I examine the hedge, the tightly wound leaves an unnaturally perky green. I reach out and finger them. Fake. My eyes climb the eight feet of wall. On the top are small metal spikes.
“For the birds,” Gordon says in my ear. I jump, then picture a bird impaled on every spear, sparrows and warblers and yellowthroats trapped in the land of progress. I let go of the leaves.
Sanderson continues down the narrow path between the house and wall. When he realizes no one’s behind him, that we’re all ashen with fright after that scream, he stops. “Don’t worry about that. Probably a class exercise.”
“Probably?” I ask.
“In the woods?” Chloe says.
Cheryl’s voice quavers. “It sounded like someone was being tortured.”
Sanderson raises his hands in mock surrender. “We never claimed to be ordinary.”
“Isn’t that why you’ve signed up?” Gordon says.
Come for the self-improvement; stay for the waking nightmares.
Sanderson keeps walking. The rest of us hesitate before following. “Have you heard of exposure therapy? Wisewood’s all about conquering fear. To do that, we gotta be vulnerable. Sometimes vulnerability means silly dances, and sometimes it means screaming at the top of your lungs. I’ve done both. You wouldn’t believe how free you feel after.”
I picture Kit deep in the woods, shrieking until her lungs give out, until her throat is raw and ruined. My knees wobble again. The ever-present knot in the pit of my stomach tightens, but Cheryl and Chloe are lightening up. They no longer share my concern. Here is the rationalization they’ve been waiting for: weirdness with a purpose. Eccentricity as medicine.
When we reach the back of the big house, I survey the grounds. Everything is buried under snow. Pewter clouds have infested the morning’s blue sky, and without the sun the cold is brutal. A dense fog creeps our way again, like it’s patiently followed us all the way from Rockland. The wind wails, rattling my teeth. Though footprints are scattered across the grounds, there’s still no sight of human beings besides us. I feel their eyes, though, sense their presence.
The island is big, the size of at least four or five football fields from what I can see. A pole with cream-colored arrows stands before us. One slants left to the cafeteria, a long, dark green building that extends from the big house. Other arrows face right, one to a classroom in a single-wide trailer. Another is labeled GUESTHOUSES, pointing to rings of cabins. I turn a slow circle. In every direction looms the eight-foot wall. The trees beyond the wall dwarf it in size. Together they cut off any ocean view. You can’t even hear the waves from here; the wind overpowers every other sound. I bite my thumbnail.
Gordon turns to Sanderson. “Please take Mrs. Douglas and Miss Sullivan to the cafeteria for lunch, and then drop their bags off in rooms forty-two and forty-three. After lunch you’ll give them the usual tour of the island and show them to their cabins.” He glances at the women and bows his head. “Enjoy your stay.”
Then he turns to me. “I’ll take care of you.”
Sanderson rushes away from Gordon’s scrutiny, leading Cheryl and Chloe toward the cafeteria as instructed. He holds the door open for the women. The three disappear inside.
Once they’re gone, Gordon, as eerily quiet as the grounds, fixes his attention on me. Where are all the guests? I debate taking off, sprinting from building to building until I find my sister. Gordon may be fit, but he can’t possibly outrun me.
The doors to the cafeteria burst open. People pour out: twentysomethings, the sprightliest elderly I’ve ever seen, and every generation in between. My shoulders sag with relief. Lunch must have just finished. I scan every face for Kit. The residents of Wisewood wear jeans and puffy jackets, bundled up against the cold. Some of them carry stacks of books; others have cleaning equipment in hand. They appear relaxed but move with purpose. Two young women walk with their heads back and tongues out, giggling as they try to catch snowflakes. Everyone seems . . . normal.
Happier than normal, if I’m being honest. Few dark circles lurk under eyes. Their skin shines. They beam as they pass us. There are no flowing white robes, no blood dripping down faces. Maybe Wisewood isn’t to blame for Kit cutting me off. Her decision to join might not have been tough at all. Maybe she was sick of her know-it-all big sister criticizing her every decision.
Kit and I bickered about a lot of things (crayons, bikes, boys, the importance of saving for retirement), but most of all, we fought about Mom. Kit tiptoed around our mother. She let her lie in bed for days, whereas I tugged her out of it and nudged her into the shower. Kit was the favorite because she never pushed, because she made room for weakness like it was a member of our family. She was soft on Mom, so Mom was soft on her. They rubbed each other’s backs and finished each other’s sentences. They never missed a Puzzle Tuesday; they knew I hated puzzles. The two of them seemed like one mind split between two bodies. I tried to win my mother’s affection through achievement, breaking school reading program records and lifeguarding at the local pool. She’d pat me on the back, then return to her puzzle.
When I was six, I lost my first tooth and carefully hid it under my pillow. The tooth fairy never came. By the time Kit lost hers a few years later, I’d discovered who the tooth fairy was, or who was supposed to play her. I couldn’t bear to see the disappointment on Kit’s face that I knew had been on mine. Since I didn’t have any money, I tucked my favorite toy (a small stuffed elephant that Kit had long coveted) under my sister’s sleeping head, putting her tiny incisor in my pocket. I tried to pick up Mom’s slack wherever I could, putting Eggo waffles in the toaster before school, checking that my sister had finished all her homework and washed her face. Maybe that’s why Kit forgave my mother’s shortcomings; she at least had a childhood.
When a doctor diagnosed Mom with lung cancer three years ago, Kit’s and my fighting intensified. A year after the funeral, Kit announced she was moving to Wisewood. I know the way I’d handled Mom’s illnesses disgusted her. She doesn’t know the half of it. For two years, this virus has been eating me from the inside out.
I watch the cafeteria group disperse. They may appear harmless, but at least one of them has threatened me. I focus, turn to Gordon. “Any idea where Kit is?”
He shakes his head.
I cross my arms, tired of his reticence. “What’s the name of your supervisor?”
He smirks at me. “My what?”
“Who do you report to?”
“We all report to Teacher,” he mocks me.
“If you won’t help, then I want to talk to him.”
His voice drips with condescension. “You know nothing about this place.”
“I’m all ears,” I snap.