His smile grew wider, the expression stretched tightly against his face, so that it fitted as though some sort of grotesque mask. “Not even one goddamn word.”
She knew about the books, I realized then. Somehow, in the way that she always did, she knew that they were only for show, that they were only part of the carefully curated image John worked to display—nothing more. I supposed that I should be mad, that I should feel resentment for her then, for baiting the man that I had promised to stand by for all the rest of my days, for the way she had so carelessly stepped back into my life, as if Vermont and what had happened there were of no real consequence. I could feel it—the anger that should have been mine, hovering in the air around us, snapping questions and demanding answers, and yet, I could not reach for it, could not manage to claim it as my own. Instead I focused only on the bend that they, John and Lucy, were driving toward, dangerously, recklessly. I knew that were they to take the curve, there would be no turning back. I leaned in and said anxiously, longing for the comfort of the apartment and the safety it promised: “John has never been much of a reader.”
It was, I quickly realized, the wrong thing to say.
“You both make it sound as though I’m illiterate.” John frowned. “Just because I don’t fawn over these Bront?s,” he said, pronouncing it Bron-tay.
“Bront?,” I corrected him, without thinking.
John was silent, quickly finishing the rest of his drink and setting his glass onto the table with more force than necessary. I gave a little jump, though Lucy, I noticed, managed to remain still. “I’ve just seen Charlie at the bar,” he said, abruptly. “I’ll be back in a moment.” Before I could respond, he had grabbed his empty glass and disappeared.
A few minutes of silence passed. “He struggled in school,” I finally offered.
Lucy nodded, her face closed. “I’m just off to the toilets.” She slid from her seat. “I won’t be long.”
She smiled, moving, for one moment, as if to touch me. But then she stopped and, turning, her eyes averted from mine, disappeared into the swelling crowd that surrounded us.
In their absence, I felt unmoored, untethered, so that my hands grasped the wooden table beneath me in a desperate attempt to find an anchor. I felt something brush against my leg then and I jumped, though looking down I could see that it was only one of the city’s many stray dogs, wandered in off the streets. During my first days in Tangier, John had cautioned me that I could not be afraid, that I could not display my fear to the poor beasts, that it would only incite them further. I remembered walking with him along the port early one morning, passing by one dog after another as they lay, stretched out on the hot, unforgiving pavement beneath them. At the sound of our footsteps, they had raised their heads, their bodies braced, and I had retreated farther into John, despite his rebuke, fearing that one of the dogs would lunge, would bite, and I’d be stricken with rabies. In that moment, I had been petrified, but John had only pushed me away, whispering that it was for my own good.
Now, the dog sank to its haunches, finding comfort against the warmth of my legs. And I let him, grateful to no longer be alone.
I HAD MET LUCY MASON on my first day at Bennington.
She was standing in our room, her single suitcase already situated at the bottom of the bed closest to the window, her eyes taking in the barren walls that surrounded her. I had paused in the doorway, quietly observing the girl I would be living with for the next year. And yet, girl, I thought, standing there, examining her, struck me as somehow wrong. I watched as she reached into the pocket of her jacket, pulling out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. I had never smoked before, not even once, and I watched, fascinated, as plumes of smoke enveloped her, spreading throughout our room, as if hungry to mark the corners of it, to claim it.
Although we were both just seventeen, there was something about the stranger standing before me that seemed infinitely older—wiser perhaps—than myself. The difference was evident even in our clothing. I looked down at my dress, suddenly embarrassed by what seemed a childish frock, covered as it was with a pattern of flowers and ivy and reaching to the floor in a ballerina-inspired cut. In contrast, my new roommate wore a dark, emerald-green jacket with a peplum waistline, accentuating her enviable hourglass figure, paired with a slim black skirt. And while neither the jacket nor the skirt looked particularly new—there was a strange weariness about both of them, I thought, as if the owner had worn them once too often—she emitted a sophistication that I had only before seen in the pages of magazines.
I entered slowly, sounding a soft knock against the door. She looked up, fixing me with a thoughtful gaze that I could not read, but that caused me to turn away and blush.
“Hello,” I murmured, placing a timid smile on my face.
She stared back, blinking.
“I’m Alice,” I said, realizing too late that it looked as though I was waiting for an invitation to enter. I quickly closed the distance between us. “I was afraid you might have forgotten,” I said, extending my free hand.
She accepted it, with a slight tilt of her head. “I’m Lucy.”
There were no gloves on her own hands, I noticed, silently chiding myself for selecting the lacy ones that my aunt had purchased in anticipation of my matriculation to Bennington. They seemed somehow wrong, in the bareness of the room and against the plainness of my roommate. She wore no makeup, so that I felt foolish with my pink lips and wing tip eyes, like a little girl caught playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.
Lucy glanced behind me, in the direction of the door. “Are your parents with you?”
I looked down. “No, they’re not,” I said, taking a deep breath. It was a line that I had rehearsed in the bathroom mirror of my aunt’s house countless times over the summer. I knew the question would eventually be broached, it always was, though I had since schooled myself on how to make the answer appear casual—or as casual as it could ever be. I was tired of the typical reaction: the scrunching of the nose, the furrowing of the brow, that expression that conveyed pity and yet something more as well. A fear. As if my parents’ death was something that was catching and I, the sole survivor, a contaminant that threatened them. I had seen it happen, had experienced it firsthand. At school, they had all huddled around me at first, their bodies pressed against my own, conveying regret and sadness, hugging me tight with assurances that it would all be fine, that we would survive this together. But then a week passed, and then two, and one girl was gone and then another. Soon, their closeness was replaced with small, tight smiles as we passed by one another in the hallway, or a brief wave from across the grounds. By the time that school let out, their relief was palpable, surging underneath every interaction. I was not surprised when the phone calls and visits died away. By the time my bags were packed for college, not a single one of them was to be found. And so, I said the words again, bracing for the worst, expecting it. I imagined the reaction I would receive—a downward tug of the lips, a brief yet awkward hug, and then my roommate would move on, searching among the countless other girls, looking for one that was not already damaged, tainted, marred by tragedy.