The Merciless II (13 page)

Sutton leans past me. “Where's Leena?”

“She left before I did.” I glance around the room, half expecting Leena to materialize from the shadows in the corners. “She isn't back yet?”

“No.” Sutton frowns. “I didn't see her in the woods, either. You're sure Father Marcus didn't—”

“He didn't catch her,” I say before she can finish. “But, Sutton, she was so drunk. I don't know how she's going to make it back here on her own.” I think of Leena stumbling around on her crutch, her eyes blurry, and feel
a sliver of guilt. “You think she'd get lost? Or something happened with her leg?”

“Leena's been going to this school for three years. She's not lost.”

A floorboard creaks in the hall just outside our door. Sutton swears. She quickly pulls the window closed.

“Bed,” she whispers, pushing me across the room. “Pretend you're sleeping.”

“What about Leena?”

“We can't risk looking for her now.” Sutton peels off her jeans and digs her polka-dot pajama pants out of her dresser. She yanks them on and climbs into bed, tugging her comforter up to her chin. “She'll have to find her own way back.”

“D
id you hear that?”

Sutton's voice jars me awake. I blink, slowly letting my eyes adjust to the darkness of our room. Sutton lies on her side in the bed next to mine. The whites of her eyes flash in the shadows.

“Hear what?” I murmur, my brain thick and heavy. Sleep pulls at me, dragging me down. My eyes flicker closed.

Wind howls through the trees. Only it's not wind. I ease my eyes back open, frowning.

“
That
.” Sutton sits up, her shoulders rigid with fear. The sound loops back on itself, growing distant at
first, and then louder. Closer. Recognition flutters through me.

“Is that a siren?” I ask.

Sutton kicks off her comforter and climbs out of bed. I sit up, but I can't quite remember how to make my legs work. It can't be a siren. We didn't do anything wrong. And, besides, Father Marcus didn't even see us. I stare, frozen, as Sutton crosses the room and throws back the curtains covering our windows. The muscles in her jaw go slack and her mouth falls open. She lifts a trembling finger.

“Fire,” she whispers.

Nausea floods my stomach. “No,” I say, climbing out of bed. I cross the room and crowd next to Sutton at the window.

Smoke hangs above the woods, dark and thick, like someone spilled oil across the sky. Red lights flash in the trees. Sirens howl.

“Oh God.” Sutton bunches a hand near her mouth. “It's coming from the chapel.”

A dark thought wraps around my brain. I glance at Leena's empty bed.

The blood drains from Sutton's face, leaving her skin ashen. “Sofia,” she breathes. “What if . . .”

Doubt seeps through me. Leena never came home, and now there's a fire . . . “Leena left the chapel before I
did,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as Sutton. “I
heard
her.”

But I didn't actually hear Leena get out. She was just gone.

“She could have circled back to the chapel after you left.” Sutton lifts a hand to her mouth, lightly touching a finger to her lips. “She was so drunk. If she couldn't figure out how to get home, and it was too cold . . .”

“I locked the door.” At least, I think I did. I close my eyes, rubbing my eyelids. I think of the moments right before I ran through the back door, trying to remember twisting the lock. I come up blank.

Static fills my ears, blocking out the sirens and Sutton's voice. I think of the candle toppling from the altar and rolling across the floor. The white flame leaping onto the curtain. Leena's expression as she watched it catch, light dancing in her unfocused eyes.

But I stomped the fire out. I stopped it. Didn't I?

A sharp knock raps on our door. “Roll call! Five minutes!” Sister Lauren shouts. There's an edge of panic in her tone.

Sutton grabs my arm and drags me into the hallway. Dazed students stumble past us. Winter coats cover their lacy nightgowns and striped pajamas, and they've shoved their feet into Converse sneakers and UGGs. A girl I recognize from geometry—Erika—wears reindeer
slippers with tiny bells on the toes. They jingle as she shuffles toward the stairs.

“Single file,” Sister Lauren calls. She stands at the other end of the hall, a rumpled pair of St. Mary's sweatpants hanging from her hips, her hair piled in a messy topknot. Short, spiky pieces stick out of the elastic and fall around her face. “Stay calm, everyone.”

Her eyes flicker over to Sutton and me, and something in her expression sharpens. “Put your shoes on,” she says to us. “We need everyone outside for roll call.”

“Did someone get hurt?” Sutton asks. Her voice has a little-girl quality to it that I've never heard before.

“That's what we're trying to figure out,” Sister Lauren says, counting off the other girls. “We all need to gather outside.”

