encouragement. She refuses to make eye contact with Rylie, even when Rylie puts up her hand with a genuine answer to a question, and her interactions with the other students are noticeably more brusque than usual.
After a while, Rylie gives up, her own demeanor turning sour. By the time the bell rings, she’s in a downright miserable mood and is keen to get out of the classroom, keeping her eyes to herself as she walks past Carriveau’s desk on her way to the door.
It’s lunchtime, but since she’s neither inclined to be sociable in the refectory, nor run the risk of bumping into Carriveau at the house, she opts to mope. For the most part, that means wandering aimlessly around school property, discovering new places where one could hide and smoke, and mapping out more shortcuts to and from her classes.
Along the way, she finds a room that wasn’t included in the grand tour Souliere had taken her on when she first arrived. Normally completely locked off, the main doors to this enormous room are plastered with ‘Do Not Enter’ signs, and all Souliere told her was that it used to be a performance hall, but that it’d been off-limits for the past year.
Today, one of the back doors is ajar. Peering in, Rylie can see that it leads to a darkened backstage area filled with old props, abandoned costumes, and a few spools of manila rope used in the rigging system above the stage. A cleaner’s cart is pushed to the side, the bright yellow mop bucket still steaming.
Guessing she has a few minutes to explore before the cleaner comes back and catches her trespassing, she slips inside. Amidst the junk—including an old stagecoach from a production of Cinderella, a balcony from which Juliet might call down to her Romeo, and an enormous wooden cross from Jesus Christ Superstar—there’s a wall dedicated to cast and crew photographs from past productions.
Using the flashlight on her phone to get a better look, Rylie scans through the pictures, surprised to find Carriveau in several of them. Dressed in casual wear—jeans and a t-shirt in some shots, jeans and a simple cotton blouse in others—she seems much more relaxed than Rylie’s so far known her to be around others. Although she usually dresses down on the weekends, Rylie’s yet to see her in something as informal as a t-shirt; the weather’s simply not warm enough.
Not only that, but she looks happy. Really happy. In a handful of pictures, she’s even wearing her hair down, her dark mane cascading over her shoulders, completely unfettered
“Wow,” Rylie mumbles to herself.
There are other recognizable faces in the pictures, too. She spots Adel Edwards, and Gabby, and a few others that she’s come to know over the last few weeks, as well as a familiar-looking blonde: Kaitlyn Simmons. There’s even a picture of Kaitlyn and Carriveau together, their arms around each other’s waists, Carriveau pressing a kiss against the side of Kaitlyn’s head while Kaitlyn makes a kissy face for the camera.
Elsewhere, the wall is covered with graffiti. Students have signed their names in black marker pen, preserving their stamp on Larkhill for posterity, jotting down inspirational messages and well wishes to future students who might tread the boards here. Amongst the mess of scrawls, there’s a black heart with the letters KS and VC inside it.
Kaitlyn Simmons and Vivienne Carriveau? Really? Rylie dismisses it and moves on. Thousands of students have come and gone from this school; those initials could belong to anybody. Indeed, there are many more hearts scattered about, memorializing a plethora of other romances, some angrily scrubbed out.
She dumps her backpack on the floor at the edge of the stage and approaches a piano-shaped mound covered by a tarp. Sure enough, when she flings back the moth-eaten canvas cloak, she unveils a grand piano in pristine condition.
Lifting the fallboard, she plinks a few keys, determines that it’s still in tune, then sits down
After a while, Rylie gives up, her own demeanor turning sour. By the time the bell rings, she’s in a downright miserable mood and is keen to get out of the classroom, keeping her eyes to herself as she walks past Carriveau’s desk on her way to the door.
It’s lunchtime, but since she’s neither inclined to be sociable in the refectory, nor run the risk of bumping into Carriveau at the house, she opts to mope. For the most part, that means wandering aimlessly around school property, discovering new places where one could hide and smoke, and mapping out more shortcuts to and from her classes.
Along the way, she finds a room that wasn’t included in the grand tour Souliere had taken her on when she first arrived. Normally completely locked off, the main doors to this enormous room are plastered with ‘Do Not Enter’ signs, and all Souliere told her was that it used to be a performance hall, but that it’d been off-limits for the past year.
Today, one of the back doors is ajar. Peering in, Rylie can see that it leads to a darkened backstage area filled with old props, abandoned costumes, and a few spools of manila rope used in the rigging system above the stage. A cleaner’s cart is pushed to the side, the bright yellow mop bucket still steaming.
Guessing she has a few minutes to explore before the cleaner comes back and catches her trespassing, she slips inside. Amidst the junk—including an old stagecoach from a production of Cinderella, a balcony from which Juliet might call down to her Romeo, and an enormous wooden cross from Jesus Christ Superstar—there’s a wall dedicated to cast and crew photographs from past productions.
Using the flashlight on her phone to get a better look, Rylie scans through the pictures, surprised to find Carriveau in several of them. Dressed in casual wear—jeans and a t-shirt in some shots, jeans and a simple cotton blouse in others—she seems much more relaxed than Rylie’s so far known her to be around others. Although she usually dresses down on the weekends, Rylie’s yet to see her in something as informal as a t-shirt; the weather’s simply not warm enough.
Not only that, but she looks happy. Really happy. In a handful of pictures, she’s even wearing her hair down, her dark mane cascading over her shoulders, completely unfettered
“Wow,” Rylie mumbles to herself.
There are other recognizable faces in the pictures, too. She spots Adel Edwards, and Gabby, and a few others that she’s come to know over the last few weeks, as well as a familiar-looking blonde: Kaitlyn Simmons. There’s even a picture of Kaitlyn and Carriveau together, their arms around each other’s waists, Carriveau pressing a kiss against the side of Kaitlyn’s head while Kaitlyn makes a kissy face for the camera.
Elsewhere, the wall is covered with graffiti. Students have signed their names in black marker pen, preserving their stamp on Larkhill for posterity, jotting down inspirational messages and well wishes to future students who might tread the boards here. Amongst the mess of scrawls, there’s a black heart with the letters KS and VC inside it.
Kaitlyn Simmons and Vivienne Carriveau? Really? Rylie dismisses it and moves on. Thousands of students have come and gone from this school; those initials could belong to anybody. Indeed, there are many more hearts scattered about, memorializing a plethora of other romances, some angrily scrubbed out.
She dumps her backpack on the floor at the edge of the stage and approaches a piano-shaped mound covered by a tarp. Sure enough, when she flings back the moth-eaten canvas cloak, she unveils a grand piano in pristine condition.
Lifting the fallboard, she plinks a few keys, determines that it’s still in tune, then sits down
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