Dead Beautiful (7 page)

“Obsessed? What do you mean? I thought you said he didn’t talk to anyone.”

“He doesn’t. The thing is … he’s beautiful. He’s this rugged, devastatingly gorgeous guy who has inexplicably chosen a life of solitude. And he’s brilliant. Some Latin prodigy or something. Most people here can’t decide if they love him, hate him, or are scared of him. For most people it’s all three. Especially my brother. Brandon
hates
it when I talk about him, which is sort of weird because I don’t think they’ve spoken even once.”

“Who is he?”

Eleanor lowered her voice, the name rolling off her tongue like a dark secret. “Dante Berlin.”

I laughed. “Dante? Like the Dante who wrote the
Inferno
? Did he pick that name just to help cultivate his ‘dark and mysterious’ persona?”

Eleanor shook her head in disapproval. “Just wait till you see him. You won’t be laughing then.”

I rolled my eyes. “I bet his real name is something boring like Eugene or Dwayne.”

I expected Eleanor to laugh or say something in return, but instead she gave me a concerned look. I ignored it.

“He sounds like a snob to me. I bet he’s one of those guys who know they’re good-looking. He probably hasn’t even read the
Inferno.
It’s easy to pretend you’re smart when you don’t talk to anyone.”

Eleanor still didn’t respond. “Shh …” she muttered under her breath.

But before I could say “What?” I heard a cough behind me. Oh God, I thought to myself, and slowly turned around.

“Hi,” he said with a half grin that seemed to be mocking me.

And that’s how I met Dante Berlin.

So how do you describe someone who leaves you speechless?

He was beautiful. Not Monet beautiful or white sandy beach beautiful or even Grand Canyon beautiful. It was both more overwhelming and more delicate. Like gazing into the night sky and feeling incredibly small in comparison. Like holding a shell in your hand and wondering how nature was able to make something so complex yet so perfect: his eyes, dark and pensive; his messy brown hair tucked behind one ear; his arms, strong and lean beneath the cuffs of his collared shirt.

I wanted to say something witty or charming, but all I could muster up was a timid “Hi.”

He studied me with what looked like a mix of disgust and curiosity.

“You must be Eugene,” I said.

“I am.” He smiled, then leaned in and added, “I hope I can trust you to keep my true identity a secret. A name like Eugene could do real damage to my mysterious persona.”

I blushed at the sound of my words coming from his lips. He didn’t seem anything like the person Eleanor had described.

“And you are—”

“Renée,” I interjected.

“I was going to say, ‘in my seat,’ but Renée will do.”

My face went red. “Oh, right. Sorry.”

“Renée like the philosopher René Descartes? How esoteric of you. No wonder you think you know everything. You probably picked that name just to cultivate your overly analytical persona.”

I glared at him. I knew he was just dishing back my own insults, but it still stung. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” I said curtly, and pushed past him before he could respond, waving a quick good-bye to Eleanor, who looked too stunned to move.

I turned and walked to the last row, using all of my self-control to resist looking back.

“Sorry,” I said as I squeezed through the row at the end of the alphabet, stepping over feet and pushing past knees. I stopped in front of the blond boy I’d seen from up front. He looked up at me through his glasses, then quickly averted his eyes, as if he had done something wrong.

“Is this
W
?” I asked.

It took a few seconds for him to realize I was speaking to him. Finally he nodded. “Welch, like the juice,” he said, referring to himself, “and Wurst,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper as he pointed to the girl to his left, “like the sausage.”

I let out a surprised laugh. “I’m Renée. Winters, like the season,” I said, and sat down next to him.

He was a shrimp of a person, and blond all the way down to his eyelashes. He had inordinately skinny arms and looked like he’d spent the majority of his life in his parents’ basement playing video games. Yet still, there was something strangely interesting about him. I tried to place it. Was it the fact that he hadn’t blinked since we’d started talking, or the way he leaned a little too close when he spoke? No, it was something more.

“I’m Nathaniel. I mean, that’s my first name.” He adjusted his glasses. His shaggy hair looked like it hadn’t been washed or brushed in days, and his skin was as pasty as waxed paper, save for a collection of blemishes on his chin and forehead.

