Page 38 of The Narrow

The others nod in chorus. And they believe it. But there’s that poisonous voice whispering that they’re wrong. If I tell them all the things I’ve lied about for so many years, they’ll feel betrayed. I’ve pretended to be someone different the whole time I’ve known them.

“There’s nothing wrong,” I say. “I’m just stressed and tired and don’t like being interrogated.”

“Come on, Eden. That’s obviously not true,” Veronica says.

“Can we please just watch the movie?” I plead.

“Fine,” Veronica says. She turns back to the TV, her jaw tight as she starts it up. I fidget as we watch, unable to pay attention, too fixated on the little glances my friends shoot my way. My sour mood spoils the fun, and by the time the movie is over, I’mdesperate to escape the claustrophobic atmosphere of the room. I can tell they want to talk again, but I plead exhaustion and flee as soon as the credits roll.

The whole week has been dry, but now clouds skim across the moon. A single drop lands on my cheek.

“Miss White.” Oster’s voice brings me around. He’s on the path, his jacket on, his briefcase in his hand. Over his arm, he’s hooked an umbrella. “Taking another evening stroll?”

“It’s not past curfew,” I say.

“You’re not in any trouble, Eden,” he says. The rain is picking up. He extends a hand thoughtfully, catching a few drops on his palm. “If you’re heading back to Abigail House, I can walk with you. I need to speak to Madelyn.”

I’m not sure I would want to take a stroll with the dean of Atwood under normal circumstances, much less these ones, but as he opens the umbrella and extends it in invitation, I step under its shelter. I don’t want to be out here alone in the dark with the rain coming down.

The umbrella is large, but I still need to walk uncomfortably close to Oster to stay under its protection. Our sleeves brush against each other as we make our way down the walk.

“How are you enjoying your new accommodations?” he asks. His voice is not just old but old-fashioned, with a gravity to it that makes me think of 1940s professors in tweed jackets.

“They’re good,” I say.

“And Delphine? Are you getting along?”

She’s serious and sincere. She has three freckles on her shoulder that make a perfect triangle.“She’s nice.”

“And you haven’t had any trouble?” he asks.

“What kind of trouble would I have?” I look over at him. His focus is on the path ahead. The rain patters against the umbrella, steady now.

“Perhaps I’m being overly paranoid after what happened to Aubrey. It’s a terrible thing when something happens to a student in your care. Thankfully, it’s rare. We’ve lost two students in my time as dean. One in a car accident off campus and one to illness. Even knowing there was little I could do to prevent either one, they have haunted me.”

“What about when you were a teacher?” I ask. He was here. He knew her. Mr.Campos said so. “There was a girl who went missing, wasn’t there? Grace?” I watch his face as I say the name. I’m only guessing that Grace is the Drowning Girl, but his face drains of blood, and he halts on the path.

“Where did you hear that name?” he asks. I didn’t stop as quickly as he did, so I’m in the rain now, the drops striking my shoulders and hair.

“I don’t remember,” I lie. “But I heard that there was a girl named Grace and she disappeared.”

He’s silent a long moment, and a dark expression passes over his face. “Her name was Grace Carpenter,” he says. “She had... troubles. When she vanished, it was assumed she had run away, until her scarf was found near the river. They never found proof, but yes, it’s assumed that she drowned. A great tragedy.”

A shiver runs down my spine. Grace. Her name is Grace, and she was real.

Is real.

“Do you know the story of the Drowning Girl?” I ask Oster.

His face grows solemn. “I’ve heard the story. But if you are suggesting that it has some connection to Grace, I would remind you that you are talking about a real girl. A girl I knew. A girl who lived and suffered and died.”

I’m taken aback by the anger in his voice. “I’m sorry,” I say.

“If you are looking for entertainment, Miss White, look elsewhere. Grace’s story is not entertaining. It is difficult and tragic, and she deserves better than to be turned into fodder for ghost stories.”

We walk the rest of the way in stony silence. Oster waits outside until I have finished the routine of showering and changing; I’m in my rooms before I hear him enter and knock on Madelyn Fournier’s door.

I stand at my own door, listening to the faint murmur of voices, but I can’t make out a word. What are they talking about, I wonder?

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