Thorn Abbey (8 page)

Back in Avery Park, I never got invited to parties. Now that I finally have one to go to, I’m desperate to get out of it. Ironic.

“I have this paper to write, and I haven’t even started on it,” I hedge.

Devon rolls her eyes. “Stop being such a colossal nerd. You
have
to come with us.”

“I’ll try. Just text me Kelly’s room number, okay?”

“It’s
Killian
.”

“Sorry. Killian.”

Devon glares at me suspiciously. I don’t think she’s buying my story about the paper. But she can’t know I’m hanging out with Max, not after I promised her I wouldn’t.

Although if Max and I continue to spend time together, how long am I going to be able to keep it a secret? I know it’s wishful thinking to hope for anything more than study dates. But if my wish comes true, then what? Am I going to have to choose between Devon and Max?

Life at Thorn Abbey is
definitely
more complicated than life at Avery Park High.

W
HEN
I
GET TO THE LIBRARY AT
7:59
P.M
., M
AX IS ALREADY IN
a secluded study nook. He texted me directions: second floor, through the mystery stacks, first desk on the right. Just beyond the Agatha Christies and Raymond Chandlers, I find him. Max’s white button-down shirt, part of his school uniform, is untucked, and he’s poring over an old book. Big swoon.

Love Poems from the Victorian Age
is in curly gold script on the moss-green cover. He’s reading love poems? Oh my God, double swoon.

I slide into the seat across from Max. “What’re you reading?” I ask, as if I didn’t know.

He looks up and smiles. “Hey! You’re here!”

“I’m here.”

He points to the book. “I thought I might use this poem in my paper for Bags.”

Oh. So he wasn’t planning on reading poetry as a way of declaring his love for me. “Who’s it by?”

“I don’t remember. I can’t seem to find it, but I know it’s in here somewhere.”

He flips through the book, and the frail pages make a crackly, whispering sound. It feels so intimate, just him and me, our heads bent low as we study together by the warm glow of the brass desk lamps. I gaze at his face, at the way his dark, wavy hair falls across his forehead. And then there is that jagged scar on his cheek. I wonder how he got it. Maybe he took a spill on his bike when he was little?

I reach into my backpack and pull out my notebook, which I’ve neatly labeled
Tess Szekeres, Kerrith Hall
. I quickly open it to a clean page so Max doesn’t see the “Kerrith Hall” part. He doesn’t need to know that I live in Becca’s old dorm. With Becca’s old roommate. That would definitely kill the cozy, intimate mood.

“Have you come up with any ideas?” Max asks without looking up.

“For what?”

“For paper topics?”

Right. Mr. Bagley’s assignment. Focus. “I was thinking of writing about existentialism in the novel,” I tell him. “Or
maybe something about the two endings—how the first one is a romantic nineteenth-century ending and the second one is a more realistic twentieth-century ending.”

Max grins. “You should be teaching this class.”

I blush. “Thanks.”

“No, seriously. You’re like the smartest girl I’ve ever met.”

“Wow. Thanks.” I wish I could tell him how
not
smart I’ve felt since coming to Thorn Abbey. How I’m clueless when it comes to Devon and the other girls’ favorite subjects, like diets and designer brands and so forth.

At least Max appreciates me for the stuff I
can
talk about.

“So what ideas have you come up with?” I ask him.

Max runs his hand through his hair. It sticks up this way and that, just like when we were on the cliff. When we almost kissed. I blush even more.

“Well, like I said, something based on the poem. If I can ever find it. If I’m remembering it right, the guy in the poem reminds me of Charles in the novel.”

“In what way?”

“Charles is this upper-class Victorian guy and everyone expects him to behave a certain way, marry a certain kind of girl. But he rejects all that. Or tries to, anyway.”

The way he says this—with a slight catch in his voice—makes me think he’s somehow referring to himself. I bite my
lip. If only I were smoother, more self-assured, I could draw him out and get him to confide in me. Is he from an upper-class family too? Do Max’s parents expect a lot from him? I have no idea how to talk to a boy that way. I can barely manage the usual pleasantries without having a panic attack.

