Page 58 of The Narrow

“She hurt Aubrey.”

“We don’t know that,” I object, though of course it’s the most likely explanation. But Del didn’t see the sadness and desperation in Maeve’s face. The frantic relief at being heard.

“Be careful, Eden. It isn’t worth getting hurt,” Del says.

I shake my head. “It’s worth it. Because you are.”

—

The forecast calls for rain tonight. Rain won’t stop Vespers, though. Nothing does.

Vespers is, technically, an illicit party, but everyone knows about it. Most of the staff were students once, after all. It exists in the same liminal space as the leap—tolerated, as long as no one does anythingtooout of bounds.

The first hour of Vespers is called Little Vespers. Atwood has its problems, but there’s one thing I’ve always appreciated about it: we take care of the babies. With other schools, especially older ones, you hear horrible things about hazing and the way that younger kids are treated, but that doesn’t happen at Atwood. Little Vespers is for the Lower School students, and we protect them fiercely.

This year, as seniors, we’re in charge of policing Little Vespers. Every Lower School student has an Upper School student assigned to them, and if your Little gets in trouble, you basically get shunned.

I show up early, but Veronica, Ruth, and Zoya are already there, supplies in hand. I spot them from a distance and stiffen. We haven’t really talked since I walked out on them. Since Maeve. Zoya raises a hand to wave. If I ignore them now, it’ll be admitting we’re fighting, so I walk over toward them. Since seeing Maeve, my arm has been pretty bad, so I keep it casually in my hoodie pocket as I approach.

“Think we’re going to get rained out?” I ask. There’s already a light drizzle. I’m not worried Maeve is going to show up now, though. She wouldn’t come when other people could see her.

“It’s not supposed to get really bad until two a.m.,” Ruth says, shifting her weight uncomfortably. Veronica doesn’t say anything.

Nearby, a gaggle of Littles is standing around Ricky Tomlinson and Carmen Brennan as they try to get the bonfire going. Remi is herding another group in. “You stick close and we’ll make sure no one eats you,” he assures them.

“We should go collect our Littles,” Ruth says. Relieved at the suggestion of a mission to spare us from further conversation, we all hop to it.

“Janelle?” I call. A blond head pops out from among the crowd. “You’re with me tonight, okay? Try not to sneak off where I can’t find you, and if you’ve got any questions or problems, you can come get me.”

She gives a quick nod and sidles over to me. “Is there going to be drinking?” she whispers, big-eyed.

Veronica overhears and smirks in amusement.

I put a hand on Janelle’s shoulder in what I hope is a friendly gesture. “Don’t worry about it. There’s absolutely no alcohol at Little Vespers.”

“Hear that, Toombs?” Veronica says, giving Remi a meaningful look, and he spreads his hands innocently.

“I would never,” he says.

“Nothing worse than a bunch of drunk Littles puking in the bushes,” Ruth says.

“No, we much prefer drunk Uppers puking in the bushes,” Veronica adds, and Remi guffaws.

Janelle doesn’t look too comforted.

“Seriously, Little Vespers is super friendly and tame. Anyone who wants to party hard doesn’t even show up until later,” I tell her.

“Yeah, the hazing doesn’t start until you’re a freshman,” another Upper offers.

“And if anyone does bother you, tell me and I’ll sort it out,” Remi says, cracking his knuckles. They don’t know what a gentle giant he is; they all go wide-eyed as he flexes.

“We’ve got your backs,” Veronica says with a friendly smile, and a half dozen Littles fall instantly in love. She catches my eye. I wonder if she’s remembering our first Little Vespers like I am. Tiny and terrified in the presence of the giant seniors who herded us around.

Trying to forget why there was one fewer of us than when the year had started.

Little Vespers gets rolling. I have to admit, for all of its tameness, it’s my favorite illicit Atwood tradition. It’s designed to give them all a taste of what these forbidden parties are like without letting anyone get hurt. There are silly spontaneous contests and a “drinking game” with Sprite that’s spent a few minutes in the general vicinity of a bottle of vodka and a lot of horsing around.

The music starts up. The hills around us bounce it around until it’s like we’re in an amphitheater. The wet logs still won’t light, so we send someone for lighter fluid. Ruth goes mama bear on asophomore who’s bullying a Little, and we hustle everywhere, herding stragglers back in, policing cups—making sure no enterprising eighth graders have sneaked anything in.

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