The Merciless II (7 page)

Jude smiles slightly—just a quirk of his lips—and something inside my chest flips. “O you, so perfect and so peerless,” he says, “are created of every creature's best.”

When he finishes, the whole theater is still, as if under a spell. I feel as if I've just woken from a deep sleep.

I glance around the room, only to see that Leena's also looking directly at me, frowning. Guilt twists my stomach, but I push it away. It's not my fault Jude was looking at me. Leena already has the lead role in the play—what more does she want?

“Leena?” Sister Lauren says. “It's your line.”

“Right.” Leena turns back to her script. “If you'll . . . um . . . sit down.” She hesitates, then motions to a stool at the corner of the stage a beat too late. “I'll bear your logs a . . . logs? Is that right?”

“We're actually on the next page.” Jude shifts forward to point at her script, and Leena flinches. The script slips from her fingers.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, bending to pick it up. Her face has turned a deep shade of red.

I should feel sorry for her but, instead, I feel a tiny prick of victory. I'd have been a much better Miranda. I know the play by heart.

“Um, I am a fool?” Leena says. “To weep for—” She flips to the next page, frowning.

“Leena, I think you turned one page too far,” Sister Lauren says, cutting her off. “Start with ‘I do not know one of my sex.'”

“I do not know one of my sex,” Leena repeats, her voice low. She swallows and glances at her script, flipping quickly through the pages. “As . . . as well as it does . . . ?”

The victory I felt a second ago fades. Leena looks miserable. I shift toward her, my head bowed.

“No woman's face remember,” I whisper, just low enough for her to hear. “Save, from my glass, mine own.”

Leena exhales, and some of the red fades from her cheeks. “No woman's face . . .” she repeats, louder.

“Thank you,” she whispers a moment later, while Jude's reading his line.

“Anytime,” I whisper back. The back of my head prickles, as if someone's watching me. I glance up.

Father Marcus stares out from the shadows of the stage curtains, a deep line creasing the skin between his eyes. The corners of his mouth curve into a permanent frown.

My skin buzzes under the intensity of his gaze. I'm suddenly filled with the urge to cover my face, worried he'll see my horrible thoughts reflected in my eyes. He'll know I wanted Leena to do badly. That I enjoyed watching her squirm.

Father Marcus touches the cross hanging from his neck, his lips moving silently.

It feels, strangely, as though he's praying for me.

I
leave the auditorium hours later, long after the sun has set and the last bits of warmth have drained from the air. I shiver, tugging my coat tighter around my shoulders. It's not usually so cold this far south. Maybe we'll get a snowy Christmas.

I hurry across the grounds, anxious to be back in my dorm. The other actors and crew members had already left, and even Sister Lauren took off about half an hour ago, saying she had a stack of papers to grade. I thought about leaving, but Father Marcus's face flashed through my head every time I started packing up my things. I'd remember how he watched me from the shadows, lips
moving silently, as though in prayer.
One misstep and your scholarship privileges will be revoked,
he warned me that first day. That was enough to keep me gluing ivy vines to cardboard tree trunks, and arranging tree branches around the edges of the stage. Maybe if I work hard enough, he'll decide I'm good enough to stay.

Dead grass crunches beneath my shoes and gas lamps flicker, casting eerie shadows across the frosted sidewalk. Sutton told me St. Mary's is a historic site, so the school has to keep the campus the same as it was in 1893. Tonight, the lamps seem fainter than usual. But maybe it's just my imagination.

A twig snaps behind me. I freeze, nerves crawling up my spine. I spin around, peering into the gloom of the lawn.

“Hello?” I call.

No one answers.

I listen for another sound—footsteps or breathing—but the harsh wind hides all other noises. My eyes start to separate the shapes from the darkness and the world pieces itself together again. I take a deep breath, trying to slow my rapidly beating heart. I'm being paranoid. There's no one else out here.

Someone grabs my arm.

I bite back a scream and whirl around.

Father Marcus stands behind me, a grave expression
on his face. He looks much more creased and wrinkled up close. He reminds me of the portraits of the dead saints in the main hall, cracks spiderwebbing across their painted faces.

“Miss Flores,” he says in a voice like gravel on sandpaper. “What are you doing out so late?”

“I was, um, setting up for the play.” Even though I was just doing schoolwork, I feel like I've done something wrong. “I must've lost track of time.”

“I see.” Father Marcus fixes his icy blue eyes on me, making me feel even colder than when I first stepped outside. I shift in place, unsure whether I should keep walking toward my dorm or wait to be dismissed.

“I'm concerned, Miss Flores,” Father Marcus says after a long silence. “You didn't stay for confession after Mass this morning.”

