Victoria Schwab - The Unbound

Letting my gaze drift back up, I’m not so confident. It’s not the uniforms that have me thrown, or even the obvious old-money air—I wouldn’t be much of a Keeper if I couldn’t blend in. It’s the fact that I could count the number of students here in less than a minute if I wanted to. There are few enough to make me think I could come to know their names and faces. Which means they could come to know mine. My last school was large enough to afford a certain degree of anonymity. I’m sure there was a radar, but it was easy to stay off it—and I did. But here? It’s hard enough keeping my second life a secret with only a few people to con. In an “intimate atmosphere”—the brochure’s words, not mine—people are going to notice if I slip up.

What difference does it make? I tell myself. Just a few more people to lie to.

It’s not like I’ll be selling different lies to different crowds here. I just have to convince everyone of one simple thing: that I’m normal. Which would, admittedly, be easier if I’d slept more than a couple of hours at a time in the last three weeks, and if I weren’t being haunted by the memory of a History who tried to kill me. But hey. No such thing as a perfect scenario.

Most of the students have gone onto campus by now, so I cross the lot, chain Dante to the bike rack, and tug off the workout pants from underneath my skirt. When I get to the front gate, I can’t help but smile a little. A massive metal H has been woven through the bars. I snap a photo on my phone and send it to Wes with the caption Abandon all hope, ye who enter here (the inscription on the gates of Hell in Dante’s Inferno , and Wesley’s favorite passage). A moment later he responds with a single smiley face, which is enough to make me feel a little less alone as I step onto campus.

Hyde is made of stone and moss, most of the buildings laid out around a quad. It’s all linked by paths and bridges and halls—a miniature version of the university where Dad works now. (I guess that’s the idea behind a college preparatory school.) All I can think as I make my way down a tree-lined path to the administration building, with its ivy-strewn facade and clock tower, is how much Lyndsey would love it here. I send her a text telling her so, and a few seconds later she texts back.

Who is this?

Ha. Ha.

The Mackenzie Bishop I know doesn’t charge her phone, let alone text.

People evolve.

You did it for Guyliner, didn’t you?

No.

It’s okay, I forgive you.

I roll my eyes and pocket my phone before taking a last, deep breath and pushing open the doors of the admin building. I’m deposited in a large glass lobby with corridors trailing off in several directions. I manage to find the main office and retrieve my final schedule and room assignments from a woman with a frighteningly tight bun, but instead of backtracking, I’m then sent through a separate set of doors that lead into a large hall crowded with students. I have no idea what to do next. I do my best to stay out of the way as I internally repeat the phrase I will not pull out a map, I will not pull a map, I will not pull out a map . I studied the layout of campus, I really did. But I’m tired. And even with a solid sense of direction, it’s like the Narrows, where you have to learn the grid by moving through it.

“It’s one building over, second hall, and third room on the left.”

The voice comes from right behind me, and I turn to find a senior (gold stripes trace across the black of his uniform) looking down at me.

“Excuse me?”

“Precalc with Bradshaw, math hall, room 310,” he says, pointing at the paper in my hands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to look over your shoulder. You just seemed a little lost.”

I fold the paper and shove it back into my bag. “That obvious?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

“Standing in the middle of the admin building with a class schedule and a daunted look?” he says. “Can’t blame a guy for wanting to help.” There is a kind of warmth to him, from his dark hair and deep tan to his broad smile and gold eyes. And then he goes and ruins it by adding, “After all, the whole thing does have an air of ‘damsel’ to it.”

The air ices over.

“I’m not a damsel.” There’s no humor in my voice now. “And I’m really not in distress, if that’s where you were going next.”

He flinches; but instead of retreating, he holds his ground, his smile softening into something more genuine. “I sounded like an ass just then, didn’t I? Let me start again.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Cash.”

“Mackenzie,” I say, bracing myself as I slide my hand into his. The sound that fills my head is loud—the noise of the living is always loud—but strangely melodic. Cash is made of jazz and laughter. Our hands fall apart and the sound fades away, replaced a moment later by the first bell, which echoes through the halls from the clock tower.

And so it begins.

“Let me walk you to class,” he says.

“That’s not necessary.”

“I know. But I’d be happy to do it all the same.”

I hesitate, but there’s something about him that reminds me of Wes—maybe the way he stands or how easily he smiles—and at this point I’d probably attract more attention by saying no; people are already casting glances as they hurry past us to class. So I nod and say, “Lead the way.”

Within moments I regret it.

Having Cash as an escort not only results in a halting pace—he stops to say hello, hug, or fist-bump everyone —but also more attention than I ever wanted to garner, since he introduces me every single time. And despite the fact that the first bell’s already rung and the halls are emptying, everyone takes the time to say hello back, walking with us a few feet while they chat. By the time Cash finally guides me through one of the elevated halls that bridge the buildings into the math hall and deposits me at room 310, I feel dazed from the attention.

And then he just disappears with little more than a smile and a “Good luck!”

I don’t even have a chance to thank him, let alone ask for a clue about where I’m headed next. Sixteen pairs of eyes shift up as I walk in, sporting the usual spectrum of interest. Only the teacher’s attention stays trained on the board as he scribbles out instructions below the header Precalculus . Most of the seats are already taken; in some strange and twisted version of the high school dynamic, I’m left with the back row instead of the usually shunned front. I slide into the last empty seat as the teacher starts, and my chest finally begins to loosen.

Waiting for something to start is always worse than when it does.

As the lesson begins, I’m relieved to find that underneath the moss and stone and uniforms, school still kind of feels like school. You can dress it up, but it doesn’t change much from place to place. I wonder what class Lyndsey has first. She’ll be sitting in the front row, of course. I wonder who will sit next to her on the left, who will reach over and doodle in the margins of her books when she’s not looking. I start to wonder what Ben would be studying, but then I catch myself and turn my thoughts to the equations on the board.

I’ve always been good at math. It’s straightforward, black-and-white, right and wrong. Equations. Da thought of people as books to be read, but I’ve always thought of them more as formulas—full of variables, but always the sum of their parts. That’s what their noise is, really: all of a person’s components layered messily over one another. Thought and feeling and memory and all of it unorganized, until that person dies. Then it all gets compiled, straightened out into this linear thing, and you can see exactly what the various parts add up to. What they equal.