I smiled. “Got it.”

“You’re new here, right?”

I nodded.

“Me too. Well, I was last year. I’m not new anymore.”

A hush fell over the crowd. From the back, a line of people filed onto the lawn.

“Those are the professors,” Nathaniel said.

They walked stiffly and all wore the same blue-and-gold scarf around their necks. The frayed ends dangled loosely above their waists as they took their seats in the front row.

At the center of the lawn was an ancient oak tree. Its gnarled trunk was so thick that it looked as if three trees had twisted themselves into one. Draped over its branches were two flags. They were deep blue, and bore a constellation of a bear and the Gottfried crest of arms in yellow stitching. A small podium stood between them.

And then out of the darkness emerged the tallest woman I had ever seen, striding through the trees like the wisp of a ghost.

“That’s the headmistress, Calysta Von Laark,” said Nathaniel.

She stood at least six feet tall, with wavy white hair that was pinned loosely to the back of her head. She had blue eyes, large hands, and a slender figure that was slightly masculine in its proportions.

She walked to the podium and waited. The wind slowed, and everything was still.

“Students, faculty, welcome to another illustrious year at Gottfried Academy.” Her voice was low and velvety as it echoed off the buildings surrounding the lawn.

“I hope that you all had an enlightening holiday and were able to use the time away from your studies to wade in the warm waters of everything that summer has to offer. To our new students, welcome. There is a complete list of school policies and procedures in the Gottfried
Code of Discipline,
which you received with your books and schedules. If you have any questions, I trust that our returning students will be able to aid you, as well as the dormitory parents, Mrs. Lynch and Professor Bliss.”

A man and woman from the front row stood up and waved.

“Here at the Academy, we believe that limitations challenge the mind. Gottfried has a series of regulations that we hope all of our students will abide by during their stay here. While this is slightly out of procedure, I would like to use this time to reiterate a few that are especially critical after the events that occurred last spring.”

A murmur floated over the benches.
What happened last spring?
I wondered, leaning over to ask Nathaniel.

“Someone died,” he whispered. “A first year named Benjamin Gallow.”

“What?” I asked. “How?”

But we were interrupted by the headmistress’s booming voice, as she recounted the rules.

“First: boys are never permitted to be in the girls’ dormitory, and vice versa. Second: leaving the school grounds is strictly prohibited and punishable by expulsion. And third” —the headmistress paused to brush a cluster of white hair away from her eyes—“under no exception is anyone allowed to enter into a romantic relationship of
any
nature at this academy.”

What? I glanced around me, incredulous that they would even think of banning dating. But no one else seemed fazed. The sun was setting behind the library. Almost simultaneously the lights in every building on campus went out, leaving us to the purpling twilight.

“And, of course, let me emphasize that there shall be no use of artificial light after sunset, with the exception of candles. In this world, darkness is always looming on the horizon. At Gottfried, instead of avoiding the dark, we meet it head on. As headmistress, I urge you to do the same with your studies and with every obstacle you face in the future. Do not accept the confines of the world as you perceive it. Instead, look for what you cannot see. There are universes among us, within us. Our only way out of darkness is to learn how to see without light.”

The crowd was silent. Crickets chirped lazily from the grass around us.

“And now, in the time-honored tradition of the great thinkers who came before us, let us cast away everything we know and attempt to see the world as it really is.”

The headmistress closed her eyes and bowed her head. Everyone followed, and I did the same. Then she began to speak in a language that was far different from anything I’d heard before. It started as a low murmur, and gradually grew into a chant. I opened an eye and tried to catch a glimpse of Dante, but all I could see was the back of his neck. It was a beautiful neck, smooth and lean beneath the collar of his shirt.

But my thoughts were interrupted by a voice tickling my ear. “Bring us death,” said Nathaniel, barely audible.

I gasped. “What?”

“That’s what she’s saying:
‘Bring us death so we can study it. To capture the mind of a child is to gain immortality.’
” His voice cracked, and he swallowed self-consciously. “
‘So that when we die, our minds live forever.’
”

I stared at the headmistress. It seemed a little morbid for a high school motto. In my old school, the principal didn’t even give a welcome speech, let alone hold some bizarre nighttime ritual.

