The Academy

Chapter Twenty-Three

                   

To be perfectly honest, I wasn't ready for school to start up again.

         I'd have to stay in that cramped dorm room that was barely big enough for a single person, let alone two people, all night, every night. I'd have to see Headmaster Rosterford, who I was aware had murdered a student, every day. I'd have to go through each day, acting like everything was perfectly fine and I wasn't worried about a single thing. Which couldn't be further from the truth.

         My literary english grade was steadily declining. Mrs. Peterson kept asking me if I'd like to stay after and we could work on assignments together, but I would refuse. Getting help wasn't something that I was fond of. I preferred to figure everything out myself.

         Marisol was still upset about Warren. Not like I blamed her, but it wasn't fun waking up in the middle of the night to her silently sobbing in the other bed. I felt terrible for her, and I knew she didn't deserve it, but she sort of brought it on to herself.

         It was only the second week back and I was miserable.

         "It's okay, Marisol," I said to her, rubbing the palm of my right hand on her back in circles. "Like we've all said multiple times, Warren is a jerk."

"He's not," she muttered, bending so her head laid in her hands. Her elbows were perched on her knees. "He apologized to me last night."

"Over text message?"

         "Face to face."

         I exhaled loudly and rolled my eyes. "You met with him?" The amount of times I told her to not talk to him, especially face to face, was astounding. I knew that if she met with him face to face, she'd let whatever he did to her slide. It was a well-known fact that Marisol Harrington could not resist Warren van Gerald. We all knew it.

         "I did," she admitted. "I"m sorry, but he asked me to sneak out, so I did when everyone was asleep. We went to Ophelia's and talked it out."

"And?"

         "He apologized for the Beaumont Ball. I cried. He said that he still loved me. I cried some more. And then he said that he didn't want to date me on a regular basis and that he preferred to keep our love a secret."

"What did he mean by that?"

         Marisol pulled a blanket around her. The blanket. The one that everyone always used as a safety net every time they'd spill their guts out to me. "Date other people and then sneak out and practically cheat on whomever we're dating with each other during the night."

         "That's disgusting. I hope you said no."

"I did. I would never be able to be the other woman with him. I want to be the woman. His main girlfriend. Not some sort of slut he cheats on his girlfriend with."
   I didn't want that for Marisol either.

         The clock on the wall said ten o'clock. Marisol and I glanced at it at the exact same time, and she pulled the covers up around herself.

         "Goodnight," she cooed, digging her face into her pillow.

         "Goodnight," I replied, making my way to my own bed. On my bed was a new Shakespeare book. It was Ivy's. I borrowed it a couple days ago, promising that right when I'd finish it, I'd give it back. I read the last page right after school, forgot to give it back, and placed it on my bed. Ivy would probably still be awake, she usually didn't go to sleep until midnight, so I stepped out of my dorm room, the book in hand.

         The door to Ivy's dorm room was slightly cracked open. Strange. She always kept it closed and locked, even when she was in the room.

         I cracked it open a bit more, calling out, "Ivy?" in the softest voice I could muster. That's when I saw her.

         Ivy. Her tiny, lifeless body hanging from a rope, attached to a wooden beam on the ceiling.

         Not a sound came out of me. Immediately, I felt faint, and held onto the doorway to keep me standing upright. There was no way Ivy would've killed herself. She was the embodiment of excitement. Love. Lust for life. As her body hung limp from the beam, I knew what I had to do.

         The book fell from my hand as I searched through her drawers. If she didn't kill herself, someone else did. And who was the only person in the school who had murdered before?
       The room was completely spotless, like usual. No signs of struggle. I already knew that when the police came to investigate, they'd determine it as a suicide. But it wasn't. I knew it.

         In the bottom drawer was exactly what I was searching for. Vivienne Aldridge's diary.

         In that diary held proof that Vivienne and Headmaster Rosterford had an affair. That he wanted her dead because she had something against him that could ruin his life if it got out. That she met with him right before she died.

         Maybe if he were to kill Vivienne over what she knew, maybe he'd kill Ivy over what she knew, too.

         I held the diary under my armpit and slightly closed the door behind me with my elbow so my fingerprints wouldn't be on it. When I reached my dorm room, Marisol looked up at me from her bed with big, wide eyes.

         "Where were you?" she asked.

         "Nowhere," I replied, my voice catching in my throat. "I'm just going to put this book away and go to sleep."

         She rolled back over, thankfully not recognizing the diary, as I slid it under my mattress. There was no way that I could tell Marisol, Aspen, Carlisle, and Lindsay that I had it. They'd know that I took it from Ivy's room, which, by morning, would be a crime scene. That was exactly why I couldn't alert the people in the front office or call the police. They'd know I was in there and would assume it was I that tampered with evidence. I could get arrested. I wanted to call the police, but I couldn't. It would be better for everyone if they find Ivy themselves.