The Deceivers, page 8
“It is. Vale Hall is a small private academy, hosted on my property.”
“This is your house.” It’s impossible to hide the awe in my tone.
He smiles. “My grandfather invested in various businesses during his time. My father, before he died, worked as a congressman. The Odin family has lived on this property since the eighteen hundreds. I keep a private residence at the back of the property now, but yes. This is my house.”
Old money, my mom would call it.
“So you’re the principal.”
“We don’t really have a principal. Vale Hall uses an alternative structure. There are four professors; they report to me. There’s also Ms. Maddox, who’s in charge of the residential staff, and Min Belk and Hugh Moore, who oversee security and student affairs, and manage our work-study programs.”
I wonder where Moore disappeared to—I haven’t seen him since he left me in this office.
“How many students go here?” I should let him interview me, but now that the floodgates are open, I can’t stop asking questions.
“No more than twenty students at a time.”
When I choke, he adds, “This is an elite establishment, Brynn. I am very selective when it comes to the student body.”
And I’m not in yet.
I take a deep breath. He must want me to prove myself. “My grades are good. Really good.” It hits me that my math final will be starting soon, and that I’ll be missing it, and failing the class. Will he still let me in if I can’t pass remedial math? “I actually have a final today, but I’ll find a way to make it up. I’m a hard worker, and I learn fast. If you give me a chance, I swear…”
He holds up a hand to stop me.
“Brynn, I think you’re under the wrong impression why it is you’re here.”
The breath deflates from my lungs. I passed the hazing test. Why bring me out just to tell me I’m not getting an interview?
“Why am I here?”
He leans back in his seat, hands resting on the black folder sitting in the center of his desk.
“Because you’re special.”
A lump forms in my throat, because there’s something about the way he says it that makes this feel more fact than compliment.
“Excellent grades, despite significant barriers to success. Honors lists and academic achievements since elementary school. I did a bit of research after my staff processed your scholarship application.”
It takes me a moment to realize what he’s talking about. The counselor at Jarvis helped me find it last Christmas—a general scholarship for college. He had told me the odds weren’t good of getting it since I was a junior, and hadn’t done any legal extracurricular activities, but I applied anyhow. I never heard back.
“You got my name from a scholarship application.” A sudden sickness boils in my stomach. Caleb was following me. Our crossing paths in Uptown, and on the train, and at the Sycamore library wasn’t “fate,” as he’d said. It was planned. Odin already knew who I was. I was Caleb’s mark, just like Grayson was mine.
“I appreciated your essay on breaking through the glass walls,” says Dr. Odin. “I, too, dream of breaking through such walls. Of a different, safer world, without corruption.”
I catch myself before I laugh. This guy’s never seen the kind of walls I have—the ones that lock you in a neighborhood where your dad was shot, in a school where the classes you need to get out aren’t even offered, in a house with a guy who solves problems with his fists.
“No offense, but you don’t look like you’re hurting for much.”
His eyes flash with steel.
“Don’t let appearances fool you, Brynn. We are all hurting.”
He says it in a quiet, low voice, but somehow it has the same effect as a person shouting at the top of their lungs. My breath catches, and then heaves out. I shouldn’t have said that. I was distracted by the fact that Caleb conned me.
He set the bait, and reeled me in.
I’m kind of impressed. I can usually smell a scam a mile away.
“Can you keep a secret?” Dr. Odin asks. “Everything said in this office remains confidential.”
It’s one of the things I’m good at, but that doesn’t make me eager to agree.
“All right.”
He nods.
“This is a place for important people, and I take great pride in helping them realize their full potentials. But my students are extraordinary before they ever reach me.”
I’m not really sure where he’s going with this, but I don’t have a good feeling about it.
“Being a part of a program like this requires a certain level of discretion. I need to know that you can keep what happens here to yourself, for the sake of your peers and for our continued success.”
That bad feeling is now a stage five alarm blaring in my brain.
“What exactly happens here?” I ask.
“Learning,” he says. “Growing. Camaraderie. Success.”
“You sound like a pamphlet.”
“I believe in our cause wholeheartedly.” His chin lifts as I soak in the fancy art and antique furniture. “Speak your mind, it’s all right.”
“I know criminals who believe in their causes, too,” I say.
“I bet you do.” He looks at me as if to say, like you. “Fortunately, and sometimes unfortunately, legality is subjective. There’s a moral code that goes much deeper than any law. The starving child who steals bread to survive, is he wrong? The man who kills his wife’s murderer, does he not have that right?”
I don’t exactly love him talking about murdering people in my entrance interview, but I get his point. Just because it’s illegal, doesn’t always make it bad.
He leans closer toward me. “The girl who steals money for college, should she be faulted for trying to better herself?”
“What are you…” The first time I saw Caleb was in the arts building in Uptown. He must have seen me with the ballerinas. He must have called Odin and reported what I’d done.
And yet, I’m still here, which means I haven’t been disqualified yet.
I rub my damp palms on my thighs. “I mean, if people want to give cash to a stranger, that stranger technically didn’t break the law.”
The director smiles. “There’s a gray area between right and wrong. You’re here because you see that. Not everyone does.”
“Okay.”
