Nocturne

You drive down the highway in pitch-black night. No one else is on the road. No streetlights to guide the way, only the short glare of the headlights, the stuttering yellow lines in the center, the reflective markers along the sides. You don’t know where you’re going, or even if there’s a world beyond the pool of light ahead. The road creates itself as you move forward and destroys itself behind you. The flow of it moving underneath the car hypnotizes, almost meditative.

There, up ahead. Something new. A figure stands at the side of the road, a still silhouette. Even though it’s the middle of the night, you’re not threatened. You stop dead on the highway next to the figure. Except it doesn’t seem like a person up close, does it? The silhouette is too big, much too big. But you unlock the door anyway and let him in. He slides into the back seat of the car, closes the door, and plunges the car back into darkness before you can see him in the rearview mirror.

You hear him breathing, but he doesn’t tell you his name or where he’s going. He remains only the shadow. You shrug, pull back into your lane, and the journey continues in silence.

Then he pulls your hair away from your neck. Hot breath brushes over your skin, and he whispers, I’ve been waiting for you.

Your foot jerks on the gas pedal. The car speeds up, much faster than before. The broken yellow line now seems seamless, the endless, empty road no longer serene.

As the car accelerates to ninety, a hundred, a hundred and ten miles per hour, the thing sinks feral teeth into your shoulder. Blood spatters in an arc onto the windshield and starts to fill up your lungs. But you keep driving, even when you can’t breathe anymore, even when the thing raises its head, blood dripping from its wicked mouth.

You still can’t see it in the mirror, but you know he smiles.

The road goes on forever, and you just keep driving.

I can’t wait for the real thing.

Callie jerked awake, strangling a scream in the cage of her throat.

How good of you to join us, Callie, Ms. Karen said. Your equations have missed you.

The rest of the small Algebra II/Precal class laughed. Callie was so relieved to be awake again, she didn’t have room to feel self-conscious.

"I’m sorry," she said with a gesture. It was an American Sign Language phrase every teacher at Willow Chance recognized by now.

Ms. Karen turned off teacher-mode for a second and put on her dorm mother hat. Falling asleep in class isn’t like you, Callie. Are you feeling all right?

This time, Callie took her notebook out to reply. Ms. Karen read over her shoulder.

Didn’t sleep well last night.

Which was a terrible excuse, because she never slept well, but the last week or so had been more difficult than usual. She’d woken up four times last night when she usually woke up two at the most. But what else was she supposed to say without raising more alarms than she already did on a regular basis?

You weren’t out for more than fifteen minutes, I think. I was grading. Nervous about the new therapist? Ms. Karen asked, stroking her back lightly. You spend all those years confiding in one, only to have to start all over again. I know that’s hard.

Callie shrugged. She was more annoyed than nervous about the new school psychologist. She’d much preferred the four weeks she’d gone without having to endure a therapy session. But Heather and Dylan had told her the new one wasn’t half bad. She was supposed to be younger than Dr. Carter. Other than that, no one was talking too much about it. No one ever talked about their therapy sessions any more than they did their ‘discussions’ with Mr. Hawthorne. The consensus, however, was that Dr. Fara wasn’t an axe murderer as far as anyone could tell, so she seemed nice.

Well, it’s time to wake up for a few more hours, Ms. Karen said. Our favorite letters aren’t going to solve for themselves.

While Ms. Karen returned to her desk, Elena glared across the table, then signed one of the few phrases she knew in ASL, and therefore used often just for Callie and Heather’s benefit. Mostly Callie’s.

But Callie didn’t care about being called crazy—or called anything—by Elena, who was as troubled as she was evil, and mostly harmless in the classroom setting.

Heather nudged Callie lightly with her shoe until she got a smile. Heather’s support made it so much easier to ignore Elena. And when Dylan gave her a grin from where he sat next to Elena at the large repurposed dining table they all used as a communal desk, Callie settled comfortably back into the cushion of her chair. Elena’s friends, Danielle and Shandra, were part of the class, too, but Callie had more allies in the classroom than Elena if she included Matthias—who didn’t really consider anyone a friend but occasionally hung out with Callie because she was quiet and liked math.

