Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Anora and the Gold Coin

After trig, I stop outside the classroom to look at my schedule. To be truthful, I’m stalling. The dead girl moved away from the window shortly after I spotted her, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t waiting for me, and if I’m going to have an encounter with the dead, I don’t want witnesses.

As I cradle my new book and syllabus, I bump into the edge of a locker, and my stuff tumbles to the ground. I lean over to pick everything up and turn to find three girls from Mr. Val’s class observing me. The one in the middle was staring at me earlier, and while I don’t read open hostility from them, I can tell they’re curious about me, bordering on suspicious.

But maybe I’m wrong.

“How did you end up at Nacoma?” the middle one asks.

Nope. Always trust your gut. They’re suspicious.

“My mom moved here for work,” I mumble, gathering my stuff and clutching it tightly in my arms.

“Huh,” she says, and it’s clear she doesn’t believe me. I wait for an accusation or a bitchy comment, but she doesn’t say anything else.

She stares a moment longer before she and her two friends turn and walk away. Another girl who’d been lingering in the hallway approaches. She has eyes the color of ice, more white than blue, and her lips are a pretty, pink pout. Her creamy skin is speckled with a collection of moles that look more like thoughtfully placed beauty marks. She reminds me of a ballerina, all lithe and long-limbed, made to look even smaller by the huge cardigan draped over her shoulders, billowing around her body.

“Ignore them,” she says. “Jasmine and Michelle just repeat everything Natalie says, and Natalie thinks she’s queen of the castle and is always in everyone’s business because her father is headmaster.”

Damn.I’d have to draw that kind of attention on my first day, wouldn’t I?

“Well, I guess her dad being headmaster does sort of make her queen of the castle.”

“Don’t let her fool you. She’s not as powerful as she thinks. I’m Lennon.” The girl holds out her hand for me to take.

“Anora.” I shake her hand. I’m just glad she hasn’t called me the new girl yet.

“I know. You’re from Chicago. You moved into the old Foley house on Forrest.” I stiffen, and Lennon must notice because she explains, “You’re the only thing people were talking about on Roundtable today.”

“What?”

“Roundtable. It’s like an anonymous Twitter feed but exclusive to Nacoma students. We don’t really have much to do out here other than gossip and talk shit about one another.”

“You have an anonymous app for gossip?” I ask, and holy crap, is this not something I need at the moment.

“Yeah. Normally, I wouldn’t introduce a newbie to it so soon, but everyone is super curious because there was precious little they could dig up about you. Of course, that leaves a lot of room for speculation, you know.”

“Oh, well, I don’t want that. Best to get everything out in the open. I’m actually a hundred years old, and I bathe in the blood of virgins to stay youthful.”

Lennon stares at me for a moment, and my face reddens. Maybe I went too far with that joke. Then a smile breaks out across her face, and she pretends to write on the books cradled in her arm.

“Virgins…got it. If I see any, I’ll let you know.”

We both laugh, and I’m feeling a little more relaxed. Lennon inclines her head to get a look at my schedule.

“What’s your next class?”

It’s biology in Kline—a building that is closer to Emerson than Walcourt, which means another trek across campus.

As it turns out, that’s Lennon’s next class too. We also have World History and English III together. Lennon chats beside me as we head to Kline. The path we take is free of the dead, and I can concentrate on what she’s saying.

“I hear Shy Savior got to show you around this morning. You know he’s a senior and the quarterback of our football team? Total cliché. He’ll probably be homecoming king this year. Natalie is weirdly protective of him, so that’s probably why she’s cagey about you.”

That turns my stomach sour, not that I should care, but I do not need to be in the middle of drama.

“I’ve been here for a full”—I look at my phone—“two hours. I’m not interested in Shy.”

“Hmm. We’ll see.”

I sigh. “I hate high school.” But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’d asked for exactly this—the normalcy of high school, even if it comes with petty drama.

Lennon sits next to me in the classes we have together and points to the people I should know.

“That’s Maia Ledford. Her father walked out a couple months ago. She hasn’t spoken since. That’s Caroline Miller. She’s first in the class and plans to go to Oxford when she graduates, but she’s really intense. I think she had a breakdown trying to keep her grades up, which is why she came here. I’m convinced she’ll kill anyone who threatens her GPA. And that…” She points to a boy sitting against the wall. His hair is dark, coming to rest on his shoulders, and his lips are curved in a classic smirk. He doesn’t look interested in anything going on around him. “That’s Thane Treadway. He’s super rich and a troublemaker.”

