The Vault of Dreamers (32 page)

Last, a short, elderly man turned from a corner bookshelf, and I was surprised to
recognize Otis. Without his hat or his camera, he looked oddly shorn.

“Otis Fairwell, our staff representative, I believe you’ve met,” the dean continued.

“How’s Linus?” I asked Otis.

“About as you’d imagine,” he answered, unsmiling.

Not a good sign.

Dean Berg leaned back against his desk and crossed his ankles. His ruddy cheeks looked
freshly scrubbed, and not a hair was out of place. “So, Rosie,” he said. “We’d like
an account of what you did last night, from your perspective. Start from the beginning.”

I glanced at Otis again before I spoke.

“I was upset about Burnham,” I said. “I just wanted to be with a friend, so I called
Linus on my walkie-ham and asked him to meet me.”

“That’s what Linus says, too,” Otis said.

Dean Berg gave a slight nod in Otis’s direction. “And how did you stay awake, Rosie?”

“I regurgitated my sleeping pill after I swallowed it,” I said.

“Have you done that before?” asked Mr. Joiner, the beady-eyed guy.

“No,” I said. “It was my first time. I was just going to meet Linus to talk for a
little and go back to bed. That’s all. But then we got caught.”

“According to Mr. Roosevelt’s report, he found the two of you behind a dumpster by
the girls’ dorm,” Mr. Joiner said. “That’s not a particularly romantic place to meet.”

“But it’s dark,” I pointed out.

Mrs. Peabody-Lily set her teacup in her saucer with a click. “The sleeping policy
is for your protection and your health, young lady, not to mention your education,”
she said. “If you’d slept, like you were supposed to, you would have had a break from
your stress.”

“But I didn’t want one,” I said. “I didn’t deserve one.” I twisted my fingers together
behind my back. “My friend Burnham is hurt because of me. He might die. I couldn’t
go peacefully to sleep while that was happening.”

“So you went to make out with your boyfriend,” Mr. Joiner said.

I turned to the beady-eyed man. “Wouldn’t you?”

Mr. Joiner’s voice was deceptively courteous. “You might mind that tongue of yours,
my girl. You’re not doing yourself any favors.”

“She’s obviously lying and using the accident as an excuse,” Mrs. Peabody-Lily said.
“A girl who will break the rules to sneak out of her bed and meet a boy is not the
sort of student we want here at Forge.”

“If I may,” interjected Mrs. O’Toole. “The point we should be discussing is Rosie’s
mental health. The girl is falling apart as we speak. Forge has an obligation to see
to her welfare. A student shouldn’t have to sneak out of her bed to plead for our
attention.”

“You cannot mean to imply that the school is to blame for her condition,” Mrs. Peabody-Lily
said.

“I’m saying she might be part of a bigger picture. What about these reports of suicidal
alums?” Mrs. O’Toole said. “Were you aware of these, Sandy?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

Dean Berg ran a hand around his jaw. “When you asked the other day about the numbers
of Forge alums who have died young, you hit a nerve in our alumni community.”

“I haven’t heard from anybody,” I said.

“No. They wisely directed their comments to me,” Dean Berg said. “Apparently, a few
others have wondered the same thing, and now they’re calling in.”

“This is very serious. What have you found?” asked Mrs. Peabody-Lily.

“We have a unique population here,” Dean Berg said. “High achieving, but also, if
I may say so, highly strung generally. There’s no evidence the school itself has a
negative impact on its students’ mental health. If anything, the opposite is true.”

“So you’re saying any correlation between attending Forge and early death is strictly
coincidence?” Mrs. Peabody-Lily said.

“Absolutely. Strictly coincidence,” Dean Berg said.

“But what are the numbers?” Otis asked.

Dean Berg and Dr. Ash exchanged glances.

“What Sandy says is true: any correlation can’t be proved,” Dr. Ash said. “That being
said, I have records of eight young Forge alums who have died in the past two years,
three by accident and five by suicide.”

“Five suicides,” Mr. Joiner said, sitting up. “For a school this size, that’s significant.
How about it, Sandy?”

“Naturally, we’re looking into it,” Dean Berg said.

“Did you talk to Ellen’s family?” I asked.

“This is a sensitive time for the Thorpe family,” Dean Berg said. “We’ve reached out
with our condolences, but anything more would be inappropriate.”

“What about suicide
attempts
?” I said. “How many of those have you tracked?”

