The Vault of Dreamers (7 page)

“What happened?” I asked.

“This counselor, he kept putting his arm around my shoulder,” she said. “I shrugged
him off, and then he put his hand around my waist. It was really creepy. ‘What’s your
hurry? Watch your step,’ he kept saying. ‘Listen to the crickets.’ Like it was a nature
walk, but it wasn’t.”

Janice slowly raked a hand back into her hair.

“Creepy,” I said.

“I know, right?” she said. “Then one of the boys came running along the trail behind
us. He caught up with us, and I was so glad. He said he had to use the biffy. That’s
what we called the bathroom. He walked with us all the way back to the cabins and
the slime ball counselor didn’t touch me again.”

“Let me guess. It was Burnham.”

Janice picked up her brush and absently pulled a matting of hairs out of the bristles.
She gave a crooked smile. “We passed the biffy and he stayed with us the whole time
until I went into the nurse’s office. I think he knew. I think he was protecting me.”

“How old were you?” I asked.

“Like, twelve?”

“Didn’t you become friends after that?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “I was kind of embarrassed, and camp ended the next day anyway. I
hadn’t thought about it in ages. Then I saw him here.”

“All grown up and not chubby,” I said.

“Yes. But still nice.”

I absently fingered my necklace. “Do you think he remembers?” I asked.

“I have no idea.”

I wondered where Burnham was now. Probably working on his computer game. I recalled
the image from Dr. Ash’s office of a young, Burnham-like kid, gazing into a campfire.
It was odd to think Janice could have seen him that way once. The elusive connection
was enough to be inspiring.

“Maybe I’ll take some footage instead of going for a run,” I said.

“Footage for what?” she asked. “You only have a couple hours. Not even.”

“I don’t know yet,” I said, but I was already getting ideas. I had the mini video
camera my old science teacher had given me. Sometimes I liked to just collect footage,
though I hadn’t done it since I’d come to Forge. It wouldn’t actually be a documentary,
but it could capture my last hours here. Like a journal. I’d be making meaning for
myself.

I checked my blip rank on the panel by the clock. My rank had dropped to 72 from my
high of 69 at lunch. Scores were moving around a lot, just as Burnham had said they
would. I looked at the last name on the list: 100 Anna Mezzaluna. I didn’t know her,
but I was getting an idea.

“I’m going to take some footage of the losers,” I said.

6

THE LOSERS

“LIKE THAT’S NOT
sick and cruel,” Janice said. She did the double jerk of her thumb to indicate the
cameras. “I wouldn’t.”

“I would,” I said. “It’s reality. There’s nothing wrong with that. Do you know Anna
Mezzaluna?”

“She sleeps there,” Janice said, nodding at the sleep shell beside hers where three
black, matching suitcases were neatly lined up by size. “She’s a classical cellist.”

“Can you find her for me? Look up her profile on
The Forge Show
.”

“I don’t have to,” Janice said. “She’s always in the practice rooms at the music building.”

Perfect
, I thought. “Come with me. Please? You know you don’t want to sit around here.”

I completely expected her to say no.

Janice zipped the closure on a bag of earrings. “I still have to call my parents,”
she said. “I’ll meet you at the music building. Just give me ten minutes.”

“Fine,” I said.

“What exactly are you going to do?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “Trust the process, right?”

I ran past the other sleep shells and down the stairs, passing the floors for the
older girls. I took the back door out of the girls’ dorm, cut behind the dance building,
and hurried to the music building, where I followed arrows to a warren of practice
rooms under the auditorium. The hallway was stuffy and smelled like cork. Each door
had a small, narrow window and a sign-up schedule. I could faintly hear the muffled
sound of jazz piano from one room, but most of the others were dark and silent as
I passed.

At the last room, I caught the clear, crooning notes of a cello, and I peeked in the
little window. A girl’s slender back was toward me, with the curving wooden knob of
her cello over her shoulder. It gleamed beside her smooth black hair. I considered
just filming her from the window, but then I’d be no better than an anonymous
Forge Show
camera. I knocked.

The music stopped. The girl looked over her shoulder, and I saw her small, pointed
face for the first time. She reached to open the door without rising.