Dylan was friendly with both Callie and Elena, but Callie still counted him in her own column. So Elena knew better than to try anything too bad, especially right under the nose of their dorm mother.

Callie returned her attention to the math assignment she’d fallen asleep on. She hadn’t been bored. Math was reliable. Laws and theories comforted her, although essays for English lit and history were more her style, since all a teacher had to do was give her something to say—so to speak—and she’d ace it. She didn’t care for labs, like for chemistry and biology, but math treated her well.

Once she’d arrived at Willow Chance, Callie had been surprised to learn she was pretty good at almost every subject. As long as she didn’t have to speak.

She remembered different classrooms filled with other students her own age, ones who had already learned to despise her. Who laughed and made her cower because she played the perfect victim. After all, she couldn’t call for help.

She remembered the long-suffering set of teachers’ lips when they demanded that she speak her answers aloud.

She remembered hallways where the other students called her ‘Helen Keller,’ even though she was neither deaf nor blind and it wasn’t nearly as insulting as they thought it was.

She remembered the twisted serpent of tension in her intestines when she was told to speak, when she struggled to force anything other than air out of her mouth.

And she remembered how her parents brought her to Willow Chance when they despaired over her grades and her refusal to leave her room when she came home, a shark-dead glaze to her eyes. They’d mentioned Columbine, Sandy Hook—worried discussions between them that they didn’t bother to whisper. Sometimes she’d just wanted to scream that she was right there, that she could hear them, that she could hear everybody, because she had excellent hearing. And she saw colors so vividly she sometimes had to squint her eyes against the brightness. So why did they always exchange those looks like she couldn’t see them, talk about her as though she wasn’t there? They were just like the kids at school, except instead of mocking her, they’d simply given up.

Willow Chance had been her last chance, as it was for most of the kids and teenagers left behind here. And like most of the students in this isolated, quirky little experiment of a boarding school, it seemed to be working.

The deep chime of the grandfather clock in the foyer acted as their school bell. As expected, Callie’s assignment wasn’t anywhere near finished. She sighed. What they didn’t finish in class became homework. She packed up her textbook and notebook and put her assignment in her math binder, freeing up her hands to sign with Heather.

Heather spoke and signed at the same time. She’d suffered a bad case of chicken pox at age seven that had taken most of her hearing and left her with pockmark scars all over her dark skin. These days, a combination of signing, lip-reading, and a hearing aid were required for her to best understand people. Heather recalled the shapes of words and the general vibrations in her throat, but she couldn’t hear well enough to tell if she was pronouncing syllables right, so her voice sounded overly rounded and lisping. Conversation with her took some getting used to, but Callie barely noticed the difference anymore.

Unfortunately, Callie couldn’t make it easier for her, since Callie neither spoke nor moved her lips the way Heather’s ASL tutor did. But though there was something wrong with Callie’s mouth, there had never been anything wrong with her hands; signing was certainly easier than writing longhand. She’d been teaching herself ASL ever since she’d lost her voice, even though there hadn’t been many people with whom she could sign before Willow Chance.

That was how Callie described it—losing her voice. After she’d first used that phrase, Dr. Carter had asked whether she’d checked her pockets, or perhaps under some sofa cushions.

Happy Thursday, Heather said, joining Callie on the way to lunch, which preceded the history rotation. Half their age group—including Elena—would go to American History, and the other half, which included Elena’s friends, would go to Twentieth Century Studies. Once Callie returned to class from her first therapy session with the new psychologist, Elena would be significantly outnumbered and not even the remotest threat in American History, at least for a couple hours.

"Happy Thursday yourself," Callie signed in reply.

As a year-round school, they had a four-day week, so Thursdays were like Fridays. Every Thursday night, the overnight staff provided the students with a movie night and ice cream social to celebrate the week’s end.

