing them. But the truth was that I felt safer when I kept everyone at a distance. It was more efficient. Hurt less, too.

So instead of pulling up a chair and telling my dad everything, I settled for a quick, “I’m fine,” and hoped he’d leave it at that.

He didn’t.

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Kate.” He stopped, unable to finish. “I can’t…I just can’t go back to the way things were last year. Your hair is bad enough. We thought we were going to lose you…”

He trailed off, looking confused and more than a little scared. I felt awful. Of course he didn’t understand. How could he? I hadn’t given him the chance. But what was I supposed to tell him? If I started blubbering about emails from dead best friends, my parents would accuse me of obsessing again.

Just this past summer, I had been deemed well enough to stop taking the cocktail of drugs that were supposed to help me move on. All they really did was make me forget what being alive felt like. I couldn’t risk telling him and going back to that place. Not when I was supposed to be helping Grace.

“I’m at a loss here, Kate. But your coach seems to think a different after-school activity might help. She suggested you join the Concilium. She said this girl, Taylor something, is in charge of the meetings and that she’s a great role model. I’m hoping she’s right.”

“I’m not joining some stupid club.” I gripped the table and dug what nails I had into the wood. “I have tennis to worry about.”

“You know, you’re not the only one who lost someone, Kate. You think I don’t wish I had my daughter back?” His face was old and sad. “If your coach thinks a new club will help, we’ll try a new club. Your first meeting’s tomorrow. And detention starts Tuesday.”

“Fine.” I swallowed the egg-sized lump in my throat.

“Fix this, Kate,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “Come back to us. We miss you.”

I laid my head down on the kitchen table and watched my dad walk back into his office. I wished everything could be as easy as finding the girl I used to be and forcing her to come home.

Unfortunately she seemed just as lost as Grace.

I used bubble letters to draw the words
Audi, Vide, Tace
in the margin of my notebook when I should have been taking notes during a PowerPoint presentation on Dostoevsky. The previous night, I had Googled just about every combination of the three Latin words, adding “symbol” and “Pemberly Brown” and “crest” into the mix. The only semi-helpful result had been an Ohio Historical Society web page featuring an article referencing the history of Pemberly Brown.

Apparently Brown, the boys school, had closed in 1950 to merge with the local girls school, Pemberly. The decision was a controversial one at the time, but Brown was low on funding and faced competition from other private schools in the area, so it was either merge with Pemberly or cease to exist. A picture of Brown’s old crest showed that it had featured a lion holding an ornate-looking key. I was sketching what I remembered of the crest when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Kate?” My English Lit teacher, Ms. Cole, tapped my desk and raised a curious brow when she saw my bubble letters in the margin. “Careful with that,” she whispered as she placed a note on top of my notebook and walked back to the front of the room to continue her presentation.

Before I could even begin to wonder about her last comment, I realized that the note was an early-dismissal slip from the office. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach as I gathered my books and stuffed them into my bag.

On my way to the office, I made a mental list of the potential reasons for an unplanned dismissal. It definitely couldn’t be a good thing. As far as I knew, no parents in the history of the world had ever left work early to yank their kids out of school for a surprise vacation to the Bahamas.

With each step, I imagined more dire circumstances. What if my mom had been in an accident, or one of my aunts or cousins was dead or…Cameron? Had they found him? Was he alive?

When I pushed through the office doors, my dad was waiting for me.

“You’re already signed out.” The expression on his face didn’t look like one he’d have after someone died, but he wasn’t wearing his vacation clothes either. “All set?”

“Yeah. But where are we going?” I asked as I followed him out.

“Dr. Lowen had an eleven o’clock opening, so I made an appointment.”

“I thought I didn’t have to go every week anymore. Why are you doing this to me?” I couldn’t say the words without whining. I sounded like a three-year-old.

“Since you won’t talk to your mom and me, you need to talk to someone. Maybe this week you can tell Dr. Lowen about what you were doing when you should have been in first period or playing tennis.”

I glared at my dad and shook my head. It was probably safer not to talk. There was no telling what might come out. During the entire drive to the doctor’s office, the elevator ride to the seventh floor, and the forty-five-minute wait in the office, my dad and I said exactly four words to one another.

“Which floor again?”

“Seven.”

When the woman behind the desk with a five-o’clock shadow (a walking, talking cautionary tale against women using razors to shave facial hair) finally called my name, I jumped out of my seat at the opportunity to escape the waiting-room game.

The guy next to me covertly examined me in his peripheral vision; the woman under the cheesy painting of a little girl at the beach snuck glances behind magazine pages; and the boy with the black-painted fingernails looked out from beneath heavily lined eyes, all of them trying to determine what particular brand of crazy had landed their fellow patients in the waiting room. I wondered what they came up with when they looked at me. Did I have the classic “I see dead people” look in my eyes?

