This Might Hurt(66)

I undid the scarf, and hesitated before dropping it in Teacher’s outstretched hand. She closed her fingers around it. I pushed down a spike of regret—more weakness I had to overcome.

“Good, Kitten,” she said, happy again. I let out a small sigh of relief. “How brave you are. You can share this progress with your class.”

I thought of one student in particular, a man who had lost custody of his daughter. Everything here reminded him of her: the way Sanderson ate his sandwich crust first, the shape of Orion in the night sky, a classmate’s flamingo-patterned socks. He’d flown six hundred miles for a reprieve but couldn’t outrun his memories. I tried to be an example for him, a light at the end of his tunnel of grief.

I nodded, staring at Mom’s scarf clenched in Teacher’s hand. I’d barely taken it off in two years. My neck felt exposed.

Teacher walked the scarf to her desk and tossed it in a drawer—I couldn’t see which one. She rested both palms on the desk, leaning over it, waiting for me to focus on her. When I did, she slid open the utensil drawer. “I have a reward for you.”

She pulled out a navy envelope, glided back toward me on the couch, and placed it in my hands. Written on the envelope in spidery handwriting was a single word: Kit. She gestured for me to open it.

Inside was a thick card filled with the same looping cursive.

Dear Kit, the letter began, you have come so far during your time here. Four months ago you never would have relinquished your mother’s scarf. I scanned the rest, picking up phrases like cordially invite you and exclusive opportunity and total secrecy. I felt Teacher’s laser beam glare on me. I read through it a second time, more slowly.

When I’d finished reading, I looked up. “What’s the Inner Circle?”





III




I must eliminate any obstacles that impede my path to freedom.





27





Natalie


JANUARY 8, 2020


KIT IS HERE, in my cabin, sitting on the bed. I freeze on the threshold. For most of our lives my sister has had chest-length, straight blond hair.

Now it’s buzzed close to her scalp.

Like everyone else on Wisewood’s staff.

The rest of her looks the same: round cheeks, bright eyes, a small star tattoo on her left temple. She wears jeans and a yellowing T-shirt, her coat slung over my desk chair. She appears healthy, content, not a scratch or bruise on her. No sleepy expression suggesting a drugged state. No tears to imply harm. Actually, she’s beaming.

She’s okay.

She’s okay, she’s okay, she’s okay.

My shoulders drop. The weight lifts off my chest. An ache builds in the back of my throat. Part of me thought I’d never see my little sister again.

I run toward her with my arms extended. She shrinks back on the bed, stopping me short.

“We have this no-touching rule,” she says.

That’s why Gordon jerked away when I tapped his arm.

I step back, surprised. Kit has always been the touchy-feely one, climbing into laps, linking arms, playing with hair.

Most people don’t hug like they mean it. Our hugs are too quick, a chore to be hurried through, a formality. Not Kit’s. She grips you like a life raft and doesn’t let go, leaving no doubt how much she loves you. No one gives hugs like Kit.

She got that from Mom.

I long to wrap my arms around Kit and Mom—more accurately, for them to wrap theirs around me. I want to shove my nose into the hair Kit has left to make sure it still smells like apples. I know I broke the rules by coming here, but I was expecting a warmer welcome than this. She’s not even happy to see you. The ache in my throat deepens. I keep it together.

Kit raises an eyebrow. “So? Did you happen to be in the neighborhood?”

As I survey every inch of her, my gaze keeps drifting back to her fuzzy head, the bare neck and ears, the features that are too big for her face now. There’s no getting around it: the haircut is horrible.

“What happened to your hair?” I blurt.

Self-consciously she runs a hand over her head, then bristles. Her voice has an unfamiliar edge to it. “What are you doing here, Nat?”

My stomach drops when I remember the accusatory e-mail. I swallow the truth, find a different one. “I’m worried about you.” She stares, waiting. “I haven’t heard from you in six months. I tried e-mails, texts, calling, but you haven’t responded to any of it.”

“I don’t have my phone or computer. I told you I wouldn’t.” She brightens. “Anyway, you have nothing to worry about. This experience has been incredible. For the first time since she died, I’ve moved past the Mom stuff.”

I’m nauseated with regret but can’t go down that path yet. It’s too soon. I’m not ready. I tell myself not to be critical right off the bat. I decide to gather information, assess, and make a plan, nothing more.

“What have you been doing all these months?”

“Oh God, I’m so busy. I teach classes and yoga; I keep Teacher’s calendar organized; I get to serve her breakfast every morning. I plan special Wisewood functions. Last month I put together a party for Teacher’s sixtieth. It was magical, all of us dancing on the beach in the moonlight. She’s also invited me to sit in on some of her sessions, to offer my input after the guest has left. There aren’t enough hours in the day.”