Page 20 of The Debutantes
Vivian deflates. “No.”
“Hmm.” Piper narrows her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell Detective Rutherford about the text?”
“Why didn’tyoutell him that Wyatt and Lily were arguing?”
Piper holds her in an icy gaze for a moment before turning back to the path. “Because I didn’t think it was important. Besides, wouldn’t he have just taken that as more proof that Lily ran away because of a ‘tiff’ with her boyfriend?”
Vivian doesn’t answer, but I can tell she agrees. Clearly Piper can, too, because she gives her tennis skirt a self-satisfied brush.
We’re nearing the end of the football field, where the massive athletic building marks the beginning of the upper school campus. A breeze reaches under my flannel, and I pull my sleeves over my hands, balling them into fists. Already, I’m dreading having to be back here every day, even though it’s technically nice to look at. Beaumont is more like a tiny college than a high school, with red-brick buildings connected by green courtyards and open breezeways, classic French lanterns dangling above them. It’s like a brochure come to life, and that’s why I don’t trust it. It’s the kind of beauty that’s too symmetrical, too airbrushed. Nothing here feels real.
We walk in what I’m sure Piper and Vivian would consider an awkward silence, but mostly, I’m glad no one’s trying to make small talk. Still, when we get to the art wing, I’m relieved.
The classrooms here are clustered around a small courtyard, one room for each discipline Beaumont offers: drawing and painting, ceramics, and—my favorite, obviously—photography. Piper looks around like she’s expecting to get jumped, and I wonder if she’s ever even set foot here, or if she’s one of those straight-A students who thinks any degree that isn’t STEM or law is basically worthless.
But what she says is, “I’m pretty sure the classrooms are locked.”
I pull a key out of my pocket.
Vivian quirks an eyebrow. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Ms. Ramirez gave it to me,” I explain, face going hot. “So I can work on my portfolio after school.”
That, and I’m pretty sure she also just took pity on me.Poor, friendless April. At least let her hide from her peers in this dark hovel where she can, for a brief moment of her day, know peace.
I’ll take what I can get.
But when I slide the key into the lock and twist, it’s already unlocked. Weird. I push it open and step inside, greeted by the welcoming scent of photo paper, chemicals, and the lemony cleaner they use on the linoleum. I do a quick scan, but despite the unlocked door, the room is empty. Piper follows me in, and then Vivian, shutting the door behind us.
As we walk deeper inside, Vivian scans the prints clipped to the drying rack, and I realize with an instant burst of regret that they’re mine. I shot them at a cemetery in the Garden District, and I’ve been experimenting with bleaching the film to get a distorted, surreal kind of look, but so far, I haven’t gotten it right. The photos always come out messy, and not in an artistic way—just directionless. To someone like Vivian, they probably make me look like a wannabe goth, or worse, a straight-up creep.
The embarrassment must be clear on my face, because Vivian asks, “These yours?”
Reluctantly, I nod.
“They’re good.”
She sounds surprisingly genuine. Usually, when popular Beaumont girls talk to me, it’s with an air of exaggerated niceness, like acknowledging the weird, quiet girl is some kind of tax write-off.
I shrug. “They’re fine.”
Without giving her any more time to reply, I speed over to the round darkroom door and push my way through to the other side. For a few glorious seconds, I’m alone again.
But the peace doesn’t last for long.
“So where do we start?” Piper asks, as she and Vivian shuffle inside, glancing around the room like it’s a foreign planet.
My eyes track up to the ceiling.
At first glance, you wouldn’t know anything’s wrong with it. But when I climb up on a stool, stand on the table, and reach up for the tile, it comes loose, sliding to the side like always.
“Okay,Mission: Impossible,” Vivian says, sounding both impressed and a little wary.
I let out a breath. I’d half expected the tile not to open. I haven’t let myself check all year, but I’d assumed someone would have noticed the loose tile and fixed it by now. But why would they? No one has hidden anything here since…
The memory is so vivid, I’m almost lightheaded. Two years ago, January of sophomore year. The day I walked into the darkroom and found Margot sliding this same tile back into place. The first words she ever said to me:
“What the fuck?”
