I’d been studying chess blogs, playing online. I’d even downloaded a book called Practical Chess Exercises. I still couldn’t beat him, but I’d seen him pause a few times and look up at me. It was pathetic, I know. But the urge to compete with him and win was a fire in my belly. Beck’s voice rang in my ears: Grow up.
“Do you like other games?” Luke asked. The corners of his mouth turned up in a grin that wasn’t quite a smile, not quite a sneer.
“What kind of games?” I asked.
“Checkmate,” he said. There was something unpleasant on his face. It took me a second to realize that it was pity. He pitied me, knew that I could never beat him, and was sorry for me that I kept trying.
“What?” I said, looking down at the board in dismay. “No.”
He didn’t say anything, just let me examine the pieces until I saw that his knight was threatening my king, and that the placement of his queen and his bishop made escape or evasion impossible.
“Wow,” I said. There was literally a taste in my mouth, a thick oatmeal of annoyance. “You’re amazing.”
He gave me that nod he seemed to have perfected, a princely acknowledgment of his own greatness. He’s a genius, his mother had told me. They call it “profoundly gifted” when your IQ score is over a hundred and eighty. And his levels are right around there.
It irked me because I, too, prided myself on my superior intelligence, had been classified as profoundly gifted in my youth. But he seemed smarter, had better focus, was more creative or something. But it was childish for me to care, wasn’t it? It wasn’t a competition. Why did it feel like one?
But his intellect works against him because of his other challenges, Rachel had qualified. He outsmarts the people trying to help him.
But what was wrong with him exactly? After that first afternoon, our time together had been relatively peaceful and even enjoyable. Of course, it had only been a short time. I didn’t doubt Rachel, and I knew they wouldn’t have taken him into Fieldcrest without good reason. But I hadn’t seen any evidence of behavior problems. He was a little arrogant, kind of obnoxiously sure of himself. There was something deeply unsettling about his cool, adult gaze, his often grown-up word choice and phrasing. I was smart enough to know that his charm was a bit superficial, put on. But there’d been none of the rages Rachel warned me about. If it happens, just sit very still and let him burn himself out. Don’t attempt to subdue him.
“You didn’t answer me,” he said.
He was packing up the board. Why bother playing again, really? his aura said. There was even something smug about the way he packed the soapstone pieces into their foam slots, placing them precisely then snapping closed the wooden case.
“Do I like other games?” I said. “You didn’t answer my question. What kind of games?”
“Games that you can win,” he said.
“Nice,” I said. I reached over to give him a playful push on the shoulder. My touch, though very gentle, elicited a wince.
“What?” I said.
He pulled down the neck of his striped oxford and I saw that on his shoulder was an enormous bruise, a black-and-purple rose against the snow of his skin. It sent a wave of concern through me.
“How did that happen?” I asked.
“I fell down the stairs last night,” he said. But he looked down at his cuticles. And I found myself thinking of that lock on the door. I was silent for a second, waiting for him to go on.
“My mom put ice on it,” he said. “But I got in a fight at school today and it got hurt again.”
There were lots of physical altercations at Fieldcrest. So many troubled kids in such close quarters, and violence was sure to erupt. In fact, it was one of the biggest criticisms of the place leveled by skeptics of Dr. Welsh’s work. The children were violent with each other, manipulated each other, the stronger sometimes preyed upon the weaker. Last year, after an article ran in the New York Times Magazine about the school, some parents had pulled their children from the program. They’d then gone on to form a group lobbying to close the school. All these kids in one place? Aren’t they just learning from each other, forming alliances? one parent railed in an online discussion about the school. Some of these kids, parents complained, are getting worse instead of better.
My internships there had been brief, just a semester each. But it wasn’t a happy place and I wasn’t sad to leave when they were over. My art therapy class had been an unmitigated failure (Langdon thought differently, but I knew it was bad). My sessions generally devolving into pandemonium with paint being thrown, or someone raging on the floor, or tears shed after cruel words were tossed about. Once, a particularly violent boy tried to stab me in the eye with his brush. Luckily, Langdon had been there to subdue him.
“So,” said Luke. “Games.”
“Sure,” I said. He seemed eager to change the subject, so I went along. I was going to bring some of this up with Langdon, ask his advice. “I like other games. Scrabble?”
“What about scavenger hunts?”
I thought about this. I wasn’t sure I’d ever participated in a scavenger hunt. I didn’t have that kind of childhood. I didn’t remember games, and family vacations, summer camps, and school field trips. I didn’t spend time with my cousins at the beach. My parents didn’t plan activities and playdates. So none of the places where scavenger hunts might have taken place even existed in my life.
“I don’t think I’ve ever done one,” I admitted.
His eyes went wide, and he leaned forward almost halfway across the table. “Never?”
“Nope,” I said. I had that feeling again, the uncomfortable buzz I get when I accidentally reveal how different my life was from almost everybody else’s. Not that Luke’s childhood was all fun and games. But I held my ground, didn’t backpedal with a Well, maybe, a long time ago. Luke was way too smart for that. “Never.”
“Wanna do one with me?” I remember thinking that he looked so childishly eager, so happy. I thought about the bruise on his shoulder, that lock on his door, his days spent at Fieldcrest. And I thought: It’s harmless. Why not?
But maybe, even then, it was more than that. He was leveling a dare, and I was childish enough, competitive enough, to take it. I wanted to play his games. But more than that, I wanted to win. No. I wanted to beat Luke. I know. It’s sad and terribly irresponsible when the adults act like children. But we’re not so far from that place, most of us. Most of us grow up very slowly.
“Sure,” I said. “When do we start?”
“Soon,” he said. And then he did something strange. He walked around the table and hugged me. It was soft and sweet, but I sat frozen a minute, not sure of what to do. I wouldn’t say I’m the most affectionate person in the world. In fact, physical contact makes me pretty uncomfortable. I fought not to pull back, and then finally closed my arms awkwardly around him.
6
When I got back to the dorm, I knew something was wrong before I entered my room. The door stood ajar, and I could hear voices within. There had been a lot of chatter around the espresso machine when I entered the lobby-which was normal. But a silence seemed to fall as I entered. And girls who ordinarily wouldn’t have given me a second glance looked at me strangely.
Standing inside our suite, there were two uniformed officers, and two other official-looking adults standing near the fireplace. Ainsley was sitting on the couch, crying. Our dorm mom, Margie, who had been responsible for taking care of Evangeline girls for twenty-five years, was there. I’ve seen it all, girls, she said every year at orientation. So don’t bother trying to pull one over. No room parties. No overnight guests in your room. No booze. No pot. There’s no curfew, but if you’re expected, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to let someone know where you are. We all like to think we’re safe here, and usually we are. But things happen, as we all know.