“Yes?” she asked.

Panels of white cork lined the walls, soaking up her voice until it was wispy thin.
She was alone in the little room, with nothing else but her cello, her cello case,
a chair, and an empty music stand. Four camera buttons were discretely positioned
in the corners.

“I’m Rosie. I’m getting some footage from the last hour before the fifty cuts,” I
said.

“And?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure what to say. It suddenly seemed like a horrible idea, what I was doing.
I couldn’t tell her she ranked dead last.

“Can I film you playing?” I asked.

She looked at me a long moment, and her expression broke into a pained little smile.
“It won’t make a difference,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “But can I?”

She gave a wave with her cello bow. “Be my guest,” she said.

I sidestepped into the corner, scooted down on my heels, and lifted the camera to
my eye. The girl, Anna, set her bow on a string, positioned her finger on the same
string higher up, and closed her eyes. For a moment, she was still, and I hardly dared
to breathe. Then the bow began to move, and music resonated into the tiny room.

She didn’t know me. I’d never met her before. She had no reason to give me anything,
but she played with such soul-searching tenderness that the song spilled into me,
filling places I never knew were empty. I didn’t dare move. I hardly breathed. Long
minutes later, when she finished and the last note faded into silence, she rested
her bow hand on her knee.

I lowered my camera.

“I’m speechless,” I said.

“Thanks.” She opened her eyes but didn’t look at me.

“I wish I’d met you earlier,” I said.

She examined the calluses on her fingers. “You met me now,” she said.

“That’s true,” I said.

The quiet was as empty as the music had just been full, but it wasn’t sad. It was
powerful. Defiant. Anna nodded at my camera. “Good luck with that.”

Her approval meant a lot to me. A knock came softly at the door and I looked over
to see Janice outside the little window. As she opened the door, a welcome influx
of cooler air stirred against my neck.

“Did I miss anything?” Janice asked.

“Yes,” I said. I switched off my camera. “Do you want to come with us?” I asked Anna.
“We’re going to find someone else to film.”

“No. I’m good.”

“You sure? Come with us,” I insisted.

She shook her head. “I want to be here.”

Janice beckoned me. I slipped around Anna to the door.

“That was wonderful,” I said.

Anna balanced her bow again in her hand. “Thank you,” she said. “Close the door.”

I did, stepping out into the hallway. Faintly, from inside, I heard Anna starting
another piece.

“What happened in there?” Janice asked, whispering.

“It was incredible,” I said. “She played for me.” I’d never been next to a cello like
that. I had no way to describe how Anna had sucked me into her music, or the power
in the silence afterward. She’d given me a perfect gift just when I was ready to receive
it, and somehow it felt even more generous because we were strangers.

“Can I see?” Janice asked, reaching for my camera.

“No,” I said. “We have to find the next person.”

“I bet that boosted Anna’s blip rank,” Janice said, pulling out her phone. “She’s
up to eighty-two!” Janice said. “That’s a huge jump!”

“Who’s at one hundred now?” I asked, looking over her shoulder at her phone. Someone
else must have slid down to take the bottom rank.

Janice skimmed her phone. “Terry Fieldstone. He’s in the library. It looks like he’s
reading or sleeping.”

“Let’s go find him,” I said.

We did. In worn boots and a plaid shirt, Terry was sprawled in one of the low armchairs
near the windows. It turned out he was reading Shakespeare and memorizing the “But
soft, what light from yonder window breaks?” speech from
Romeo and Juliet
. When I asked if he would recite it for me to record, he tilted his head back in
his chair and his gaze went far away. He spoke the words tenderly, effortlessly, as
if he were remembering a dream he’d once had, and it lifted a brush of goose bumps
along my arms.

When I lowered my camera, he still didn’t move. Janice was spellbound.

“That was awesome,” she said.

Terry eased out of his concentration and rubbed both hands in his hair. “I’ve seen
you in acting class,” he said to her. “You’re good.”

“I can’t do better than what you just did,” she said. “That blew me away.”

He laughed. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll be back to driving my aunt’s tractor tomorrow. This
was fun.”