Dr. Ash answered, directing her attention toward Dean Berg. “We don’t have a number
for that yet.”

Mrs. O’Toole turned to me. “Tell us, Rosie. Honestly. Have you been feeling well?
Yesterday on the ladder with young Fister wasn’t the first time you felt faint, was
it?”

I looked across at Dean Berg, who gazed back mildly at me.

“There was one other time, in the observatory,” I said. “Dean Berg was there.”

“Any other times?” Mrs. O’Toole asked. “Were you feeling poorly when you snuck out
last night, for instance?”

I wavered. I had her sympathy now. Even without proof, I might get the trustees to
investigate the vault of sleeping bodies if I told about them. But from the dean’s
patient, nonchalant features, I suddenly guessed that if I said something about the
vault, I’d be playing into his hands. He was ready for me. He had some surefire way
to protect himself, while if I spoke the truth, I would prove that I was crazy.

Mrs. O’Toole was still waiting for my answer. “Rosie?”

“I’ve been fine,” I said in a low voice.

“Despite your fall yesterday?” Mrs. O’Toole pressed.

“I’m worried about Burnham, of course, but myself, I’m fine,” I said.

Mrs. O’Toole touched a hand absently to her pearls. “I’m not sure what to think,”
she said. “It does seem, with her friend’s fall and how upset she was, that we might
have extenuating circumstances. It was Rosie’s first offense of any kind.”

The dean drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk. Then he turned to swipe his
touch screen and nodded toward a low cabinet. With a soft whirling, a large screen
rose out of the cabinet. “I believe it’s only fair to show you this,” he said.

From the speakers came the noise of rushing water. The camera slowly zoomed in on
a tile roof, slick with rain, where a solitary figure stood on a catwalk, just below
a skylight. I stared, spellbound. A girl in a drenched nightgown hobbled barefoot
along the grating. Then she paused and straightened, pushing back her tangle of wet
hair. She arched her back, turning to look in all directions, and then, with surprising
grace, she spread her arms out to the sky. She flung her head back and opened her
mouth wide, drinking in the rain and the night.

She was me, more powerful and beautiful than I’d ever dreamed.

Pride, and sorrow, and a hint of rage triggered inside me.

“You shouldn’t have filmed that,” I said, turning to the dean. “I thought I was alone.”

He froze the picture. “You’re at Forge,” he replied.

He might as well have said he owned me.

Mrs. O’Toole set her teacup on the trolley. “Well,” she said. “That changes things.”

“Beautiful,” said Mr. Joiner quietly. “Such a shame.”

Otis spoke up from his corner. “Explain, Sandy. When did this happen?”

“Very early the morning of the fifty cuts,” Dean Berg said. “Rosie’s precisely the
sort of person we need here. And if I do say so, the viewers agree with me. I couldn’t
have been more pleased when she passed the cuts.”

“That doesn’t negate the fact that you should have expelled her right then, the first
time she broke the rules,” said Mrs. Peabody-Lily. “You were quite remiss, Sandy.”

“I could have sent her home then, certainly. But she got me thinking,” Dean Berg said.
“It’s never comfortable for an institution to have its basic principles flaunted.
Here was a student who broke the rules to stand in the rain at night. She had nothing
to gain from taking such a risk, and everything to lose, but she did it.”

Mrs. Peabody-Lily closed her eyes and shook her head. “We already have a school full
of artists. They’re inherently rule breakers.” She opened her eyes again to glare
at Dean Berg, but she was half laughing, too. “You’re no better than one of the kids
yourself.”

“I beg to disagree. I take my duties very seriously,” Dean Berg said.

“Then what is your recommendation?” Mr. Joiner asked.

The dean shifted his weight against the desk. “I’m torn, frankly. Send her home, and
we lose a promising student. I’d be concerned for her health, as well. Rosie comes
from a family with few resources and limited access to health care, whereas we could
obviously continue to monitor her closely here. Then again, if we keep her, we’re
setting a dangerous precedent. Other students might feel they can skip their pills,
too, which would be disastrous for the entire program.”

“Hello,” I said. “I’m right here in the room.”

“We’re not keeping this girl. She’s a liar and a cheat,” Mrs. Peabody-Lily said.

“We could put it up to the viewers,” proposed Mr. Joiner. “Let them vote. It would
be good spectacle.”

“We are not letting viewers weigh in on a disciplinary issue,” Mr. O’Toole said.

