Counting Backwards (6 page)

“I didn’t cut it myself,” I say, then feel like an idiot. “My hair, I mean.”

I don’t know why I feel the need to tell him that. Maybe because of the rumors circulating at dinner, about how the new girl on the third floor went berserk and cut off her own hair. He probably doesn’t even care, but I want him to know the truth.

He nods like he gets it, but doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s afraid of getting in trouble with the safeties, but I don’t think it’s a big deal to talk, since most everyone else is talking by now. Or maybe it’s one of those things where he doesn’t want to be rude by ignoring me, but also doesn’t want me to keep on talking.

I face forward for the rest of the presentation. The lights come on, and the interns all stand at the front of the room taking turns trying to get us to spill our guts. There are a few people who reliably will, which is good because if they keep talking, the rest of us don’t have to. When the Q&A is over, people get up to leave, and I overhear Victor tell Margo he’s putting in an order tomorrow.

“Do you ladies need anything?”

“I do,” I pipe up. I don’t know how much it will cost me, but I’m sure it will be worth it.

“What is it?”

“A road map of Georgia.”

“What for?” Margo says suspiciously.

“School project,” I lie. “The Revolutionary War.”

“Why can’t you just get a map from class?”

Good question . . . why can’t I?

“Because none of the maps are—detailed enough.”

“Why would you need a detailed map?”

I look at her. I didn’t expect the third degree, and I have no other answer but the truth, that I’m planning my escape and need to know where the heck I’m going.

“Never mind.”

“Because getting a map of Georgia sounds like a really
bad
idea.”

Victor glances from me to Margo, like he doesn’t want
to interfere, while A.J. studies me closely, trying to read me. I focus my eyes on the back of the chair in front of me. I should have known better than to ask them for anything. I have to do this on my own, in complete secrecy, if my plan is going to work. Out of the corner of my eye I see Margo cross her arms. I can tell she’s miffed.

“Let us know if you change your mind,” Victor says to me, and then to Margo,
“Bonne nuit, ma chérie.”

They leave with the rest of the guys, and Margo turns to me. “Why do you need a map of Georgia?”

“You were right, Margo, it’s a bad idea.”

“Are you just saying that or do you really mean it?”

I don’t answer her, and she lets it go for about five seconds. “As your peer mentor, I’m advising you to pick a
different
school project.”

Our interns call us over, and Margo lines up with the girls from the second floor. I’m suddenly worried she might tell on me. But it’s not like I’ve done anything wrong. Still, I don’t want the safeties poking through my stuff. I need to find a better hiding place for my money, just in case they decide to search my bags again.

I follow the third-floor girls through the lobby and catch a glimpse of the night outside the glass doors. They probably keep the doors locked at night, but there’s only one safety manning the lobby. If I could sneak down here after lights-out . . .

When I get to my room, I look around for a better hiding place for my money. The bed is too obvious, since all they’d have to do is strip the sheets. If I had some tape, I could attach it to the inside of the dresser. My eyes rove over the air vent, and I get an idea. Maybe I could wedge my money between the grate and the floor. I kneel before it and hook my fingernails under the metal.

“You there?”

I’m so startled by his voice that I fall back on my butt. It takes me a couple of seconds to recover. He can’t see me, though, can he?

“I’m here,” I say.

“You want to get off your floor?”

It’s as if he read my mind. I glance out to the hallway to make sure no one else is listening.

“Yeah, I do,” I say, “but I can’t.”

“Sure you can,” he says, taunting me.

“Can anyone else hear us?”

“I don’t know. Let’s make this quick. Meet me tonight after lights-out. In the basement.”

“What? Are you insane?”

“Don’t you want to sneak out?”

I didn’t know sneaking out was a possibility. Margo never said anything to me about sneaking out. And she would know.

“How would I?” I ask. Not that I’d do it, but because I’m curious to know.

“Go down the stairwell between the dorms.”

The stairwell between the boys’ and girls’ dorms, behind door number one.

