Chapter Three Willa

Chapter Three

Willa

Now: Friday, 11:30 a.m.

I used to think I was cursed. Like the proverbial bad penny or some cosmic joke, misfortune follows in my wake.

Bullshit, says my mom, who believes in logic and reason and facts. Dad, too. That's what I get having an accountant and a science teacher for parents. "That's the anxiety talking," Mom says, trying to be helpful.

I wouldn't dare tell them why I think I'm cursed. Why I changed so much after freshman year. Dropped science and peer tutoring and all my friends for Gothic literature and Associated Student Body and social solitude. Radical changes were explained away as teenage angst. Probably for the best.

If my parents knew the truth, they'd never look at me the same again.

Only my slightly dotty aunt Cynthia understood, could read between the lines. Or read it in her cards, more like, that I needed help. She cornered me at my sixteenth birthday party, holding a giant wooden cup, and said, "Reach in, choose the one that feels right to you." I didn't have to look to know she meant a crystal.

I danced unsure fingers over the objects within the carved chalice, the choice swelling in front of me. Some were nubbier than others—was that a lima-bean shape under my forefinger and thumb? Another one felt sharp, almost like an ice pick. What if I chose wrong? I kept hoping that one would call to me. That it would somehow reverberate its importance. But each rock felt like…a rock.

Finally, I plucked one at random. My hand emerged from the cup with a deep black stone. It had a depression at the top that rendered it almost heart-shaped if you turned it at the right angle. And it was smooth to the touch: soothing.

"Oh, that's tourmaline," my aunt Cynthia said, awed. "Makes sense. This will ground and protect you. We always find the stone we need."

As if her words were magic, I felt it. More grounded. Safe.

Now I finger the black tourmaline around my neck, casting a silent spell into the universe for protection. Please don't let Ms. Silva search my bag. Please. I'm so close to surviving high school without my curse weighing me down. I've had three years of disaster-free decisions. The crystals work. I sleep with quartz under my pillow and carry citrine in my school bag. Their good luck has brought me top grades, winning me the treasurer position on the Associated Student Body, and even my first boyfriend. It's getting better. I'm okay.

I repeat that to myself. I'm okay. She's not going to find what's in my bag. The expulsion-worthy things in my bag.

Oh god.

"Nothing in there." Silva closes Declan's suitcase with a disappointed snap. Now she's on to Eden's pink hard case.

"Careful with that! My clothes cost more than your car," Eden sniffs.

I meet Silva's scowl with a sympathetic smile. I get you, I project. I'm one of the good ones.

When Eden's and Wyatt's bags turn up clean, Silva almost looks disappointed.

Of course their bags are empty of contraband. All the booze is in my bag! Delaney, Camille, and Eden cornered me in the bathroom at the airport, insisting I pull my weight . Their group had smuggled in five bottles via their checked bags. Didn't I want to party? Didn't I want to be fun? Didn't I want to be one of them ? They didn't say the last one, but it was implied. And, just like that, stupid me agreed.

I'm half-queasy as Silva searches Camille's bag, anxiety manifesting into illness. Or altitude sickness. I can't tell.

The only ones left are me, Piper, Delaney, and Liam. I'm behind the golden couple. I switch between fixating on my bag and watching them like exhibits in a zoo, cataloging every micromovement. Her arm looped through his. If Delaney let go, would he simply drift away? But then Liam shifts closer in—perhaps for warmth.

I'm doing it again. Obsessing. And wishing.

That's the biggest curse no crystal can banish: my hopeless feelings for Liam Parker-Yang. Sometimes I think my bad luck started the first night we met: at that long-ago party, when Delaney and I were still thick as thieves. But I ended the night shattered. And Delaney continued on with her charmed life.

The crack of another suitcase closing snaps me back to the present. Delaney passed inspection.

"Can we go already? I'm freezing, " Camille whines to Silva. In fairness, her petite five-foot-two frame is shivering in her oversized puffer coat. Her body may be strong from gymnastics, but her low body fat makes her vulnerable to the cold.

Ms. Silva, who looks chilled herself, eyes the final three of us. I imagine her assessment: Liam the Boy Scout, and I do mean that literally. He became senior patrol leader shortly after our freshman year. Homeschooled Piper, who is only just rejoining the high school social scene, and Goody Two-shoes Willa.

Yes, I am a boring suck-up, so please don't check my bag….

Finally it seems the cold combined with social arithmetic wins out.

Our chaperone claps her hands. "All right, I'm satisfied. Let's get inside."

Their gambit works, exactly why they picked me in the first place, and I can breathe again.

Piper lets out her own sigh, and I flash back to Eden, Delaney, and Camille gossiping in the airport bathroom. Why was Piper even here…and back at Warner Prep at all? Shouldn't she have been on her way to the Olympics by now? And Camille cackled that "her arm isn't the only thing that killed her gymnastics career." Not that I trust their mean-spirited gossip.

