This Might Hurt(55)

“She’s intense.” They both nodded. “She knows a lot about me and my family.” I hesitated, then decided I had to know. “Stuff I hadn’t told her.”

“She’s so intuitive,” April said. “She guessed right about my family dynamics too.”

“She wasn’t guessing.” I shoved the last bite of sandwich into my mouth. They both stared at me, waiting for an explanation.

“Did either of you tell her anything?” I kept my voice steady, wiped my palms on my jeans.

Georgina tried to catch April’s eye, but April was peering at me.

“The stuff I told you about my mom and sister?” I said.

Their eyes widened. The seconds of silence between my question and their answers were excruciating. My heart pounded in my throat.

“Of course not,” Georgina said.

“Those aren’t our stories to share,” April said.

I nodded and set my plate aside, considered letting it go—but couldn’t. “I can’t figure out how else she would know. You’re the only two people I’ve told at Wisewood.”

April’s and Georgina’s eyes met for a second before they turned back to me.

“She’s counseled so many guests,” April said. “She must know the clues to watch for. You can tell she has excellent intuition.”

“She knew Nat got me ready for school in the mornings. That my mom missed my dance recitals.” I flushed.

No one said anything for a minute. My face got hotter and hotter.

“That is strange.” Georgina spun the chunky rings around her fingers. “But like I said, I didn’t say anything. April says she didn’t either.” When I didn’t respond, she added, “It sounds like you’re accusing us.” When I still didn’t say anything, she stretched her swan neck. “Which I don’t appreciate.”

“I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I’m just confused.”

“Did you ask her how she knew?” April said.

I nodded. “She said it didn’t matter.”

The silence that followed implied they agreed with her. Maybe they were right and I was making something out of nothing.

“We would never do that to you,” April said, heart-shaped face brimming with sincerity. “You can trust us.”

“This could be a good thing,” Georgina said. “Now you have everything out in the open.”

“You’re right.” I bobbed my head, unconvinced. “I’m sorry, you guys. I don’t know what I was thinking. This place is messing with my brain.” I cleared my throat. “As for the condiment debate, I’d kill for some Cholula. Drown out the taste of bologna.”

Both women chuckled. The tension at the table lifted.

I stayed a few more minutes to make sure they weren’t upset with me, then begged off before the lunch hour was over, claiming I was behind on chores. I cleared their trays in addition to my own as a gesture of goodwill. I waved as I left them, hoping I hadn’t stirred up bad blood. April and Georgina were sharp, funny women, and I liked hanging out with them.

But as insightful as Rebecca might have been, she wasn’t omniscient. I didn’t buy that she had intuited all those details about me after one hour-long meeting.

One of them had to be lying.

I just didn’t know who.

I left the cafeteria. The sun scorched my shoulders. I fanned my face, twisting my hair into a ponytail before letting it drop down my back. I wished a storm would break this heat, that fall—or an air-conditioning unit—would arrive. When the weather became stubborn like this, there was nowhere to go to escape it.

I opened the back door to Rebecca’s house and took a right. In the laundry room twelve baskets of clothes and towels waited on the floor to be washed, dried, and folded. I opened the doors to the four industrial washers and loaded the tubs. I measured the detergent, trying to distract my thoughts.

I would’ve shared the stories in class or during a one-on-one anyway. So what if someone had gossiped and gotten carried away? I told myself it didn’t matter, vowed to forget the whole ordeal. The unease in my stomach lingered.

It wouldn’t hurt to branch out, to make some new friends. I’d been so preoccupied with April and Georgina that I had paid little attention to the other guests. It was time to stop worrying about everyone else—what Nat would think of Wisewood, what Rebecca thought of me. I needed to focus on what I thought.

I closed the four washer doors. The drums spun. I sat on the tiled floor and leaned against a dryer. I glanced at the ceiling—all that separated Rebecca from me. I wondered how she spent her lunch hour. I’d never seen her in the cafeteria. What was she doing at this moment? What had she meant when she said I was exactly what Wisewood needed?

Absentmindedly, I touched my hair. I’d wrapped my fingers around the first strands when I realized what I was doing and reached for the rubber band. I studied my hands, the small patch of angry brown skin with pink edges.

I ripped off the scab.





22





GABE STRAIGHTENED THE coffin’s black silk lining for the third time. I smacked his hand.

“Enough fussing,” I said. “The room is sublime.”

We inspected the gallery that had become our second home. The roof, twenty feet above us, was made of skylights and exposed wooden beams. Columns the size of ancient tree trunks supported the ceiling. Single lightbulbs, hanging from long wires, were scattered about the space. The night sky with stars for eyes peeked in through the roof, twinkling with curiosity about the impossibilities rumored to take place here.