“He looks pissed.”

She leans toward me, her chin resting on her hand. “He’s just bored.”

I glance at the boy again and find him looking at me. His face remains blank, like I’m the color beige or Mr. Val’s math homework. As quick as he glances in my direction, he looks away, and I might have taken it for disinterest if I didn’t recognize the expression. It’s one I’ve been wearing the last four months. It’s grief.

Thane has just become ten times more interesting.

“Speaking of homecoming, you have to go to the dance!”

I refocus my attention on Lennon, whose eyes have brightened at the topic. I shake my head. “I don’t really like dancing.”

She shrugs. “It’s not really about the dancing—it’s about the dresses.”

I try imagining Lennon’s lithe frame, swallowed by that huge cardigan, wearing a snug-fitting gown and can’t.

“Besides, it might be a requirement for you. Rumor is the football team’s considering making you their princess.”

“Their what?”

“Princess…for queen’s ransom,” she says. “Every homecoming, they nominate one girl. It’s a tradition.”

I have so many questions.

“What’s queen’s ransom?”

“It’s like…capture the flag. We play with our rival, Rayon High. Each school offers up one girl to be exchanged and hidden by the other team. Whoever finds and rescues their princess first wins the homecoming seat, and the girl becomes homecoming queen. There’s a huge risk. I mean, Rayon’s princess could win.” She offers a small laugh. “But that hasn’t happened in over twenty years.”

I don’t like the idea of being exchanged or hidden, and screw waiting to be rescued. I wanted a normal high school experience, but this is not what I meant.

“Why would they nominate me? No one knows who I am.”

“Everyone knows who you are. Roundtable, remember?” Lennon says. “Your new-girl status makes you the perfect choice for queen’s ransom. They think of it as offering up the virgin for sacrifice. It’s kind of a rite of passage.”

Sounds more like hazing.

“Can I refuse?”

Lennon’s bony shoulder pokes out of the fabric of her cardigan as she shrugs. “No one ever has, but if you’re not queen, then Natalie will be.”

Imagine the kind of enemy Natalie will become if I beat her out of homecoming queen. If Lennon is to be believed, Natalie seems the type to hold a grudge about that kind of stuff. If Shy is on the football team, I’ll tell him to leave me out of this.

“When’s the dance?” I ask.

“In three weeks,” Lennon says. “Football is really big here. Homecoming is a holiday. Anyway, even if you don’t get queen, you should still go to the dance. We can go together.”

“What if someone asks you to the dance?”

She smiles ruefully. “No one will ask me.”

“You can’t know that. Haven’t you been asked before?”

“No, and I won’t be asked this year either,” she says adamantly, as if the future is etched in stone—and maybe for her, it is. I wonder what happened to Lennon to land her at Nacoma, or if she’s another one of these people who just happen to live here. I almost ask her, but prying will be opening a door for her to ask questions about me, and that’s the last thing I need.

At lunch, I follow Lennon back to Emerson Hall, deposit my books into my locker, and meld with a crowd of students heading toward the cafeteria. It feels like joining a hoard of hungry zombies—they all moan about classes and can’t seem to walk straight, knocking shoulders with the person beside them. I don’t like physical contact, and I don’t like crowds. More bodies mean it’s harder to find an escape route if things go south, and I can’t tell if the dead are mixed among them.

When we make it to the cafeteria, I stick close to Lennon, following her to the end of a line winding its way toward a buffet staffed with lunch ladies. I might be paranoid, but it feels like everyone’s gazes are on me.

“So,” I ask Lennon as casually as possible. “Are you from here?”

“No, I’m from Pennsylvania. I was shipped here freshman year, and I’ve been coming back ever since.”

I bite back my instinct to ask why she was shipped here and instead say, “Do you like it? Living here, I mean?”

Lennon doesn’t look at me as she speaks. Her eyes wander the cafeteria, like she’s looking for someone. “I don’t hate it.”

“That is a nonanswer.”

She grins. “I’m going to be here even if I hate it, so I might as well make the most of it.”

“And how do you do that?”

“You watch people,” she says, and even now, she studies me. “Learn their secrets, so when they come after you, you’re untouchable.”

