The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall
By: Katie Alender
“Delia,” my father said, his words coming slowly at first, and then gaining speed, “the drama queen act has to stop. You have done everything in your power to ruin this for the whole family, and I for one am sick of it.”
“Ruin it?” I asked. “It came ruined!”
“Brad,” Mom said, clucking her tongue. “You know I hate the phrase drama queen.”
“Yes, and I’m sorry, but it applies.” Dad took a deep breath and turned to face me. “I know you feel like you’re some sort of victim in all this, but here’s the fact: You did something wrong. And you got caught. And now you can accept the consequences like a man.”
Mom hmmphed.
“Like a grown-up, then,” Dad said. “You only think about yourself. And that needs to change.”
I turned away.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.
Did they seriously not understand?
“Leaving,” I said. “So go ahead and start cooking up some new consequences.”
“Cordelia,” Dad said. His voice was as serious as death. “You’re not leaving.”
I didn’t even bother looking back. I threw the words over my shoulder.
“Watch me,” I said.
*
My messenger bag was right where I’d left it, but my purse was gone, and I couldn’t leave without my wallet and phone. I paused, imagining for a moment that I’d heard shrill laughter—then shook it off and went back to my room. My purse was lying limply on the floor, its contents spread out as if a wild animal had rifled through them.
I heard my parents coming down the hall, their low, tense voices punctuated by Janie’s excited outbursts. Then there was murmuring, and Janie cried out indignantly, which I took to mean that our parents were telling her, yet again, to mind her own beeswax. Loud stomping and the muffled slam of a door confirmed my suspicions.
I picked up my purse, braced myself, and looked up to see Mom and Dad standing just outside my door.
“Look,” I said. “I understand why this whole summer project thing is important to you. But I can’t spend another minute in this house.”
They exchanged a long, exhausted look, which seemed like a good sign. Like I was wearing them down—never underestimate the power of wearing your parents down.
“You’re overwrought,” Dad said.
“I’m not, though.” I set my purse on the bed and forced my voice to sound reasonable. “I’m of perfectly sound mind and body. But I don’t know how long that will last, if you make me stay here.”
Mom pinched the bridge of her nose. Her sinuses were probably going crazy from all the dust, which meant it wouldn’t be long before she ended up with a migraine. I considered inviting her to come with me. Let Dad and Janie get their weird kicks out of this twisted place. My mother and I had standards.
Then Mom reached out. I thought she was going to, I don’t know, try to take my hand or something. I made up my mind not to let her.
But instead, she ever so gently took hold of the doorknob … and ever so gently closed the door.
I stared for a second, not quite comprehending. But when I heard the jangling of the key ring, I got it. I mean, I seriously Got It.
They had locked me in.
“What?!” I yelled. “What are you doing?”
“Honey, it’s only temporary. Until we can figure this out.” My mother’s voice was thin and brittle.
I tried to yank open the door, but it didn’t budge. Of course it didn’t—it was bolted shut. It was doing what it was designed to do. “You’re locking me up in here? Like a crazy person? Just another hysterical troubled female?”
I could practically picture Mom flinching.
“Of course you’re not crazy,” Dad said. The unhappiness in his voice was palpable. “But you need to take a little time to relax.”
“I don’t want time! I’m not going to relax!” I got louder and louder, until I was basically shouting my lungs out. “I need to get out of this awful place, now!”
“Delia,” Dad said softly. “We simply can’t allow you to run off again.”
Again. The word scraped the inside of my brain like a piece of balled-up tinfoil.
Of course they would connect two completely unrelated incidents into a pattern, as if I were a serial killer from some criminal profiling TV show.
“This isn’t like Daytona.” I managed to lower my voice but couldn’t keep my teeth from gritting. “I’m not trying to run off somewhere. I’m just trying to get out of this place.”
“But … why?” Mom asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just need to.” And when I said it, I realized how true it was—how desperately I had to get away from whatever was in this house. My skin began to feel like it was crawling with insects. I rubbed my hands on my arms, trying to push the sensation away.
“Please,” I said. “Please just let me out.”
“We will,” Dad said.
“When?”
I could feel their helplessness radiating through the door.
“We’re not sure,” Mom said lamely.
I tugged on the seam of my sweater, my rage and indignation rising, until the pent-up energy propelled me toward the door. I slammed into it with my shoulder.