“It’s locked.”

“I have a key. I’ll unlock it from my side.”

A key to the locked stairwell door? I can hardly believe it. A key exists, and he has one.

“Where’d you get the key?” I ask him.

“Come down and I’ll tell you.”

I rock back on my heels. He’s baiting me, and the bait is good. He might be crazy. He might want to harm me, but if he has a key to the stairwell, he might have keys to other places too. He seems like someone I should know.

“Who are you?” I ask, but what follows is a long silence. Unlike the last time I asked him, this time I know he heard me.

“Go all the way down,” he says at last. “Turn into the third door on the right. You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”

I stop and think. Am I afraid of the dark? Not when I’m alone, like here in my room, but with a stranger—a strange guy? Maybe. Why does it have to be dark at all? What if this is a trap?

“No, I’m not.”

“So, you’ll come down?”

I could get caught by Sandra, the night safety, or one of the other girls, which means getting thrown into a time-out room. He might be some safety creep who lures girls down to the basement to rape and murder them. Or he could be just your average Sunny Meadows psychopath. The risk is high, but getting off the floor at night is the first step to getting out of this place. I can bring my sharpened comb. The potential payoff is pretty huge.

“I’ll be there,” I tell him.

“All right. See you then.”

I stand and stretch my legs, then stuff my money into one pocket and Tatters into the other. Just in case the opportunity arises. I glance at the digital clock on the dresser. Forty-five minutes until lights-out. In less than an hour, I could be free.

I wait until Sandra makes her rounds, then creep silently to my doorway and peek across the hall to where Brandi is asleep in her bed, snoring softly with her mouth partway open. Slowly, noiselessly, I pick up one of my duffel bags and lay it across my bed, pulling up the covers and arranging it to look like a body, just in case Sandra does a room check. It takes forever to do it, measuring each movement so that it goes unnoticed. I grab my comb dagger from under my pillow, take a deep breath, and pad out into the hallway on bare feet, aiming for the stairwell door, which thankfully is catty-corner to my own.

I remember the last time I tried the door and found it locked. Maybe the voice in the vent is lying to me about the key. Or maybe it’s a trick and there’s a safety waiting on the other side, ready to bust me.

I push down on the metal bar and ease the door open. I wait for an alarm to sound but there is nothing, save for the rapid beating of my own heart. When the door closes behind me, it sounds like a tomb sealing shut. I grab the handrail to
steady myself and follow the stairs down into the black belly of the dorms.

The basement is dark, except for the glowing red
EXIT
sign. I head there first and push down on the metal bar. Locked. But maybe he has the key to this door too. If I could get out of the dorms at night, I could climb the fence and make a run for the road, hitch a ride, and be long gone by morning.

I double back and find the third door on the right, our designated meeting place. What remains of my courage swiftly evaporates as I turn the knob and enter into total, blind darkness. I feel my way along a narrow passageway, which turns a sharp corner and seems to open up into a slightly larger space. The air smells like vinegar and mothballs, dank and heavy. I grip my comb tighter and rehearse the hard, jabbing motion Andy taught me years ago.

I trace along the wall with my fingertips until I find the light switch. I flip it on, but nothing happens. I flip it again. And again.

“It’s a darkroom.”

I jump at the sound of his voice; it’s so deep I feel the vibrations in my gut. My legs are weak and rubbery as I pivot slowly and try to determine exactly where he stands.

“For photographs,” he says.

“It’s really dark,” I say, an obvious statement, but it
is
really dark.

“I unscrewed the lightbulbs.”

I take a step back, my feet itching to run back the way I came. “Why would you do that?”

“In case you get caught. I don’t want them to know who got you off the floor.”

“I wouldn’t rat you out.”

“How do I know for sure?”

The dare in his voice makes me want to argue further, but I understand his logic. It’s something I myself would do. But to be this close to him, without knowing his name or what he looks like—I’m at a definite disadvantage.

“Are you a safety?” I ask.

He laughs. “No.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“You’re the new girl.”

