The Ivies - Alexa Donne Page 0,77

surprise.

“Olivia! I thought you’d be at the memorial already. Hello.”

“Uh, hi,” I say as we do an awkward dance at the door. I’ve only met Emma’s mother a few times in passing on move-in days. Polite but cool. It’s worse now.

“I caught you on your way out. I won’t keep you.”

It’s the conclusion to a conversation we haven’t had. “Oh, right, yes,” I stammer. “I was heading down. For Emma. Are you going?”

Mrs. Russo shakes her head. Her chestnut hair is tucked into a perfect chignon. “Charles is bringing up a few boxes. For her things.” She grimaces.

“You’re packing tonight?” I can’t help the panic in my tone. It’s too soon. I don’t even know who Emma is anymore. Was. They can’t take her away.

Mrs. Russo nods. “We decided it didn’t make sense to make another trip after the holidays. Better to get it all done now.”

She’s efficient. Type A. Like her daughter. I search her face, looking for Emma. Wondering how far the apple fell from the tree. Or did Emma rot off the branch all on her own?

Mrs. Russo surveys Emma’s side of the room, takes a shuddering deep breath. Then, like an animatronic, she springs back to life with the typical strong-mom veneer. “The memorial is a lovely gesture; I’ll have to send a card. You go on. I’ll get to work here. We’ll be gone once you’re back.” She steps away from the door and sweeps a hand out.

I have no choice anymore. She ushers me out the door with a sad smile, and I trip along the hall to my doom.

Or maybe it’s my reckoning.

* * *

—

It’s a pitch-dark New England winter evening lit only by two hundred glittering candles. Claflin has dimmed the harsh glow of the streetlights for effect. Lack of floodlights provides me better coverage as I make my way into the throng of students. No one’s picked me out yet. I don’t see the Ivies or Ethan.

I’m handed a plastic candle holder by a sophomore girl; she passes me off to an older boy, who supplies a slim candle. I stick the two parts together and move along the line to someone with a lighter. Outfitted for respectful mourning—or, I guess, celebration is the point here—I crawl the perimeter of the student assemblage. I need to find the best vantage point for my plan. I’ll be alone, with no cover, but the key is to find a spot where I’m able to catch a view of most, if not all, of the other attendees. I spot some of the drama club possibilities toward the back. It helps that the FIRST Robotics team is all together, next to where the teachers and admin are corralled to the right side of the small dais Tyler has had erected. He stands with a cordless mic in hand, portable speaker off to the side.

“Everyone, make sure you grab a candle, and please gather around. We’ll begin momentarily.”

I finger Emma’s phone in my left-hand pocket to check that it’s there. My phone is in the right-side pocket. I float on the outskirts of one side of a horseshoe formation everyone is arranging themselves into. My heart leaps into my throat when I catch sight of Avery, Margot, and Sierra. They’re perfectly centered in the front row, directly across from Tyler and the dais. I slink back a foot, letting the lumbering football player to my right provide cover. I don’t think they see me.

I glance around for Ethan, but there are too many faces cast into spooky relief alternately by flickering candlelight and by their phones. No better moment than now to prepare the seminal text. I have to time things like a dance, send my missive at a point during the memorial when everyone else won’t be on their phones, so Beau stands out. However, I can’t let him catch me on my phone, either. I tap in what I want to say.

Miss me, lover boy?

It’s stupid but should shock well enough. Even though logically he knows she’s dead—we’re at her memorial service, after all—the quip, the implication, hangs. I’ll just look for the guy who’s seen a ghost.

I secure Emma’s phone back in its pocket and retrieve mine as a force of habit. Have to check if I have any messages. There’s an email from my secret stalker.

From: Meddling, Quit

To: Winters, Olivia

Subject: You should listen to me

I know what you’re doing. Back. Off. Bitch. Do you