News travels fast at Alaria.
Great.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“People.” She examines her nails. They’re burgundy today. Alizarin crimson, if I’m being precise, which I always am. “The question isn’t who’s talking about it. The question is who’s doing it.”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be sitting here stressing, would I?”
Vienna tilts her head, and those rust-brown eyes lock onto mine. It’s the closest to a sympathetic look I’ll ever get from her. She opens her mouth to say something but gets cut off by one of her groupies.
“Hey, bitch,” the one with hot pink hair yells. “What’re you doing? We’re next in line.”
Vienna shrugs and stands. She leans in close to whisper, “Imagine if it’s someone you know.”
It’s like a gut punch. My fingers curl into my thighs because I’ve never once considered that. Someone I know wouldn’t…
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
She shrugs again and sips her coffee. “Sometimes the person holding the knife is the one standing close enough to get you.” She winks and then walks away.
I stare after her with my pulse beating loudly in my ears. Vienna has a talent for saying things that sound like threats and claiming they were advice. Was that a threat? Is she the one sending the nasty messages? She’s so hard to read, and the ambiguity sits in my stomach like something I shouldn’t have swallowed.
Right now, I can’t think of any legitimate reason Vienna would target me, especially since she’s an art history major. She doesn’t create her own art and wouldn’t care about getting into an exhibition. Currently, the only students that have been targeted were part of the gallery show.
But… I could actually see her being super vindictive.
Did I do something to deserve her wrath? If so, why target other students too?
I don’t know. This is all so messed up, and I’m too drained to think about it now. Also, Cinna has been gone too long.
I no longer see her, so I get up and walk toward the maples. The trees thin near a low stone wall that borders the lot, and that’s where I hear her voice. Or rather, hear the voice on the other end of the phone call.
It’s her mother’s voice, audible from ten feet away because the woman has no volume control. I can’t make out everyword, but the tone is unmistakable. She’s disappointed about something.
Cinna’s side of the conversation is monosyllabic. “Yes.” A pause. “I know.” A longer pause. “I’m trying, Mom.”
Her voice on that last word is so small it breaks my heart. It’s the voice of a girl who learned that the right answer is whatever keeps the peace, and peace is defined by the person on the other end of the phone.
I should turn around because this isn’t my conversation to hear.
But Cinna tells her mom, “I got an A on the critique. I told you that already,” and her mother’s response is loud enough for me to catch fragments: “… not about one grade… consistently… your sister never had to…”
Cinna’s shoulders curve inward and she’s suddenly swallowed in her sweater, like it’s two sizes too big. Her free hand hangs at her side, fingers opening and closing around nothing.
The call ends. She lowers the phone and stands there with her back to me. I watch her reassemble herself. Shoulders straight. Chin up. Her hands smooth out every wrinkle on her sweater.
She turns and sees me, and my heart jumps into my throat. “I’m sorry,” I say, apologizing for spying and on behalf of her mother.
For two seconds, all of her hidden emotions bubble to the surface: eyes glassy, lower lip pulled between her teeth, looking younger than twenty. Looking like the girl who used to bring extra cookies up to Aeron’s room—just so innocent, sweet, and wanting to be needed.
“Hey,” I say softly. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. I just came to check on you.”
“I’m fine.” She blinks and forces a half-smile. “My mother’s just being my mother. You know her.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“It’s nothing. She has high standards. I understand where it comes from.” She laughs, but her eyes are wet. “It’s just, like… is it so hard to just say ‘you did good’? Once?”
