Page 3 of House of Hearts
“Would that be such a bad thing if I was?” she asked after a quiet moment, and I could just envision her in her dorm room, kicking her feet at the thought of wedding bells and white picket fences in Nantucket. “I really like him.”
“That’s great, Em,” I said, injecting as much fake enthusiasm into it as I could. I’d come to learn that it was a finite resource of mine.
“I think he might like me, too,” she continued to prattle on, emboldened now.“I found an old half-heart locket shoved in my bag the other day. I have no idea who put it there, but I think it was him.”
As she was my best friend in the whole world, I should’ve been happy for her. Instead, I was sick and tired of her “fairy tales” and feeling like the dragon in her old castle.
I return to reality at the sound of Headmistress Lockwell clearing her throat and ushering in a small choir behind her. “Students, if you will, please give your full attention to our choir as they perform our school anthem.”
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out which chorister is the headmistress’s daughter. Sadie Lockwell is the spitting image of her mother, minus the fact that she hasn’t gone gray yet. Instead, her hair is dyed stark black against her skin, falling down the planes of her back like an oil spill.
The rest of the students scatter behind her, not a single one of them daring to strip away her spotlight as she approaches the mic. All except one. He branches away from the group and takes a seat behind a piano that was shrouded in white cloth moments earlier.
His fingers glide effortlessly across the keys as they begin to sing. It’s hypnotizing to watch him work, from the slight furrow in his brows to the dart of his tongue wetting his lips. Piano Boy’s no stranger, though. I recognize him from my late-night dates with Google.
Calvin Lockwell, aka Sadie’s twin and the Lockwell Most Likely to Have an Enormous Digital Footprint. I’d know because I spent at least two business days scouring through his Instagram and I still didn’t reach the end. There were thousands of photos of him: selfies on the hood of a Bugatti, the leather keys dangling from his grip; reels of him popping champagne, fizz erupting in the air to a chorus of laughter and cheers. His entire feed was backlit by purple strobe lights, his lips kiss-bruised and his eyes like spent cigarettes—stubborn flecks of amber engulfed in ash.
Beautiful in excess.
The song ends, and not long after, the applause dies with it. We’re all hushed as Headmistress Lockwell personally welcomes us to Hart, one graduating class at a time. It’s the welcome-day equivalent to “get up and tell the class five fun facts about yourself”; it might not bequiteas mortifying, but close.
The freshmen flood the stands in a tidal wave of camera clicks and shuffling feet. Parents beam from their sidelines as the clapping drones on for several minutes. There are a handful of transfer sophomores next, and when junior year is called and not a single soul stands up, I know I’m in trouble. When new seniors are invited to stand at long last, I’m the only student on my feet.
It’s every bit as awkward as you’d expect, only probably worse, actually, because my mom’s decided now is a great time to cry again.
The applause trickles in slowly with my mother at the helm. She’s sniffling, swatting messily at her cheeks with a mascara-blackened sleeve but still managing to clap because God forbid her baby is the only one whodoesn’tget clapped for. My new roommate is tilting the lens of her camera up to get me and my sobbing mother together in frame. There’sa low whispered current of gossip sifting through the crowd—“Who transfers their senior year?”
And Calvin is looking at me.
It’s not like everyone else’s casual pitying glance. No, he’s full-on staring, completely slack-jawed at the sight of me. Brows furrowed in a silent sort of horror. I can’t help but notice his teeth. They’re overbright, very Wolf that Ate Grandma. I’m struck by the idea of him opening his mouth wide, those pretty, perfect pearly whites snapping my head clean off. Weirder yet, I’m struck by the thought that I’d let him. It’s that magnetic charm, whatever’s swimming in the Lockwell blood to make them all Venus flytraps.
And maybe that’s all the rest of us are.Flies.
“Is it okay if I borrow my daughter for a second?” Mom asks after the presentation tapers to an end and she’s made a mess of her makeup. “I promise I’ll bring her back, just want to get my sappy Mom goodbyes out. It was lovely meeting you, Birdie. You actually remind me of”—she grimaces, catching herself too late—“an old friend of Violet’s.”
Birdie grins at that and scampers off. She doesn’t see the heat flooding my cheeks, my teeth grinding together, the heavy rush of grief, ever-present.
“Em,” I whisper when we’re alone, and it’s not a question but a horrifying revelation. “She reminds you of Em.”
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
I hiss in a breath. Count to ten. And then I blow it out. I can be objective about this without bursting into fat wet tears. “Why? It’s not like you’re wrong.”
Birdie and Em aren’t exactly the same, I can tell that already, but there’s familiarity in the way Birdie’s eyes light up when she speaks. Not an Eeyore like me but a ray of sunshine stitched into the shape of a girl.
“Violet,” Mom tries again, and her tone makes me wince. “I don’t know about all this.” She waves vaguely at that last part, gesturing to the world around us: the sprawling campus grounds and ivy-strewn buildings and families who look like they wouldn’t survive another French Revolution.
I ball my fists on my lap. “This school will look great on a résumé. We talked about this. It’ll help me get into a good college—”
“I don’t care about college. I care about you. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I stiffen to my very bones. “I’m fine.”
Mom shifts her attention to a loose seam in her skirt. She’s fixed that spot once before, but no matter how many repairs she makes, it always seems destined to unravel. “You’re strong, Violet. You’ve always been strong. But there’s a difference between being strong and being…whatever you are right now.”
I don’t say anything. My nails dig into the meat of my palms.
“You didn’t cry at the funeral,” she whispers. “And you went right back to school the next week. I thought you were in shock, but then…The point is, you didn’t talk to me. Not once. Not when it happened. Not at the vigil. Not when you applied. Not now.”