Falling asleep in class? What’s on your mind? Heather asked. Think Dr. Fara’s going to call you a ‘crazy bitch,’ too?

"I’m sure she’ll figure it out eventually. If she doesn’t, Elena will be sure to let her know," Callie replied with a forced smile, still shaken from her nightmare. Sleeping during the day worried her more than it did Ms. Karen. It was bad enough she had to sleep at night. Callie hoped Ms. Karen didn’t give the new doc a heads up about her dozing off in class—and just before her first session, too.

Did I hear something about the new shrink in town? Dylan slipped between the two of them and slung his arms around their shoulders.

Callie’s seeing her after lunch, Heather said. But we were talking about Elena. She thinks Callie’s really crazy. Like, pecan-pie-crazy. As if we didn’t already know.

Callie playfully mimed punching her.

Aren’t we all nuts? Dylan said.

"You’re not," Callie signed, and Heather relayed the reply to Dylan.

Dylan rolled his eyes, but he was the only student who’d enrolled because of family connections rather than parents at their wit’s end. Callie didn’t think anyone could ever be at their wit’s end with Dylan. He was probably the most well-adjusted student at Willow Chance.

Wonder what kind of nuts got Elena here, Heather said.

I’m not even going to touch that one. Dylan appeared wounded with restraint. And you know I want to.

Callie poked him in the ribs. Yeah, she knew he wanted to—in more ways than one. Elena might be a mean girl, but no one could ever accuse her of being hard on the eyes. The way Dylan’s gaze would linger made Callie uncomfortable, and she didn’t like that it made her uncomfortable. It wasn’t like she had claim on him, or even that she wanted to. But she liked his arms around her now, and she knew Heather did, too.

Yet if he starting giving Elena more attention, Callie would end up with one less ally. She’d feel that arm around her skinny shoulders less often. And sometimes Callie thought that without Dylan reminding her, she’d forget she was still there. She would just fade away, like a shadow walking into the shade.

Callie slouched back on the couch and wrapped her sweater around her, even though the small office wasn’t particularly cold. The window was open, and now and then, the wet autumn chill breezed in, brushing her cheeks like fingers.

Dr. Fara smoothed a few loose strands of black hair behind her ears and glanced at the file perched on her lap. Her legs were crossed, one black, patent leather heel bobbing in the air.

Good afternoon, Callie, she said, her voice gentle but not too soft. I’m Dr. Suzan Fara. As you’re well aware, with Dr. Carter now enjoying retirement, I’ll function as your new psychologist. I know how frustrating it is to start all over again with a new doctor, one you’ve never met, might not have chosen for yourself, and whom you probably don’t trust. What reason would you have to trust a stranger? However, I assure you, your well-being is the number one priority for me during these sessions. I’m here to hopefully provide an open ear, to help you make your world a better one, and to prepare you for eventually leaving Willow Chance—especially with graduation so close for you. Do you have any questions for me before we begin?

Callie raised an eyebrow.

Well, I endured your Mr. Hawthorne’s grueling interview process to get here. Dr. Fara smiled to temper her phrasing. He selected me in part because of my work with teens for the last five years as a consulting psychologist for inner city school districts. However, although Mr. Hawthorne signs my paychecks, I’m essentially working for you. You have every right to put me through your own vetting process, whether questioning my credentials or my grilled cheese sandwich preferences. I like a classic grilled cheese, by the way, with tomato-basil soup.

Callie shrugged.