I grab my coat while Sutton yanks a pair of cowboy boots over her pajama pants. We hurry down the front stairs, taking the steps two at a time. I pause at the main doors, hit with a sudden memory of the first time I walked through them. I was on my way to meet my new roommates, feeling anxious and hopeful as I climbed the stairs behind Father Marcus.

It hasn't even been a month and already, everything's different. One of those girls might be—

I shudder and push through the doors. I can't even think it.

Cold hits me in the face. It snakes around my bare ankles and blows straight through my flannel pajama pants. We make our way over to the crowd of nuns and students already gathered on the lawn.

Two fire trucks race down the narrow, twisted road leading to the chapel, sirens blaring. Sutton huddles close to me, her icy fingers finding my hand.

“Oh God,” she whispers. I barely hear her. I tug my hand away and turn, searching the faces of the girls around us. Leena has to be here. She
has
to be.

“Do you see her?” A note of panic has crept into Sutton's voice. I don't answer. My eyes dart over face after face, until I find every single girl who lives on our floor, and everyone I know from classes and play practice. Everyone except Leena.

Sutton seems to realize this at the same moment I do. “She isn't here. Oh God, Sofia . . .”

My mouth feels dry. “She . . . she must've passed out in the woods,” I say. Fear leaves my voice high-pitched and weak. “That's why she's not back yet.”

Sutton nods, but she doesn't seem to hear me. She stares at the smoke staining the sky, frowning. I spot a shadow moving through the trees and my heart leaps into my throat. I grab Sutton's arm, my knees buckling in relief.

“There!” I say, pointing. “That's her!”

The figure walks closer. My heart seems to go still inside of my chest and every muscle in my body tightens. Leena's coming. Leena's okay. I'm so busy searching for black hair and dark jeans that it takes a long moment for my brain to recognize Father Marcus's bald head and long black robes. Familiar panic fills my body. I twist my hands together, squeezing so hard the blood drains from my fingers.

“It's not her,” Sutton whispers.

“Maybe he's coming to tell us he found her in the woods,” I say, but a horrible thought creeps through my mind.

Leena's dead, just like you wanted. You killed her.

Father Marcus stops in front of Sister Lauren. He runs a hand over his head and says something in a low voice. I move to Sutton's other side, sliding an arm over her shoulders so it looks like I'm comforting her. Sutton flashes me a confused look. I lift a finger to my lips and flick my eyes toward Father Marcus. Sutton nods.

“Everyone's here except for Leena,” Sister Lauren is saying. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and glances back at the burning chapel. “She must've snuck out.”

“Are you sure the rest of your girls have been in their rooms all night?” Father Marcus asks. Sister Lauren turns, catching my eye. I quickly look down at my sneakers, pretending to study the pattern of dirt on my toe. The
top of my head itches and I know, without looking up, that Sister Lauren's still watching me.

She knows,
I realize. She knows we're listening. She knows we snuck out. It's like she can see through the layers of hair and skin and bone, down to all of the terrible things I'm hiding. I squeeze Sutton's shoulder, bracing myself.

“I checked the rest of the girls personally,” Sister Lauren says. “They were in their beds all night. Father, did someone—”

Father Marcus lifts a hand. “Not here. Why don't you lead your girls back up to their dorms. I don't want them to see—”

A siren blares to life and, seconds later, an ambulance explodes from the trees. It zips down the road, red lights flashing in the darkness.

My heart slows until it feels as if I can count every beat. Shadows move in the ambulance's back windows. EMTs crouch over something. Someone.

That moment in the chapel plays on a loop in my mind. The candle lighting the curtain on fire. Leena staring down at the flames, then stumbling through the back room toward the door.

“Who's in there?” Sutton turns to Sister Lauren. “Is it Leena? Is it
her
?”

“Sutton . . .” Sister Lauren reaches for Sutton's arm,
but Sutton drops to her knees, lowering her face to her hands. A sob erupts from her lips, shaking her entire body.

I stand completely still. This isn't happening. But even as the words enter my head, I feel something stirring deep within my chest.
I wanted this.
I wanted Leena gone. I wanted her life. And, one way or another, I get what I want.

“No,” I whisper, pushing the thoughts away. That's the jealousy talking. I will not be weak. I will not let the Devil in. Tears run down my cheeks, tracing cold lines on my face. I wipe them away with the sleeve of my jacket—then freeze.

The smell of smoke hangs in the air but it's faint. We're not downwind of the chapel, and the trees block most of the smoky haze from reaching the lawn. I see the smoke lifting high above the chapel, but I don't smell it. Not really. Except when I lift the sleeve of my coat to my nose.

My coat
reeks
of smoke.