While Silva navigates the number-pad door lock, I gaze up at the house, taking it in. It's winter-postcard perfect, with snow dusted on a series of graduated sloping rooftops. There's even a line of icicles hanging from the eaves above the door.

"I have first dibs on rooms," Eden says, sidestepping ahead of Delaney to get closer to the entryway—and to Declan. She misses the death glare her friend throws at her back. I marvel at the two of them: Eden with her supermodel stature and ice-blond hair, Delaney with her effortless girl-next-door looks. And then there is me, painfully normal Willa Hawley.

Silva doesn't even turn around to address the squabble. Finally, the keypad beeps and the front door opens with a metallic click.

"Leave your bags in the foyer and head right to the living room for a house meeting," our chaperone tosses behind her as she steps inside.

"Oh god, what now?" Camille mutters under her breath.

Inside, I roll my bag into a cozy corner underneath a carved, wooden, bear-shaped key rack. Airbnbs always do this—pick some animal patron saint and plaster it all over to give the place "Instagrammable character." It reminds me of the cabin in Big Bear, where I spent a perfect weekend with my boyfriend after Thanksgiving. Bear pillows, bear mugs, bear curtains. It became a funny joke between us. Laughing as we noticed the next ridiculous bear-shaped thing. Guess they got the memo in Colorado, too. For some reason it's less charming here.

I catch a large, framed area map next to the door. Welcome to Bear Point Lodge at Oso Peak , it says above a stylized topographical map with a custom inset that shows off the chalet layout. There are several private ski lanes off the house, and the map indicates both downhill and cross-country options. The longest downhill route, which ends at the bottom of the mountain, has an asterisk next to it. I squint over the fine print:

*No ski lift service. Private shuttle available for hire in town.

No reason to worry there. I have no plans to ski down a mountain. And if it took forty minutes to drive up, how long would it take to hike?

Bag now deposited, I continue on to the main house. A U-shaped couch sits in the sunken living room, and a state-of-the-art kitchen comes into view on the right. I crane my neck to see exposed rafters. The main floor has been expensively updated, but there's aged charm in the slatted wood walls, the hand-carved detailing in the staircase. A place like this has history, maybe even ghosts.

A sour reminder of what could have been. My Senior Excursion was supposed to be the Gothics & Ghosts trip, which included an honest-to-god séance. Logically, I know séances are ridiculous, but I can't help but wonder what if…plus, the itinerary featured a Stonehenge trip, a murder-mystery dinner party, and a Jane Austen tour. Our BritLit teacher crammed in everything possible, but I guess she did her job a little too well, because at the last minute they told me the trip had been overbooked and I was bumped here: the Colorado mountains with my least favorite classmates.

The curse rearing its ugly head once again.

I shake away the thought, refuse to let it intrude. Dr. Klein and I have worked on this. I'm not cursed. I need to embrace this trip as best I can.

Silva is already holding court in front of the massive stone fireplace, the focal point of the sunken living room. I sit beside Piper on the couch. We're the good kids, the rule followers, but the others are pinballing around the first floor, refusing to settle.

"Do join us," Silva voices sternly, setting down an accordion binder on the mantel, next to a charming bear-shaped clock. It emits a constant soft ticking, adding to the cozy vibe.

Eden and company pretend contrition, offering hollow apologies as they take their sweet time. In the meantime, Silva turns to the dormant fireplace and starts fiddling with various knobs. We had to leave our soaking coats in a front closet, and it is indeed nippy inside.

"Yes, thank you, I'm freezing," Eden says, snapping her fingers in Silva's direction like she's the maid.

"The welcome email said the automatic heat was scheduled to kick in at noon," Silva says, brow furrowing with consternation. Then she bends over to inspect the logs of wood in the grate, exposing her bottom to the room. Someone sniggers, and I hear the words fat ass.

The back of my neck burns. I know I should shut it down, do the right thing and stand against fatphobia. Fat is merely a word that describes someone, including me, and shouldn't be wielded as a pejorative. But this group scares me a little, so right now I'm just glad it's not me they're sneering at. My fingers trace the stone around my neck, a nervous habit I can't quite kick.

"Ugh, let me do it." Camille's already off the couch. She's a blur of purpose as she locates a box of long matches and a stack of old newspapers by the grate. "We'll all freeze to death if we have to wait on you."

She twists back the knob Silva was messing with earlier. "That's the flue, and you shut it. Very bad," Camille scolds, as though our guidance counselor is a misbehaving child.

Silva is too cold to argue, and soon the fireplace sparks to life.

