Page 15 of Requiem

“No. Just.Don’t.”

I’m all too aware that talking to myself is the first sign of insanity. Do I think that Rachel’s voice in my head is real? Do I think I’m being haunted by her ghost or something? No. I know that I’m talking to myself when I carry out these conversations in my head. I just miss Rachel so damn much. I felt like I’d been ripped open and my heart had been cleaved out of me the day that she died. The sense of loss was too immense to comprehend. My mind coped with the hollow Rachel left behind the only way it knew how: it filled it up with her as best it could. Gave her some semblance of life, so that I might be able to have her with me still.

I won’t stop talking to her in my head. Never. If I do that, I’ll have well and truly lost her for good. And that? I just can’t fucking handle that.

Poor Julia quails at the sharp tone of my voice. She tucks her chin into the collar of her jacket, so that just her eyes peer at me over the top of the material. “It’s okay,” she says, her words muffled. “My mom says that talking to herself is the only way she can have a sensible conversation most of the time. I get it.” I can tell by the way her eyes crinkle at the corners that she’s smiling, though she still looks nervous. “Anyway. I—I should catch up to Mel. My inhaler’s in her purse, so…” She hurries up to the front of the group, leaving me to trail behind at the back.

Not wanting to risk anotheroh-great-I’m-talking-to-myself-againmoment, I hum to keep Rachel’s voice quiet—the same melody I was humming in the car yesterday with Gaynor. The rise and fall of the music streams through my mind easily, like flowing water over a riverbed, the sound of it beautiful and aching.

For the remainder of the walk, I’m alone. It's better this way. I’m lagging far enough behind that I could easily slip back to the school if I wanted to; the building looms out of the darkness, a gothic nightmare. The vast lawns we have just crossed have been mown in opposite directions, giving the expanse of grass a striped appearance. I follow behind the other girls, listening to them chatter and giggle up ahead with a lead weight pulling at my chest. If everyone is expected to attend this party, choosing not to gowouldhave been a mistake. I’d be drawing attention to myself, especially if I’d be ostracized the way Mel described. Blending in comes with a price, and Ruth told me I needed to blend in no matter what.

Mel leads us down a dirt track that winds down the hill, around a copse of towering trees, and out of sight of Toussaint. As soon as we skirt around the trees, the faint thump of music rises up to meet us. It’s so dark now, away from the school, that I can barely see my hand in front of my face. Despite the dark, Mel seems to know exactly where she’s going. I hurry to catch up with the group, grumbling unhappily to myself as I do so.

“Will Marcus be there?” Jessica asks up ahead.

Mel scoffs loudly. “What doyouthink? He’d never miss out on free booze. And you can bet your ass he’ll be throwing his hat in the ring for Head Boy. The guy loves giving people shit. He’d never pass up the opportunity to have everyone fawning over him and licking his boots for the rest of the year.”

Noelani makes a snorting sound; apparently, she agrees. “And what about Head Girl? Think Beth will get it?”

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Mel says.

“You know we’ll all vote for you,” Noelani replies.

“You’d better! Unless you wanna be running errands and shoveling Beth’s shit until you graduate. I can’t think of anything worse.”

Urgh. Basic high school drama bullshit. This kind of divide never existed at Falcon House. It would never have been allowed to perpetuate. All internal grievances were settled on the mat, no matter how big or small, and the matter wasn’t resolved until one of you was unconscious. You really had to mean it.

As we descend down into a small, enclosed valley, the source of the music comes into view: a large bonfire sends towering flames licking up toward the clear night sky. Crazy shadows careen in all directions as a crowd of people shift and cavort around the inferno, whooping and laughing at the top of their lungs. There are tables set up in the surrounding clearing, loaded high with food and drink.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t this. The party isn’t in the back room of a bar or a restaurant. Not at some rich kid’s parents’ house, like it was the night Rachel died. It isn’t even in abarn. It’s just a group of Toussaint’s students, hanging around a fire in the middle of a clearing. It’s freezing fucking cold, but as soon as we make it within twenty feet of that roaring bonfire, the girls begin to strip out of their coats and jackets, dumping them on top of a table already stacked high with winter gear.

Before I know it, I have a red solo cup in my hand and I’m glowering suspiciously at the noxious smelling liquid inside, wondering if it’s spiked with the same shit Rach and I were given at that last party. I tip it out into the grass at my feet.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Don’t waste that!” A drunk girl wearing a pink sequin tube top and white cut off jean-shorts snatches the cup out of my hand. There was barely anything left in it, but she tips back what remains and swallows it like it’s manna from the gods. “This shit’s expensive. And strong as fuck. The boys brought it as a gift. Why would you pour it out?”

I shrug, pulling the hood of my Parka up. “Not in the mood to get gang raped, I guess.”

She narrows her eyes to slits, looking at me like I’m some kind of freak. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Ahh, y’know. A little childhood trauma here. Pinch of PTSD there. The usual…” I trail off as I walk away, smirking to myself. I feel so apart from these people. We’re the same age, but we’re different breeds. Different species entirely. While these motherfuckers were riding ponies and screaming at magicians, demanding more impressive tricks on their eighth birthdays, I was eating out of trash cans. When they were ten, they were going on vacations to The Hamptons and stuffing their faces on Maine’s finest lobster. Meanwhile, I was kneeling in a filthy back alley, shooting Narcan up my foster-carer David’s nose so he wouldn’t fucking OD and die.

Apples.

Oranges.

I can never be like them.

Understand them.

Fuck, even tolerating them is going to be a challenge.

Ruth was crazy to think I could ever fit in here. I’m rubbed raw with contempt as I traverse the gathering, watching them flirt and laugh and tease each other, like they have nothing more important to worry about than impressing each other with theatrics at a dumb party. I despise them all.

On the other side of the fire, I catch sight of Beth and Ash, standing close together, whispering viciously. They’ve seen me, and from the looks of things they’re really not happy that I’ve shown up here tonight.

You and me both, ladies. You and me fucking both.

Beth is wearing a pink feather boa, for god’s sake. Ash, a fedora and heavy, elaborate electric blue eyeliner, swirling in elaborate designs around her eyes. Don’t they realize how stupid they look?

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