Friday afternoon was cold and dark, 3:30 p.m. disguised as 3:30 a.m. Erik, Marcus, and I met in front of Arlington Hall to sort out the competition order. I passed between the twin statues of lions that flanked the stairs, following Erik, who looked like a turtle, shelled in an olive coat that was absurdly big for him. His parents must have expected a growth spurt soon, but judging by Victoria’s height, they might be waiting a long time.
The freshmen dipped easily into conversation, but secrecy had its hand across my mouth. Nihal and I had agreed not to tell the others—it wasn’t our information to dole out. If Isaac didn’t want the Sharps knowing, that was his business.
Still, I couldn’t help thinking about the way he’d been acting. Guilt tinted my recent memory blue. I’d read his attitude as hostile or sullen. This had been the last possibility on my mind. It felt wrong, all the others still trapped in that blue space, unknowing.
We clanked through the front doors and traipsed through the foyer, where murky-looking oil canvases hung on the wall that curved down to the box office. A door to the auditorium was propped; we filed in. A trio of people glowed at the edge of the stage, shirts and skin whitened by the lights.
The three of us traded a look and broke into a jog. We were fifteen minutes early to the time Dr. Caskey had given Trav—why were people already here?
But as we neared the stage, I recognized Connor, and it all cleared right up. Dr. Caskey must have given his son an earlier time than the rest of us. Just nepotism. Nothing complicated.
I clomped up the reverberant steps at the side of the stage, Erik and Marcus trotting up afterward. We flocked toward the table at the edge of the stage, where a pair of Minuets—Connor and his lanky ginger henchman—were talking to Dr. Caskey. Dr. Caskey had a well-groomed thatch of salt-and-pepper hair topping a face that looked uncannily like Connor’s, right down to the self-satisfied look that seemed built into the architecture of his expression. The two Caskeys loomed over the redheaded Minuet like twin skyscrapers.
“Gentlemen,” Dr. Caskey said, scanning us. “Welcome. Let’s get your time slot squared away.” He had a confident, genial tone of voice that didn’t match the hardness of his blue eyes.
“Connor, Oscar,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. As we approached, they cleared away from the table to reveal a poster with six slots. The last—of course—was taken: NEW YORK MINUETS.
Marcus fidgeted, looking between Erik and me. “What do we do?” he murmured.
“Trav said second-to-last,” I muttered back.
Erik picked up the pen and reached for number five, but Dr. Caskey said, “Wait.”
Erik looked up at Dr. Caskey, who had a foot and a half of height on him.
Dr. Caskey showed his teeth. A manufactured-looking smile. “The program needs genre separation, so we need some distance between the men’s groups. Fourth or earlier, please.”
Erik let out a slow breath. “Cool.” He and Marcus looked at each other, then, in unison, they faced me.
“Why are you looking at me?”
“Because you’re a junior?” Erik said.
I shook my head. “Okay. Maybe first? What if we did first? It’s better than getting lost in the middle, probably.”
“Totally, yeah,” Marcus said. “That makes sense. Do that.”
I picked up the pen and scribbled SHARPSHOOTERS into the first slot.
“Thanks for stopping by,” Dr. Caskey said. “Have a good break, fellas.”
We headed for the backstage door, passing between the stripes of deep blue curtain that hung stage left. “That was bullshit,” Erik muttered, looking mutinous. “Trav’s going to be so mad.”
“Yeah,” Marcus agreed. “Yeah. But he can’t really do anything, I guess. Dr. Caskey is the dean.”
“This better not throw our chances,” Erik grumbled.
I opened my mouth to reassure him, but something interrupted: a sensation of sudden warmth blooming between my legs.
I froze. My period wasn’t supposed to come for another week. These sweatpants, light gray, weren’t going to hide stains, and I couldn’t remember if I had a tampon in my bag. I’d never wished for period cramps, but good Lord, a little heads-up would have been nice.
“You good, man?” Erik said.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I grunted. “You guys go ahead. I’m going to use the bathroom.”
