The Merciless II (8 page)

“Stop moving,” I mutter, holding him tighter. Leena even gets a stupid bunny that she makes everyone else take care of.

Two tiny, sharp teeth drive into my finger. I curse loudly. The door swings open and Leena steps back into the dorm.

“I forgot my—” Leena starts. I stumble to my feet, and Heathcliff rolls out of my lap and onto my bed, then hops to the floor.

“Careful!” Leena says, scooping a shivering Heathcliff into her arms. She looks up and her expression softens. “Oh, Sof, are you okay? He didn't bite you, did he?”

“Yeah, he did,” I say, staring down at my hand. Two crescent-shaped marks cut across the pad of my thumb.
Blood oozes up and spills over onto my finger. It comes fast and hot, winding into the cracks of my knuckles and trickling into the spaces between my skin and fingernail. I curl my thumb into my palm to control the bleeding. So much blood for such a tiny cut.

“He's never bitten anyone before,” Leena says. She sets Heathcliff down on the floor and pushes herself to her feet. “Let me get you a Band-Aid.”

“I'm sorry I dropped him.” But even as I'm apologizing, I imagine grabbing that fluffy white head with one hand and twisting. I can practically feel his skinny bones breaking beneath my fingers.

I cringe at the image, disgusted with myself. That stupid needlepoint was right—jealousy is like a cancer. I need to get it under control before it turns me into someone I'm not.

I stick my thumb into my mouth while Leena digs around in her closet for a Band-Aid. The blood tastes metallic against my tongue.

I
open my eyes, and I'm standing in the woods. Barefoot. I don't know how much time has passed, or how I got here. Dead grass crunches beneath my feet. My toes look almost blue, but I don't feel cold. I don't feel anything. Moonlight illuminates the trees, casting shadows across the ground. The shadows look like they're moving, reaching for me. I look up, but the trees are still. There's no wind.

A choked whimper breaks the quiet. It sounds like an injured animal. Goose bumps climb my legs. I cross my arms over my chest, and something warm and wet seeps through my nightgown. I look down.

Blood coats my arms. I jerk backward, horrified. It soaks into my nightgown, staining the lacy fabric red. It winds around my wrists and drips from my elbows. It feels warm. Sticky. I try to wipe it away, but there's too much. I smear it across my hands. It oozes between my fingers.

I hear the noise again. A small sound, barely a breath. I stare at my bloody arms, and I start to shake. This blood isn't mine.

What did I do?

I turn around. A pebble stabs my toe. An animal scurries through the brush, rustling the leaves before going still.

Leena kneels in the dirt, her hands tied behind her back, a piece of duct tape covering her mouth. Blood leaks from her nose and from the torn, ragged skin near her scalp. Sweaty strands of hair frame her face, and a purple bruise blooms beneath one swollen, bloodshot eye. Deep red slashes climb her thighs. A bloody butcher knife lies in the grass, inches from my toes.

Mine.
I pick up the butcher knife. The wooden handle feels warm beneath my fingers. Like it belongs there. I step toward Leena, and she flinches, releasing a muffled sob. She is the animal—the prey.

I pull my arm back and slash—

I wake up, gasping. Sweat plasters my pajamas to my body. I can't move. The room slowly comes into focus.
Sutton snoring from the bunk across from me. Heathcliff licking his water dispenser. Dawn creeping through the window.

I roll onto my side and stare at Leena's bunk. Leena lies on her back, her eyes closed. There's no blood on her face, no swollen eye or torn skin. Her eyelids twitch as she dreams. I force myself to inhale and then breathe out again, slow. I didn't hurt anyone. It was a nightmare. Leena's safe.

I check the clock on my bedside table. It's five thirty-eight in the morning. My alarm isn't set to go off for another twenty minutes, but the nightmare is still fresh in my head. I feel blood coating my fingers, anger pounding at my skull.

I didn't just want to hurt Leena. I wanted to kill her.

I crawl out of bed and pull on a pair of jeans and sneakers. My fingers shake so badly I can barely tie the laces. Leena murmurs something in her sleep and rolls over. Her blankets rustle and the mattress springs creak.

