The Garden of Dead Dreams by Abby Quillen Page A

suffocating, and finally Etta stood and stepped toward the door. Then she spun around. “Why did she leave?” Her voice sounded strangely far away.
    Hardin straightened the folders on his desk. Etta glimpsed the label on the top one—Saxon, Olivia—and a shiver rippled through her. “Oh yes, of course. I suspected you might ask that question. Your roommate is ill and needs some rest.”
    Etta’s eyes drifted to the windows, and she thought of Olivia standing on the stage next to Robert North, her dark eyes shifty and watery. Of course, Hardin didn’t mean Olivia was sick in the traditional way, that she had a cold or the flu or a migraine. But what did he mean? “Will she be okay?”
    Hardin’s hand wavered above his desk, trembling. “I wish this were the first time I’d seen this sort of thing. Some young people can’t handle the pressure of the academy, the solitude, the expectations. I am convinced that only students already inclined toward instability fall victim to their demons here.” He lowered his voice. “Or perhaps that’s what I tell myself.”
    “But her play was so amazing,” Etta murmured. She couldn’t take her eyes off the director’s hand. The tremor seemed to have taken on a life of its own, betraying his still face and poised posture. Hardin clutched the edge of the desk, his fingers still twitching.
    The director stood and strode around his desk. Before Etta knew what was happening, her cheek was crushed against the pocket of his suit jacket and the slightly sweet, spicy scent of his cologne enveloped her. He pulled away. “I know this must be difficult for you. Roommates tend to grow quite close here.”
    Etta gazed at him, then reached for the doorknob. She thought about telling him about her run with Reed, the trick of the light. Instead she murmured, “My lock’s jammed. I can’t get into my cabin.”
    “It is standard procedure for us to change the locks when a student departs. Carl attended to it this morning. Teddy has your new key.”
    * * *
    When Etta got back to her cabin, she pulled her iPod out of her desk drawer and scrolled through artists, found Bob Dylan’s Greatest Hits, and pushed play. She turned the volume louder than usual and lay back on her bed.
    Olivia had hated Bob Dylan, because his crooning reminded her of her mom’s “crazy years.” Etta had assumed Olivia was referring to her mom being a hippie. Now Etta repeated the words, “crazy years.” Crazy years? As in psychotic? She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember everything Olivia had told her about her mom.
    I’m the product of a one-night-stand. My mom slept with her literature professor.
    Do you know your father?
    My mom got stoned and forgot to tell him about me. She dropped out of college and moved to a commune outside of Taos. We lived in a teepee until I was three.
    Etta pushed herself off the bed. She mumbled the lyrics of “Blowing in the Wind” and slid the broken-down boxes from beneath Olivia’s bed. She found her tape in the closet, and put together some boxes then threw things in haphazardly, mixing books, clothes, and blankets in the same box. The scent of lavender clung to everything. When she was done, she sat on her bed and scanned the bare floor, the empty desk, and the stripped mattress. An exhausted satisfaction settled over her for a minute, like it always did when she finished a big cleaning project. It was the same sort of feeling she got from a long run.
    Then tears burned down her cheeks. In the last several months, the constant loneliness that had for so long been a part of her life had dissipated. She’d thought it went away because applying to the academy had been the right thing to do, moving across the country, becoming somebody other than the person her parents detested. But now she knew it was Olivia.
    * * *
    The next morning Etta slid into her seat behind Maura. Most of her classmates were already in their seats. One of the Poet’s Row students was on his