The new girl. My dorm room must have been empty before I got here. Or not. What if he murdered the last girl? What if I just stepped into a real-life horror movie?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, as though sensing my fear. He may as well have said,
I’m not going to murder you,
for all the good it does me. But I hear him moving away, and the next time he speaks, it’s from across the room.

“There’s a couch ten steps in front of you, if you want to sit.”

The idea of sitting down next to him, where he can reach out and grab me, does nothing to calm my nerves, especially
after my last misfortune involving a couch. “I’m good here,” I say, and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark. I shut them and open them again—absolutely no difference.

“Have we met?” I say. “I mean, are you in one of my classes?”

“I’m not going to give myself away.”

That’s exactly what I was hoping he would do, but I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to make a habit of meeting him here like this. I just wanted to see if it could be done. And it can. But not without him. And not without his key.

“How’d you get that key?”

He chuckles. There’s nothing funny as far as I can tell. “Is that the only reason you came?”

“Why else would I come?”

“I thought you might want to see me.”

“But I can’t see you.”

“Hmm, I guess not. Why do you care so much about the key?”

I can’t tell him the real reason, that I’m trying to run away. And I can’t think of any other excuse that wouldn’t be completely transparent.

“I’m just curious.”

He’s silent for a moment, then says, “I’ll tell you, but you have to tell me something about yourself first.”

“Why?” I don’t know anything about him, but he wants to
know more about me. I’m the new girl, and that’s all there is to know.

“I’m just curious,” he says, throwing my words back at me. “But I’ll make it easy for you. Tell me . . . what you had for dinner.”

Dinner? What a weird question. I can hardly remember.

“Some kind of meat. It was salty and mushy—I don’t think it was real—and mashed potatoes, instant ones. I bit into a part that hadn’t gotten mixed with water. It was pretty gross, actually.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Your turn,” I say, not losing sight of my mission. “Where’d you get the key?”

“I know a locksmith on the outside.”

“So you just—took it?”

“Ah, now it’s your turn again.”

I clench my jaw.

“Who do you miss the most?” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“From your life before Sunny Meadows. Who do you miss?”

“My grandmother.” I say it without hesitation, without even having to think about it. My answer surprises me. My grandmother’s been dead for six years.

“What do you miss about her?”

“It’s your turn,” I remind him. I didn’t make up the rules, but I catch on quickly.

“I borrowed the janitor’s keys to open the school gym,” he says. “I made a mold of the key.”

“How did you make it?”

“What do you miss about your grandmother?”

I really don’t want to talk about her, with him or anyone else. There is so much to miss—her voice, her hands, the smell of her kitchen, her stories and songs, all the games we used to play. I miss just being around her.

“Her garden,” I say. “It’s where I felt the most . . . calm.” I think about the summers we spent together—long, hot days that stretched on without beginning or end, all the time we spent outside pulling weeds, eating vegetables right from the ground, living on fresh air and sunshine. But that was a long time ago, and I’ll never get that feeling back. Not without her.

“How do you make the mold?” I ask him.

“I press the key into something soft, like plaster, something that holds the shape. It costs extra to do it that way, but it works. Most of the time.”

“How many keys do you have?”

“What’d you do to get into Sunny Meadows?”

My defenses go up like a wall around me. “What did
you
do?”

Silence is what follows. It seems this is a question neither of us wants to answer.

“I really just want to know about the key,” I say at last. “I didn’t know this was going to be an exposé on all the things that are none of your business.”

“A few.”

“A few what?”

“I have a few keys.”

“What about the basement door?”

“Why would you need that key?”

“So I can go for a walk outside. You could come too. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

He chuckles. “Is it because of a guy? You trying to meet up with your boyfriend?”

I snort. “Not quite.”

“Well, if you’re not running
to
someone, then you must be running
from
someone . . . or something.”

“Is this therapy? Are you playing psychologist or just doing it to piss me off?” My anger throbs like a fever. I need to move, but I can’t see
anything
.