I freeze. I don't want her to catch me. I remove my jacket from its hook on the back of the closet door and creep out of the dorm. Leena stays still.

I hurry down the stairs and out the dorm without thinking about where I'm going. I just want to put space between Leena and me. That nightmare felt so
real
. I could smell her blood. I could feel her fear.

My chest tightens and, for a long moment, I can't
manage to inhale. Leena's my friend. I would never hurt her.
Never
. The ground seems to lurch beneath me. I lean against the wall just outside the building and cup my hands around my mouth.

Breathe
. I choke down a lungful of air. Cold nips at my nose and lips. I exhale, and a misty cloud of breath leaks through the cracks in my fingers.

The old chapel sits just ahead, half hidden by trees. Tangled ivy snakes over the walls, twisting into thick knots around the double doors and stained glass windows. The vaulted roof pierces the sky like a dagger. I'm not supposed to be out of my room before six am, but it's just the chapel. They can't expel me for praying.

I walk across the grounds, dry grass crunching beneath my sneakers. The chapel looks silver in the early morning light, and darkness obscures the stained glass windows. I push open the door. The hinges creak and echo off the walls of the empty room.

A heavy wooden cross stands at the front of the aisle. Votive candles cover the altar, half melted in red glass candleholders. They flicker in the gloom, sending shadows dancing across the marble floor. I frown, wondering if the altar boys have to keep them lit all the time.

I slide into a pew and pick up a Bible with a broken spine. I let it flop open on my lap, and read the first line that I see.

Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean
. The words ring through my head like a bell. That's all I want. For someone to wipe away my pettiness and jealousy. For someone to take away my nightmares. I want this so badly that it beats in my chest like a second heart.

“Sofia?”

I jerk around. Jude stands behind me, a faded leather jacket slung over his gym shorts and long-sleeved T-shirt. His hair's all rumpled, as if he just got out of bed.

My chest rises and falls rapidly. It takes me a moment to catch my breath. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

“The guys all run sprints at six am,” he explains. “I like to come here first and say a quick prayer. The chapel's usually empty.”

I start to stand. “I'm sorry, I'll—”

“No, don't go.” Jude slides into the pew beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost brush against each other. He smiles, then ducks his head, embarrassed. “It's kind of nice to have company.”

“Yeah,” I say. A thin layer of stubble shadows the bottom of his face. I imagine running my fingers over it.

“What're you doing here?” Jude asks, shrugging off his jacket. He's rolled his shirtsleeves past his elbows, and I notice a strange mark in the crook of his arm. Almost like a burn.

“Did you hurt yourself?” I ask, nodding.

Jude slides his sleeve down over his arm. He's not smiling anymore. “No, it's nothing.”

I frown, but then Jude turns so that his body faces me on the pew, and my curiosity slips away. Dark hair curls around his neck, and the candlelight makes his skin glow gold. He stares at me for a long moment without saying anything.

I blush and look down at my hands. “You keep doing that,” I say.

“Doing what?”

“
Looking
at me. You did it during play rehearsal, too.”

Jude blinks. “Wow. I'm sorry. I swear I'm not a total creep—you just remind me of this picture Father Marcus has in his office, that's all.”

“What's it a picture of?”

Jude glances up at me, sheepish. “Um, the Virgin Mary?”

I glance at a painting of the Virgin on the wall behind the altar. She has pale skin and dark blue eyes. “But she's white.”

Jude follows my gaze. “Well, yeah, in that painting she is. The picture in Father Marcus's office is actually of Our Lady of Guadalupe. It's from a basilica in Mexico City where he did some missionary work after divinity school. She's Latina, like you.”

Our Lady of Guadalupe
. The name tugs at something in
my head. I think of the religious postcards and pictures gathering dust in Grandmother's room. “It sounds familiar.”

Jude frowns. “You're not Catholic, are you? How'd you end up at St. Mary's?”

“No, I'm not Catholic.” I look back at the painting of the Virgin Mary, my neck stiff. I swallow and say, “Actually, my mom died a week ago. St. Mary's was the only place that would take me.”

There's a beat of silence, and then Jude puts a hand on my shoulder. His touch vibrates through me. “I'm really sorry, Sofia. That's awful.”