“No, Mr. Joiner is on to something,” Mrs. O’Toole said. “What’s her current blip rank,
Sandy?”

The dean leaned over to see the screen on his desk. “She’s number four,” he said.

I let out a laugh. “Me? Now? I’m in fourth place?” It was my highest rank yet. My
heart started thudding. “But why? Do they just want to see me get expelled?”

“It’s drama, my girl,” Mr. Joiner said. “Our viewers like drama.”

“It’s not that simple,” Dean Berg said. “Rosie’s drawing in an important new demographic
of viewers to the show. Two new demographics, in fact. She has a vast number of followers
among the very poor, like herself—no offense, Rosie—and a small but significant following
of elite viewers.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Peabody-Lily in arctic tones.

I didn’t. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“Elite viewers are the hyper-wealthy,” Mr. O’Toole explained. “They’ve been known
to donate huge sums to the school, sometimes on a whim.”

Mrs. Peabody-Lily rose from her chair. “Be that as it may, we do not make disciplinary
decisions based on blip rank. I’m with Mr. O’Toole on this. It would be common.”

Otis made a snorting noise. “Common?” he said. “Let me remind you that the entire
school is a
reality show
. You’ve just been calculating Rosie’s value like she’s a prize attraction at a freak
show.” He pushed away from the bookshelf. “If you’re finished with this nonsense,
I’ve got a job to do.”

“Don’t leave,” I said. He was the closest thing I had to an ally.

Otis crossed his arms and frowned in exasperation. “Then tell me. What do you think
we should do, Rosie?”

I looked across at the dean, who watched me curiously.

“Please, Rosie. We’d welcome your opinion,” Mrs. O’Toole said. “How do you think we
should handle your case?”

“Easy,” I said. “The board should send me home and demand the dean’s resignation.”

The dean’s face went stiff. “I beg your pardon?”

Otis laughed. “She’s right, Sandy. You broke the rules when you kept that roof scene
of Rosie a secret. That’s a far more serious offense than hers. What gives you the
right? What else have you kept hidden that we don’t know about?”

“I believe, as dean, I’m trusted to use my own judgment in certain situations,” Dean
Berg said.

“Yes,” Otis said wryly. “And because Rosie has a few elite viewer fans, you’ve already
made your decision to let her stay. This meeting is a farce and a waste of my time.”

“Gracious!” Mrs. O’Toole said, laughing.

“Sandy, with all due respect to Mr. Fairwell and his colorful analogies, I can see
the point of keeping Rosie,” Mr. Joiner said. “But if we do, what reassurance do we
have that she won’t break the rules again?”

“There are cameras,” Mr. O’Toole said.

“We do leave the cameras on at night,” Dean Berg agreed. “It’s a health and safety
precaution.”

“I thought the staff left at midnight,” Mr. Joiner said.

“The techies do, but another small team headed by Dr. Ash takes over then,” Dean Berg
said. “And we have campus security around the clock, obviously. That’s how Roosevelt
apprehended Rosie and Linus last night.”

“Has anyone talked to my parents?” I asked.

“I did an hour ago,” Dean Berg said. “They’re very disappointed in you, understandably.
They’ll support any decision we make.”

Disappointed. My stepfather was going to be a lot more than disappointed. A clamp
tightened in my gut.

“I do have one other idea that might have a bearing on this situation,” Dean Berg
said.

“Let’s have it,” Mr. Joiner said.

Dean Berg clasped both his hands deliberately together. “It seems to me the threat
of expulsion has not been a sufficient deterrent to keep Rosie in her sleep shell,”
he said. “I propose that she signs a contract agreeing to follow the rules. If she
doesn’t, her parents can cede guardianship over to the school, and we can manage her
care from then on.”

“You cannot be serious,” I said.

Mrs. O’Toole laughed. “We are not in the business of becoming legal guardians to our
students, Sandy.”

“We did it once before. Remember?” Mrs. Peabody-Lily said.

“That’s right,” Mr. Joiner said. “You may recall I once served as legal guardian for
another one of our scholarship students who lost his parents. It worked quite well.
In Rosie’s case, the point of guardianship will be moot as long as she follows the
rules.”

I turned to Mr. Joiner. “You can’t possibly want to be my guardian.”

“Not me. Sandy can incur the risk,” Mr. Joiner said. “He’s the one who wants to keep
you. I say he can assume the responsibility for you if you disobey again.”