Page 12 of House of Hearts
“I’m fairly certain he left for Le Rosey in Switzerland,” Oliver clarifies, his tone a tad tart but his expression betraying nothing. He lets the book fall shut beside him and stuffs it into his Patagonia bag. “I doubt he was abducted by aliens.”
Amber’s cheeks bloom a telling red. “Did I say I thought he was abducted by aliens?”
“No, but I’m sure you were thinking it. Not everything is some big conspiracy or piece of gossip. Sometimes things just happen.”
“Switzerland?” I demand, trying not to sound outwardly rattled whileinwardlyrattled. Should I have applied to Le Rosey instead? How the hell was I supposed to know he was in Switzerland of all places? Why did Emoree tell me tofind Percybut leave out the little fact that he’s already fled the country?
“So I’ve heard,” Oliver says, dabbing at his lips with the end of a cloth napkin. “Which, as far as rumors go, is far more believable than him vanishing into thin air.”
It’s just a rumor, I remind myself with a measured breath. I force down another bite of my breakfast and do my best to wipe the concern from my face. I don’t need to freak out. Even if he’s halfway across the world by now, his siblings aren’t, and I’d bet anything that Calvin andSadie know exactly what happened that night, and they for sure know where their brother is hiding. I made the right decision in applying to come here. The place that’s still 100 percent in the Lockwell family’s control.
Clearly, this rumor has been debated among the trio a million times. Birdie stabs at her own waffles, and I wince as the metal teeth of her fork scrape the ceramic. “You can’t deny the timing of it.”
“The timing is why it makes sense, though,” he says, but any hint of nonchalance in his tone is gone. In its place is a tight hitch in his throat and a flash of something in his eyes I can’t quite pin down. “His girlfriend died in a tragic accident. I don’t blame him for leaving.”
“God, I’ll never forget that day,” Amber laments, her voice taking on a sullen tone. “It was horrible. A huge production. Police. Yellow tape. Reporters. A twenty-four-seven crisis center for students. Headmistress Lockwell was frazzled every time I saw her.”
Birdie slumps in her seat, her breakfast long forgotten. “It really was awful. Her death weighed on me for a long time.”
I want to tell her I know exactly how that feels, that I still feel it now—that inescapable, horrible burn in my chest—but I settle on a soft nod. We sit in silence, none of us knowing how to recover after such a heavy topic and no one wanting to be the one to try.
Our reverie is interrupted by obnoxiously loud laughing and jeering. Calvin’s table, of course.
“Look at the state of you, bruv!” one of his friends jeers, slapping Calvin a little too hard on the back. He’s got a cut-glass accent and a way of making even slang sound posh while shrieking. “My God, Cal. You lose weight over the holiday? You should’ve summered with me in Buckinghamshire. I swear, did you leave your room even once?”
I recognize the posh stranger as one of the crossed-out faces on Amber’s hit list. Ash Rajput, a British Indian transfer student with a gold hoop through his ear and a chiseled jaw. (“I only crossed him out because he’s dating Mallory Hunt. Enough said.”)
Calvin’s not laughing. He’s too busy twirling his fork on his plate, his gaze locked vacantly ahead. It’s only as I lift my head that our eyes meet and he stares at me like a man suspended in a strange waking dream. He squints as if trying to decide whether I’m real or a desert mirage.
Breaking away, I settle on one of the portraits hanging behind him. The man in the frame is the very first Lockwell to grace these hallowed halls.Oleander Lockwellscripted in elegant serif lettering. He is depicted in his prime, handsomely distinguished and distinguished by a streak of gray in his otherwise-brown hair. His glasses are perfectly perched across the slope of his nose, and his mouth is set in clear disdain for the viewer.
As much as I don’t believe in spirits, I can’t help wondering if everyone else sees his scowl or if it’s reserved purely for me.
If I thought the cafeteria was bad, the main academic hall is ten times worse. The decor in this building needs to go to couples counseling. The past and present refuse to marry, and all they’re doing is yelling over each other.
There are wall sconces and overhead fluorescent lighting, whimsical grotesques and state-of-the-art sprinkler systems, sleek metal railings and aged mahogany. I allow Birdie to lead me through it all, her arm dutifully locked with mine.
“Looks like you’re stuck with me for a bit longer,” she says with my printed schedule clutched in her free hand.
Ovid’s Metamorphosesstares back at us in bold black lettering. I didn’t have much of a choice when it came to picking out courses for the semester. I wanted to follow Emoree’s footsteps as best as I could—which meant taking whatever elective screamed out her name.
The only class I can’t follow her in is choir. I might be academically gifted enough to weasel my way into this school, but I don’t have a musical bone in my body. Em was two bad test scores away from flunking math, but she had the voice of an angel.
“You’re in Ovid, too?”
She nods. “Hopefully you’re not sick of me by the end of this.”
“No, it’s nice to have a—” I cut myself off. “Friend” lodges in my throat, and I taste the betrayal of the word on my tongue. “It’s nice to have someone I know in class.”
I follow Birdie as she ushers us both into an auditorium-style classroom. It has a certain Old English feel to it: a coffered walnut ceiling and paneled walls, lofty balcony seating lifted above rows of wooden benches. Sitting in the top gallery, I imagine this is what it’d be like in an opera house, forced to squint down at the stage through a pair of binoculars.
Our teacher strides up to the podium in front and pushes a pair of glasses up the bridge of his nose. He looks like a cadaver dragged out of the crypt to teach our class.
“My name is Dr.Sampson. ‘Doctor’ is an earned title. There will be no ‘Frederic’ or ‘Mr.Sampson.’ Do I make myself clear?”
There’s a murmured hum of agreement that spreads across the room. He acknowledges us by clearing phlegm from his throat.
“We will be moving at an accelerated rate in this course. As you know, I assigned reading prior to class. They will do the same in college, especially at the Ivies, so it’s important you adapt quickly. Now, if you open your books to page fifty—Late on the first day, are we?” His speech ends abruptly at the sound of the door squealing open.