“That sounds terrific!” I say with more enthusiasm than I intended.

“You think so?” Max says eagerly. “I really respect your opinion on this.” He stops flipping through the poetry book. “Found it! I knew it was in here. Okay, tell me if this sounds like a paper topic. It’s short.”

I smile. “I don’t care if it’s long. I don’t have anywhere I have to be or anything like that.”

He clears his throat and begins reading:

“This, he could not share with her, or any other soul.

Although at times, his secret felt not dark and wrong, but light

And true. But what was he to do? The laws of man said this.

His heart and mind said that. It was a contest for the gods

To weigh. Or for him to win with his fledgling wings and mortal faith.”

He closes the book and gazes at me expectantly. “What do you think?”

My brain is buzzing and racing. I can’t seem to formulate an articulate response. Being with Max, having him recite poetry to me . . . okay, so he wasn’t reciting poetry to
me
, exactly, but it felt that way. His reading voice is so soft and deep and hypnotic, like a super-sexy lullaby. “What sort of secret are they . . . I mean he, the poet . . . talking about?” I sputter.

“I’m not sure. But it sounds like Charles, right?”

“Definitely!”

“I was also thinking about working Charles Darwin’s ideas about evolution into my paper. Bags was talking about Darwin a lot today, remember? About the survival of the fittest? Maybe there’s a way to connect all these themes.” Max stands up. “Can you wait here? I’m going to go grab his book.”

“
The Origin of Species
?”

“Yup, that’s the one.”

Max gets up and starts down the aisle. Before he disappears, he turns and flashes me a quick smile. I smile back. I may be imagining things, but I think he actually likes me. As in
likes
me.

My life is now complete.

Giggling happily, I pick up the book of love poems and begin leafing through it. Avery Park High would never have a cool old book like this in their library. Thorn Abbey’s collection is definitely more impressive.

Except, it’s not a library book. There is a handwritten inscription inside the front cover:

To Max

With all my love,

Becca

My chest tightens. I have forgotten how to breathe. Of course it was a gift from Becca. Of course Max still carries it around with him. How could I have thought that he liked me?

Becca must have been a really thoughtful and romantic girlfriend, giving a gift like that. Most girls I know would have chosen an iTunes card or a DVD instead. No wonder he was, is, in love with her.

I am so stupid.

With all my love, Becca.
Even her handwriting is beautiful. And bold. The ink is a deep, velvety pink, the color of late-summer roses. Trembling, I touch the big, swirly
B
of her name . . .

 . . . and recoil, stifling a scream. The page is burning hot.

But that’s not possible. I touch it again, very, very gingerly.

The page is cool and smooth, like one would expect.

I turn my hand over to look at my fingertips. They’re bright red and raw and tender.

I must be going insane.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper.

“What don’t you understand?”

Max has reappeared, a thick volume tucked under his arm. He stares at me curiously. “Are you okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“I’m fine. Here’s your book back.” I slide it across the desk to him. It’s haunted.
He’s
haunted. I grab my notebook and backpack. “I have to go.”

“What? You just got here. Besides, I was hoping I could bounce more ideas off you. We could take a walk, if you’d like?”

“I can’t.”

I bolt out without saying good-bye. He must think I’m crazy.

Maybe I
am
crazy.

What is happening to me?

O
UTSIDE, THE AIR IS THICK AND HUMID, LIKE A WET SLICKER
that sticks to your skin. My mom always complains about September weather because it can be hot one day and freezing the next. It’s probably going to start raining at any moment now, and I don’t have an umbrella.

I hurry through the quad, wondering which way I should go. Back to Kerrith? I might run into Devon and the others, and they would force me to go to that party. Over to Lanyon, so I can hang out in the computer center and creep on a dead girl some more?

I think I’m losing my mind.

Why did I ever come to Thorn Abbey, anyway?

I choke back a sob.
Great.
On top of everything, I’m going
to have a PMS meltdown in the middle of campus. I pass a group of seniors walking toward the library. They stare at me, and one of them says, “Yeah, that’s that girl who—”

“Tess! Wait up!”

I turn. Max is jogging in my direction. It didn’t occur to me that he might follow me.

