The Well's End (4 page)

Rory makes a beeline to Tiffany and taps her on the shoulder and kisses her on the lips when she turns around. Rory's a dick. Tiffany rolls her eyes and turns back to the new kid, who's clearly confused by the whole thing. He tucks his hands into his jeans and flicks his hair away again as he did before. I kinda like that gesture. Rory puts his big callused hand on the new kid's chest and gives him a gentle push. Maybe he's wasted, or maybe he's just so totally not expecting this, but the new kid loses his balance and falls backward, knocking over and shattering a lamp that I know for a fact is from the '70s and is worth a couple thousand dollars. I almost scream in worry, but close my mouth before I make a fool out of myself. The music doesn't stop, and the crowd barely notices. But I see Odessa bolt into his face and push her finger into his forehead. The newbie's got some patience, because he just grits his teeth and pulls himself up and then slips from the room.

My head swims, and I fall back down to the couch; it's so much more comfortable here. The lighting in the room is perfect—a hazy warmth—and the music bounces in my feet.

My phone lights up.

Miss Kish, can I trouble you for a follow-up meeting?

Who's this?

Blake Sutton.

I'm confused. He has my cell number, sure. He called me to arrange the meeting. But why is he texting me? Why so late at night? The phone flashes again.

U still partying?

Not Sutton this time, but Rob, and I almost gasp in relief.

Rob!!!! Where r you?

In bed. All OK?

Come over! Things r weird.

Ha, course they r. But I'm saving it up for ur big day Sunday.

Bday for me! Bday weekend starting now! Come over!

Ha. K crazy. I'm going to bed. Have fun.

Boo, party pooper.

OK, Mia. Goodnight. Turning phone off.

Sleepnight!

I type, pretty proud of the expression I just made up. Jo's gone, and Odessa's door's closed, which might mean nothing at all or might mean I can actually go home now. There are eight or so kids in the room, but no one's talking to me. My phone flashes again.

Would love to connect. Let me know . . .

I try to ignore the message, the memory of my father's seething anger at this strange reporter, and sink deeper into the couch, listening to the music and the voices merge into one.

THE MORNING ISN'T TOO WEIRD. EXCEPT FOR THE
hangover.

I've never drunk like that before. Sure, I've had a couple beers, a shot of something from time to time, but I've never spent a full night drinking. Most of the richies have—they take tailgating very seriously, prepping for college, so they say. But not me, and when the sun hit my eyes this morning, I thought someone was poking a needle into my skull.

The rest of the night was a blur. I guess Jo kept pace, alcohol-wise, because later on, we found ourselves holding hands in the bathroom while we puked. For the first time since I remember, though, I didn't need the bathroom light on to sleep. Seems like being blackout drunk is a good way to cope with my little nighttime phobia and unwanted texts from strange men. I'm sure the school psychologist would be pleased.

No amount of brushing cleans my teeth, and the smell of alcohol on my skin makes me gag, but we're walking in a loose clump with other students toward the quad, the open space between all the academic buildings.

“You have to drink more water.” Jo's holding out her Nalgene. She's wearing sunglasses today, and her face is so sweaty she has to push them back up her nose time and again. “And eat some bread.”

“Ugh, if I put something else in my stomach I'll vomit on Mr. Geller's floor.”

“Thank God we didn't have practice today.”

Even the thought of doing over-unders makes my thighs hurt. I can't honestly imagine being in good enough shape for the race tomorrow. At least I usually don't have to be at my best to win.

“And don't worry,” Jo adds. “I know you don't want a party for your birthday. We couldn't top Odessa if we tried.”

I roll my eyes, but am pleased she has brought it up. “I don't need anything, Jo.”

She smirks, which is less effective than normal because of her sunglasses. “I know you, Mia Kish. Don't pretend your birthday doesn't mean anything. It's okay to like having one.”

“Especially big seventeen,” I respond in a singsong way.

“Almost old enough to vote.”

“Not really anywhere near old enough to drink.” I wince, feeling my headache against my skull.

We get to the doors and file in behind the other students, putting on our game faces. Jo squeezes my arm and turns to her first class. I watch her for a second as she spots Todd by his locker and approaches him, her books held to her chest like a girl from the '50s. He steals her sunglasses and puts them on himself, and she gets an excuse to touch him while trying to retrieve the frames. I shake my head; I couldn't imagine trying to be cute today.

First period, European History, is buzzing when I arrive. As if no one else in the entire school had anything to drink last night.