I wound around to the back of the office and opened the familiar door. Dr. Prozac was sitting behind his huge mahogany desk. And, no, I didn’t lie down on some couch. I sat in an uncomfortable chair with wooden arms that matched the desk. I forgot how much that chair sucked.

Me
: Long time, no see. (Dr. P. looked up at me over his old-man glasses and smiled his careful smile.)

Prozac
: Kate, you know how much I look forward to our chats. How’s everything going?

Me
: Fine. (If only shrinks would let you off the hook after the word “fine.” If only everyone would.)

Prozac
: How’s school? I haven’t seen you since (he looked down at his notes) last month.

Me
: Good. (If having only one friend who also happened to be your nerdy neighbor was good.)

Prozac
: So what brings you here? (He took off his glasses and placed them on the desk.)

Me
: My dad. He says I need a safe place to talk. (I yawned even though I didn’t have to.)

Prozac
: Do you miss Grace?

Me
: (Long pause. My throat went completely dry. I couldn’t for the life of me form the words to answer. I hoped Dr. P. couldn’t read minds. There was no way I could tell him the truth about Grace and still make it out of here without ten different antidepressant prescriptions.)

Prozac
: What are you thinking, Kate?

Me
: Well, now that you brought her up, I’m thinking about Grace. (Dr. P. put his glasses back on and checked his notes again.)

Prozac
: Have you been thinking about her a lot lately? Are you having any of those same feelings you had after the funeral?

Me
: No, no. I’m fine. (What feelings? The anger that came after trying to tell everyone there was more to Grace’s death and having no one believe me? The betrayal I felt after my parents checked me into the hospital for depression instead of listening to me? Or maybe he was referring to the good old-fashioned guilt I felt about ditching my best friend at the moment she needed me most.)

Prozac
: How are you sleeping?

Me
: Fine. (If you don’t count staying up all night refreshing email.)

Prozac
: Have you been using any of the “exercises” we practiced? (Dr. P. formed quotations with his fingers.)

Me
: Sometimes. (Mental note: never make quotation signs with fingers. Ever.)

Prozac
: How’s tennis?

Me
: (Very long pause. This was a loaded question and I liked to see how long I could make him wait for my answer. My record was three and a half minutes.) I’m sure my dad told you, but I have to take a break.

Prozac
: A break? (Dr. P. pushed his desk chair out a little and uncrossed and recrossed his legs. Hard to trust a male leg-crosser.)

Me
: (I narrowed my eyes. I found it highly annoying when people beat around the bush.) I’m pretty sure you know about me wigging out during my match and being forced into the Concilium. This is a safe place, Dr. P. You can just come right out and say what you want to say.

Prozac
: (Laughed. Well, as close to a laugh as he got. It actually sounded more like a cough.) Yes, Kate, your dad mentioned the match. Want to explain?

Me
: (Began an impromptu staring contest. I liked to see who would blink first. I usually won. I think Dr. P. liked it too.) I just…got distracted.

Prozac
: (Blinked and glanced at the clock.) I want you to work on something for me between now and next week. Any time you’re feeling overwhelmed, like you want to run away, tell people you need a break. No one can read your mind, Kate. But people will understand if you need a time-out.

Me
: You mean like when a kid gets pissed and rips a toy away from someone and his mom sends him to his room? (Back to square one—weekly visits. Next came the tiny green-and-white pills.)

Prozac
: Only the adult version. Like a breather. We all need breathers. And Kate? (He stood up and took his glasses off.) Give Concilium a chance. You might be surprised what you’ll find there. You can make next week’s appointment on your way out.

I got up from the chair without answering, hoping I could play the “I didn’t hear you” card. But Dr. P. followed me out and told the receptionist to book my appointment.

“See you next week” never sounded so depressing.

That evening as I pretended to do homework, I accomplished nothing more than spreading every clue I’d gathered to date around me on my bed. The mysterious crest, Grace’s invitation, her email, Cameron’s letter, the Latin charm. Everything.

I even had our slam book, just in case Grace’s answers held some clue that I was missing. I ran my fingers over the puff paint, rhinestones, and glitter, and closed my eyes and made a wish like I was a little girl again. I wished for the ability to understand the meaning behind at least one of the clues. I wished that I’d make good on my promise to Grace.

But nothing.

I flopped back onto the pillows on my bed, thinking back to Candela and the stone I’d uncovered beneath the grass. There had to be more to the clock tower than the legend of a girl’s suicide. I looked around my bedroom knowing I’d never find the answer here. Grabbing my book bag and dumping out the contents, I carefully placed every clue inside and rushed out my door.

