The Hearts We Sold(4)

Dee, taken aback, hadn’t thought before speaking. “Are you planning on murdering your way to a single room?”

Gremma blinked. “No.”

“Do you snore?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Then we’ll get along just fine,” said Dee.

And they had. Gremma had the personality of a grumpy house cat, one that liked to lounge in patches of sunlight and occasionally devour mice whole. Dee could see how that might be off-putting, but Gremma was refreshingly free of pretense. Also, she wasn’t stingy with her snacks and fiercely defended their dorm from would-be pranksters.

Dee regarded her roommate with a mixture of fondness and envy. But it wasn’t a desire for her designer clothes or high-end laptop or even her careless beauty. It was the way Gremma held herself, shoulders thrown back and head held high as if to say, I don’t give a shit. Because Gremma honestly didn’t.

That was what Dee envied.

Sometimes she wished she could be like that. Fearless. Dee couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been afraid—and not even of the big things like death or pain. She was frightened of stupid things, of getting in the wrong line at the cafeteria, of people who spoke too loudly, of forgetting her bus pass, of traffic, of oversleeping.

Today, Gremma was scribbling away in a chemistry workbook. “Chemicals,” she was muttering. “We’re all just chemicals.”

“You know chemistry riles you up,” said Dee, tossing a damp towel across her bedpost. She rummaged through her dresser, found a clean pair of jeans and a bra, and began to pull them on under her robe. “It’s like coffee—you’re not supposed to do it after five in the afternoon.”

Gremma made a growling sound. “It’s due on Tuesday.”

“Which means you’ve still got two days. Work on history instead.” Dee shucked out of her robe and hung it on the hook they’d attached to the door.

Gremma shut her textbook with an audible whump. “Oh. Um. Forgot to tell you, but there was one of those official-looking envelopes in our mailbox this morning. I put it on your desk.”

Dee’s stomach twisted with unease. She reached down, traced the edge of the envelope with her fingertip. The return address said simply, Registrar’s Office.




Brannigan Preparatory Academy was Oregon’s answer to the old-money boarding schools on the East Coast. If they can have fancy schools, so can we, went the school’s unofficial motto. Or at least, that’s what Gremma always said.

Brannigan was as pompous as a school could get in the Pacific Northwest. It was a thoroughly modern crisscross of concrete and tinted glass, built by an up-and-coming architect ten years ago. The main building was the only nod to the school’s locale, with its columns of pine and oak. Classes were filled with children of wealthy entrepreneurs, the kids of faculty, and the lucky few who managed to snag a scholarship.

Dee was among the latter. Or at least, she had been.

The waiting room outside the registrar’s office was the only room that held an air of dilapidation. The chairs’ polish had faded, the carpet looked slightly wilted. Maybe this building was waiting for repair, or maybe no one cared about it. Dee stepped up to the office door, braced herself, then rapped twice. She hoped there would be someone here, despite the early-morning hour. Coming here before classes was a risk, but Dee couldn’t stand another moment of solitude; all last night she’d tossed and turned until her hair looked as though she’d shoved her pen in an electrical socket.

“Come in,” called a woman’s voice, and Dee drew herself together. She opened the door, slipped inside. It was a typical office—large desk, file cabinets, a steaming cup of coffee resting next to the keyboard. MRS. GARRETT, read her metal name plaque.

“Sit down,” said the woman, smiling. Tentatively, Dee went to one of the wooden chairs and perched on the very edge. She kept her face blank, but her fingers were locked together. It took only a moment to introduce herself, to explain the nature of her visit. Mrs. Garrett found a file and placed it on her desk, flipped it open.

“Normally we’d call your parents to talk about something like this,” Mrs. Garrett said. “We tried, but they haven’t returned our messages.”

She was one of the older faculty, probably only a year or two from retirement. Her rusty brown hair was cut at chin length, and it was tinged gray at the roots. She probably had kids, Dee thought. She spoke with a familiar gentleness, like one used to bandaging scraped knees or elbows. But rather than soothe her, that gentle tone made Dee’s hands clench. This woman didn’t care about her; her calm demeanor was probably the reason she’d been tapped to be this particular messenger.

“Are there any other numbers we can try your parents at?” Mrs. Garrett asked.

The word came out flat and too quickly. “No.”

Mrs. Garrett’s expression froze. Dee felt her mouth move, the words coming in automatic little jerks. “They work late. Sometimes forget to check their messages.” She forced herself to smile so brightly she nearly believed the lie herself. “They always used to say they’d forget their heads if I wasn’t around.”

A nod. Mrs. Garrett accepted this explanation. “We’re trying to find alternate funding right now,” she said, “but the school is being forced to cut several of the merit scholarships.” Her mouth drew tight. “I apologize.”