Page 101 of The Bleak Beginning

I should leave, get back to my room and try to forget this whole bizarre incident. But my legs feel leaden, and I find myself sinking down onto the cold tile floor, my back pressed against a nearby pillar. The chlorine scent hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the lingering tension I have from the confrontation.

I replay the memory of Sylvester’s arms around me, his hand on my lip, the confusion in his eyes. Whatever I thought I’d seen there was probably just a product of my oxygen-deprived brain.

A fresh shiver runs through me, and I realize I need to move. Slowly, I push myself to my feet, my muscles protesting. Gathering my things, I cast one last glance at the pool.

Learning to swim, it’s like being stuck in a toxic relationship. But probably worse.

Chapter 21

Alex

After I collect my mail for the day, I head outside and slide another letter from Elle to the bottom of the pile. My attention is caught by a sign on a nearby billboard. Bold letters proclaiming “Altair University Parents’ Weekend” in cheerful black and gold.

A parents’ weekend? Here? At Altair?

I continue to scan the details. Meet-and-greets with professors. Reception following the Pre-trials. A formal dinner in the Great Hall.

I blink, squinting at the flyer, realizing it’s this weekend. That can’t be right. I thought this school prided itself on its independence, on molding young minds away from outside influence. Why else would I not be allowed a cellphone?

I glance around, half-expecting to see other students gaping at the sign, but the quad is nearly empty. A few stragglers hurry to their next class, heads down, not even noticing the billboard. Am I the only one who seems alarmed by this?

I stuff the letter from Elle deeper into my stack of mail, my palms suddenly clammy.

As I hurry back to my dorm, my mind whirls with possibilities. I could fake an illness. Or perhaps there’s a way to convince the administration this is a terrible idea. Who am I kidding? Chancellor Maxwell would march me out of her office and tell me to reschedule before allowing me to speak my mind if I showed up unexpectedly.

By the time I make it back to my room I can’t tell if I’m thinking clearly or if I have completely lost my mind. Why am I even worried? There’s no chance that my mother can actually come here. It’s simply impossible. And as for my father, Clara hasn’t mentioned him visiting in our recent phone conversations and letters. So really, why am I bothered?

I glance at the growing stack of letters from Elle that have accumulated in my drawer. Could she have mentioned visiting in one of them? I shake my head and slam the drawer shut.

Nope.

I don’t require her assistance, predictions, or anything else. I can handle this parents’ weekend on my own.

I flop onto my bed, trying to calm my racing thoughts. But the more I attempt to convince myself that everything will be fine, the more my anxiety grows. What if Elle did mention something about this in one of her letters? What if she knows something I don’t?

I sit up abruptly, eyeing the drawer where I’ve stashed her unopened messages. My fingers twitch with the urge to rip them open.

A knock at my door startles me out of my internal debate. “Come in,” I call, grateful for the distraction.

But nobody enters. After a few minutes, I decide to open the door and look outside, feeling confused. That’s when I spot a note hanging on my door.

My hand trembles as I reach for it. The paper is thick and cream-colored, folded precisely in half. I glance down the hallway, but it’s empty. Whoever left this is long gone.

Back inside my room, I unfold the note with trepidation. The handwriting is unfamiliar, intricate and loopy:

Meet me at the fountain outside the dormitories. Midnight. Come alone.

No signature. No explanation. Just those cryptic words.

I stare at the note. Who could have left this? And why? My mind races through possibilities—a secret admirer, a prank, or something more sinister?

The sensible part of me says to ignore it, to crumple up the note and forget about it. But curiosity gnaws at me, mingling with the anxiety already churning in my stomach from the parents’ weekend revelation.

I glance at the clock. It’s only 4:00 pm. Hours until midnight. I try to focus on my homework, but the words blur on the page. The note sits on my desk, taunting me.

As night falls, I pace my room, debating. Going could be dangerous. But staying could mean missing out on something important.

Screw it. When the clock finally hits 11:55, I pull on a dark hoodie and slip out of my room.

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