F
ather Marcus stands on the stage in front of the velvet curtains, flanked by two altar boys dressed all in white and gold. Lilies and tulips and roses crowd the stage around him, their ivory petals fading to brown around the edges. They'd be lovely, except for the stiff black ribbons tied to their vases. Reminders of why we're here.

Father Marcus clears his throat. The thick, phlegmy sound echoes off the walls. He leans over his Bible, bald head gleaming under the hot overhead lights. “We have come together,” he says, “to remember before God the life of Leena Paeng.”

It's two days before Christmas break, three since Leena died in the fire that burned down the chapel. I sit in the aisle seat nearest the back wall, wearing the same scratchy dress I wore the day of my mother's funeral.

I took the first seat I could find, not even bothering to see if Sutton saved me a spot. I'm not sure I could face her. Sniffling students and crying teachers fill the auditorium. They pass boxes of Kleenex down the aisles. Some hold skinny plastic candles with electric wicks. We're not allowed to have open flames in the school anymore.

Dried mud clings to the hem of my dress. I pick at it with my fingernail.

That's graveyard mud,
I think.
It's mud from the ground where my mother was buried
.

“God alone is holy and just and good,” Father Marcus continues. His voice is stiff and cold, like he's speaking about someone he's never met and not a student at his own school. “In that confidence, then, we commend young Leena to God's healing and mercy.”

I pick and pick, until a crust of dirt lodges itself beneath my fingernail and a thread unravels from the black fabric, leaving a tiny hole at the edge of my dress. A girl in the seat in front of me reaches for a tissue and blows her nose. The sound rattles something deep within my chest. I'm not even crying. Leena was my roommate, and I can't muster a single tear.

Father Marcus clears his throat again. The sound is thicker this time. Wetter. “Leena was a child of God and, like all children, she stumbled . . .”

Stumbled
. That one word sends me back to the chapel on the night of the fire. I see Leena struggling with her crutches, her eyes glassy with booze. I smell burning hair. Burning
skin
.

I shift in my uncomfortable dress. I shouldn't be here. I inhale, but my lungs feel like paper bags, like someone's blowing air into them, and then squeezing until they're small and crumpled and empty. The room tilts.

I stand and race for the door. People whisper and stare, but it doesn't matter. I have to get out of here. I can't
breathe
. I push the door open as quietly as I can, and then ease it closed behind me.

The air in the hallway tastes different. Fresher. I lean against the wall, sucking it into my lungs. The room stops spinning, but my legs still feel shaky. I sink to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. I inhale, and then let it all out. I lower my forehead to my knees. A thin layer of sweat coats my face, making my skin feel clammy.

Just breathe,
I tell myself. Don't worry about anything else.

I've seen a dead body before. I didn't stick around after the train accident to see Karen broken on the ground,
but there have been others. Alexis was the worst. She'd been burned, just like Leena, and then arranged like a doll in Riley's bed. I'd pulled back the covers and there she was—wispy strands of hair trailing away from her bloody skull, blackened skin peeling off her cheeks. Fire ate her lips, leaving her mouth in a permanent snarl.

A strangled sob bubbles up my throat, breaking the silence of the hallway. My chest feels tight and I can't quite manage to catch my breath. Alexis's death was my fault, just like Leena's death, and Leena's accident, and Leena's bunny. Everything's always my fault.

I tug Jude's wooden cross out from under my shirt. I haven't had a chance to return it to him. Classes were canceled after Leena died, and we've been told to stay in our dormitories unless there's an emergency. I tell myself I'm only wearing it now so I can give it back when I see him, but if that were true, I probably wouldn't keep it hidden beneath my clothes. I press it between my hands and close my eyes.

“Please, God,” I whisper. The idea of praying still feels strange, but at this point, I don't know who else to turn to. Jealousy has made my soul a weak, easy target for Brooklyn, and Sister Lauren said the only way to strengthen your soul is through a relationship with the Lord. I close my eyes, focusing all of my attention on God.

“
Please
,” I whisper, my voice trembling. I picture a demon clinging to my back, digging long, pointed talons into my shoulders. Its horrible smile looks just like Brooklyn's.

“I'm begging you,” I continue. “Help me get rid of this . . .
thing
. Help me be good—”

The door creaks open. “Sofia?”

Jude's voice makes me start. I drop the cross and wipe the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. He's in his altar boy outfit again, same as when I first met him. Between the white robes and the black curls, he looks almost angelic.

“You're missing the service.” He sinks to the floor, robes pooling around him. He's shaved since the night of the play. His cheeks look smooth, and there's a tiny nick just below his chin. His skin smells like aftershave. Pine, and something else. Cloves, maybe.

