Page 15 of An Academy for Liars

“So did I,” said Lennon, and there was a crack of thunder. She looked to the window and saw that it had started to rain. “What was the entry exam like for you?”

“Strange,” said Blaine, and she looked a little haunted. “The written portion was weird enough, all of those faces. They started blurring together at the end.”

“And what about the second half, the expressive interview? What were you asked to do?”

“Make a man slap himself,” she said.

“Did you do it?”

“Nope. I couldn’t even get him to raise his hand. But his thumb twitched, and since I’m still here I’m guessing that counts for something.”

This was news to Lennon. She’d assumed that everyone who was admitted into Drayton had passed because they’d succeeded in fulfilling the request of their proctor. Dante had framed the final portion of the exam as the only thing that stood between her and admittance. Failure to complete the task had seemed synonymous with rejection. Maybe Dante was particularly harsh. Or perhaps Blaine had scored higher on the written exam, so that her admittance wasn’t entirely dependent on passing the expressive portion.

“What about you?” Blaine inquired. “What did they want you to do?”

“There was a man, Dante. I think he’s a professor here. He took a pig figurine from his pocket and asked me to make him lift it.”

“And did you?”

Lennon nodded. “But I don’t know how. Something came over me. Or him. I’m not sure. In the end, he lifted the pig, and I blacked out. Apparently, it was some sort of seizure.”

“Damn,” said Blaine, but she said it with an edge. Was it jealousy that Lennon saw in her eyes? Or was she mistaken?

In the awkward silence that followed, Lennon half turned to her own bed and saw that there was a thick leather folder, embossed with her name, lying at the foot of it. She picked it up and flipped the cover open. There was a letter for her there, handwritten on thick cardstock, which smelled faintly of ammonia. It read:

Dear Lennon,

It is our great honor to accept you into Drayton College. As part of our admissions agreement, we ask for a minimum of two consecutive years, during which time you will study here on Drayton’s campus, under the tutelage of some of the brightest academics in the Western Hemisphere, who will personally oversee your studies.

At the discretion of our faculty but depending entirely upon your academic performance and conduct on campus, your tenure may be either lengthened or shortened. Upon graduating you will receive a large stipend, befitting of a graduate of Drayton’s caliber, as well as a position befitting your specific skill set. We trust that with time and dedication to your studies, you will be a worthy addition to our school.

We wish you the best.

Sincerely,

The Chancellor

Lennon flipped to the next page in the pamphlet. It was a map of the campus. Drayton, as it turned out, was more extensive than Lennonoriginally assumed it to be. Its grounds included several large gardens, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, an observatory, and several other amenities. The next page featured her class schedule. It detailed a rigorous eighteen-credit-hours semester that included courses in abnormal psychology, ethics, mindfulness and meditation, and of course the study of persuasion.

Lennon frowned. The classes were strange, certainly not what she would’ve expected from an institution like Drayton. And she was disappointed to see the name of the man, Dante (or Dr. Lowe, as Sawyer had called him), who’d administered the last half of her entry exam among the list of instructors.

She held up the schedule for Blaine to see. “We don’t get to choose the classes we take?”

“Not during our first semester,” said Blaine. “My advisor, Eileen, told me all the first years have the same course schedule. Apparently, the standardized curriculum allows them to evaluate the strengths and weaknesses of the incoming class more objectively.”

“Your advisor is Eileen? The vice-chancellor?”

“The very one.”

“You must be special.”

The girl shrugged. “I like to think so.”

Lennon flipped to the next page of the folder and discovered a detailed schedule that accounted for almost every hour of the next several days. Among the listed activities—orientation, campus tours, brunches, luncheons, and a convocation garden party—she had an appointment to meet with her advisor, Dr. Dante Lowe, at two thirty p.m. (sharp). With a wave of dread, Lennon checked the clock hanging on the wall above the desk.

The time was 2:42 p.m. She was late.

Lennon ran throughthe pouring rain and caught Dante just as he was leaving his office. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she sputtered. “I didn’t get to my dorm until after two, and no one told me we had this meeting—”

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