Page 19 of An Academy for Liars

It was at this moment that Lennon began to consider the idea that Wyatt had, actually, loved her. Because what was love if not the desperation she heard in his voice? The plaintiveness. She had never—in all of the years she’d been with Wyatt—felt in possession of so much power. Nor had she ever wanted him less. The tables had turned now, and that was for the better. At least, it was better for her. What was better for Wyatt, she could not say. He would have to decide that for himself, alone.

“I need to go,” said Lennon, and the glare of the fireworks tinted the foggy panes of the telephone booth gold. “It’s late.”

“Lennon please…” he said, the high-pitched, tear-choked wheedling of a child. A little boy. And she saw then, for the first time, how pathetic he was. Before Drayton, Lennon used to believe that their relationship was a credit to Wyatt—his brilliance and charm, his intellect and singularity. But now she realized it was a credit to her, and her desire to prove to herself that she was worth loving. But no more.

Lennon set the phone back into its cradle and stepped out of the booth. Outside it was muggy. The air sat wet and hot and heavy in the pits of Lennon’s lungs. She looked down at her left hand, at the ring on her finger. Then she pulled it off and hurled it into the nearby bushes.

She walked back to Ethos College, through the thickening fog, and spotted Dante cutting across the green. He had his head dipped against the oncoming rain, and he was walking at a fast pace, like he was in pursuit of something, or late for an important meeting. But at this hour? And Lennon could’ve sworn he was…limping. But not in the way people limp when they’ve broken their leg or sprained an ankle. He limped like he’d forgotten how to walk, or like his leg was half-numb and barely able to hold the weight of him without buckling.

And then his leg did buckle, in the middle of one of his awkward strides, and Dante broke to one knee and caught himself on the cobblestones. He stayed there for a long time, breathing heavily. He shook his head slowly, and while it was hard to make out his expression at a distance, Lennon could’ve sworn he was smiling to himself. A canted and incredulous grin. Then he tilted his chin up, looked straight at Lennon, and smiled knowingly as though they shared in some nasty and shameful secret. Her throat went dry.

Lennon, who had almost moved to help him up, faltered at the sight of that wicked smile and kept her distance. She watched, breathless and still, as Dante pressed slowly to his feet, brushed his slacks clean of dirt, and, at the same hurried pace, continued on his way.

The first morningof Lennon’s new life as a student at Drayton dawned without pomp or ceremony. Lennon woke in the wee hours of early dawn, hungover, feeling like she had lead for bones. Upon dragging herself out of bed, Lennon discovered that Blaine was already gone, her bed neatly made, the sheets folded into crisp hospital creases at every corner, the pillows fluffed. She must’ve left much earlier, or perhaps she’d never come back the night before.

Hastily, Lennon brushed her teeth (she didn’t have time for a shower), dressed, then left Ethos Hall a full half hour later than she’d intended to, and had to tramp through the gardens, the ground soft from yesterday’s storms, mud sucking at her brand-new loafers as she cut across the campus greens to make up time. The conservatory, which Lennon had initially assumed was a garden, was actually a large wooden overhang on the far western side of campus. It had a flat roof, surprisingly low, and all four of its wooden walls were open to the outdoors. It was striking, and one of the few modern structures on campus.

Lennon arrived only three minutes late, but the rest of her classmates were already there. There were eleven students total, sitting cross-legged on thin pillows arranged in a wide circle. Standing at the center of that circle was a tall woman she took for Dr. Lund, her professor. She was the opposite of what Lennon expected her to be. The image of “professor of meditation” brought to mind tousled hair, prayer beads, and nose piercings. But Dr. Lund was smartly dressed, in a well-tailored three-piece tweed suit, with polished brown oxfords. Her hair was dark, and shaped into a blunt bob, not a strand out of place. Dr. Lund looked and spoke like someone who would wrinkle her nose at the mere mention of anything that related, even vaguely, to the New Age.

Dr. Lund didn’t pause her lecture, or so much as register Lennon with a passing glance as she nabbed the only empty pillow in the circle. “Traditional meditational studies emphasize mindfulness and acceptance, but here at Drayton we adopt a different approach to the practice. Our primary focus is control. Our aim, with these studies, is to teach you how to identify and interrogate your every emotion with the intention of giving you full governance of your mind.”

And the minds of others, Lennon wanted to add, but dared not say that aloud.

Ian raised his hand. “Will this teach us how to persuade people?”

A dozen eyes affixed themselves on the professor in anticipation of her answer.