I knot my hands together. “I didn't know I was supposed to.”

Father Marcus holds my gaze. I'm hit, again, with the fear that he knows what I'm thinking. I find a dry piece of skin next to my thumbnail and tug, focusing on the bright stab of pain. I fight the urge to keep walking back to my dorm.

“When I was a young man, I was sent to a small village in Colombia to act as a missionary,” he says. He gestures toward the girls' dorm and we begin to walk
down the path together. A strange scent clings to his robes—mothballs and incense. I try not to wrinkle my nose as I follow him. “The village was called La Cumbra. It was a superstitious place. The locals performed witchcraft and voodoo. Wicked things.”

Father Marcus is quiet for a moment, his eyes unfocused. He presses his lips together, and then separates them with a soft smack, the cracks lining his mouth glistening with saliva.

“The people of La Cumbra were desperate for a relationship with God,” he continues. “Can you imagine that, Miss Flores? To feel
desperate
to connect with the Lord?”

I don't realize that he expects me to answer until he stops speaking, and fixes me with those cold eyes. I clear my throat.

“Yes, Father,” I say.

Father Marcus nods and slows his steps. “The people of the village would cover their bodies with black mud. They'd lie in the dirt, surrounded by a ring of fire, and they would pray to the Lord to make them clean. These rituals would take days sometimes. Weeks. I used to marvel at them. These people wanted nothing more than to know our God. This country doesn't seem to share that same devotion. They would never cover themselves with mud. They would never lie in the dirt.”

Father Marcus stops walking and his eyes bore into me, waiting to see my reaction. I shift my eyes to the ground.

“What about you, Miss Flores?” Father Marcus asks. “Are you . . . devoted?”

“Yes, Father,” I murmur.

“And yet . . . you do not feel the need to confess your sins. You are not willing to remain behind after Mass, your first Mass at this institution, and work on strengthening your relationship with the Lord.”

Heat rises in my cheeks.
One misstep,
I think. It would be so easy for him to send me away.

“Sin never leaves us, child,” Father Marcus continues. “It is only through asking the Lord for His forgiveness that we might hope for absolution.”

“Of course, Father.”

“Would you like to confess now?” he asks.

My voice freezes in my throat. “Here?” I manage to squeak out.

“
The Most High does not dwell in houses made by human hands
. Acts 7:48. The Lord sees us wherever we are, child. You may kneel.”

What the hell?
I think. But I'm too afraid to say no. I kneel in the grass, trying to ignore the way the rocks dig into my bare knees. Cold air creeps up my legs, making my plaid skirt flutter.

Father Marcus places a hand on my forehead. His skin is rough and damp. Wind howls through the trees around us, rattling the branches and blowing through the last of the dead leaves.

I've never confessed before. “I don't know the words,” I say.

Father Marcus presses his palm against my forehead, tilting my head up toward his face.

“Now you say,
forgive me, Father, for I have sinned
,” he says. “And you tell me how long it's been since your last confession.”

“Forgive me, Father,” I repeat in a voice that sounds nothing like my own, “for I have sinned. It's been . . . this is my first confession.”

He nods, his hand sweaty against my forehead. “May God, the Father of all mercies, help you make a good confession,” he replies.

Silence stretches between us and I realize it's my turn again. I'm supposed to confess something. I open my mouth.

The train flashes into my head, its headlight flashing white in the trees. The horn blares, making me flinch under Father Marcus's hand.

Not that
. I think.
Anything but that
. My chest tightens, but I force myself to breathe. I imagine Brooklyn holding my wrist, her fingernails cutting into my skin, her
eyes glowing red. I can still hear her voice.
We don't kill our own
.

I grit my teeth. I made that up, I remind myself. Dr. Keller said it never happened. There's no evil in me. I have to concentrate. There has to be something I can tell Father Marcus. My brain flashes forward, to the police officer standing on my porch.
Your mother's been in an accident
.

I push the memory aside, tears stinging my eyes. I can't tell him that.

Father Marcus's hand feels heavy. Like it's pushing me into the ground. I close my eyes and think of . . .
Jude
. Jude watching me during Mass this morning, a slight curl to his lips. Jude seeming to recite his lines to me during the play. I think of the hurt expression etched across Leena's face, and how good it felt when she messed up her lines. Heat burns through my chest. I barely feel the wind whipping against my legs.

“I . . . covet,” I say, repeating a word my grandmother once used.
Codiciar
in Spanish.

Father Marcus shifts, black robes swaying around his feet. “And what do you covet, child?”

The thought of describing my romantic fantasies to Father Marcus makes something in my stomach clench. But Jude's not the only thing I covet. My mouth feels suddenly dry.