“Dad!” I yelled as I descended the stairs two at a time. “I have to go to the library for a project!”

“Hold on, Kate. I can’t hear a word you’re saying,” he called from the kitchen. I rounded the corner and waited for him to turn off the faucet. “Okay, what now?”

I adjusted the book bag on my shoulder. “I have to run back up to school to get a book from the library. It won’t take me that long.”

“Kate, your mom’s on her way home, and I’ve just ordered dinner. I can’t take you now.”

“It’s okay. I’ll ride my bike.”

The look of shock that came over my dad’s face was priceless. “I thought you had a rule against that.”

“It’s important. I’ll be back in time for dinner.” Before he could say anything else, I ran out the door and into the garage, breaking my no-bike-riding-in-public rule for the second time in a matter of days.

Good thing my social life was already in shambles. These kinds of leaps are much easier to take when you don’t have far to fall. Besides, taking off on my bike really was kind of fun. Maybe it was time I embraced my inner nerd.

• • •

I waved my student ID in front of the sensor and pulled the library door open when I heard it unlock. Only a few of the buildings on campus were open 24/7, and the library was one of them. Like it said on the plaque outside the door that marked it as Station 9,
Scientia est potentia
. “Knowledge is power,” and power never sleeps.

“And you were just going to rush on by,” I heard a raspy voice call out. I didn’t have to turn around to know that Dorothy would be smiling. I could hear it in her voice. Ms. D. manned the librarian’s desk after hours and made sure no funny business took place on school grounds.

“Hey, Ms. D., of course I was gonna say hello. I’m just kind of in a hurry,” I called back. She went by Ms. D. or Officer D. depending on who you were talking to. A large woman in her late sixties in charge of security on campus, she wore her wiry gray hair closely cropped to her head and could easily defeat most of the boys on campus in an arm-wrestling match.

One of PB’s many random traditions was for every fourth-year boy to challenge Dorothy before he graduated and left the Academy behind for one of the Ivies. I think only a handful of boys had actually beaten her after all these years, but she would never confirm or deny her stats.

“Well, I can’t stand in the way of your studies, now, can I?” Ms. D. raised her hands in surrender, and her entire wrinkly face smiled.

“You know I’d hold you responsible,” I laughed and pushed open the glass doors to Pemberly Brown’s library.

I headed straight for one of the computers to check out the catalog. I typed in the words “Pemberly Brown history” and crossed my fingers that someone had written a book about PB and that the book could be found on the first level of the library.

“What’s a girl like you doing in the library after hours?” a smooth voice whispered behind me.

I whipped around to find Porter Reynolds smiling lazily at me with his guitar slung over his shoulders. Porter could typically be found mooning around campus with his beat-up guitar, playing three tired chords over and over again while singing along in a monotone yet somehow poetic voice.

A handful of girls trailed after him who either suffered from First Year-itis or were raging gold-diggers who loved the sound of their last names hyphenated with “Reynolds.”

“Just doing some research for a school project. What brings you out and about? Serenading study groups?”

“Aw, come on, Kate. Just because you’re immune to my charms doesn’t mean I don’t have anything to offer.” He fake pouted and looked even douchier than usual. “I’m just waiting on my ride and thought I’d grab some reading material.” He held up copies of Jack Kerouac’s
On the Road
and
Howl and Other Poems
by Allen Ginsberg. God, he was such a cliché.

“Do you even know what beat poetry is?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking.

“Beat poetry? Never heard of it. But girls totally dig guys who carry books around.” He inched his way closer to me and flung his arm around my shoulders. “So what do you think, Kate? Is it working? You wanna head down to the stacks?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s totally working. Let’s get going.” Porter’s eyes lit up. “Do you think Ms. D. would be interested in a threesome?” His face fell, making him look like a kid who had just found out he wasn’t getting a pony for Christmas.

Porter swore at me under his breath before he slunk off, presumably to harass some other unsuspecting girl. I turned back to my search. The computer made the crackling sound that let me know it was thinking and…bingo.

The results pulled up a book called
Pemberly Brown: 150 Years of Excellence
by Calvin Markwell. But my heart sank a little when “stacks” was listed as the location. The idea of going down to the stacks alone almost made me regret turning down Porter’s invitation. There were always rumors of strange noises and ghostly figures roaming down there. I used to laugh the stories off, but now I wasn’t so sure.

After jotting down the book details, I did a quick scan of the library to see if I was alone. When my eyes fell on Dorothy, I considered telling her I was headed for the stacks and to come looking for me if I didn’t reappear within fifteen minutes. But what was I, five? Besides, there was an emergency button I could push to call Ms. D. if anything did happen. I put on my big-girl pants, slung my book bag over my shoulder, and headed for the stairs.