Okay, then. Dr. Fara appeared unperturbed by Callie’s silence, but then she had Callie’s file on her lap. Even Dr. Carter had exhibited some irritation in their first session, but that had been before anyone in Willow Chance really understood what it meant to have a functionally mute student—not to mention Callie hadn’t been thrilled to be in therapy in the first place. She still wasn’t. Dr. Carter had been mostly useless, and Callie didn’t expect Dr. Fara to be any less so. But at least Dr. Fara didn’t have a constant undercurrent of suspicion in her expression. Dr. Carter might not have been able to help it, but if he thought Callie forgave him for that…

Dr. Fara’s expression remained placid and pleasant, ultimately unreadable. She wore a dark shade of red lip gloss that caught Callie’s eye with the same shine as her patent leather shoes. Callie bet she ironed her clothes, too. Nothing appeared out of place or uncultivated. At the same time, nothing about her screamed unapproachable; she was professionally detached, warm yet assessing.

Now, as you’ve noticed, I do have your file, and I’m a diligent student myself. I’ve read it from cover to cover, including all of the colorful notations and unintelligible abbreviations. But the comments in the file are Dr. Carter’s impressions, your other doctors’ impressions. I want to make my own, and learn yours.

She checked the notes one last time, then looked up at Callie. Callie wasn’t always good with eye contact, especially with new people. Her gaze flitted from the manila file to Dr. Fara’s still slightly-bobbing heel.

Okay, so I know you were born Calliope Hale… Oh, you poor girl.

That earned the doctor a tentative ghost of a grin. It was a pretty name, but God only knew why her parents had chosen it, since she’d always been Callie.

A winter baby, oldest child. Your academics tell an interesting story. Above-average intelligence. Your grades started to dip in fifth grade, but you were mostly maintaining until you hit middle school, when they plummeted. There are several notations of problem behavior with teachers, altercations with other students…

Callie shrugged again, but Dr. Fara continued without further comment.

You were taken out of school halfway through eighth grade and brought here, at which point you were assigned to sixth-grade-level academics to retake all of the necessary tests and get up to speed. But in Willow Chance, you rallied yourself. You quickly moved up to the more age-appropriate classes until you were level with your peers. This place was obviously the answer for you, Callie, as it has been for many of the other students I’ve seen so far. I’m curious as to what the difference was for you, in your opinion. Dr. Fara closed the file and set it aside, nothing between them now but Callie’s tension and Dr. Fara’s bobbing shoe.

Under the scrutiny, Callie reflexively clenched and loosened her fingers—not in a fist, but almost like spider legs spreading then closing over her slacks. Though specially tailored to each student, like every other part of the Willow Chance experience, the school uniform was as ill-fitting as her more casual, non-school clothing: gray pants striped in dull gold, gray cardigan with the mustard-colored school crest on the left breast, a white shirt underneath, rendering her and the other students into a sepia and gray-tone relic of an older era. Her nearly translucent pale skin and brown hair so dark it was almost black did nothing to dispel the impression.

Under the folds of her loose clothes, she still had what some would call a teenager’s gangly awkwardness. When she was fourteen, she’d experienced a somewhat late growth spurt away from prepubescent roundness, but she’d been slower to soften into adulthood than the other girls in her age group here and on the outside. Shadows abused the curves of bone pressing against her skin. At one point, Dr. Carter had expressed the theory that Callie had an eating disorder, but staff could easily monitor many aspects of their students’ lives—including food intake and bathroom trips. He’d ultimately shelved the notion, though he’d still sometimes noted concern at her lack of appetite.

Was that what Dr. Fara saw in her now? She’d lived among the same people in Willow Chance for years. Any time she met someone new, she became all the more aware of the reasons she’d been sent away, evidence of her strangeness more obvious—more physical—than it was for some of the other students.

Callie’s shoulders tightened, and she played with a button on her cardigan. She darted her gaze away, around, no longer alighting on Dr. Fara but on the candle burning on the shelf, then the pyramid of darkness in the corner where the light didn’t reach, then the fern near the window.

Dr. Fara raised a placating hand. Relax, Callie. Try not to feel pressured to speak—it only makes it harder to do so. Dr. Carter wrote that you never spoke with him in your sessions. I just wanted to see if you could with me, although I hardly expected you to. I understand that you do speak with one student here. Is that right?

Callie nodded.

Dylan Holmes, yes?

Callie nodded again.

