crowd and grabbed my arm, pulling me down from the stump.
“What?”
Instead of answering he pointed down at the carvings.
Heather Lyon
Died in the war
Will be missed
On the side, shallower and less well carved, someone had scrawled, I love you .
I stared at Mason, too horrified to speak, and then looked at another of what I had assumed to be sculptures—this one a pile of basketball-size rocks. The top one was flat and someone had painted words on it.
JEFF “L.A.” HOLMES
SUMMER ’09
Curtis put his hand on my shoulder. “This is the graveyard. I’m sorry. Someone should have told you.”
“What do you mean?” I said, now frantically moving from grave to grave. “How are these people dying?”
Mason spoke. “What did I tell you? This place is dangerous.”
Curtis nodded, following me as I moved from a log to a small wooden plaque to a large smooth stone. The stone had fresh flowers on it that couldn’t have been more than a few days old. I read the name—some other kid, just like me.
“It used to be worse,” Curtis said. “Before the truce.”
“What was the war?”
“It was as the gangs were forming. Things got pretty bad.”
I stared at him and then at the faces of the other V’s. There were tears on a few cheeks. Jane had turned away. My chest felt tight and I could feel my hands balling into fists, almost on their own. These people hadn’t been killed by the school. They’d been killed by other students. There were a dozen graves, at least.
“Come on,” Curtis said. “Let’s get back inside.”
I refused to go to the infirmary, even though Mason pestered me for the rest of the day. When we’d gotten back to the dorm and I took off my shirt, the one small bruise from my failed escape had multiplied into at least fifteen welts on my chest and back, and eight more on my arms. There were two lumps on the back of my head, under my hair, and someone had hit me in the ankle—that one broke the skin.
After showering, I spent the evening in my room. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, and I definitely didn’t want to join the party. On the walk back I’d felt like maybe I was fitting in and that seemed like a good thing. Maybe this school, for all the craziness, was better than any other alternative. The food was good, the paintball was fun, and I was making friends—real friends. But the graveyard had changed that. I didn’t want friends and I didn’t want food. I wanted to get out.
Curtis dropped by as the sun was going down and tried to talk me into going to the party, but I told him I was too sore and too exhausted from sleeping in the window well. It was a lousy excuse—he’d been through worse yesterday and hadn’t gotten any more sleep than I had—but I guessed he knew the real reason why I didn’t want to go. Still, he played along.
“You can get some ibuprofen down in the infirmary,” Curtis said.
“I’d have to deal with some Society moron.”
“You’d like the girl who works down there,” he said. “Blond, cute.”
I was lying flat on my back, but nothing was comfortable. “Laura is blond and cute, too. And she tried to send me to detention.”
“That’s Laura,” Curtis said. “This girl’s cool. Anna.”
“No thanks.” I’d already heard about the infirmary from Mason. In addition to Anna, Dylan worked there. I didn’t want to see him again, let alone ask him for help.
Curtis nodded, leaning over to look at a small photo of the Brooklyn Bridge that Mason had hung above his desk. “Your loss. There are a lot of cute girls here.”
I sighed, staring at the bunk above me. “I know.” I rolled onto my side but found it just as painful as my back. Curtis was still there, like he was waiting for something. “I’ll give Maxfield one thing: There’s a lot to be said for the uniforms in this place. Girls at my schools never wore skirts.”
He laughed. “Anyone in particular?”
I shook my head, and even that sent little bolts of pain up my
“What?”
Instead of answering he pointed down at the carvings.
Heather Lyon
Died in the war
Will be missed
On the side, shallower and less well carved, someone had scrawled, I love you .
I stared at Mason, too horrified to speak, and then looked at another of what I had assumed to be sculptures—this one a pile of basketball-size rocks. The top one was flat and someone had painted words on it.
JEFF “L.A.” HOLMES
SUMMER ’09
Curtis put his hand on my shoulder. “This is the graveyard. I’m sorry. Someone should have told you.”
“What do you mean?” I said, now frantically moving from grave to grave. “How are these people dying?”
Mason spoke. “What did I tell you? This place is dangerous.”
Curtis nodded, following me as I moved from a log to a small wooden plaque to a large smooth stone. The stone had fresh flowers on it that couldn’t have been more than a few days old. I read the name—some other kid, just like me.
“It used to be worse,” Curtis said. “Before the truce.”
“What was the war?”
“It was as the gangs were forming. Things got pretty bad.”
I stared at him and then at the faces of the other V’s. There were tears on a few cheeks. Jane had turned away. My chest felt tight and I could feel my hands balling into fists, almost on their own. These people hadn’t been killed by the school. They’d been killed by other students. There were a dozen graves, at least.
“Come on,” Curtis said. “Let’s get back inside.”
I refused to go to the infirmary, even though Mason pestered me for the rest of the day. When we’d gotten back to the dorm and I took off my shirt, the one small bruise from my failed escape had multiplied into at least fifteen welts on my chest and back, and eight more on my arms. There were two lumps on the back of my head, under my hair, and someone had hit me in the ankle—that one broke the skin.
After showering, I spent the evening in my room. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, and I definitely didn’t want to join the party. On the walk back I’d felt like maybe I was fitting in and that seemed like a good thing. Maybe this school, for all the craziness, was better than any other alternative. The food was good, the paintball was fun, and I was making friends—real friends. But the graveyard had changed that. I didn’t want friends and I didn’t want food. I wanted to get out.
Curtis dropped by as the sun was going down and tried to talk me into going to the party, but I told him I was too sore and too exhausted from sleeping in the window well. It was a lousy excuse—he’d been through worse yesterday and hadn’t gotten any more sleep than I had—but I guessed he knew the real reason why I didn’t want to go. Still, he played along.
“You can get some ibuprofen down in the infirmary,” Curtis said.
“I’d have to deal with some Society moron.”
“You’d like the girl who works down there,” he said. “Blond, cute.”
I was lying flat on my back, but nothing was comfortable. “Laura is blond and cute, too. And she tried to send me to detention.”
“That’s Laura,” Curtis said. “This girl’s cool. Anna.”
“No thanks.” I’d already heard about the infirmary from Mason. In addition to Anna, Dylan worked there. I didn’t want to see him again, let alone ask him for help.
Curtis nodded, leaning over to look at a small photo of the Brooklyn Bridge that Mason had hung above his desk. “Your loss. There are a lot of cute girls here.”
I sighed, staring at the bunk above me. “I know.” I rolled onto my side but found it just as painful as my back. Curtis was still there, like he was waiting for something. “I’ll give Maxfield one thing: There’s a lot to be said for the uniforms in this place. Girls at my schools never wore skirts.”
He laughed. “Anyone in particular?”
I shook my head, and even that sent little bolts of pain up my
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