Dr. Lund leveled an icy glare. “This is no place for persuasion, Ian. Should it be performed within the walls of this conservatory, it will result in your immediate expulsion from Drayton. While meditating, the mind is prone. It is a violation of the highest degree to breach a person in this vulnerable state. In time, you will learn to bolster the walls of your mind to defend against these invasions. It will be a difficultand at times sickening endeavor, but it is utterly imperative that you learn to do this. Am I clear?”

A chorus of yeses. People nodded their heads. But Ian, glowering, folded his arms across his chest. He looked as if something he was entitled to had been pried from his bony fingers.

“With that said, let’s begin.”

They were asked to close their eyes and imagine an empty room in need of furnishing. They were allowed to fill this room with the articles of their choosing, totems from their past, memorabilia, keepsakes, and bespoke items that brought them some semblance of comfort. “I will warn you that it is important to adopt a discerning and moderate approach to this curation. Senseless clutter is intolerable,” said Dr. Lund, and the insides of Lennon’s eyelids briefly went dark as the shadow of the professor slid past her.

Lennon was asked to imagine different objects, to turn them over in her mind, assess their shape, and determine whether or not they aligned with her vision of the space. The features of the room were to be considered too. Would rafters hold the ceilings aloft? Were the walls to be painted? Does the room have windows, and if so, how many? Are they shuttered or hung with curtains?

“Above all else, it is imperative that this room function as a sanctum. By the end of our studies this semester, it should appear more real to you than anything that exists in a three-dimensional space.”

Lennon cracked one eye open, frustrated. The task seemed, in that moment, impossible. Try as she might, she couldn’t contain her thoughts to the limits of the room. Its details kept changing, or opening out onto memories that flooded her mind, unbidden, no matter how hard she tried to stop them.

“Your homework over the next twenty-four hours is to furnish your room with three items of your choosing,” said Dr. Lund. “Beprepared to bring them to our next class and discuss them in detail. I’ll see you tomorrow at sunrise.”

After meditating, the spillover from the class dispersed themselves across the green, finding their way—dazed and a little dissociative—to a nearby courtyard, perhaps drawn by the scent of coffee wafting from it. Drayton was strange in that each college housed its own dining room, where meals could be taken throughout the day. In addition to this, there was a large central dining hall and several small cafes—or bistros, as the student body referred to them—housed in the cramped basements beneath buildings or in small kiosks scattered about campus, often found in remote or otherwise deserted places where few students ventured to go. Orchid, where Lennon found herself this morning, was one of these. A hole-in-the-wall coffee shop that operated out of a small courtyard that was otherwise abandoned. There were rusty wrought-iron tables and patio chairs scattered across the cobbled courtyard, and students filled them, gathered under the blue cathedral of the early-morning sky, sipping coffee and chewing on sandwiches, working their way through salads, and smoking slender clove cigarettes, which Lennon had quickly learned was one of the favored vices of Drayton’s students and faculty alike.

Lennon and her classmates gathered in the far corner of the courtyard, around a rickety bistro table that was far too small to accommodate the lot of them. Ian sat next to Lennon and beside him was a feeble girl with a crucifix around her neck who, halfway through their meditation, had begun to cry and was still wiping her swollen eyes by the time their coffee arrived. Her name—Lennon learned—was Nadine, and she was slight with slick black hair, which she wore in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. Nadine, as it turned out, had been an aspirant at a convent in Delaware prior to arriving at Drayton. She had felt called to live a monastic life since childhood and was about tobecome a postulant when she’d first received news of her admission at Drayton.

“I was in confession. The priest’s voice suddenly changed, and he told me that I’d be moving on to the next step of the admissions process. At first, I thought he was God talking to me, and then I thought he was the devil.”

“And what do you think now?” Blaine asked, sipping on an Americano. She’d had a different class that morning, but had joined their group when she spotted them crossing the campus.

“Now…I think this is a test,” said Nadine. “A test of faith, that is. I think God sent me here so I can serve him in a different way. For years, I thought I was called to take the veil. But now I see that’s not my path. I’m supposed to be here. I wasn’t chosen by this school. I was chosen by God.”

Across the table, Ian rolled his eyes and stubbed out his third cigarette of the morning. “So let me get this straight, you find out magic is real from a possessed priest, and youstillbelieve in God?”

“Of course,” she said, smiling in that cautious, rapt way that girls often do when they have the attention of the guy they like. “My faith is even stronger now that the curtain’s been pulled back. I see so clearly that I’ve been blessed with a unique opportunity to touch the hearts of men, to make them understand the love of Jesus.”

“Is that what they told you all of this was about?” Ian asked, clearly disgusted.“Jesus?”

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