And you interact with Heather Brook regularly, although that’s a bit different, isn’t it?

Another nod. Most of Callie’s communication repertoire consisted of nods, head shakes, and exaggerated expressions. As long as the questions were yes-or-no or regarding her feelings, she’d grown adept with her limited arsenal. With her large gray eyes and her mostly monochromatic palette, Ms. Karen had once called her the silent film star of her own life.

But you use a notebook to communicate with everyone else. I expected you to take it out at the beginning of the session, but of course, you don’t have to communicate with me more than you are now, Callie, if you aren’t comfortable. You can take all the time you need.

Callie unsnapped the latch to her bag and took out the somewhat tattered notebook. She’d clipped her pen to the spiral binding by its cap. She opened the notebook to show Dr. Fara the collage of words, one-sided conversations, different pen inks, different thoughts, different subjects, different days.

She didn’t use the effusive bubble lettering of many of the other girls in Willow Chance, nor the messy scrawl of those with less developed spatial relations. The print was almost like a font, clinical in its precision, small and compact to better utilize the space, although there were places Callie had made the printing bigger to accommodate someone’s eyesight.

Very resourceful, Dr. Fara said. I imagine using this is part of the reason your grades went down, yes?

Now that her notebook was out, Callie wrote quickly, her hand flying across the page as though she were typing. Like on all the other pages, the handwriting was clear and legible. As Callie wrote, Dr. Fara leaned in and tilted her head so she could read along.

They didn’t want to encourage me writing my answers instead of talking. They thought that if I didn’t have any other way to communicate, I’d have no choice but to speak. I still had to talk in class to get a participation grade and do presentations.

But you couldn’t.

Callie nodded and continued on another line. They thought I didn’t want to talk. I did, but I couldn’t. I opened my mouth and nothing came out. No point trying if I was just going to get a zero anyway.

They believed you were just trying to get attention, so they weren’t going to humor you. It’s a common misstep against people with your issue.

Eventually, I stopped opening my mouth at all.

I’m surprised you only use a notebook, though, not a text-to-speech program or app. Dr. Carter never wrote anything about whether that was an option you tried.

Even if phones were allowed or I could carry my computer around all the time, I can’t use those programs either. Anything with a voice just doesn’t work. No better than trying to talk.

It didn’t make any sense, she knew, that she could type, sign, and write, but give her a text-to-speech field, and she couldn’t get down a word. Because it was another way to speak. And her whole issue was that she couldn’t speak. Not that her teachers would have let her use an app any more than they’d wanted her to use a notebook.

Hmmm. Dr. Fara frowned, but continued. Do you have any theory of your own as to why you don’t or can’t speak to me, right now?

Callie shifted, her grip slipping on the pen. She slowly shook her head.

Does it make you nervous to be asked to speak? Do you feel anxious right before you open your mouth?

Callie shook her head, then wrote, I get anxious because I can’t speak. Not the other way around.

Dr. Fara sat back in her chair, adjusting her neck and pursing her lips in thought.

Have you always had trouble speaking in situations in which people expect you to speak? As in, has this been going on as long as you can remember?

Callie shook her head.

So you had no problems with speaking in front of people when you were a child?

Callie hesitated, then wove her head from side to side in an uncertain gesture.

Ah, yes, we must be more precise, Dr. Fara said with another smile. It changed around late childhood, before your teens, around the time your grades started to get worse. Is that correct?

Callie nodded.

Then I guess I have to ask. Dr. Fara took off her reading glasses and stared into Callie’s eyes, although Callie still wasn’t looking directly at her. Did something happen to you around then, Callie?

The pen twitched in Callie’s hand, renting a black line up the side of the page margin.

She had appreciated Dr. Fara’s willingness to let her write instead of going through too many rookie attempts to make her speak. God, how people tried. Callie had so much she wanted to say, but her pen hovered above the half-blank page. The silence that had been her perpetual companion since she was nine years old turned stony.