There are ten people in the class, and we all sit around a big table, no desks or anything. That's the way it is here, a low teacher-to-student ratio, a close learning environment. I put my stuff down next to Rob and take a seat. He's lost on his iPhone and barely looks up. The phone is sealed in an enormous OtterBox, one of those cases that are huge and designed to withstand water and dropping from, like, a hundred feet—one of many things people hassle him about. He's sporting headphones, and the music is loud enough for me to know he's listening to Pavement. Rob's an indie-music freak, half hipster, half goth, and is generally half a year ahead of the rest of Westbrook when it comes to the cool bands. Whenever someone starts listening to a band that he's been preaching for months, he rolls his eyes and takes them off his playlist. But only for a week or so; he loves the music too much to let it be sullied by a petty hatred of his classmates.

I get a text.
What up, Mia?
It's from Rob, who doesn't look up from the phone.

I laugh and text him back, adding Jo into the thread.
Wish u were there longer.

Yes! Where U go?
Jo comes back.

Rob pops off his earphones and glances up at me, his long hair covering tired eyes. “You okay?” he asks. “You look awful.” Compared to us, Rob didn't drink very much. He probably had a nightcap with his tiny flask and went to bed.

“Screw you,” I say, and vaguely mean it. Rob left me there last night, and now I feel like an idiot, hungover, remembering it all. It would have been nice to have had him there when Sutton texted. “You were supposed to be my wingman.”

“You said you didn't need one!”

“That was Jo, Rob. You shouldn't have left me there.”

Rob's a good friend, but if he's one thing, it's defensive, and calling him on anything is like inviting yourself to speak to a brick wall. He sighs dramatically, returning his attention to his monstrosity of a phone.

Then someone shouts my way. “Yo, Baby, I hear you made out with Rory last night. Truth?” This from Geoffrey, from Seattle, six foot three, lacrosse captain, Princeton bound. I know that might sound appealing, but his father, a lumber magnate, kills trees for a living, and Geoffrey looks like a billy goat.

I close my eyes for a second to replay the night, terrified that I might have forgotten something. He went for my cheek, yes, but I would rather puke my guts up than kiss him. I look across the room at Rory, who's making out with an invisible me, his tongue going deep down my invisible throat.

I can imagine Rory spreading lies about me to his boys this morning, them hungry for stories of his night's conquests. I'd spit at him if my mouth wasn't so full of cotton.

Mr. Geller comes in then, so I can't say anything, I just cross my arms and sink into my seat, hating this morning more and more. Geller's the enthusiastic type, fairly young and always in a sports coat. He often tosses his curly hair excitedly as he lectures about the Habsburgs and the Bourbons (both families with descendants in attendance at the school). He goes to his chair but remains standing, puts down his book, begins to flip pages and without looking up, asks, “Who has something to ask me about the reading?” He always starts class like this, and we never answer. Even if we're all legitimately smart, no one is going to fall for such a sucker question. Ask him something about the reading and then spend ten minutes answering his follow-ups. Today, though, I can barely hear him. My blood is pulsing so hard in anger that I can feel my ears go deaf.

“He's lying, you know.” Rob's still keeping his head down, but he's spoken up, and Geller tilts his head in confusion.

“What's that, Rob?”

“I said ‘he's lying.' But I guess what I meant was ‘Rory's pathetic if he has to lie about something like that.'”

“You mean he's gay!” shouts Freddy Prince—his real name.

Geller, still confused and sensing that he's losing our attention, shouts, “I don't accept that kind of derogatory language in my classroom, Freddy.”

At the same time, though, Rory jumps up from his seat. He's not as tall as his roommate, Todd, but he's a heavyweight on the rowing squad, which means he's an angry built little guy. He's not looking at me at all—I might as well not exist. Rob's not only made fun of him in public, but he's gotten other richies to laugh at him. He takes a step toward Rob, his normally pale face flushed crimson, and points an angry finger.

“Why don't we ask Baby Mia?” he says, his voice a growl. “Or have you been wishing all along she was sucking
your
dick?”

This isn't particularly funny to the rest of the class. And considering that Rory is threatening a student in front of a teacher, he's already going to be in a ton of shit. But maybe it's the hangover or maybe it's the way he's talking to Rob or maybe it's the way Rory will push or take whatever he wants, but suddenly I'm up, the textbook full of glossy maps and mini print covering ten thousand years of history in my hand, weighing five, ten, twenty pounds, and before I can think, I smash Rory in the face, his smile disappearing into a picture of Elizabeth I. Rory topples over backward and hits the floor hard, rolls over and spits bright blood from his mouth onto the white linoleum. There's no noise except for the thumping of my own heart. And Mr. Geller has me by the arm. He drags me outside and throws me toward Dean Griffin's office.

“What were you thinking, Mia!?” he says, his voice sounding honestly confused. “You're lucky I pulled you out of there. He'll punch a girl.” Mr. Geller runs both hands through his hair to get ahold of the situation, sucks in a breath and then looks back at me, his face set. “Get to the dean's, and if I find out you didn't make it, I'll have you expelled.” He pauses, moves toward the door. “I mean it, Mia.”