“See you later!” Marcus chirped, and they headed for the stage door. I moved for the greenroom, trying not to waddle too much. What was the best way to walk when you were trying not to bleed everywhere? Unclear. Someone should’ve done studies on this.
The Arlington greenroom planners had taken the name too literally, with rich emerald-green carpeting and walls painted a light mint. The L-shaped room had sofas along every available wall, the boys’ restroom to my right. I darted around the bend, hunting for the girls’.
There it was, tucked into the corner of the L. Please, I prayed, pushing inside. In Palmer, the bathrooms under the stage were always stocked with pads and tampons, lined up along the mirror like a feminine hygiene buffet. I didn’t know why they were there, but I’d raided those supplies more times than I could count.
I flicked on the lights. This bathroom wasn’t equipped. It had been a slender hope anyway.
I swung into a stall and sat for a while, contemplating the terrible timing. Now I had to deal with my period on the retreat. How was I going to get rid of a shitload of bloodstained objects without the Sharps noticing?
Only one option, really: Bring a bunch of plastic bags and hide it all in my suitcase. Smuggle my used tampons back to school after the retreat like contraband.
Sighing, I double-checked the front pocket of my backpack. Empty. Time to make one of those makeshift pads out of toilet paper, position it awkwardly in my underwear, and pray it held up until I got home, then.
Makeshift pad made and applied, I flushed, washed my hands, and left the bathroom. My phone buzzed as I crossed the greenroom threshold. I paused to check the group text.
Trav (3:36 p.m.): You didn’t even try to request he change the order? You didn’t ask him why the Minuets knew to get there so early?
He might have backed down if he thought you were going to bring this to other teachers.
Trav (3:36 p.m.): I asked you to do one thing. You might have taken a bit of initiative.
Shit. Usually, this would be the point at which Isaac would dive in to calm him down. None of the rest of us knew how to handle this. The others were probably resenting Isaac right now for disappearing.
I found myself wanting to be angry at him, too—as if by not telling us, he deserved the resentment. Of course not, though. He didn’t owe us the down-low on his dad’s medical procedures.
I tapped Isaac’s contact on my phone screen and opened a new text. Seeing our text history was a weird flood of memory—the rapport we’d had before the Golden Bear disaster, before the dance.
I typed a message. The words didn’t come smoothly.
Hey, Isaac. Your roommate told Nihal and me last night what the deal is. We haven’t told the guys. You don’t have to reply to this or anything, but if you want to talk about it, I’m here. Hope your dad’s feeling okay and he gets better soon.
I reread it a few times. Would this help at all? Was it too emotional? Too girly?
I gave my head a hard shake, disgusted. How selfish was I, worrying about whether my phrasing in a text was too feminine, when on the other end, Isaac was sitting in some hospital by his post-op father? I knew what it felt like to sit in that seat: lonely.
Besides, Marcus was plenty compassionate. Nihal was plenty kind. Kindness had no gender, had no race or age or category. It didn’t matter if this made me sound like myself—I’d built a thick enough wall for it to withstand a few blows, and Isaac could use some sympathy. I couldn’t offer much, but I could be genuine for once in my damned life.
I tapped Send, put my phone down, and walked out of the greenroom.
On the way to the backstage door, a low, serious voice stopped me. I caught a glimpse between the dangling curtains at the side of the stage—everyone had come and gone, except one tall figure facing another down. Connor was nearly as tall as his father, but Dr. Caskey wielded those few extra inches of height like a weapon. After a second’s debate, I ducked out of sight and listened.
“—still remember what it was like to be here,” said Dr. Caskey’s clear, tuneful voice. “I know what it’s like, the real Kensington. Fooling around with girls in the cathedral. Getting drunk on Dom Pérignon in the woods. Going out after dark without the housemaster noticing . . . and you know, when I was in the group, we had real rituals, real tradition, none of that watered-down Kumbaya trash they have people doing now. I had a brush with death on the night of my initiation. Still got a scar or two.” He said it as if it were his proudest achievement, and I wondered what the Minuets’ old initiation might have been. What could they get away with out in the woods? Branding, maybe, like I’d heard about college frats? One of those get-blindfolded-and-lost-in-the-wilderness scenarios?