As I descended and the shelves came into view, I leaned over the railing and stood on tiptoe to see if anyone else was browsing for books along with me. The coast appeared to be clear. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

I found the right row and ran my fingers along the leather-bound books until I landed on “Markwell.” Voila.
Pemberly Brown: 150 Years of Excellence
. I pulled the large maroon book from the shelf, held it to my chest, and headed toward a study carrel.

I opened directly to the index, and there it was on the opposite page: the crest. Well, almost. This version had the words “Pemberly School for Girls” written around the shield and date of establishment. I wrinkled my forehead in confusion.

So the mysterious crest was really the old Pemberly crest? But why would someone have had a necklace engraved with
Audi, Vide, Tace
, Pemberly’s old motto, at the chapel the night Grace died? And why was there an
S
on Cameron’s drawing? This just didn’t make any sense.

Next to the Pemberly crest was the Brown crest with the lion and key, and beneath both was a picture of the current Pemberly Brown crest. The paragraph below explained that Pemberly had altered its crest when the school merged with Brown. Pemberly brought the door; Brown brought the key. Together, the schools established a new motto that would better represent unity.

The marker I’d seen outside the clock tower must have marked Station 2 before the merger. But what did that have to do with Grace?

I glanced at my phone. Time was slipping away. Running my fingers over the headings, I found the page number where information about the Twelve Stations began and flipped to the chapter I needed. I got distracted when I came across the picture of a beautiful woman a few pages before the station information. The caption beneath the photo listed her as head architect of the 1950 merger, Josephine Fitzgerald Reynolds.

As I continued reading, the section explained that she redesigned the entire campus, transforming what used to be the upper school into the lower and middle schools, and designed a new upper school from the ground up. Go, Josephine.

My stomach grumbled, reminding me that dinner was probably getting cold, but I still had work to do. I flipped the pages the rest of the way and saw the familiar picture of the clock tower. It was built in 1893 when Pemberly Brown was just plain old Pemberly. Watches were a luxury, and the tower was built to establish standard time on campus.

I skimmed through information about the huge pendulum that made it run and stopped to read the section about the girl who had supposedly hanged herself on the eleventh floor. The historian said the information could not be substantiated and that it was considered legend. He went on to describe Candela, Nativitas, and some of the other rituals associated with Pemberly Brown.

I turned the page a little annoyed at the so-called historian. I guess I wanted to believe that some of the Academy’s legends were actually true. As I continued reading, I noticed that at the top of the following page, the text did not line up. When I lifted the page, I realized that a perfect square had been cut away, removing an entire section of text. I sat back in my chair and chewed on a jagged fingernail.

What had been removed? Lifting a chunk of pages from the chapter, I let them fan away and noticed additional holes in the pages. For a second, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

Pemberly Brown had secrets that someone didn’t want students to discover.

“How’s it going down here?” Dorothy’s voice shattered the quiet, and I almost fell out of my chair.

“Oh, fine, I guess. Just can’t seem to find what I’m looking for today.” I slammed the damaged book shut, annoyed that I’d have to make a trip to the public library or order a copy online and wait for it to be delivered. I didn’t have time for this.

“Maybe you’re just not looking in the right place,” Dorothy said as she walked down the stairs.

“Well, I’m starving, so the rest of my research will just have to wait.” I packed up my bag and was startled to feel Dorothy’s hand on my back.

“Just be careful. Strange things have happened around here, and some things are better left alone,” she said, nodding at the book on my desk.

“Yeah, I guess,” I replied. Dorothy had probably seen a lot of interesting things go down over her thirty years at Pemberly Brown.

She patted my shoulder twice and headed back in the direction of the stairs.

After the last of her footsteps disappeared, I returned to the book, opening it back up to the page that showed the merger of the school crests.

“What does it all mean, Grace?” I whispered, rubbing at my burning eyes. All at once I felt exhausted. I lifted her pearls from around my neck and wrapped the necklace around my wrist, playing with the beads. I was officially out of answers. Not that I’d had any in the first place.

I pulled the book to my chest and entered the stacks to return it. I made my way back to the row where Calvin Markwell’s book belonged and started to slide it back onto the shelf, but a piece of notebook paper was tucked into the open space.

Tick tock, stay away from the clock. We’re watching.

I heard a book slam a row over. I wasn’t alone.

“Ms. D.?” My voice shook as I called out her name and shoved the heavy book back in its place. Through the gaps in the books, I caught a glimpse of someone running down the row next to me.

“Porter? This isn’t funny. You’re going to be in huge trouble…” My voice trailed off as I heard another book come crashing down behind me.

I took off toward the exit, cursing the emergency button for not being exactly where I needed it. The opening at the end of the row came closer and closer, so I slowed down and listened.