“I'm jealous of my roommate,” I explain. “She has this great life. She's the star of the play, and she has a family and friends. Sometimes I wish it was mine.”

Father Marcus's hand curls. The edges of his long, yellow fingernails press into my scalp.

“In First Peter 2:1, the Lord commands us to rid ourselves of all malice and all deceit, hypocrisy, envy, and slander of every kind.”

Father Marcus falls silent, his words still hanging in the air between us. A rock lodges itself painfully against my leg, but I don't squirm. Pain cuts into my knee and I feel something sudden and warm trickle down my shin. Blood. Still, I don't move. The muscles in my neck strain against the weight of Father Marcus's hand.

“As penance, you'll perform three Hail Marys and an act of contrition,” Father Marcus says.

“Yes, Father,” I say, automatically. Maybe Leena can tell me what that means.

“Very well. I absolve you from this sin, my child. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen,” I whisper.

Father Marcus removes his hand. I stumble to my feet, feeling strangely cold and achy. Father Marcus grabs my arm before I can take a single step away from him. His fingers tighten around my wrist.

I turn slowly. “What is it, Father?”

Father Marcus reaches for my face without a word. His breath smells sour, and it takes all my willpower not to recoil. He drags his thumb over my forehead, tracing a cross into my skin. It burns, even after he lowers his hand.

“Blessed be the name of the Lord,” he says.

I
take the stairs to my dorm two at a time. My forehead still feels branded with the cross Father Marcus traced on my skin with his sweaty, papery finger. I touch it lightly, wondering if it'll actually help. Maybe my sins will disappear, like magic.

Sutton's too-loud, too-sharp laugh booms down the hall as soon as I turn the corner. I pause, the laugh triggering something in my memory. It sounds wild. Unhinged. I frown and push open the door to our room.

“Hey, Sofia,” Leena calls. She sits cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against our mirrored closet door. Heathcliff lies in her lap, leaving little white bunny hairs
on her dark-wash jeans. Some pop song I don't recognize blares from the speakers on her bookshelf.

Sutton peels off her sweater and tosses it onto her bed. “I need the white one with the lacy things at the edges,” she says, her voice half whine. She yanks a drawer open, pulling so hard it nearly falls out of the dresser. “He hasn't seen that one yet.”

Leena picks up Heathcliff, and makes kissy faces at his little pink nose. “I think you wore it last week. It's dirty.”

“Damn, you're right,” Sutton mutters, pulling open another drawer.

I drop my bag next to my bed and shrug off my coat. “What's up?”

Sutton glances over her shoulder at me as she digs around for a top. She's wearing more makeup than usual. Thick eyeliner coats her lids, and rosy patches of blush cover her cheeks. She looks older, her eyes dark, her face thin and angular.

“Just getting ready to meet my man,” she says, shoving the drawer back. The bottles on top of her dresser rock in place.

I glance at Leena. She cuts her eyes toward Sutton, and mimes taking a drink.

As though on cue, Sutton plucks a tiny bottle of Jim Beam off her dresser and pours it into a can of Diet Dr
Pepper. The pop song comes to an end. Sutton touches a button on her iPhone, and it starts over at the beginning. She hums along with the opening chords.

“Maybe I should just wear this?” she says, motioning to her bra. It's yellow and lacy, with tiny white daisies lining the straps. Sutton's heart-shaped silver locket hangs down between her breasts.

“You'll be cold if you go topless,” Leena says, giggling. She leans forward and grabs a light-pink top from a pile on the floor. “What about this one?”

Sutton takes the top from Leena and tugs it over her head. “You're so smart, Leenie-bean,” she says, her voice muffled by the fabric.

I collapse onto my bed, throwing an arm over my eyes. “You're sneaking out?” I ask.

“Shh!” Sutton pulls her head through the top's opening and brings a finger to her lips. She tries to keep her face serious, but a giggle escapes. “I'm meeting Dean.”

“Sutton, come on, you've got to be cool.” Leena plops Heathcliff onto the ground and stands, helping Sutton fix her top. “Remember what we talked about? If you get caught, we all get into trouble. You have to be sneaky.”

“I know, I know. I'll be good.” Sutton applies a thick layer of pink to her lips and smacks them together.

“Don't stay out too late,” Leena adds. “We have that physics test tomorrow, remember?”

“Physics is easy, Leenie,” Sutton says. “Sometimes objects move, and sometimes they don't.”

“You're going to have to be more technical on the test,” Leena says.

Sutton rolls her eyes. “I gotta go. I'm gonna be late.”