Dr. Caskey loosed a long, deep sigh. “So, I understand.”
“Yes, sir.”
A pause. “But you need to understand something,” he went on, his voice getting soft and dangerous. “You know what I’m thinking when Mr. Yu tells me I might want to talk to you, because, well, do I know your performance this semester hasn’t quite been up to your usual standard? I’m thinking I shouldn’t have to babysit you and your grades for you to perform. And I’m thinking, maybe I need to get worried about December, because maybe you’re not getting into Princeton without that tour.”
Connor was quiet.
“The rituals, and breaking the rules,” Dr. Caskey said, “it only means anything if you’re a winner. I mean—” He laughed. “It’s the difference between those guys on Wall Street doing cocaine and a coke addict, get it? The difference is control. If you’re going to mess around, pick fights, fine. Don’t tell me about it, but it’s fine. Kind of character-building, at the end of the day. But the first thing you’re going to do is be the best, or the rest is wasted time. Hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dr. Caskey’s voice lost its last shred of humor. “You’re not going to embarrass me again?” he said, colder than sea ice. “Because if you don’t get results here, and I get wind from anyone else that you’ve been fucking around this semester, I am not going to be happy.”
“You don’t need to worry.” Connor spoke with utter neutrality. Without seeing his face, I knew the disconnected expression that would be locked into place over his steely eyes and thin mouth. I understood suddenly where and why he’d adopted it: here, a foot in front of his father, for survival’s sake.
“Good.” The sound of a hand on a shoulder. “Eyes on the prize. Now put that table up and let’s go.”
I slipped noiselessly out the backstage door, feeling like nothing of what I’d just heard could be real.
“Okay, we’re good,” Erik said, putting down his phone. “Victoria says she can get a ride to the airport with, I don’t know, Ariana something. So we have a car.”
I issued a sigh of relief. It caught in my throat as Jon Cox turned toward me. “All right, buddy,” he said. “Are you up to drive?”
Four hours there, and four hours back. For eight hours, I’d have to make sure the speedometer never even nudged the speed limit. I couldn’t risk getting pulled over. It wasn’t just driving someone under twenty that would get me busted—the cop would get curious why I didn’t match the girl on my license.
But with Isaac gone, what was the other option?
I looked around for a sympathetic face, but the guys all looked expectant. I hedged. “Just, we don’t drive in this weather in California, so . . .”
“The roads are going to be salted,” Jon Cox said quickly.
“Well,” Mama said, “not the whole way. Up in the mountains, it gets pretty snowy. You really think—”
Jon Cox hushed him and looked back at me. I understood the pleading look in his eye—we needed to get out of this place. Too many angry words hung around the Nest, cluttering our corners, perching on our rafters, peering down at us. They needed time to drift away.
But as far as my parents knew, my semester was a total non-event. All I needed was one missed speed limit sign, one cop having a bad day, or one patch of black ice, and everything was done. Nobody in my life would trust me again.
A voice came from behind Jon Cox. “I’ll do it,” Trav said.
I turned with all the other guys. “What?”
“I thought you couldn’t drive,” Mama said.
Trav pursed his lips. “I can. I just . . . don’t.” He crossed his arms. “But it’s better than Julian getting arrested. I-I can do it.”
More than anything, he sounded like he was talking himself into it. Unease flashed across my thoughts. Isaac had mentioned Trav’s anxiety. How bad was it around driving? Should I jump in? Tell him not to worry about it, not to push himself if he didn’t feel comfortable?
But Jon Cox was already saying, “Thanks, man. So we’re set.”
“We’re set,” Trav said, sounding more confident.
Under my skin, excitement and guilt grated against each other, shooting sparks.