Page 2 of Requiem

Allegedly,Toussaint Academy is one of the best private schools in the country. Eighty percent of its graduating students go on to attend Ivy League institutions, who then go on to become astrophysicists, and politicians, and doctors, and bankers. Rachel applied to the school as a joke, never thinking she’d be awarded a scholarship, but I wasn’t surprised when she’d come racing down the hallway one morning, screaming at the top of her lungs, brandishing an acceptance letter in her hand. She was smart. Like,geniussmart, with a photographic memory. She volunteered at soup kitchens. She was in the Big Sister program. Of course stuck-up, pretentious, ridiculous Toussaint Academy wanted her. She was the perfect candidate on paper—underprivileged enough to make them look good, like they’re giving back to the community, but smart enough to keep their numbers up and ensure their stats remain stellar.

Lord knows how Ruth swung me a spot. I amnotsmart. Not like Rach. I can hold my own and take care of my assignments, but I’m not special like she was. I’m of average intelligence. I do not volunteer in any soup kitchens. You will never find my ass signing up for a Big Sister program—I’d be a horrible influence on impressionable young minds. Ruth must have done some digging and straight-upblackmailedsomeone in order to pave the way for me to complete my senior year at a place this prestigious.

Five hours outside of Seattle, nestled away in the topmost eastern corner of Washington State, Toussaint Academy is the last bastion of civilization nestled at the center of one point five million acres of the Colville National Forest. One point fivemillionacres.

There’s one road in. One road out. No townships to speak of. No stores. No malls. No Starbucks. No cell phone reception. I’m going to have to connect to the school’s shitty satellite internet to be able to message and call Ruth for our daily check-ins, for fuck’s sake.

The drive is interminable and boring as fuck. Two hours out from the Academy, Gaynor, who drew the short straw and is accompanying me across state lines, turns the radio off and yawns, shaking her head.

“If you turn the music off—” I begin.

She holds up a hand. “I can’t hear myself think, Sorrell. If I have to listen to one more Rage Against the Machine song, I swear to God I’m going to cry.”

“Put something else on then.”

“Let’s just have some quiet for a second. Why…why don’t you hum something peaceful? My nerves are shot from all that shouting.”

Jesus, she is soold. I zone out after a while, watching the tiny towns flash by the passenger window in a blur. After a while, I’m so damned bored that Idostart humming, just to try and piss her off.

“That’s pretty. What is that?”

“Hmm?”

“That melody. It sounded like…’Brahms?’”

“I dunno. It was just in my head. It’s notBrahms, though. I swear I’ve never listened toBrahmsin my life.”

“So uncultured. Oh! Look. Over there. That’s the last café before we enter the National Forest. We should get you a coffee. I doubt they’re gonna have any at the school.”

I swivel in my chair, gunning her down with an incredulous look. “I beg your pardon? What do you mean, you doubt they’ll have any?”

“It’s a boarding school, Sorrell. I doubt they’re going to give a bunch of teenagers access to stimulants that will keep them up all night and make them loopy.”

“I can’t survive without coffee.”

“You’re gonna have to.”

Fear grips me by the throat. “Pull in. Pull in right now. Maybe they sell the ground stuff.”

Gaynor chuckles remorselessly as she swings the car into the parking lot at the last minute, slamming me up against my door. “Stay here,” she tells me, when she parks. “Watch the car.”

“No one’s going to steal the car. We’re in the middle of freaking no—”

She slams the door closed, mouthing at me through the window to stay put. I get out anyway. “Good lord, child, can you never do as you’re told?”

“I’m staying with the car! I’m just stretching my legs!”

She pulls a face at me as she disappears inside.

It’s fucking cold. I sit on the hood of the Subaru Outback, hands stuffed into the pockets of my leather jacket, waiting for Gaynor to emerge from the run-down café, and it hits me again—the almost out-of-body weirdness of this situation. A month ago, Rachel and I were singing along to trashy pop songs on Spotify, dancing around the bathroom, getting ready to go out and have some fun. She’d been so excited. Told me there was someone she wanted me to meet. A boy, of course. We’d snuck mouthfuls of Sarai’s corked Chardonnay straight from the bottle, wincing at the sour taste of it, giggling like idiots as we’d fled the kitchen. We’d talked about ‘The Plan’ for after graduation. We were going to get summer jobs and save up as much as we could, then take a year off and go backpacking through Europe. I wanted to spend the first month in Paris. Rachel had wanted to hit London and work under the table some more before we headed to France. ‘The Plan’ was a work in progress, but we were figuring everything out. We basked in the sunshine and spent every moment we could at the beach, ogling shirtless dudes playing volleyball…

I blink, and my memories of the week proceeding Rachel’s death fracture and dissipate, leaving me behind, planted back on top of Gaynor’s Subaru, stunned by how quickly life can flip upside on a dime if you’re not careful.

No more beach.

No more summer jobs.

No more Paris or London.

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