Unease trickles down my spine. That doesn’t feel like a normal high school teenage answer. “That all sounds a little extreme.”

“You don’t know Nacoma Knight.”

Lennon’s words must have an effect on me, because I find myself scanning the room. I spot Shy standing at the center of a group of boys, all laughing at something one of them said. A girl breaks through the circle to hug him around his middle. His arms tighten around her, a wide smile on his face.

I look away, but Lennon elbows me in the ribs and says in a loud whisper, “Shy’s on his way over!”

I will myself not to react but can feel my skin grow splotchy with heat, which makes me even more embarrassed, but I face him anyway.

“Hey,” he says, coming to stand beside me.

“Hey.”

“I’m guessing you found your classes all right without me?”

“Yeah, thanks to Lennon.”

I look from one to the other. Shy’s smile seems tight, but Lennon’s cheerfulness makes me think I’m imagining the awkwardness.

“I’ll be right back!” Lennon says and then bolts across the cafeteria to a group of girls. I can’t imagine what she’s telling them, but I wonder if any of it will end up on that app she spoke of earlier.

“I see you found another friend,” Shy observes.

“Yes. She’s taught me a lot.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Like about queen’s ransom.”

His eyes go wide. I don’t know how to say this subtly, but I also want no part of being kidnapped and hidden. So I blurt, “If you’re thinking of making me some sort of prize, you can forget it. I don’t want that.” I pause, and he looks at me as if I’ve grown a second head. The silence is uncomfortable, and now I wonder if Lennon was joking about the whole thing and I wasn’t ever going to be a princess. My neck burns in humiliation, so I quickly change the subject. “I think I met your girlfriend today.”

Shy raises a brow, and a smile opens up on his face. “And who would that be?”

“Natalie?”

He throws his head back, laughing. I’m betting Natalie would be offended by his reaction. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Maybe someone should tell her that.”

“She’s just overprotective…and jealous.”

I laugh. “Jealous? I thought you said she wasn’t your girlfriend. Is she an ex?”

“No, nothing like that. We’ve known each other forever. Just friends.”

“Well, she’s nosy.”

“Yeah, she is.” He shrugs. “New girl at school that no one knows anything about…takes attention away from her.”

“I don’t want attention or people asking questions about me. And I am no one to be jealous of.”

His gaze feels like an incision in my chest.

“Everyone has something someone else wants.”

I blink. That’s not what I expected him to say, and he’s looking at me the same way he did earlier…like he has X-ray vision clear to my soul.

“You should stop doing that,” I say. It feels like I’m standing next to a heater.

He looks confused. “What?”

“Staring at me like that.”

He smiles a little and lowers his eyes to the floor, attempting to hide the pink coloring on those high cheekbones. I feel the loss of his gaze immediately. Where I was warm before, now I’m cold. This is not a normal reaction. There is something about this boy.

“Sorry. I…didn’t mean to,” he says earnestly.

I want to cram those words back into my mouth and swallow them whole, but I can’t. What can I say anyway? I take it back. Stare all you want? This is best. Pretty boys are trouble—haven’t I learned that?

Lennon rejoins us and carries on the conversation. I keep waiting for Shy to leave, but he moves through the line beside me and invites us to sit with him at an already-crowded table. My chest tightens and my stomach flutters, but not in the good way, no butterflies. This is like a spider has burrowed deep in my belly, spun a web, and captured flies. That’s pretty much how I feel right now—like a fly, trapped. Especially when I notice Natalie at the table.

If I weren’t trying so hard for Mom, I’d have left the congested cafeteria and found a spot outside to eat my lunch where there is no fear my true self will peek through a crack I haven’t managed to seal. Then I think of that spirit who left her spot above the doors at Emerson Hall to come looking for me and decide it’s best if I stay inside.

I sit wedged between Shy and another student I don’t know. Lennon takes a seat diagonally across from me. Shy introduces me to some of the people at the table, describing how he knows them or who they are as if I can keep up. I keep my eyes on my plate. The lumpy thing at its center is called a soy burger. I’m wondering if it is edible when someone places the ketchup near my hand. I look beside me and meet Shy’s stare.

“Just douse it in ketchup. It tastes fine.”

I scrunch my nose but take his advice. It seems he’s survived a few years on Nacoma Knight cafeteria food.

Soon, Shy’s friends direct their attention to me. I let my hands fall in my lap, fiddling with the hem of my skirt as they begin their interrogation.