I tear my eyes away from him and focus instead on a thin crack in the wall across from us. It stretches all the way from the floor to the ceiling. I try to keep my voice steady. “Believe me, Leena wouldn't want me in there.”

Jude tips his head to the side. “You were one of her best friends,” he says. “Of course she'd want you there.”

The students inside the auditorium start to sing. I don't recognize the song, but the melody is low and
lilting. Something sad. Jude and I listen for a moment in silence. I wipe my nose on the sleeve of my dress.

“You're wrong,” I say once the singing stops. “She was mad at me. After she saw us . . .” My voice cracks. I swallow and try again, but a fresh sob lodges itself in my throat. I curl my hand into a fist and ball it next to my mouth to muffle the sound of my crying.

Jude squeezes my shoulder, as if he can read my mind. “Yeah. She seemed pretty upset.”

“She
hated
me,” I choke out. “And if we hadn't been in a fight, she never would have been drinking that night. She wouldn't have gone to the chapel, and she'd still be . . .”

“I know it feels that way, but it's not true. You can't know what would have happened that night if you weren't fighting, or if you didn't go out, or if you'd said the right thing, or done the right thing.”

Jude's eyes lose focus. He swallows—hard—his Adam's apple jerking up and down in his throat. “
Believe me
. I know what it's like to relive one horrible moment over and over. I get it.”

I stare at his face, wondering what memory tortures him. “How?”

He absently touches a spot on his arm. “It's complicated.”

I'm suddenly aware of how close we're sitting. I think of Leena, and shrug his hand off my shoulder, my skin
burning. This is why I didn't want to talk to him. I can't stand within five feet of Jude without completely losing track of what I'm doing. The unfocused, dreamy quality leaves Jude's face. He looks at me, eyes narrowing.

“Is that why you're avoiding me?” he asks. “Because you think it's your fault that Leena died?”

“I'm not avoiding you,” I say. Jude lifts an eyebrow.

“Maybe a little,” I admit.

“Leena was the friend you were talking about?” Jude asks. “The one you didn't want to hurt?”

I nod.

Jude exhales. “I'm really sorry she died. But I need you to know—I never had feelings for her. You didn't do anything wrong.”

“She saw things differently,” I say.

“She would have gotten over it after a while. People change. I've changed. It used to be that all I could think about was God. And now . . .”

Jude's voice trails off. I stare at him. “And now?” I press.

“And now all I can think about is you.”

I open my mouth, then close it again. My mind has gone blank. I've wished that Jude would say those words to me from the moment I saw him. Now that Leena's gone, there's no reason for me to stay away from him. Everything I wanted is within my grasp.

Be careful what you wish for,
Leena said. Those were some of the last words she ever said to me.

“Just be honest with me, Sofia,” Jude says. “Do you have any interest in me at all? Or is this thing between us in my head?”

“It's not that easy,” I mumble. I picture the demon clinging to my back again, its talons digging deeper and deeper into my shoulders.

Jude furrows his eyebrows. “Why not?”

“I kind of need to work on myself right now,” I say, “but you make it so . . .”

I hesitate, struggling for the right word. Jude shifts closer. “I make it so what?”

“I can't think straight when you're around,” I spit out.

Hurt flashes across Jude's face. I squeeze my eyes shut. Everything I say comes out wrong. “I didn't mean it like that,” I say. “It's just . . . what if we're making a mistake? You said it yourself—you can't focus on your relationship with God when I'm around.” Leena's unfocused eyes flash into my head. She whispers, her voice thick with booze.
God punishes sinners
. “What if what we're doing is a sin?”

“Do you really think that?” Jude asks, his voice quiet.

I stare down at my hands, unable to answer.

Jude stands and pushes the auditorium door open. Father Marcus is leading a prayer. His low, gravelly voice drifts into the hallway like smoke.

“At the moment of our death, make us ready to—”

The door swings shut behind Jude, cutting him off.

I sit in the hallway alone for a long moment, staring at the crack in the wall across from me, wondering if I made the right decision. The school loudspeaker crackles on, and then the sound of church bells fills the hall. They echo and clang, then fade to a soft rumble. I used to love the sound of church bells but there's something off about these. The real bells were destroyed when the chapel burned down. This recording is a pale imitation. Haunting and soulless.

I press my hands over my ears to block out the sound but, somehow, that just makes it worse. The bells blend together into one long, hollow ring. It doesn't sound like bells at all. It sounds like an engine. Like the blare of a horn.

Like a train racing toward me.