He slams the door shut. I can hear Rory moaning, and my hands shake. There's blood on my Converses. I walk, dazed, toward the dean's office, down a long hallway filled with tall and shiny trophies, some of them mine.

I can't take my eyes off the blood, and I keep thinking of last night with a puddle of shame in my stomach. Does everyone think I hooked up with Rory? Has he already managed to convince everyone that I'm just another conquest for him? I wonder what he said.
Baby Mia's not a baby anymore! Did you see her chug that beer? She chugged more than that!
My hand feels heavy, the weight of the book still there, the sound of his nose breaking. I'm at the entrance to the dean's office, an enormous old-growth oak, split and cut and fashioned into two doors, supposedly donated by a school alum from the keep of his castle in France. They are big and heavy, hard to open, and standing there, I think that if I knock, I'm going to have to go home forever. I let a stupid asshole get to me.

My father will be so disappointed. Mom would have been too.

I raise my hand and knock, but the wood's so thick I barely make a sound. I try again, harder, and at the same moment, an alarm goes off. Not the fire alarm. This one sounds different. Is farther away but somehow louder. There's an up and down to it—
eeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-RRRRRRRRRRRRRR-rrrrreeeeeee-RRRRRRRRRRRR-rrr
—and I'm frozen, listening to the school's sirens, my hand still in a fist. My hangover headache goes into overdrive, and I can barely move. The sirens mean forest fire. Or tornado. Or nuclear attack. Or baby down a well. Anything that demands
pay attention, something's wrong.
But there's something different now. I've heard them before, and usually they echo off each other around town. These are solo, tinnier, only from the school. Why would the school's alarm go off on its own?

There's a squeak of feedback as the school's announcement system goes live, and then there's the dean's voice, but I can also hear it though the doors, where the speaker system is.

Students and faculty, please make your way immediately to Dylan Auditorium for a mandatory general assembly. This is NOT a drill, but note that we will not be sending students back to their dormitories as would normally be the case with our alarm system. Repeat, ALL students and faculty to Dylan Auditorium immediately.

There's a rustle of the speakers turning off, and almost immediately, the great oak doors pull wide to reveal Dean Griffin, a short man—he's smaller than I am—his face long and lined, and when he frowns, his wrinkles smush together and terrify everyone. He's been using that frown for decades, and was even a teacher here when my dad attended. He's the only member of staff I know who isn't scared of the rich kids. He's someone I actually fear and respect in equal measure. And he's staring me in the face.

“Miss Kish,” he says, his voice steady, but his eyes roving about, “you, having been raised in Fenton, know what that noise means more than most of the students here. I expect you to report to Dylan immediately. Tell everyone you see.”

“What's going on?” I ask.

“You will be informed in due course. Now, to the auditorium!”

And he's gone, the great doors ajar, and I see his secretary, Mrs. Applebaum, lying on the giant green visitor's couch, her hand dangling to the ground. Dr. Seymore, the on-staff physician, is on his knees bending over her, a mask covering his mouth. There's a breeze pushing Applebaum's tacky silk shirt around in small ripples, but otherwise she's not moving, and from here, she looks pale, gaunt, her hair grayer and tossed about. I can't move. I saw her just yesterday, shaking that reporter's hand. I take a step closer.

The siren is so oddly captivating. I look out the window, past the snowy fields of the quad and beyond the lake toward the outskirts of Fenton, where I can see Route 467 winding down the mountains. The road is busy, and for a second, I think nothing of it. But then I realize that there are trucks, many of them, and they're camouflaged.

“The army?” I say aloud.

Dr. Seymore looks up and waves me away. “You're not supposed to be here.”

I startle, and beyond the doctor, I can make out Mrs. Applebaum's face more clearly now, her lips ringed in blood, her face somehow as wrinkled as the dean's.

“Is she going to be okay?”

“You need to leave, now. Do you hear me?” he yells. “Go!”

I shuffle back out the door and into a hallway now filled with students, all heading to Dylan. No one is worried; there's an atmosphere of abandon—we've been released from classes early and can screw around. No one seems to get that something is going on. I feel like I'm holding a terrible secret, but I'm not 100 percent sure what it is . . . There are some high fives, a girl named Robin pulls Seth Winter's saggy pants down, and he chases her clear out the doors where I'm sure, if I caught up, I could see him piling snow down her hoodie.

I follow them blindly, in a daze.

Before I hit the outer doors, though, I walk by Mr. Geller's room and see that the class is already emptied. I see a trail of blood on the floor, and the other students do too, giving the stream a wide berth. I walk right through it and out into the quad, listening to the up and down of the siren. It's like a hypnotist's call to arms. The sun's bright, despite the cold, and I squint away the searing pain in my head from last night and the incessant siren buzz in my ear.