Page 17 of The Narrow

“Me too,” she says solemnly, and turns away.

It isn’t until I’m three steps out the front door that I realize—the sidewalk isn’t wet. Neither is the grass or the leaves on the trees. The sun shines from a clear sky, yesterday’s clouds nowhere to be seen.

The only sign of dampness is a line of faint dark patches along the sidewalk. They’re indistinct, half evaporated already. But as I make my way past them, I think they almost look like wet footprints.

Footprints leading right up to the door of Abigail House.

—

On the first day of classes, we array ourselves in uniformed splendor. As the weeks wear on, the dress code will surrender to entropy. Blazers will be replaced with sweatshirts, stockings with leggings. Socks will slouch and buttons will be left artfully undone. But on the first day, we are all polish and shine, and sharp eyes—among staff and judgmental students alike—keep on the lookout for the inappropriately unkempt.

“I hate maroon,” Zoya laments as we head out from the dining hall. “It makes me look like a tube of lipstick.”

“You look like a goddess in anything you wear,” Ruth assures her.

“A goddess dressed like a tube of lipstick,” Zoya replies, unfussed, adjusting one of her fan-shaped earrings. Today, her hair is tight at the sides with a stylish faux-hawk of curls up top.

“In these uniforms, we all either look like plums or lipstick,” Veronica tells her.

“Team Plum,” Ruth says, pumping her fist in the air.

I chuckle but don’t join in the friendly banter, my thoughts still back in Abigail House.

“Where’s everyone off to first?” Zoya asks as we enter the dining hall. “I’ve got creative writing.” Not content with her fashion design, which she considers a hobby—a hobby that’s earned her glowing magazine profiles about being a “teen fashion prodigy”—Zoya is a prolific writer. She’s been feeding us chapters of her fantasy epic since sophomore year, and we’re all quietly dying inside waiting for the next installment.

“AP Calc,” Ruth says. She could coast on her athletics—she’s quite possibly headed to the Olympics with what she calls the “Trunchbull trifecta” of shotput, javelin, and hammer throw—but she wants to be a doctor once she’s done chucking spears for fun, so her courseload is the most intense out of any of us.

“I have my painting mentorship,” Veronica says, excitement bubbling in her voice as we queue for the breakfast buffet. It seems like anytime Veronica comes within a hundred yards of something artistic, it suddenly becomes her life. She was all about collage in first year, and Zoya seduced her over to textile design in second year. Now she’s moving on to drawing and painting, and she’s scored a coveted mentorship with Atwood’s resident artist.

In other words, my friends are all incredibly talented. I get decent grades, but I don’t have athinglike they all do, something to define my life.

It’s only when I realize they’re staring at me that I stammerout, “R-Russian lit.” I picked it because Zoya took it last year and offered to lend me her notes.

“Lunch together today?” Veronica asks.

“I should probably plan on tracking down my luggage,” I say, making a face. “With my luck it got left outside in the rain last night.” It’s only then that I remember it didn’t actually rain.

I feel something slide down my upper lip, a warm wetness, the moment before blood splatters the front of my blouse. I swear before jamming the back of my finger against my nostril to stop the nosebleed.

“Here,” Veronica says, handing me a napkin.

I press it to my nose. “Sorry, I have to—” I say, and that’s all I get out before I flee. In the bathroom, I trade the napkin for wads of toilet paper, but this nosebleed is more persistent than the one I had back in the room, and it’s several minutes before it stops. When it’s finally done, I’m left with bloody hands and a blood-streaked face—and a ruined shirt. I shrug out of my jacket and unbutton my blouse one-handed. I rinse the bloodied part in cold water.

The door opens as I’m laying out the blouse to blot it dry. If I hadn’t spent the last six years living communally with other girls, I might be startled to be caught with my shirt off, but I don’t even flinch.

“I brought you a T-shirt,” Veronica says.

I give her a grateful look in the mirror as she holds out an Atwood-maroon gym shirt. I take it from her, then hesitate.Pulling on a shirt is a little awkward these days, and I don’t want Veronica to see that I’m hurt.

“Aubrey got nosebleeds a lot, too,” Veronica says, frowning. She has one arm crossed over her ribs, fingers wrapped around the opposite forearm as she studies me. “I remember. I used to have history with her first thing in the morning, and she’d get them all the time.”

She sounds spooked. I swallow, tasting blood and mucus. “There are a million dehumidifiers in Abigail House,” I say. “It’s probably just the dry air.”

She looks relieved at the simple explanation. “I think I remember she had these nasal spray things—saline, maybe? We could check if the commissary sells them.”

“What did you think it was? Malevolent spirits?” I tease, and her grave look makes me regret the joke.

“There are some seriouslyoffvibes around that place,” she says. “I really wish you weren’t staying there.”

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