Page 15 of Savannah Royals
The boys put out a rumor of the Cat Burglar’s mark a few weeks later, said I had a tiny silhouette of wolf ears on my wrist. Dainty. Feminine. The papers ran with it.
“Misdirection, Kitty-Kat,” Paul told me. “It’s the oldest trick in the book.”
Snapping back to the present, I slowly follow Paul out of the arboretum.
“We’ll do another night at Astor Manor tomorrow,” he says, “and the boys want to go out on Saturday. Think you can get away?”
“Reckon I can. Where?”
“Tony wants to hit Carousel.”
“Sounds dilly. Carousel is the cat’s meow.”
“Until tomorrow, doll. I love you.” He kisses my hand farewell, then steals into the shadows of the park.
I take off in the opposite direction, back to the Academy.
Son of a bitch, Melinda.
Our room is dark, the window closed.
Resigned, I latch my fingers and toes into grooves between bricks and begin to climb, tapping into a skillset I’ve had since I was young. When I reach the window, I apply pressure with my hands to slide it up.
It doesn’t budge; she must have locked it. What a killjoy.
I’m reaching to slide a dagger-like hairpin from my dark locks when a remorseful Melinda opens the window. I thrust my leg inside before she can change her mind.
“Sorry, Kat,” she whispers. “I was mad.”
“It’s fine.”
And it is.
Mellie and I aren’t friends, not really, so she doesn’t owe me anything. We tolerate each other, and we live well enough together. At this point, I’ve been sneaking out for so long, if the news came out, we’d both go down hard. She’s complicit, and she knows it.
I land inside on silent feet and head to the bathroom for a quick wash.
She follows me, her brow furrowed. “Why are you covered in moss and grass?”
That’s a gross exaggeration. “I’m notcoveredin grass.”
“Who was that tonight?” she tries again.
“Hmm?” I play dumb.
“The fella who picked you up.”
“Goodnight, Mellie.” I make to close the bathroom door, but she sticks out her slippered foot.
“I saw him, Kat. It wasn’t the dark-skinned guy. Are you stepping out on your beau?”
Mellie has no idea where I go or what I do when I sneak out. She only knows I do. Frequently. And she knows Abe from his occasional visits. In her simple mind, Abe is my taboo paramour from back home, the reason I’m not interested in any of the men who visit the Academy. I gladly let her think it; it’s fairly harmless and only half-wrong.
Misdirection.
“Of course not,” I tell her, narrowing my eyes. “I love him. You know that.”
“Then who—”
