Page 3 of An Academy for Liars

“This is a representative from Drayton College.” The voice on the line was a combination of every voice of everyone that Lennon had ever known speaking together at once. A horrid and familiar chorus—her mother, her sister and first therapist, her high school boyfriend, her dead grandmother. “We’re calling to congratulate you on your acceptance to the interview stage of your admission process. You should be very proud. Few make it this far. Your interview will take place tomorrow, at your earliest convenience.”

“I don’t understand. I never applied for anything. I’ve never even heard of Drayton before—”

The question was asked again, with something of an edge this time. “Can you make it, Lennon?” The address, someplace in Ogden, Utah, was then given.

At a loss for words, Lennon fumbled for her cell phone, quickly typed the address into her GPS app, and discovered that the location was an eight-hour drive away. It was already nearly midnight: if she were to make it to the interview in time (which was a ridiculous idea in itself), she’d have to drive all night. What kind of program called prospective students the day before their interview? Was this all some sort of twisted prank? Her confusion festered into bitter frustration. “I’m not going anywhere, for an interview or for anything else, until I get some answers about what thefuckis going on.”

A lengthy pause, and then, in a broken, tear-choked whisper that was unmistakably her own: “He will never love you the way you wantto be loved. And if you stay, he will love you even less, until one day you mean nothing to him.”

Lennon froze, her hand tightening to a vise grip around the receiver. Her throat began to swell and tighten. “It’s you. From the mirror. Isn’t it? Answer me!”

“We wish you the best of luck with the next step of your admission process.” There was a soft click. The line went dead.

Lennon drove throughthe night, stopping only to get gas, change her clothes (she kept a gym bag in the back seat of the car), and pee at a run-down rest stop in the red deserts of Wyoming. Through the course of her journey, she made a point to avoid using the rearview mirrors (for fear of what she’d see if she did), only briefly glancing at them when she was forced to. It helped that the highway was mostly empty, with only a few semis sharing the road with her. It was nearing dawn by the time she crossed into Utah. After driving for hours, she arrived in Ogden, stiff from sitting for so long. Strangely, she wasn’t tired.

As she approached Ogden, she kept replaying the congratulatory phone call from Drayton in her head and she realized that at first, the voice on the line hadn’t been gendered. It had sounded almost automated in its neutrality, and she couldn’t place it as male or female or anything in between…until it had become hers. Which begged the question,howhad it become hers? And how had it (she?) known about Wyatt’s infidelity? How had it known that she was there toreceive the call at all? She felt like she was living the loose logic of dreams and wondered for a moment if thiswasa dream—the thing that appeared in the bathroom mirror, Wyatt’s affair with Sophia, the phone call, her own voice warbling over the line. Or if it wasn’t a dream, then perhaps it was a delusion as vivid and convincing as it was tragic…and pathetically grandiose. She wondered if perhaps this was some sort of manic episode like the ones she’d suffered in the past. But those episodes had always been characterized by an unwavering sense of conviction—in herself and the forces that fueled her delusions, be they genius or the mechanisms of fate. But as her hands tightened, white-knuckled, around the steering wheel, she felt only small and helpless, adrift on a dark tide that carried her to what, she didn’t know.

Lennon kept driving, following the directions on her GPS. She entered a small historic district in the shadow of a mountain, used for skiing in the wintertime. There, the streets were narrow, canopied by the lush branches of the trees that grew on either side. She found her destination at the curve of a large cul-de-sac: an imposing redbrick mansion set far off the street, half-shrouded by a copse of overgrown hawthorns. Its roof was low-slung over the second-story windows, and it made the house look like an old man frowning at her approach.

She parked in the empty driveway and checked her phone. Seven missed calls (three from Wyatt and four from her mother) and twelve text messages (one from Wyatt, five from her mother, six from her older sister, Carly). Lennon left everything unanswered—the text messages, the voicemails, and the countless questions she’d asked herself through the duration of her drive—got out of the car to rifle through the contents of the trunk, until she found the grease-blackened crowbar resting below the spare tire. She weighed it in bothhands, nodded to herself as if to summon what little courage she had to muster, and then slammed the trunk shut.

The yard was large and covered in a dense carpet of grass. The hedges that lined the house were round and well shaped. Lennon tramped through the plush lawn, crowbar in hand, and stepped up onto the porch. The front door was set with a small window of stained glass that distorted the glimpse of the foyer behind it. Hanging on the wall beside the door was a large plaque that detailed the extensive history of the house (apparently it had been owned by some oil baron millionaire from the 1800s).

Lennon knocked three times, hard and in quick succession. A brief pause then footsteps. The door creaked open. A man stood in the threshold, barefoot in a loose linen shirt and pants to match. He was only a little taller than Lennon, maybe six feet even, with lively blue eyes that wrinkled at the edges when he smiled, with all the warmth and fondness you’d expect from a friend who hadn’t seen you for some time. He looked to be in his late forties, and Lennon found him to be almost excessively good-looking.

“Well,” he said, still smiling at her, his teeth so straight and white they looked like a set of dentures, “you must be Lennon.” He glanced down at her crowbar. “Can I take that off your hands?”

Lennon handed over the crowbar with some reluctance. In retrospect, she wasn’t sure why she did it. She didn’t know or trust this man. She wasn’t sure if he was the only one in the house. But when he’d asked that question, and made to reach for the crowbar, her resolve had abruptly softened…and a calm had washed over her, as though she’d taken a Valium.

He stooped slightly, leaning her crowbar against the wall. “I’m Benedict. Just like the breakfast dish,” he said, straightening, andushered her inside with a flourish of his hand. He closed the door behind her but didn’t lock it.

The walls of the foyer were paneled in the same dark mahogany as the floors, and the house smelled of polish and potpourri. There was an ornate birdcage elevator to the left of the door, just beside the stairs. Benedict led Lennon past the elevator and down a narrow hall. As they walked, the floors groaned beneath their feet, in what seemed like a begrudging welcome.

Benedict led her past the kitchen and through the parlor to a little study off the back of the house, with a wall of windows and French doors opening out onto a small, sun-washed solarium. The study was covered in a grid of shadows cast from the window stiles and bars. Benedict gestured to a large oak desk. There were two chairs drawn up on either side. Benedict sat in one and Lennon sat in the other.

“I suppose I should tell you about Drayton,” said Benedict, and his eyes took on the faraway look of someone moved by memory. “I graduated years ago. You might’ve been just a fluttering in your mother’s womb back then. Maybe less than that, even. Little more than an egg and an idea.”

Benedict’s eyes came back into focus, and he blinked quickly, like he was only just remembering that Lennon was sitting there. “Tell me, what do you know of Drayton?”

“Nothing. I’ve never heard of it. I didn’t even apply.”

“Of course you did. Everyone’s applied, whether they know it or not.”

“But how is that possible? Don’t I need to present a portfolio or take some sort of exam?”

“You’re already taking it. The first phase of testing begins at birth.”

“And the second?” Lennon asked, pressing for more.

“This interview.”

“And the third?”

“The entry exam, but you shouldn’t worry about that,” said Benedict, looking mildly irritated. “Candidates always have so many questions when they come here, but most don’t make it past the interview. Besides, there’s little I can say to ease your curiosity. Drayton is to be experienced not explained. All I can tell you is that Drayton is an institution devoted to the study of the human condition. At least, that’s what they put on the pamphlets they passed out at my orientation. Perhaps its ethos has changed since then. It’s been many years.” Benedict stood up, one of his knees popping loudly. “Before we begin, let me make you something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“And yet you must eat,” he said, waving her off. “You can’t interview on an empty stomach. Besides, you’ll need it for the pain.”

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