Lavinia wrinkles her nose and glances over at me. “Do I even want to ask why you’re perched like you’re sitting on glass?”
Jesus. Is it that obvious?
“Don’t worry,” Lav says. “The only way to earn your status as a House Girl is if you walk funny every once in a while.”
Story shoots Lavinia a glare. “Okay. Let’s just get to it.”
She’s been doing this longer than any of us, knows the rhythm of the toy drive and the Panhellenic expectations. We sit around the table, laptops open, notes scattered. The plan is simple, but big: collect toys all over Forsyth, distribute to kids in the hospital, families in shelters and low-income neighborhoods. Drop boxes at every frat house, sorority, and campus building. A big push on social media. Raffles. Maybe a holiday event.
Ideas bounce back and forth. Story wants to add a “toy wish list” so donors know exactly what kids need. Lavinia suggests a collection at next Friday’s Fury. I listen, nod, jot notes, and an idea pops in my mind.
“What about…” I start, then reconsider.
“What about what, Arianette?” Story asks.
“Well, what about asking WXFU to run some promotions during their shows? I know Hunter would do it, but he works the overnight shift, so I’m not sure how many people hear that, but I bet the other DJ’s would be happy to add it in.”
“That’s a great idea,” Lavinia says, making a note. “We can give them a list of donation drop off points to announce every day.”
I grin. “I’ll talk to Hunter about connecting with the rest of the staff.”
“I’ll check with Verity about a list from the hospital to make sure all the kids are covered there,” Story adds.
When we finally pack up Lavinia says, “I love it when we do things like this, the good stuff, you know?”
“Same,” Story says. “The carnival is fun and the blood drive was a really good turn out. Giving back washes away a little of the ick for the other shit that goes on around here.”
“It’s easy to get caught up in the glass bubble of being a Royal,” Lavinia says, shoving her notebook into her backpack. “I know I grew up in that bubble, but there are a lot of kids outside the system that need a little boost. Kids in foster care or whose parents are having a hard time.”
As we step outside the little glass box where the guys are waiting, a weird feeling settles in my chest. Before I can process it or anything else, Tristian has Story by the hand and is leading her deeper into the library. Sy pushes off the wall and strides over.
“Everything go okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Lavinia says. “We’ve got a pretty good plan. The kids of Forsyth should be in good hands this Christmas if we have anything to say about it.”
Again, I feel that twinge, but Sy is looking at me, speaking to me. “It didn’t seem like the right time to talk at the Fury, but how are things? Any new memories?”
I glance at Hunter and he gives me a quick nod. “Yeah, a few. Nothing that clear, but it feels like the layers are peeling away.”
He smiles. “That’s great. I’m glad the hypnosis helped.”
“Me too.” Again, I glance at Hunter and even though we haven’t spoken about it, we both know that it may not be the hypnosis revealing memories. It seems tied to other situations, like after I’ve experienced physical pain or fear.
We separate, Sy and Lavinia heading toward the stairs, while Hunter leads me to the elevator. He stands next to me as we wait, watching me carefully.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice low. “Did something happen in there?”
“No.” I hesitate. The words feel too big, too fragile.
“Then what?”
“There are other gaps,” I say finally. “In my memory. About Strong Manor.” I swallow. “And the kids I grew up with.”
The ones who lived in the same cold halls, shared the same basement classroom with Mrs. Whipple’s ever present ruler and colder voice. The ones in stiff uniforms, whispering at night when the guard dogs were quiet. The ones who disappeared, one by one, taken away in the middle of the night, their crying echoing down the corridors until it stopped. Always left behind. Always me.
Uncle Owen said they never existed. Said they were figments, my mind breaking under the weight of whatever happened to me. But I remember their faces. Their names. The way they looked at me when the switch came down, like they knew it could’ve been them.
“I remember them. The other children living there with me. There were lessons in the basement. Dogs that patrolled the grounds.” I look up at him and then away, unable to take the scrutiny. “There were punishments and crying. They were real. But Uncle Owen… right before the fire, he said they weren’t. That I made them up.”