“Yeah.” I feel a familiar sting at the corner of my eye and blink to keep myself from crying. “It's still pretty hard to talk about.”

“Have you thought about praying?” he asks. “God can be a great help at times like this.”

His eyes are like sparks in the candlelight, absorbing every flicker.

“I don't know,” I say. “I've never prayed before.”

“It's easy. I'll show you.” Jude slides his hand from my shoulder to my wrist. He wraps his other arm around me, pressing his body against my back.

I hold my breath. I feel his heart beating against my spine. He exhales, and his chest rises and falls against me.

“Is this okay?” he asks. His voice sounds different. Huskier. I nod.

Jude lowers his chin to my shoulder, and his breath tickles the hair on the back of my neck. He folds his hands over mine. His palms are warm.

“I always start by saying
Dear Holy Father
,” he says.

“Dear Holy Father,” I repeat. Jude laughs. It vibrates through his body, and into mine.

“You don't have to speak out loud to pray,” he says. “Just think it. Think of God, and all the things you want to say to Him or ask Him or thank Him for. God will hear you, but He may not answer right away. He'll answer in His own way, in His own time. Go ahead. Try it.”

I close my eyes, but I don't think about God. I think about how I can feel the heat of Jude's body through my T-shirt, and how his skin smells like soap and leather. The rise and fall of his chest as it presses against my back.

“Amen,” Jude whispers, moving his fingers away from mine.

“Amen,” I repeat.

I
see Jude again at play rehearsal. He and Leena run lines onstage while Sister Lauren watches from the front row. I try not to stare as I walk backstage.

“Wherefore weep you?” Jude says. His deep voice resonates throughout the theater, sending a tremor through my stomach. My hands still tingle where Jude touched them.

I hesitate near the curtain. Jude catches my eye, and my heart leaps into my throat. I sneak a glance at Leena. She's frowning over her script.

“At mine unworthiness,” she says. She clears her throat, and shifts her weight to her other foot. “That dare not offer . . . um . . .”

Feeling reckless, I lift my fingers in a small wave. Jude flashes me a half smile and turns back to his script. I can't help the warmth that spreads through my chest. “That dare not offer . . .” Leena repeats. She trips over the words, making me wince.

Only a total bitch would go after Jude,
I say to myself. Sutton's warning is the verbal equivalent of a cold shower. I am not that kind of girl. I will not go after my friend's crush.

I slip backstage, where Alice Merle is ripping up old sheets to look like sails and Dale Buford is lugging buckets of sand to create a makeshift beach. No one's looking at me. I drop my bag next to my feet and slip off the Band-Aid wrapped around my thumb, exposing the spot where Heathcliff bit me. It's just a tiny, crescent-shaped cut. Barely even there.

Jealousy is like a cancer,
I think, and I drive my sharpest fingernail into the cut. Pain flares through my skin. I gasp, and tears spring to the corners of my eyes. But I don't move my fingernail. The pain is good. I focus on it, letting it wash over me.

I will not go after Jude
.

Blood oozes around the edges of my fingernail. It feels sticky and hot against my skin. I move my fingernail and the pain dulls. I take a deep breath and reposition the bandage over my reopened scab.

The curtain behind me twitches. I jerk away as Sister Lauren yanks it back.

“There you are!” she says, stepping backstage. “Didn't you hear me call your name?”

I shake my head, trying to hide my bleeding thumb in the folds of my skirt. “Sorry. I was distracted.”

Sister Lauren adjusts her white headpiece.
She saw my fin
g
ernail,
I think. I curl my fingers around my bloody thumb. She won't understand why I had to do that. I search my head for an excuse.

“No worries—I appreciate your focus, Sofia. Speaking of which, would now be a good time to take a look at our trapdoor?” she asks.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Remember? We were having a problem with the mechanism and you told me your old school had one just like it.” Sister Lauren pinches the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “I could've sworn we talked about this after class this morning.”

“Oh, right!” My cheeks flare as the conversation comes rushing back to me. “Yeah, of course, I'll take a look.”

“Great!” Sister Lauren turns, her black robes swishing around her ankles. She leads me onto the main stage, and motions for Leena and Jude to stop rehearsing.