“It’s Latin,” Nathaniel said, pretending to keep his eyes closed like everyone else. “She’s saying that even though our bodies will die, our achievements will live on forever.”

“Shhh,” hissed a voice from the section across from us. A prim and preppy girl glared at us, then shut her eyes.

“That’s Genevieve Tart,” he said quietly. “She’s a junior. And she hates me.”

“Why would she hate you?” I asked.

“My presence annoys her.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“No, I can just tell. She barely speaks to me. And she thinks my name is Neil.”

“That’s ridiculous. How can you know she hates you if she doesn’t speak to you?” I asked in a strained whisper.

“Shhh!” Genevieve said again, this time to me.

Nathaniel stared at his feet. “See?”

Before I could respond, a boy from the farthest section of the benches stood up. He was tall and athletic, with a face strikingly like Eleanor’s. Her older brother, I realized.

He walked through the rows of his section with a military strut until he stopped behind a girl and tapped her on the shoulder. She was slender and rosy, with almond eyes and straight black hair.

Once tapped, she walked down the rows and tapped a short, bony boy, who made his way to the third-year benches and tapped a girl with freckles and red hair. She tapped a serious-looking boy who made his way to the back, directly toward me.

He stopped at our row, and I closed my eyes and waited. But the tap never came. Instead, he touched the girl across from us. Genevieve Tart rose and gracefully made her way down the aisle.

The six students lined up in front of the podium, their heads bowed and eyes closed.

“The tapping of the new Board of Monitors,” Nathaniel explained. “Model students.” His voice betrayed a hint of bitterness. “They make sure everyone keeps the rules.”

“How are they chosen?”

“They’re picked by the faculty. It’s really difficult to get. There’s this test you have to pass, but no one knows what it is, and the Monitors won’t say. That’s probably why they were chosen. They’re suck-ups.”

Headmistress Von Laark stopped chanting and left the podium. She approached the first boy from behind and tapped him on the shoulder. “Brandon Bell,” she announced in a commanding voice.

She moved quickly down the line. “Ingrid Fromme.

“Schuyler Soverel.

“Laney Tannenbaum.

“Maxwell Platkin.

“Genevieve Tart.”

Only juniors and seniors could be tapped, Nathaniel explained. Brandon, Ingrid, and Schuyler were fourth years, and were on the board last year. The third years were Laney, Maxwell, and Genevieve. The headmistress pursed her lips, dark red and elegant. “Board of Monitors. Tonight I bind you to Gottfried Academy. From this moment on, the student body is your body. The student voice is your voice… .”

The moon rose large behind the trees. Headmistress Von Laark lifted her head and gazed around the lawn.

“And now,” she bellowed, “let us wake.”

One by one the Board of Monitors opened their eyes and raised their heads. All of the students followed suit. The night sky was clear. The reflection of the moon rippled in the lake, and a cool breeze fluttered above, rustling the leaves.

The headmistress removed a small knife from the podium and cut a deep slit into the bark of the tree. Thick red sap oozed out. She dipped her fingers into it and tapped each Monitor on the forehead, smearing a crimson streak just above their eyes.

Then she spoke in Latin, her voice booming across the green.

Nathaniel translated. “
‘Blood from the oak tree, blood from our founders, resting in the roots beneath. May our minds be deciduous, constantly being reborn.’
”

The headmistress stopped speaking and turned to the new Board of Monitors. They looked frightening, almost biblical, with the sap dripping down their foreheads. I had never heard of a tree that bled red sap.

“Gottfried Academy, I present to you the Board of Monitors. In celebration, I would like to invite you all to join us in the Megaron for the first-of-the-year feast.”

And with that, the headmistress walked past the board, and one by one they filed off the green and back toward the dorms. The professors followed. No one clapped. No one spoke. The wind blew overhead, making the campus feel vacant.

Once they were gone, everyone stood up. I glanced back at the front row, but Dante wasn’t there. Only Eleanor, talking to a group of girls. The rest of the students had already begun to head to the Megaron, which apparently meant
great hall
in Greek, for the feast. Everyone except for Nathaniel, who was hanging around the benches, as if he were waiting for something.