all.
I slammed my book shut so hard that a girl from the next table looked over at us. I started stuffing things into my bag—my iPad, my journal, my textbooks. I clutched my little pen case covered with smiling matryoshka dolls. The nesting doll, a self inside a self inside a self, my own personal symbolism.
“Really?” she said, pulling an annoyed grimace. But I could see she felt bad. She knew she’d pushed me too far. In fact, she’d been pushing and pushing and pushing me all year in little ways like this. And I was finished with it. I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked out.
“Grow up,” she called after me, causing everybody in the library to look at her ( just like she liked it). But I was already walking out the door.
Around 2 A.M. , there was a soft knock at my door. It roused me immediately from sleep, but I lay there for a minute listening. My first thought was that it was Beck, come to apologize. But no, that was impossible. Beck was not hardwired to apologize. She clung to her own rightness. Anyway, maybe I was the one who needed to apologize to her. And I wasn’t hardwired for that any more than she.
Another knock, then: “It’s me, Ainsley.”
I got up and walked over to the door, which I had locked upon returning home, and opened it. She stood there shivering in an oversize sweatshirt and leggings, her hair a tumble of curls pulled up high on her head.
“Beck didn’t come home.”
“So,” I said. I moved past her and sat on the plush couch in the common room. She followed and sat beside me. I handed her the blanket that hung over the arm, and she wrapped it around herself. The old dormitory buildings, built from stone, were freezing in the winter, almost impossible to heat adequately, as though the walls soaked up all the warmth and kept it for themselves. We all walked around in robes and big slippers, wrapped in blankets in the cooler months.
“So,” said Ainsley, “she should be home by now. The library closed at midnight. Weren’t you there with her?”
“I was,” I said. “But I left first.”
“Oh,” she said.
“What’s the big deal?” I asked. “She could be in someone’s room somewhere. You know Beck.”
She stared off out the window, where the wind was tossing the branches of the tall, bare oak.
“You know,” she said.
Her hazel eyes were growing wide. I knew what she was thinking about. Two years ago when we were sophomores, a girl, a friend of ours, disappeared from the campus. Elizabeth Barnett left a party we’d all been attending, but none of us had seen her leave. She’d had a fight with her boyfriend and left in tears, according to someone who’d seen her and let her stumble off into the night drunk and hysterical.
Before her disappearance, we had all thought of the campus as an idyll of safety. Nothing bad had ever happened here, and it seemed as if nothing ever could. With its rolling grounds and close-knit buildings, its well-lit paths and roaming security guards, we strolled about at all hours, in all conditions, without a worry in our heads. Some people said the woods were haunted, but we all knew that was just a ghost story we told ourselves, something that was cool and entertaining rather than frightening.
It was days of pandemonium, the campus crawling with police, Elizabeth’s parents running a command center from the gym. All of us stunned and crying, huddling, participating in searches through those haunted woods, gathering together at night to comfort each other. Theories and rumors abounded, and accusations were thick in the air. Elizabeth’s boyfriend was questioned, but not arrested. It was revealed that Elizabeth’s swim coach had been fired from his previous university job for having an inappropriate relationship with one of his students. He was suspended, questioned seriously by police, and by day four he was considered the prime suspect.
On day seven, Elizabeth’s body was found. She’d fallen down a flight of
I slammed my book shut so hard that a girl from the next table looked over at us. I started stuffing things into my bag—my iPad, my journal, my textbooks. I clutched my little pen case covered with smiling matryoshka dolls. The nesting doll, a self inside a self inside a self, my own personal symbolism.
“Really?” she said, pulling an annoyed grimace. But I could see she felt bad. She knew she’d pushed me too far. In fact, she’d been pushing and pushing and pushing me all year in little ways like this. And I was finished with it. I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked out.
“Grow up,” she called after me, causing everybody in the library to look at her ( just like she liked it). But I was already walking out the door.
Around 2 A.M. , there was a soft knock at my door. It roused me immediately from sleep, but I lay there for a minute listening. My first thought was that it was Beck, come to apologize. But no, that was impossible. Beck was not hardwired to apologize. She clung to her own rightness. Anyway, maybe I was the one who needed to apologize to her. And I wasn’t hardwired for that any more than she.
Another knock, then: “It’s me, Ainsley.”
I got up and walked over to the door, which I had locked upon returning home, and opened it. She stood there shivering in an oversize sweatshirt and leggings, her hair a tumble of curls pulled up high on her head.
“Beck didn’t come home.”
“So,” I said. I moved past her and sat on the plush couch in the common room. She followed and sat beside me. I handed her the blanket that hung over the arm, and she wrapped it around herself. The old dormitory buildings, built from stone, were freezing in the winter, almost impossible to heat adequately, as though the walls soaked up all the warmth and kept it for themselves. We all walked around in robes and big slippers, wrapped in blankets in the cooler months.
“So,” said Ainsley, “she should be home by now. The library closed at midnight. Weren’t you there with her?”
“I was,” I said. “But I left first.”
“Oh,” she said.
“What’s the big deal?” I asked. “She could be in someone’s room somewhere. You know Beck.”
She stared off out the window, where the wind was tossing the branches of the tall, bare oak.
“You know,” she said.
Her hazel eyes were growing wide. I knew what she was thinking about. Two years ago when we were sophomores, a girl, a friend of ours, disappeared from the campus. Elizabeth Barnett left a party we’d all been attending, but none of us had seen her leave. She’d had a fight with her boyfriend and left in tears, according to someone who’d seen her and let her stumble off into the night drunk and hysterical.
Before her disappearance, we had all thought of the campus as an idyll of safety. Nothing bad had ever happened here, and it seemed as if nothing ever could. With its rolling grounds and close-knit buildings, its well-lit paths and roaming security guards, we strolled about at all hours, in all conditions, without a worry in our heads. Some people said the woods were haunted, but we all knew that was just a ghost story we told ourselves, something that was cool and entertaining rather than frightening.
It was days of pandemonium, the campus crawling with police, Elizabeth’s parents running a command center from the gym. All of us stunned and crying, huddling, participating in searches through those haunted woods, gathering together at night to comfort each other. Theories and rumors abounded, and accusations were thick in the air. Elizabeth’s boyfriend was questioned, but not arrested. It was revealed that Elizabeth’s swim coach had been fired from his previous university job for having an inappropriate relationship with one of his students. He was suspended, questioned seriously by police, and by day four he was considered the prime suspect.
On day seven, Elizabeth’s body was found. She’d fallen down a flight of
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