“You’re a farmer?” I asked.

“Yep,” he said. “In Montana. My aunt wanted me to try out for this, though. Never
thought I’d get this far.”

“But you’ll keep acting once you get home, won’t you?” Janice asked. “You can’t give
up.”

“Well, now, I’ll think about it,” he said. He gave her a smile. “I’ll be following
your career, no doubt about it.”

The charm was too smarmy for my taste, but Janice blushed. She pushed up the sleeves
of her blue dress and adjusted the strap of her purse over her shoulder while she
chatted. I tried to duck out and leave them to it, but Janice gave him a wave and
came along with me.

Once we were around the corner, she pulled me up short and took out her phone.

“He’s up to eighty-six! That’s a lot better than one hundred,” she said.

“It’s probably you brushing off on him,” I said. “Who’s one hundred now?”

“Let’s check your blip rank,” she said.

“Not yet. I don’t want to know,” I said. “Tell me who’s at one hundred.”

We used Janice’s phone to guide us on a sort of scavenger hunt around the campus.
The next student to drop to the lowest blip rank was an artist who was working on
a graphic novel with pages and pages of drawings. Hunched over an easel in the top
floor of the art building, he had a radio blaring and smudges of ink along the sides
of both hands. After him, the next student with the lowest rank was a costume designer
we found ironing fabric in the drama department. Then I filmed a dancer who was working
solo before a bank of dusky mirrors.

Despite their lowest blip ranks, they weren’t losers at all. The whole system was
an arbitrary, capricious farce, and with each artist I met, I felt my biggest mistake
had been in not trying to get to know more of the people here, and I felt a growing
disgust for the fifty cuts.

Finally, we located Ellen Thorpe, a singer, in the girl’s bathroom of the chapel.
When I heard retching in one of the stalls, I fingered my camera but didn’t turn it
on. Janice softly backed out the door, beckoning me, but I shook my head.

“Do you need anything in there?” I called through the stall door.

There was no immediate reply. I glanced around the bathroom. Cameras in the sink area
weren’t aimed to view in the stalls once the doors were closed. The mics picked up
voices, but as long as Ellen was silent, she was essentially invisible to the show,
and I had to think that was by choice.

Janice signaled to me again.
Leave her alone
, she mouthed silently.

“No,” Ellen said.

“You sure? Some water?” I asked.

The rush of a toilet flush came from inside. “No, thank you,” she said. Her voice
was low and husky. Not what I expected for a singer. “It’s just the nerves. I’ll be
okay.”

“It’s getting late,” Janice said quietly to me. “We’re supposed to meet in front of
the auditorium by quarter to five.”

It was a decent enough excuse to leave, but I hesitated when Ellen’s voice came again.

“They’re putting everyone’s profile up on the outside of the building,” Ellen said.
“I saw them there.”

“On the big screens?” I asked. “Is that something new?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’ll be extra humiliating.”

I glanced again at Janice, who was still bracing the door open to the hall. I could
see the last pews of the chapel around the corner.

“Come with us, Ellen,” I said. “We’ll go together.”

“I’m dead last, aren’t I?” Ellen asked.

Janice glanced at her phone and then nodded to me.

I didn’t know what to say, but I couldn’t just leave her there. “Come on out,” I said,
tapping the stall door again. The beige was an industrial, impersonal hue. “We can’t
talk to you through the door.”

“I’ll be okay. Just go,” she said. A choking, stifled sob came next.

Crap
, I thought. I tiptoed nearer to Janice. “This isn’t good.”

“I know,” Janice said.

“Go get somebody.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. A teacher? Someone from the infirmary? Anybody.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Talk to her, I guess. But hurry.”

Janice slipped out.

“Ellen?” I asked. I propped my dormant camera on a shelf by the sink and tapped the
door again, trying to listen inside. “You still in there?”

“You don’t understand,” she said. “I’ve got nothing after I’m cut.”

I had a flash memory of our refrigerator back home, with two eggs and a jar of horseradish
inside.

“Tell me,” I said.

“My mom,” she began, and then her voice strangled off again.