She slips the lipstick into her jeans pocket and unlatches the window. Our room is on the second floor, but the grounds slope up at the edge of the courtyard, so our window is actually only a few feet above the grass. I'm still lying in bed, and I push myself up onto one elbow so I can see outside.

A guy who looks like he's about twenty hovers near the edge of the woods, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed over his chest. Fog creeps over his feet, making him look like he's standing in silver ankle-deep water. He has swimming-pool blue eyes and golden hair that sweeps away from his forehead.

I wave, but his eyes slide over me, as though I'm not even there.

“Don't be offended,” Sutton says, pulling her purse strap over one shoulder. “He just got off work at the bar. He's probably still stressed from all the frat guys trying to get him to take their fake IDs.”

She wiggles her fingers at Dean. He jerks his chin up in an almost nod.

“You guys are so cute,” I deadpan. Leena snickers, then pretends to cough when Sutton glares at her.

“I'll see you guys later,” Sutton says. She hoists herself through the window and drops, easily, onto the ground outside. I push the window shut. Sutton leans forward and presses her lips against the glass, leaving behind a smudged kiss mark. I watch her race off into the trees, and I'm hit, again, with the same déjà vu feeling I got when I heard her wild laughter from down the hall. She reminds me of someone.

I shiver and yank the curtains closed. “Isn't she worried she's going to get in trouble?”

“Sutton doesn't worry about that when Dean's involved,” Leena says. “They're in
love
. You know she's been with him for almost a year?”

“That's a long time.” I lean over the side of my bed and grab my schoolbag. I have a physics quiz tomorrow, too, and I'm not as confident as Sutton that I understand force and motion. I pull my textbook out and quickly flip to chapter three. “How'd they meet?” I ask.

Leena is quiet for a beat. I look up from my book and see her frowning down at Heathcliff.

“You're going to think it's weird,” she says, finally.

“What? Was he her teacher or something?”

Leena shakes her head. “Worse.”

“Well, now you
have
to tell me.”

Leena's cheeks redden. “Dean is, um, Sutton's aunt's . . . son.”

I look up from my book too quickly, and a tiny flare of pain shoots down my neck. “Her . . . cousin? Sutton is dating her
cousin
?”

“It's not as weird as it sounds! Sutton's dad has been in jail since she was five years old, and—”

“Wait,” I cut in. “Her dad's in jail? I thought he'd died.”

“Oh, shit—I wasn't supposed to tell you that.” Leena bunches her hand in a fist and presses it against her mouth. “Sutton tells everyone he died because she thinks it makes her sound less trashy. You can't tell her I told you. She'll be
so
pissed.”

“I won't,” I promise. “So, her cousin?”

“She met Dean for the first time a couple of years ago. I guess they kind of . . . hit it off.”

I press my lips together to keep from making a face. Leena looks up at me and sighs.

“Look, I know it's gross, okay! But they say they're in love.” She shrugs and scratches Heathcliff between his ears. “Anyway, that's why Sutton got sent here. Her mom thought it'd be good for her to get away from Dean. But then Dean got a job at a bar in town and moved to Hope Springs. Sutton says he's saving for a ring.”

“Wow,” I murmur. Cousin or not, I've never heard of
a guy planning to propose so young. “I guess that's kind of sweet?”

Leena drops to her knees and peers under Sutton's bed. She digs around for a second, then grabs a box of S'mores Pop-Tarts and sits back up. “Want one?” she asks, leaning against the bed frame.

I nod, and Leena tosses me a foil-wrapped package. “Sutton always has the best junk food,” she explains.

“And booze, apparently,” I say, thinking of the bottle of Jim Beam.

“She keeps more in her dresser if you want some,” Leena says.

I shake my head. “I don't drink anymore.”

“Me either.” Leena pops a piece of Pop-Tart into her mouth. “Don't you hate the way it makes you act? I'm not myself at all. After that thing with the frogs, I was like
no, thank you
. Never again.”

“I know how you feel,” I say, staring down at my Pop-Tart.

“Anyway, Dean buys all this stuff for her. If you want something, just tell her and she'll ask him to get it for you.” Leena nods at the Pop-Tart box. “These were Abby's favorite.”

I bite into the Pop-Tart. Gooey marshmallow and melted chocolate oozes onto my tongue. “Abby was your old roommate, right?”

Leena nods. “She was cool. She was, like, one of those girls all the guys fell in love with. She was going to help me come up with a plan to talk to Jude. But then she took off.” Leena pushes her glasses up her nose, accidentally smearing chocolate across her lip.

I think of Jude's dark eyes and velvety voice. The Pop-Tart suddenly tastes stale. “Where'd she go?”

