I stare at the message for a few moments before pocketing my phone. I feel like Belle is the only good thing in my life right now. I’m scared of Aces ruining that too somehow.
The bookshelves are filled with every book known to man—which isn’t an overexaggeration. I read once that Niveus gets sent a copy of any book published in the country, which is pretty impressive, I’ll admit. My eyes fall on the books on the bottom row.
This section of the library is empty. No one at the computers. I stare at computer 17. It’s watching me… like any moment it will transfigure into the girl, tackle me to the ground, lift its scary mask, and smile.
A gentle laugh distracts me, my face heating up when I hear the familiar sound of people kissing. I inch forward, not wanting the couple to be alerted by my presence. Kneeling, I reach out for one of the yearbooks—1965—and take a seat on the floor, by the shelves, as I run my fingers down its hard navy spine before I reach the sharply contrasting red of the flag at the bottom. The Confederate flag.
I gaze up at the wall of creepy photos, hundreds of white faces watching me. And in the odd photo, Black faces stare out, wearing blank expressions, their hair beaten into submission like mine. TheBlack faces aren’t always in the photos. That’s to be expected. Mostgoodschools didn’t let people who looked like me in, and when they did, it wasn’t many of us. I can’t imagine what life would have been like for them, having protesters outside their schools every day, parents complaining about their existence there. Like they were these dangerous criminals, just because their skin was brown and not cream.
I look at all of them closely, tracing their faces in each photograph.
Wait a minute…
My eyes scan the pictures over and over, the thrumming in my rib cage making me feel jittery.
1965… 1975… 1985… The Black students… they all just… disappear. Their senior year.
Opening the yearbook, I search for their dark faces, eventually landing on a section titled “Camp Aces 1965.”One hundred years later, we proudly live up to our ancestors’ legacy, I read. A hundred years before would be 1865… the end of the Civil War. The war that preceded the abolition of slavery.
My heart racing, I scan the large photo of men in dated Niveus uniforms, staring at me. In each of their hands is the same playing card: the ace of spades.
A chill trickles down my spine. I stare at the men, pausing when I spot the face of a familiar student who grins at me in the corner of the page. Greasy hair—as black as the night—slicked back, face gaunt, and spindly, bony fingers wrapped around the same playing card.
It looks just like…
Headmaster Ward?
But that can’t be…
I take my phone out, messaging Devon.
Hello?
You better show up.
Devon, this isn’t the time to ghost me.
You have ten more minutes to show before I get really mad
I’m about to message him another threat when I feel my phone buzz.
A notification from Facebook.
[Belle Robinson has posted a new picture]
It’s a throwback to her by some lake with a crocodile casually in the shot. I like it, scrolling to comment, but pause as a comment pops up from a Martha Robinson:That croc would make a cute handbag.
I click Martha’s profile. The page loads slowly, her info appearing first. She’s a few years older than us, and she and I have two mutual friends:Jamie FitzjohnandBelle Robinson.
Belle hardly mentions her family, but then again I never mention mine—though at least she’s met them.
A part of me wonders if Belle doesn’t think I’m the sort of person you’d take to meet family. Jamie’s clearly met Martha. Parents always like him, mine included. Like me, parents can’t see through his façade; they can’t see that his charm is manufactured and underneath it all lies a really terrifying person.
I refresh the page again, wanting to snoop some more. Martha must be her sister.
The page finally loads fully and the first picture pops up, Martha’s photos appearing one by one.
Blond hair. There are tremors in my head.