"Thank you," Silva manages as Camille resettles on the couch. Eden giggles into Declan's ear. The trill of her laugh sends chills up my spine. "Now, the time has come: take out your phones." Silva grabs a wicker basket from a side table and divests it of pine-cone clutter. "Your wireless weekend has officially begun. I will take all cell phones, watches, gaming devices"—she looks pointedly at Wyatt—"and if you were stupid enough to bring any tablets, I want those, too. Anything that can connect to the internet goes in the safe. This is a shortcut-free weekend."

"Are you allowed to call us stupid?" Declan leans back, hands behind head, smug.

"What would you prefer I call you, Mr. DuPont?" comes Silva's parry.

Dimples crack Declan's cheeks. "How about…well endowed?"

"Omigod, stop!" Eden smacks Declan playfully on the arm. The apples of her cheeks flush rosy.

Silva is unmoved. "What about Prime?" she says.

The suggestion lands with a thud. Referencing Declan's failed TikTok career is a low blow and everybody knows it.

Declan's grin slips into a scowl. "You shut your damn mouth."

Wyatt looks up from his phone, still clasped in his hand. "Oh shit."

I expect Ms. Silva to scold, punish them. Declan and Wyatt just swore at a school official, which is expulsion-worthy at some places. But the rules at Warner Prep are different. The rules for monied kids always are, I think bitterly.

Instead, our chaperone places the basket at the center of the coffee table and waits. The power play is clear, and we're destined to lose. One by one, we power down our devices and they land with a clunk in the basket. Only Eden hesitates.

"What if, like, my mom has an emergency? Sometimes my publicist just has to get in touch with me, and you know I have brand deals to consider…." She cradles her iPhone to her chest like it's a baby.

"Which is it? Potential family emergency or influencer business?" Silva prods. "There's a landline here, Eden, and don't worry—all your parents and legal guardians have the number in the event of an emergency." She wiggles the basket in Eden's direction until she surrenders the phone.

"What's a landline?" Eden hisses under her breath to Declan, who shrugs.

"Now, moving on to the schedule." Silva crosses to the fireplace and pulls a stack of papers from her binder. She hands them to Liam. "Take one and pass it along."

Dismay carries like a wave as eyes rake over our itinerary.

"Two hours of journaling? Mandatory silent meditation twice a day?" Delaney's nose wrinkles.

"At least we get to ski," Camille adds. "Ooh, and yoga."

"We have to cook ?" Eden screeches, looking up from her paper in disbelief. Delaney scans the sheet furiously for a moment. "Are there vegetarian options?"

Silva nods. "Yes, there are meatless options for you, and the whole house is nut-free in consideration of Mr. DuPont."

But Eden's not done. "I don't cook. My family has a personal chef for that. You can't make me."

"Actually, I can. Your parents signed off on the itinerary, and failure to complete the Senior Excursion activities will impact your final grades," Silva says without emotion. "Everyone will take a turn at meal prep. This is a communal weekend. Think of it like Survivor. You could skip your turn, but you'd be sticking your classmates with more work, which they might resent. Don't forget your social game."

"Okay, boomer."

Wyatt waits for laughter, applause, fist bumps—anything—but the dated clapback gets crickets. I barely resist the urge to correct him. Silva's far too young to be a boomer.

Accordingly, she rolls her eyes and barrels on. "There is time set aside for cards and board games. Social activities sans screens. Which is the point of this weekend. Radical self-reflection. Connecting while disconnected. Maybe turning over a new leaf."

Declan's eyes are still on his sheet. "Wait, we have a bedtime?" He scoffs. "I'm nineteen, not nine."

"Super senior," Liam coughs under his breath. Declan shoots him back a middle finger. But then they both laugh.

Silva ignores the antics and presses on. "Yes, there's a strict lights-out at ten p.m. to accommodate our early start. I'll be doing bed checks as well. Ordinarily I'd tape over your doors to ensure there are no late-night shenanigans—"

Wyatt cuts her off. "You can't do that. It's illegal to prevent us from using the bathroom."

"Thank you for your legal expertise on the matter, Mr. Riemer," Silva replies, deadpan. "As I was about to say, there are not enough en suite bathrooms, so instead I will simply let you know that I am a very light sleeper. And the homeowners have told me sound carries, even down to the basement, where I'll be staying.

"This weekend is about stepping back and reflecting. Your generation is so used to being watched. Every move monitored by your teachers, your parents, your publicists "—she nods to Eden—"your peers, your coaches, or even yourselves as you curate your perfect images in person and online. This weekend you're stuck with me, but in a few months you will graduate and enter the world, and you will have no chaperones at all. I challenge you to take a cold, hard look at who you are and who you want to be. Because so far, I'm not sure I am impressed with what I see."

A chill fills the air.

My plans for this weekend are front of mind.

I know exactly who I'd be, unseen and consequence-free.

Not a good person at all.