“Dunno. We've been texting her from Sutton's phone but she hasn't responded yet. We think she went to New York. Her sister lives there. She probably wants to settle in before letting us know what's up.” Leena shrugs. “Or maybe she thinks we'll tell someone.”

“I don't get it. Was she expelled?”

“Not exactly. She used to sneak out with Sutton sometimes and, about a month ago, I guess she hooked up with one of Dean's friends. Sutton thinks maybe she's, um,
pregnant
.” Leena whispers the word, then glances around the room as if she's worried someone will overhear her. “We think she didn't want Father Marcus to find out and expel her, so she went to stay with her sister while she figured out how to deal with it.”

I break off another piece of Pop-Tart. Graham cracker bits crumble from my fingers and settle between the pages of my physics book. “She'd get expelled just for getting pregnant?”

Leena nods. “Dating is against the morality code. You
could get expelled just for being alone in the same room with a boy.”

I tilt my textbook, pouring the crumbs into a little pile on my bed. “That's
insane
.”

“Tell me about it.” Leena glances at the window. I follow her gaze, and notice that I can still see Sutton's pink lipstick smeared across the glass behind the gauzy curtains. “Do you think it's completely crazy to go after Jude when I
know
I'll get in trouble if I actually try to date him?”

Guilt curdles in my stomach like food gone rotten. I fold the wrapper over the rest of my Pop-Tart. I don't feel hungry anymore.

“I don't know,” I say carefully. “I guess it depends on how much you like him.”

Leena looks right into my eyes. I should tell her about the chocolate on her face. I don't, and I'm instantly hit with a dark, satisfied feeling. Apparently, confession didn't work after all.

Silence stretches between us and, suddenly, I know she's going to ask me about play practice. She's going to accuse me of flirting with Jude.

“I used to think it was just a stupid crush,” Leena says, “But it's different now. I think I felt something during practice. It was like he was reciting his lines directly to me, not to my character. Did you notice?”

I wait for her to say something else, but she just tilts her head to the side and smiles at me innocently. She really didn't notice him flirting with me. Or maybe she just didn't want to notice.

“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “I think I know what you're talking about.”

Leena smiles so wide it looks as if her face might split in half. She glances at the alarm clock on her bedside table and her smile fades. “Crap, is that what time it is? I completely forgot to call my mom.”

I twist around to look at the clock. The red numbers read eight forty-five. “It's not even nine yet. She's probably still awake.”

“Yeah, but she'll be pissed. She expects me to call every day at the exact same time and, if I'm even a few minutes late, there's hell to pay.” Leena pushes herself to her feet, Heathcliff still nestled in the crook of her arm. She shoves her feet into her slippers. “She's a nightmare. You have no idea.”

I press my lips together and stare down at my hands. My mom was like that, too. I used to get chewed out if I came home even a minute after curfew.

I smile at the bittersweet memory. Leena pauses next to Heathcliff's cage.

“I'm such an idiot!” she says, smacking herself on the forehead. “I keep complaining about my mom and you . . .”

“It's fine,” I say quickly. “Go call your mom.”

“Are you sure?” Leena looks down at Heathcliff, who's gnawing at the edge of her shirt. “I could stick around if you want to talk or something.”

I shake my head. “That's okay. I don't really like to think about the past.”

“Here, take Heathcliff. He'll cheer you up.”

Leena dumps the bunny into my hands before I can say another word. His fur feels greasy. Like he needs to be washed. He stares up at me with one beady red eye.

I force the word “thanks” out of my mouth. Leena watches me for a moment.

“You're not really into animals, are you?” she asks. I stroke Heathcliff's dirty back with two fingers, trying to keep the disgust from my face.

“No, I am,” I say. “He's . . . cute.”

Leena grins and heads into the hall, leaving me alone with the bunny.

I stare at the door, wishing we could switch places. I want to be the one hurrying down the hall to call my mom. I wouldn't even care if she was mad, or if she yelled. Just that she picked up the phone.

Heathcliff smells even more like piss than he did the last time I held him. I try to breathe through my mouth. Leena's copy of
The Tempest
lies next to her bed, the pages dog-eared. I shift Heathcliff to one hand and
reach for it. A piece of notebook paper flutters from the pages. I unfold it, and see that it's an essay Leena wrote comparing the character traits of Prospero and Caliban. She got an A.

I open the book to a love scene between Miranda and Ferdinand. All of Leena's lines are highlighted in yellow marker.

“Do you love me?” I whisper, reading Miranda's first line out loud. I imagine standing onstage across from Jude, and jealousy pierces my heart like a blade. Leena gets a mom, and Leena gets Jude, and Leena gets to be the lead in the play. Heathcliff squirms in my hand.