“Would you all mind shifting stage left?” she calls.
The actors move out of my way. I crouch beside the trapdoor, careful not to look at Jude. My Band-Aid is already stained with blood.

Leena kneels next to me. “You missed it!” she whispers, glancing over her shoulder. Her eyes linger on Jude. “There was this part in the script where Ferdinand was supposed to kiss Miranda's hand. I thought we'd just skip it, but Jude actually took my hand and . . . and he kissed me! A
real
kiss.”

Leena touches her hand as she says this. She can't stop smiling.

“That's . . . great, Leena,” I say. My response sounds stilted, but Leena doesn't seem to notice. Anger curls around me. The air in the auditorium seems hotter all of a sudden. The moment in the chapel—the moment I'd been replaying over and over—seems stupid, and childish. I press my injured thumb into my forefinger.
I will not go after Jude.

“I think they're waiting for you,” I say, proud that I manage to keep my voice steady. I nod at the actors gathered on the other side of the stage. Leena pushes herself to her feet.

“I'll tell you all about it later,” she says. I stare at her back as she walks away. Her long black hair. Her swinging plaid skirt. Today, she's rolled the waistband to make it shorter.

A drop of blood hits the scarred wooden floor next to my knee. I look down and realize I'm still pressing my fingers together. My Band-Aid's a bloody mess.

I swear under my breath and turn my attention to the trapdoor. My thumb is bleeding freely now. I'll need to fix the door quickly so I can run to the nurse's office for a new bandage. Sister Lauren said the door latch has been sticking during Caliban's entrance. I fumble with it, but my Band-Aid slips around on my thumb while I work, and I have to stop to shift it back into place. I grit my teeth and try the latch again, trying to tune out the actors on the other side of the stage. This time I leave a thick red smear of blood across the floor. It glistens under the bright stage lights.

I wrinkle my nose and try to wipe the blood away with my hand. Gross. I really need a new Band-Aid. I slide the trapdoor closed and hurry backstage. I might have an extra floating around the bottom of my bag.

Jude's deep voice booms through the stage curtain, followed by Leena's halting, nervous lines. I crouch next to my bag and fumble through homework assignments and broken pens, holding my injured thumb so I don't bleed anywhere.

I can't believe Jude kissed her,
I think, pushing aside my English notebook.
I can't believe I'm not even allowed to flirt with him because she liked him first.
I yank my physics
textbook out of the bag and drop it on the floor with a little more force than necessary. The angry, jealous thoughts keep popping into my head. I tell myself I don't mean them, but I can't stop thinking about how unfair this all is. Leena already has everything. She should know what it feels like to have something bad happen for once in her life.

My lips curve into a smile at the thought. I catch myself a second later, and force them back into a tight line. It's not as though I want something really bad to happen to Leena. Just a little setback, to balance out the scales.

A sharp crack, like wood slapping against wood, bangs through the auditorium. There's a scream, and then something heavy slams into the floor, cutting the scream short.

A sour taste hits the back of my throat. I drop my bag, and I'm instantly on my feet, racing across the stage.

“Call an ambulance,” someone yells. Footsteps pound down the aisle and a door slams open. I push back the heavy curtain, my heart hammering in my chest.

No,
I think.
Just don't let it be . . .

All the actors have gathered around the trapdoor. The actor who plays Prospero has climbed inside, and is speaking in hushed tones to someone I can't see. Sister Lauren's face has gone white. Everyone's here.

Everyone except Leena.

“What happened?” I ask. Jude is kneeling next to the trapdoor, but he looks up at the sound of my voice. There's something dark and frightened reflected in his eyes.

“Leena fell,” he says, but he sounds far away. I stare past him, down into the darkness beyond the edge of the trapdoor. It seems to pulse. I inch forward until I can see Leena's tangled hair spread across the ground below and, in the second before horror washes over me, a thought echoes through the back of my head:

She deserved it
.

• • •

Sister Lauren insists that we all head back to our dorms but no one leaves the theater. We linger on the front steps until an ambulance speeds through campus, red and blue lights flashing through the trees. It slams to a stop in front of the auditorium, and two men in dark jumpsuits leap from the back, a stretcher balanced between them.

