Em rose slowly. This woman’s nerves were clearly shot. She didn’t want to startle her even more. She had a feeling—one she couldn’t explain—that she knew what was rankling Ms. Markwell. But she wanted to hear her say it herself.
“Why do you want us to leave?” Em kept her voice steady. “Is there a problem with the . . . subject of our research?”
“Girls,” she said again, her voice trembling. “I can’t allow you to stay. I can’t allow her . . .” She gestured with her free hand toward Em. Em drew back, feeling as though she’d been slapped. It was clear that this woman had a problem with her, not the book, and not even with Drea.
“Let’s go, D,” Em said quietly, tugging on Drea’s sleeve. “Let’s just go.”
“This is bullshit,” Drea said, picking up her bag. “This is total bullshit.” But both of them could see the terror in the woman’s eyes.
CHAPTER SIX
Visibility. That’s what she was shooting for.
“You need to be seen,” Meg told Skylar when they were in Skylar’s bedroom a couple days later. With a flourish, Meg produced a black scarf covered in white skulls. It looked like something one of Ascension’s goth kids would wear. Skylar had seen them in the halls, skulking around in their hoodies, skinny jeans, and crazy, heavy jewelry. She knew better than to smile at them.
“I don’t know, Meg. . . . It’s not really my style,” Skylar said tentatively, not wanting to hurt Meg’s feelings. “Why don’t you wear it?”
“I have this,” Meg said, touching the red ribbon she wore every day around her slender neck.
“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Skylar said. “Do you ever take it off?”
“No!” Meg responded as though the answer was obvious. “Then my head would fall off, silly!” She laughed then, louder than Skylar had ever heard her laugh.
“But really,” Meg said, collecting herself, “Even if it’s not your style now, it will be soon. I just saw it in Lucky. Plus it’ll look hot with your new hair.”
It was Wednesday evening, and the third time Skylar and Meg had hung out since they’d met in the ice cream shop two days ago. Skylar was getting used to Meg’s strange sense of humor. Like the other day, she’d told Skylar that only “superclose friends” could visit her and her cousins at their house. “We pick them out special,” she’d said. When Skylar had looked at her inquisitively, secretly wanting to know if she’d made the cut, Meg had giggled and said, “Don’t worry, Sky. I chose you the moment I saw you.”
This evening Meg had shown up brandishing a drugstore box with a blond model on it: “Let’s highlight your hair!” And she’d massaged the dye into Skylar’s hair—her fingers tracing wild patterns on her scalp—as Skylar sat there thinking, At last. A friend.
And not just any friend. A beautiful, cool, older friend. She felt a flutter in the back of her throat. What would Lucy have to say about that?
Now they were upstairs in Skylar’s tower bedroom, Skylar’s hair hanging damp around her shoulders.
“This is going to look awesome,” Meg said, twirling a strand of it around one of her fingers. They both stared at Skylar’s reflection in the mirror as Meg turned on the hair dryer. “You’re going to love it once it’s dry.”
If only Meg went to Ascension. . . .
Because what Skylar wanted more than anything was someone to whisper with in the halls, to pass notes to in class, to giggle with in assemblies. That kind of friend. Someone like Gabby. She was embarrassed to admit it, but she’d become slightly fixated on her blond rescuer from day one. Gabby was everything that Skylar wanted to be. She represented the new life Skylar imagined for herself, far away from her old demons.
Meg pointed to a book on the dresser. “Is that the yearbook?” When they’d hung out yesterday, Meg had suggested that Skylar check out last year’s Ascension yearbook from the school library. “Time for a crash course! Who do you know so far? Any cute boys at Ascension?”
Skylar felt warm, and not just because of the hot air being blasted at her head.
“I see that blush,” Meg said gleefully, shutting off the dryer and plopping down on the bed. “You better tell me!”
And so they began poring over the book. Skylar turned the pages slowly, picking out Gabby and her friends among the candid shots at pep rallies and dances.
As she flipped through, trying to find the sports pages so she could show Meg a picture of Pierce, she passed the section that highlighted Ascension’s artsy types. On the fine arts page she saw a charcoal drawing, heavy and dark, of an open eye surrounded by drooping flowers and bones. It was untitled, and done by someone named Sasha Bowlder. The picture startled her, and for a moment she couldn’t look away.
“That’s a beautiful piece,” Meg said, touching it lightly with a slender finger. “Too bad someone defaced it.”