Page 91 of Because I Killed Him
I’m leaving my favorite class, Political Theory & Governance, when a group of Green girls spots me by the elevators. As they close in, I recognize most of their faces. We’ve already been formally introduced. Now that I’m part of Edmund’s entourage, introductions no longer feel threatening.
“Good day, Miss Waldsten,” one girl, Miss Pryce, says with a graceful curtsy. She’s red-haired and curvy, with a heart-shaped face and tan skin as flawless as the photo on her Quill profile. Miss Pryce posted a flood of vicious shit about me during the first few weeks of class. Now the sneer is gone, replaced by a beaming smile that shows off a neat row of eager white teeth.
“Would you care to join my friends and me at the Peacock Club this evening?” she asks. “We are celebrating my birthday, and I would be happy if you could accompany us.”
I know exactly what this is. It’s Edmund. The girls either want an introduction to him or are angling for a place in his entourage. Either way, they think pretending we’re old friends is their way in. While I’m tempted to shoot Miss Pryce down and tell her exactly what I think of her, I know the satisfaction wouldn’t be worth it. I don’t need her friendship, but the last thing I want is her hostility.
“I am afraid I must decline your invitation,” I say. “I already have plans this evening. However, I would be delighted to accept an invitation for a future date.”
Miss Pryce’s smile widens. “Most certainly, Miss Waldsten. I look forward to the opportunity to become better acquainted.”
The girls flanking her nod happily in agreement.
I smile back, despite the posts Miss Pryce made about me still writhing in my mind. Even if she deleted them, I remember every word.
In the days that follow, the advances harden into a relentless campaign.
A girl in my gymnastics class slips a pastel envelope into my bag, inviting me to train with her and her friends over the weekend. A boy in Civilized World History leans over with an easy grin and asks me to join him in his private box at an upcoming horse race. I politely decline most invitations, suggesting we might meet in the future, and the few I accept feel like work. It’s difficult to sit in a jazz club and pretend I’m enjoying myself with the same students who would’ve happily watched me bleed out a few weeks earlier. When I can’t stand the company and my smile starts to feel glued on, I find ways to enjoy the atmosphere instead.
I start finding gifts in my suite: gowns, shoes, and jewelry with exorbitant price tags, each labeled with a name in a font large enough to be a wall sign. I pick up one gift—a platinum-and-diamond cocktail watch worth a small fortune—and see the sender is Aleksander Kurek. I know him. His family has money, but not the kind that buys something like this. Aleksander must’ve spent his entire student allowance on the watch, hoping for something I can’t even give him. Access. Protection. A place in Edmund’s entourage, just as I once sought.
I set the watch down, feeling guilty even to touch it.
At some point, I realize the sudden change in behavior is only partly due to Edmund. It’s also tied to Bliss, or the drug’s absence.
The trance is finally lifting. I see it in people’s eyes as they walk through the first-year Lecture Hall corridors, like windows wiped clean of fog. They’re waking up and realizing how much the drug controlled them. Many students grow more cautious, while others grow more desperate. They see the playing field of Grandmaster with sharpened, frightening clarity.
One morning, I break away early from a run with Charlotte on the forest trails, my tired, aching legs struggling to keep up with her pace. As I cross a golf course toward the Green Dormitory, a smoky-eyed Green steps into my path. We were introduced at a university polo match a few days ago, when she paid my drink tab before I could. She looks elegant in an embroidered felt cloche and a wrap coat with an oversized fox-fur collar, but her face is pale, and her lips are drawn tight.
“Miss Waldsten,” she says, her eyes anxious as she offers a stiff curtsy. “I am very pleased to find you here. I was told you exercise on these trails on weekdays.”
“Occasionally,” I say. “I am happy to see you, Miss Linwood. Are you well?”
Miss Linwood’s smile falters, and the composure she’s been fighting to maintain cracks. “Not so well.” She touches my arm, gently at first, then her grip intensifies. “Please allow me to speak, Miss Waldsten. Please hear what I have to say.”
I nod despite my discomfort. “I will.”
“I did something—something entirely unintentional—and now I find myself low on civil credits. Unfortunately, my family is not in a position to assist me. I sought help in every way I could imagine, but every attempt has failed. That is why I have come to you.”
People are watching us now. A golfer in an argyle sweater lowers his putter to listen.
“How do you think I can assist you?” I ask, silently dreading what she’ll say.
“By introducing me to Mr. Prew,” Miss Linwood says. “If you put in a kind word for me or invite me to one of your gatherings, perhaps he will find me worthy of his company.”
I shift uneasily on the grass. “I am very sorry, Miss Linwood. Pleasebelieve me when I say I wish I could help you. But I do not have permission to issue invitations.”
“Miss Waldsten, I beg you.” Her mouth quivers as she steps closer, her chest rising and falling rapidly. For a moment, I think she might pass out on the grass. “I am under two hundred civil credits. I am already being considered for expulsion. If you do not help me, I will surely face arrest.”
Regret overwhelms me as I search for a way to help her, but I don’t know what to do. Being a member of Edmund’s entourage doesn’t give me influence over him or the people he meets. Still, after he defended me at the Tangerine Tree, I understand why Miss Linwood and half the university think we’re close. They must think I’m heartless for refusing to help them, just as they refused to help me.
I try to explain, but all the events of the past few weeks funnel into a single, crushing point, and my words collapse before they can form.
“I am sorry, Miss Linwood,” I say. “Please excuse me.”
I hurry off and duck into the first place with an ounce of privacy, the women’s lavatory. After locking myself in an empty stall, I lean against the door, my arms wrapped around my chest. The pressure of these first weeks at Grandmaster feels like being slowly buried alive.
I call Dad.
