Page 17 of Deck of Scarlets

I placed my suitcase on my bed, grateful for once for my mother having someone set up my room already and unzipped it to reveal my neatly folded clothes.

Heather’s side of the room looked like a four-year-old threw up candy and sparkles, with a dash of country bumpkin on the side. Posters of country singers and mediocre art on canvases that probably came from a local decor shop adorned the walls, with splashes of blues and purples on her comforter and matching pillows and curtains that she was in the process of putting up. My side of the room was so modern-looking that I never wanted to set something on fire so fast. Of course, this was indeed my fault; since joking with my mother about wanting goth-style decor, she had a fit and took it upon herself to pick my color scheme. I guessed my sarcasm fell flat on that one.

I watched the interaction between Heather and her mother trying to set up the curtains, and it made me a bit envious of their relationship compared to the stiff one I shared with my mother. There had been a brief time in my childhood when she was warm and gentle, but as I got older, she became busier with our family business, becoming one of the most well-known real estate agencies in the city.

“Remi, are you going to the freshman mixer tonight?” Heather asked, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I would rather stab my eyes with a cafeteria fork than expose myself to that cliche shit. “Uh, I don’t know.”

“You gotta! It’s supposed to be fun!” she bragged. Heather made her way over to her closet and began to organize her winter jackets. I peeked at her shoes and gave her a mental thumbs-up for having an impressive collection.

“I think it would be good for you girls,” added Cindy while she condensed the rest of the brown moving boxes.

Poor Cindy had no idea how much I hated stuff like mixers and lame social parties, and all she wanted was for her daughter to attend one with her new roommate like we were old friends.

I sighed. “What time is it?”

Heather smiled. “It’s at seven. "

“I’ll give it an hour, but if it starts to suck, I’m out.”

She held up her hands. “Fair enough.”

Cindy ended up saying goodbye early; she had dinner reservations with her aunt in the city and wanted to explore more of Manhattan before her flight back to Florida. Heather gave her mom three more hugs goodbye, wiping the snot-like tears from her face, and joined me on the bed.

I couldn’t remember the last time my mother gave me a genuine hug.

“The mixer said casual, but my mother kind of overdid herself with buying fancy clothes for my wardrobe,” she said.

“How about your birthday suit?” I joked.

Heather laughed as if I’d told the funniest joke in the world. “I mean… would that be too much?”

“Too much? Or not enough?”

“Oh, you’re right. I’ll show the world all my goodies.”

“Just the freshmen of Columbia.”

Chapter Seven

After a good few hours of exploring the campus with Heather, minus the odd detours we took—how we ended up in the men’s bathroom was beyond me—we found ourselves back in our room getting ready for the mixer.

She went to the bathroom as I pulled up my jeans over my butt. Paired with black Converse and a matching black shirt, I threw my hair back in a low ponytail. I was good to go with a little bit of blush, concealer, and mascara. I had to hold back on my entire face of club makeup; the heat would melt it right off.

She offered her vast collection of high-end perfumes, and I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to check them out. Some smelt of lilac and vanilla, and others reminded me of hot summer days in mid-July, eating watermelon or standing in line at one of the many ice cream shops New York City provided. Citrus perfumes were my go-to; she might’ve had the best one I’d ever come across. A little spritz on my body and neck would be perfect, but not before my clumsy hands dropped the cap to the bottle underneath her bed. The sound of it rolling to the back made me get on all fours and mumble profanities, reaching blindly, hoping to catch it before it was too far gone. My fingers touched something, but not the round cap I expected. Instead, my fingers brushed against some type of smooth object. I dragged it out from underneath, surprised to see Heather’s name on the front in black ink.

Why would she have this under the bed?

I opened it to the familiar scarlet card, trailing my fingers along the pattern along the edges, remembering mine and how it felt, and I wondered if the message was the same. Sure enough, written out in that beautiful scrawl was Heather’s invitation to the secret society known as the Order of the Scarlet Quill.

So, why did she hide it under her bed?

And if it was so secretive, then why the fuck did I have one?

Did she know I had one? But her invitation was a secret to me as well. Maybe she had no idea about my status with the Order and we just happened to win the luck of the draw, both receiving one. But what were the odds of us being placed together in the dorms?

“Hey, you ready?” Heather called from outside our room.

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