“So where are you from, Anora?” a boy with short, black hair and a great smile asks me. His name is Jacobi. From what I gather, he’s on the football team and one of Shy’s best friends. I notice others have started to stare, and I feel like a lion’s prey. I think about Roundtable. What do these people want from me that they haven’t found there?

“Chicago.”

“Why’d you move to Oklahoma?”

“My mom moved here for a job.” I echo the lie I told Natalie. It is the easiest thing to say—and the most normal. Lots of kids move because of their parents, right? I catch Shy’s gaze as I answer. It says: That’s not so complicated.

“Oh, that’s cool,” Jacobi responds.

“I heard you got kicked out of school.” Natalie’s declaration surrounds me like a net cast out for capture, and I go rigid, tightening my fists in my lap. She stares at me, and the voices at our table go quiet. I wonder if people believe everything that comes out of her mouth since her father is headmaster. She clearly has access to whatever file he has on me. Lennon was right: she is in everyone’s business.

“Starting rumors already, Natalie?” That question comes from Shy and surprises me—why does he think she’s lying?

She lifts her chin and her eyes narrow. It reminds me of the look a cat might give a mouse before it pounces. “It’s not a rumor.”

Everyone’s watching me, but I don’t owe them an explanation. Maybe I started fights, maybe I set fires, or maybe I broke down because I can see the dead. I prefer any of those over the actual truth.

At Shy’s dismissal, Natalie lets the subject drop, and the table lapses into a discussion of Friday’s game and next week’s homecoming events. It’s the third time I’ve heard about homecoming today, and with Shy sitting beside me, his warmth seeming to draw me closer to him, I start to entertain the idea of going…which is dangerous.

I make the mistake of looking at him and find he’s watching me.

I don’t tell him to stop this time.

He nods to my plate encouragingly. “The food’s really not so bad.”

I reach for the burger and take a big bite, ketchup oozing onto my fingers. The food is gritty, and all I can taste is tomatoes. I want to spit it out, but Shy is watching, and how attractive would that be?

Just as attractive as throwing up, I remind myself as I manage to swallow my mostly unchewed food, wincing as it goes down.

That’s enough of that.

I don’t touch the burger again and can’t seem to gain any feeling of comfort for the rest of the lunch period, so when the bell rings, I jump out of my seat and race for the door.

Shy is quick to catch up and offers to walk me to my next class. This feels way too helpful, and I wonder what exactly his motive is here.

“Oh…I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way…”

“You have art in Hollingsworth, right?” And before I have time to ask how he knows, he adds, “I…uh…took note of the classes we had together when I looked at your schedule earlier.”

I’m not sure why it takes me so long to form words, but Shy must assume my silence means something else, because he averts his eyes.

“That might’ve been a little stalker-y. I didn’t mean anything by it. Sorry if I freaked you out.”

“You didn’t,” I say. “We should get to class.”

We walk quietly side by side, and I try several times to confirm that he’s not going to put my name forward for queen’s ransom, but I’ve embarrassed myself enough with that and just hope Lennon had it wrong.

Shy holds the door open for me when we reach Hollingsworth—a redbrick building with three floors, a covered porch, and double-hung windows. He walks beside me down marbled halls decorated with student paintings, sketches, and sculptures, then gestures to a room on the left where our class is located.

I start to enter ahead of him but halt when I find the dead girl from earlier blocking my path, glaring at me from that horrible broken angle. I guess the precautions I took—the rosemary, evil eye, and turmeric—are no match for the power of this soul, because she’s not moving.

I wrap my fingers around the straps of my backpack, and a thin layer of sweat coats my skin, matting the hair at the base of my neck.

“You okay?” Shy asks.

No.

I could feign food poisoning, turn and run to the nurse’s office. No one who’d seen what we had eaten at lunch would think twice about that lie…except Mom.

It’s that thought that propels me forward, through the spirit. I hate this. Hate it more than my move to Oklahoma, more than my new name. Walking through the dead means for the briefest moments, I feel what they felt upon their death. A violent pain ricochets from my neck and coils in my stomach, sending a rush of fire through me, and for a moment, I think that piece of soy burger really will come back up. Then the pain is gone—as quick as a bone snapping in half—leaving an aftershock of nausea rolling through my stomach like a spiked ball.