In all four years she’d been at Willow Chance, she’d kept many secrets from Dr. Carter. Dr. Fara had only known her for fifteen minutes. Hardly enough time to warrant full disclosure—if Callie was even capable of it anymore.

She bent over her notebook and finally wrote, I was in a car accident with my family. Brain scans showed no damage. Doctor said it was psychosomatic. Then they said I was acting out.

Tell me what happened during the accident.

Callie clenched her teeth until her jaw hurt. She lowered her head, her hair falling against her cheeks.

The information from your trauma counselor is included in your doctors’ notes. I’ve read most of what happened, but I’d very much like to hear the story from you.

Callie paused, then closed her notebook with the same impact as an abruptly slammed door. It wasn’t the official end of the session, but once she’d decided she was finished writing, there wasn’t much use trying to get her to communicate anymore.

Very well, Dr. Fara said. I’ll reacquaint myself with the older files another time.

Callie didn’t even make an effort to look at her again. She didn’t want to see the disappointment this early in their strange little arrangement. Plenty of time for that.

I hope to talk to you about it during your next session. Then Dr. Fara signed, "See you next week."

Callie emerged a little from the shield of her hair. She slid her pen into the spiral of her notebook, then gestured back, "You sign?"

I sign. Dr. Fara continued to sign as she spoke. It’s another major reason Mr. Hawthorne hired me, so I can interact more easily with Ms. Brook. I’m not as articulate as the two of you probably are, but I’m getting better at it. However, we won’t sign during the bulk of our sessions. I want you to use the notebook. Okay?

Callie wasn’t sure why, but there was probably some kind of clinical reason for it. She nodded in agreement.

"Have a good week, Dr. Fara signed with a smile. It was good to meet you, Callie. I’m looking forward to our continued sessions."

Before movie night could commence, all of the students had to complete their chores, so after American History, Callie headed to the communal bathroom.

Willow Chance was a converted mansion, and each dorm wing had a communal bathroom built out from the originals. Like the bedrooms, the bathrooms were small but lovely. The floors and counters glittered with white quartz. The brass fixtures had recently been replaced with brushed silver. This year, Ms. Karen had assigned the toilets to Callie, the showers to Elena, and the floors to Dani. One look from Elena had made it clear that Callie would be cleaning the entire bathroom by herself, but just to be sure, Elena had followed up later that evening when Callie exited a shower stall while wrapped in a towel, her tote in hand.

Elena had crowded her until Callie hunched in a corner.

You’re going to do all of it, Elena had said. Or I’ll tell them what you do at night.

Callie had been forced to look into Elena’s dark eyes with her own rabbit stare until Elena was absolutely sure Callie would do what she was supposed to do.

There wasn’t much use in complaining to Ms. Karen or even to Mr. Hawthorne. It was such a small thing, most of the time, to clean the whole bathroom—unless Elena, Dani, or Shandra left a gift behind, something to turn her stomach or give her more to do, but that didn’t happen often. Besides, they had cleaning chores elsewhere in the dormitory, so it wasn’t in their best interest to make anyone’s job much more difficult. Too easy for instant karma to bite back.

As long as everything got done before dinner and it was clean when Ms. Karen inspected it, nobody asked questions, and everybody was mostly happy.

Callie retrieved the cleaning supplies from under the counter and got to work. Nobody had sabotaged her today, so the process went quickly. By the end of it, her neck and shoulders ached from scrubbing. It could have been worse. Elena was a thorn, but she so rarely released actual venom.

It really wasn’t bad here. In fact, most days it was downright good. Callie didn’t feel stupid here. She didn’t feel weird, or at least as weird as before. She didn’t feel lazy or angry all the time anymore. When she got her report cards, she could almost sense her parents’ approval from two hundred miles away—even if it was only her imagination. She’d take an occasional clog and toilet paper nests in the showers any day of the week over what she’d once had to deal with.

It could have been so much worse.