Sutton races across the grounds, but I can't face her. Disgust floods my stomach. I step into the woods, pressing my back against the cold, rough tree bark and letting the shadows hide me. Tears stream down Sutton's face. She looks around, maybe for me. Sister Lauren approaches and they talk in low voices that I
can't overhear. The men hurry back down the steps, and this time there's a body on the stretcher: Leena's body.

She isn't moving. I curl my hand into a fist and bunch it near my mouth.
Oh God
. She isn't moving. No one speaks as they load her into the ambulance. A sob claws at my throat, but I can't let it out or people might see me. If they see me, they might ask questions.

Like,
Weren't you working on the trapdoor?

And,
Why wasn't it locked?
What did you do?

I close my eyes. I hear the sharp crack of the trapdoor slamming open. Leena's scream rings through my ears—cut off, abruptly, when her body hit the floor. I wanted something bad to happen to her. Didn't I think that, seconds before she fell? Didn't I think that she
deserved
it? I was jealous, and I wanted Jude for myself. And then she fell through the trapdoor I'd been working on. What a nice coincidence.

Nausea curls inside of me. It rises in my throat like the tide. I turn and double over, vomiting on the packed dirt ground. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and force myself to walk away. My shoes smack against the ground, every step sounding like an accusation.

My fault, my fault, my fault
.

I pull open the dormitory door and walk straight into a wall of people. My body feels as if it's on fire. I duck my head, trying not to meet anyone's eye. Voices buzz
around me, high and jittery. Nervous. I pick out bits and pieces of conversations as I weave through the girls of St. Mary's.

“Did she . . . ?”

“. . . accident?”

“But who . . . ?”

They know,
I think. Somehow, they all know about the trapdoor. They know this was my fault. I walk faster. Eyes follow me down the hall and up the stairs. I feel them on my back, like pinpricks of heat burning through my skin.

“Sofia! Wait!”

Sutton's voice stops me cold. I hesitate outside our room, feeling unmoored, like someone snipped clean through the strings that kept me tied to the ground. Sutton races up behind me, panting.

“What are you doing? Leena was asking where you went.”

“She's awake?” I swallow. It feels like there's something stuck in my throat. “Is she . . .”

“She's going to be okay,” Sutton says before I can finish my sentence. “The ambulance guy said she hurt her leg pretty bad, but they can fix it. She'll need a cast.”

I collapse against our door, relieved. “Thank God.”

“Alice is giving me a ride to the hospital,” Sutton says. “Do you want to come?”

I press my lips together. I don't want to tell her, but she's going to hear it from someone else, anyway. “
I'm
the one who was working on the trapdoor, Sutton. I must've left it unlocked. It's my fault Leena fell.”

Sutton nods but, otherwise, her expression remains unchanged. She already knew, I realize. Someone already told her. It's my third day at this school and I already have a reputation. That's got to be some kind of record. “Leena doesn't blame you,” Sutton says.

I shake my head, not sure I believe her. “You should go. Leena will want to see a friendly face.”

For a second, it looks as if Sutton might say something else. But she turns and hurries down the hall without me.

I push our door open and step into the dorm, my eyes traveling over the room. Sutton's hairbrush and bobby pins tucked away in a wicker basket next to her bed. A stack of Leena's books on the floor, ragged notebook edges peeking out between the pages. A squeaky carrot toy forgotten in the corner.

I lift my hands to my mouth and start my breathing exercises. In and out, in and out. The whispers and stares fade away. My breathing steadies.

“Leena will be okay,” I say out loud, testing the words. I wait for the lump to leave my throat. But it just sits there, like food I can't swallow. Leena might be okay, but that's just luck. I still hurt her.

We don't kill our own
. The words float into my head. I trusted Dr. Keller when he told me I wasn't evil. But he wasn't with Brooklyn that night.
I
was. I remember the flash of red in her eyes, the evil moving inside of me when she grabbed my hand.

Brooklyn's voice whispers to me.
You're one of us, Sofia. I'm coming for you
.

I lift a hand to my chest and only then do I notice that my Band-Aid has fallen off my thumb. My fingers are sticky and wet. Blood coats my palm.

A shiny drop winds around my wrist and falls to the floor.