He stops in front of me. He looks worried, or mad, or both. It’s hard to tell. “What’s wrong?” he demands.

“Nothing!” I say, quickly blinking back tears.

“You’re lying. What happened while I was in the stacks?”

“Nothing.”

Max crosses his arms over his chest. “Seriously, stop lying.”

I purse my lips together stubbornly. I can’t tell him that I saw Becca’s inscription. Or that it made me insanely jealous. Or that it made me insane,
period
, because somehow, I imagined that her signature burned my fingers, and they actually throbbed with pain. Isn’t there some mental illness where you hallucinate an injury and your body reacts with real symptoms? That’s me.

I don’t know why Max almost kissed me on the cliff or why he asked me to hang out with him tonight. Maybe he was just lonely. Or bored. Whatever the reason, I’ve had enough. He’s not the one who needs to move on. I am.

“Tess.” Max starts to reach for me, then drops his arms to
his sides. “I don’t know what to do. Is it just me, or are we always chasing each other across campus?”

On Monday night, I chased out of the movie after him. On Tuesday morning, I chased after him before he could jump off a cliff. So far, I’m the one who’s done most of the chasing. “So?”

“Maybe we should stop running away and, well, just stop running.”

“Why?” I ask skeptically.

“So we can be friends?”

“Why would we want to do that?”

“Because.” He laughs awkwardly. “Why are you making this hard for me?”

Because I don’t want to be a fool anymore.
“Hard for you how?”

“Look. I don’t have a lot of close friends. I have one, to be exact. Franklin. It’s not easy for me to”—Max stuffs his hands into his pockets—“what would my shrink say? Open up.”

I melt a little inside. Max is confiding in me. “I can relate to that.”

“You can?”

“Definitely. I’d rather eat dirt than talk about myself.”

He smiles.

“I’ve never been in therapy. What’s it like?” I ask curiously.

“You’d hate it. You have to talk about yourself the whole time.”

I smile. “What’s your therapist like?”

“I don’t see him anymore. My parents made me go, after—” He hesitates.

Oh, God. Me and my big mouth.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s okay.”

Max falls silent. I am
such
a moron. He finally tells me something personal, and I remind him of Becca and make him clam up.

I don’t know what to do. What if Max is being sincere? I want him to like me the way I like him. But then I think of Becca’s inscription. I wish I could ask him why he still has that book of love poems. There could be a totally innocent explanation. Like, it was gathering dust on his shelf until he decided to use it for his English paper, and he doesn’t even remember that it was a gift from Becca.

I tilt my head to the sky. But there are no answers or epiphanies up there. Just rain clouds.

A couple of girls pass by, chattering about the Corn Roast. “Hey, Max!” they call out in unison. He barely acknowledges them, even though they’re drop-dead gorgeous. He’s watching me intently.

I meet his gaze. “Why do you want to hang out with me?” I ask him bluntly.

“What? Where’s this coming from?” he says, sounding surprised.

“I’m nothing like B”—I catch myself—“like the other girls at Thorn Abbey. I’m not beautiful and rich and sophisticated. I grew up in a town full of meth labs and cheap nail salons. I didn’t know what a Burberry was. I had to look it up.”

“Tess—”

“You don’t need to feel sorry for me because I’m the new girl,” I rush on, trying to mask the hurt in my voice. “I’m not a charity case. You don’t need to feel like you owe me because of what happened on the cliff. We’re not in a
Star Trek: Voyager
episode, where it’s like, ‘oh, you saved my life, so now I’m obligated to follow you across the Delta Quadrant and be your personal servant forever,’ blah, blah, blah.”

Max grins.
“Tess!”
he repeats loudly.

“What?”

He cradles my face with his hand. “Listen. I like you
because
you’re not like the other girls here. Most of them only care about clothes, money, stupid shit like that. You’re nice, and you’re real. You say what’s on your mind. You don’t worry about what other people think of you.”

“Well, actually, I do worry.” But it’s hard to get the words out, or articulate anything at all, because his hand is still touching my face, and his incredible brown eyes are staring
into mine. Plus I’m frantically trying to process everything he’s said to me.