If Callie had to pinpoint the time before Willow Chance when she’d given up, it was the second semester of seventh grade. They’d cornered her in the locker room after half-court basketball. Her legs had tangled like a pony’s when Charlene Graham knocked her against a locker.

If you want me to stop, all you have to do is scream. Charlene’s taunt had echoed through the expansive locker room. Callie wouldn’t have had to scream loudly. If she’d just called out, made some kind of sound, any kind of sound, it would have been heard by a gym teacher in one of their offices. But she’d opened her mouth and nothing but air had come out, like the hiss from a leaking balloon. They’d had all the time in the world to do whatever they wanted.

After putting the cleaning products away, Callie washed her hands, then returned to her room to dress for dinner, her stomach once more a dense knot of anxiety.

Eating meals had the same effect as trying to speak. Her body tensed like stretched elastic, growing tighter and tighter until she was sure she would snap. She ate what she had to, no more. She salivated at the sight of food—dessert carts, buffets, even food courts—but if she tried taking in more than the bare minimum, her stomach revolted on her. Every time.

Callie had learned to eat only what was necessary long before she’d learned not to try to talk, given how ugly things got with food versus the comparative inconvenience of her mutism. Most people were often so distracted by what wasn’t coming out of her mouth, though, that they barely noticed what she didn’t put into it.

Heather was already in her evening clothes—a blue cotton dress and leggings—curled up on her bed with her biology textbook and laptop, occasionally setting upon the keyboard with short bursts of typing. Heather took care of their bedroom in terms of dusting and vacuuming, but by mutual agreement, they both kept the room tidy. Ms. Karen would sometimes assign a new younger student to stay with the older students, but right now, Heather and Callie didn’t have an additional roommate. The third bed stayed made, but empty.

Callie stripped out of her slacks and shirt, which were damp and smelled like lemons and industrial soap. She put on her non-school clothes, a pair of dark gray cotton pants and a black long-sleeved shirt.

During the school day, students could only wear the uniforms provided to them. On the bright side, it meant that everyone had to wear the dull, ugly gray and mustard combination, not just her.

However, they were permitted one suitcase’s worth of clothes from the outside to wear after the school day was over or out on excursions, as long as it complied with a strict, conservative dress code. Any outraged exclamations about freedom of speech and expression resulted in nothing more than a lesson on the rights of minors.

Mr. Hawthorne believed in a firm hand and strict boundaries on certain matters, and he had little patience for outcries about student rights. He delighted in showing his charges the contract all the parents had to sign before enrollment, which gave him carte blanche to handle their children however he best saw fit. By the time parents considered sending their kids to Willow Chance, they’d pretty much sign anything Mr. Hawthorne put in front of them without hesitation or compunction.

After all, everyone in the academy had qualified for the highly specialized, rigorous instruction Willow Chance provided, but they were also there because they’d been in trouble, whether because they’d caused the trouble, trouble had found them, or both—except for Dylan, not that Mr. Hawthorne showed otherwise preferential treatment for his grandson. And when it came to problem kids like them, it didn’t matter what they thought about daily routines, chores, technology use, food, or year-round classes, much less dress codes. Mr. Hawthorne could make them wear prison uniforms for all anyone on the outside cared.

Callie didn’t mind the dress code herself, and she was grateful that, despite everything Mr. Hawthorne could make them do, most of what Willow Chance expected of its students was, in her opinion, eminently reasonable. It wasn’t all rules and regulations—sometimes the school was downright flexible.

With only twenty minutes before dinner, Callie lay down on her bed with her Literature assignment and read Wilkie Collins’ The Woman in White until the next single chime of the grandfather clock. She could hear that grandfather clock halfway through the woods if she had to, so attuned was she to its regulatory striking of the hour and half-hour.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed to slide her feet into her slippers. At the movement, Heather took her cue, closing her laptop and joining Callie on the way out of their room.

Heather reached out to stroke the hands of some of the younger students passing by, who were headed for the dormitories after their earlier movie night. Just