I keep moving forward and take my seat beside Shy, fighting to swallow the acid at the back of my throat. My whole body still feels as if I’ve had a fever that just broke. Even my palms are sticky.

Our teacher, Mr. Seth, welcomes the class and begins to take roll. He wears a sweater vest and black-framed glasses. As he calls names, I look toward the door. The spirit’s gone, but I have a feeling she isn’t finished torturing me. The dead never seem to want to leave me alone, even when they don’t seem particularly evil. It’s like they want something from me.

“Miss Silby?” Mr. Seth’s voice reaches me, and my eyes snap to his. “Miss Silby?”

“Yes?” The word comes out breathless.

“Are you all right?”

I press my clammy palm to my forehead, wiping away a thin sheen of perspiration.

“Yes.”

Mr. Seth watches me as if he thinks I’ll change my answer. I sink lower in my chair, and he relents, transitioning into a lecture on pointillism. I open my notebook and go to flip my hair over my shoulder when I notice blood coating the ends and dripping onto my lap. My heart feels like it’s caught in a vise, squeezing until I’ve no ability to breathe. I reach for the matted hair glued to my neck, finding the skin is tender and coated in something sticky. I pull my hand away: more blood.

The nausea building in my stomach threatens to explode.

“Miss Silby, do you need to go to the nurse’s office?”

I clamp my hand around my neck, but I can’t look at Mr. Seth, because everyone in class has turned to stare at me—including Shy. Those eyes freeze me in place—hard and curious, scanning my body like a machine looking for disease. My stomach clenches. The last thing I need is to projectile vomit all over the place.

I stand, swaying on my feet, and stumble out of the classroom.

“Miss Silby!”

I race down the hallway, searching for a bathroom in this unfamiliar place. Turning the corner, I stumble through a door into a yellow-washed restroom that smells like must.

I barely make it to the toilet before releasing the contents of my stomach. I heave a few seconds longer and then get to my feet, shuddering, coated in sweat.

I move to the mirror and find a furrow around my neck in the shape of an inverted V. The marking looks like a deep, bloody moat and appears to be of the same thickness as the rope the dead girl hanged from. Even as I stare at myself, the blood and markings begin to fade.

Like it was all in my imagination.

The anxiety and fear I’ve had since arriving at Nacoma this morning starts to bubble under my skin, transforming into anger, and I tremble with the need to unravel.

Danger, danger, danger.

I ignore the warning going off in my head and leave the restroom, heading outside.

The wind washes over me, cooling my heated face but stirring smells together: stale air and vomit. I round the corner of the building, finding the dead girl waiting for me, neck broken, the same ligature marks that marred my skin marking hers. I skirt around her and head for the tree line. If I’m going to confront her, I can’t have anyone watching.

When I’m far enough away and hidden by trees, I stop, waiting until the dead girl appears in my peripheral. I twist toward her.

“Stay. Away. From. Me! Do you understand?” My voice sounds raw to my ears, and I curl my aching hands into fists. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll listen.”

I’ve said what I need and move to sidestep the spirit, but what she says next stops me in my tracks.

“They’re coming for you.” Her voice is guttural, like she’s gargling blood.

“Are you threatening me?” I turn to face her again. There is a familiar prick in my right palm as I take a step toward her. Her eyes trail to my hand, as if she senses what’s unraveling inside me.

“You’ll only lead them to you faster,” she says.

“What are you talking about? Who’s after me?”

The dead girl offers a savage smile and turns to leave, but the same hysteria I felt upon seeing her rises inside me again, and the small sliver of control I have shatters as I think—what if she leads them to me? I reach for her, fingers spread wide, and a thread sprouts from my palm, twisting and twirling through the air like spun gold, and, like a needle attached to a long thread, spears the dead girl’s head, weaving in and out of her body, perforating her as easily as paper, until she is covered from her broken head to her toes in a cocoon of gold. Beautiful and disturbing, it constricts, tightening around her form, consuming, growing smaller and smaller until she’s nothing more than a coin on the ground.

I fall to my knees and reach for the coin, scanning my surroundings, ensuring no one—not even the dead—are witness to what happened. Clutching it in my hand, I peer down at it. The familiar image of a raven is raised in relief on the surface of the coin along with today’s date, which keeps a timeline of the souls I have captured.

And there goes rule number three: Don’t capture souls in Oklahoma.