His face grows somber. “There’s also a gray area between what’s right and what’s legal, I’m afraid. Laws are made by people with money and power. Sometimes creating a safer world means removing those who pretend to protect it. Politicians, for instance, who care more about the cash in their pockets than the people they’ve sworn to represent.”
The pieces are starting to fit together, though the edges are still unclear.
“Sounds like a job for the cops.”
“And it would be, if the police were not friendly with the politicians.”
Corruption, he said earlier. Maybe he does know a thing or two about it.
“So you take down the bad guys?” I try to picture him in spandex and a cape, and it’s not a pretty image.
“I collect secrets. Secrets which the students at my school gather for me.”
I stare at him, and then look around for a hidden camera.
“Is this real right now?” I ask. “Are you messing with me?”
He shakes his head.
I wait.
He waits.
“What kind of secrets?” I finally ask.
“Any kind, as long as they matter.”
“And what makes a secret matter?”
“What someone is willing to do to keep it hidden, I suppose.”
“What do you do with them?”
“That depends. A secret, in the right hands, has a great amount of power.” He smiles at my expression. “I don’t mean to scare you. I only use this information to help people who need it.”
Which sounds like a really pretty way of saying blackmail.
Paranoia creeps up my back, making my skin prickle. Is he trying to trap me with this? Get me to do something illegal? I can’t think of why he would want to—I don’t know him—but his request is far from ordinary and a million miles away from the interview questions I was expecting.
“I’m listening,” I say.
Dr. Odin looks pleased.
“If you accept your position here, you’ll be asked to gather some information for me. To help me air some dirty laundry, so to speak. Your job, Brynn, is to be my eyes and ears.”
“Sure, no problem.” I hope he catches the sarcasm, because I’m laying it on pretty heavy. “How am I supposed to do that exactly?”
“The same way you did what you did last night at the party. By reading a situation and making friends.”
I wait a beat. “You know about last night.”
“Of course. I hear you put on quite the show.”
I’m glad Caleb told him I passed their test, but it stings a little, too—a tiny echo of Marcus spying on me for Pete. I thought the party was a game put together by the students, a way to pick an applicant who was fun, and up for a challenge. I didn’t think the director would be in on it.
What exactly does Dr. Odin get out of playing matchmaker with a bunch of teenagers?
“Think of your position as detective work,” Dr. Odin continues. “As an after-school job.”
You can work off enrollment costs. It’s what I do.
“People sell bad pizza as an after-school job,” I say. “They wash dishes, or, or…”
Dr. Odin chuckles, raising a hand to stop me.
“If you’re concerned about getting in trouble, you don’t need to be. You’ll be protected. No one will ever know what you’re doing as long as you don’t tell them. We go to great lengths to protect the privacy of our students.”
“Of course you do,” I manage. “And if I get you something useful?”
“You’ll be afforded a scholarship to attend the university of your choice.”
I gape at him. Charlotte alluded to this at the tracks, but hearing it from the director makes it feel a lot more real.
“So who is it?” I ask. “Who’s this person with all the secrets?”
Dr. Odin chuckles. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but there are many problems in this city, and many people who cause them. You will have lots of opportunities to use your skills, but first we’ll need to develop them. Start small.”
“How?” I don’t want to sound too eager, but not every day do people put a college scholarship on the bartering table.
Dr. Odin’s grin widens. “Well, for instance, I might ask you to see what kind of information you can find online about Grayson Sterling.”
It takes a beat for this to sink in. He’s trading a scholarship for a few minutes poking around online? It can’t be that easy.
“What do you want me to find out?”
“Anything you can,” Dr. Odin says with a small shrug. “We’ll touch base after you do some research. I find the more I know about someone, the better I’m able to gain their trust.”
Fair enough. I’m still sitting here.
What he’s asking is becoming a little clearer. This isn’t just about online research or trading numbers with some spoiled politician’s kid. He wants me to build trust with Grayson.
He wants me to get some secrets.
“And then?” I ask.
“And then we’ll take the next step.”
The challenge warms my veins. If I got Grayson to give me his number, I can get him to give me a lot more.
“We’ll work with you on everything you’ll be asked to do outside the classroom,” the director says with a reassuring nod. “More importantly, at Vale Hall you’ll be given a top-notch education. Tuition, room and board, and classes will be paid for. Medical needs will be covered. A stipend will be given for other living expenses—clothing, haircuts, transportation, whatever you need.”
I make a sound halfway between a choke and a gag.
“You’re talented, Brynn, and you’ll fit in here well. I want you to join us.”
A second passes. Then another. I sit a little straighter. No one’s ever wanted me anywhere. No one’s ever picked me out because I was special, or good at anything.
But I am good at something, and Dr. Odin is offering me a place here, and a possible scholarship to college, because of it.
“Do I need to sign something?” I ask. “Does my mom? I’m not eighteen.”
He pushes the folder beneath his fingertips in my direction.
“Mr. Moore spoke to her this morning and explained that you had been accepted into school here.”
With fumbling fingers, I take the folder and open it. Inside is a packet of printed papers with a fancy V logo at the top. I scan to the bottom. My mom’s curly script is above the line PARENT OR GUARDIAN. Allie Hilder. It doesn’t look forged.
You’re taking her now? Just like that?
She knew I’d been accepted. She knew even when I didn’t.
It’s like I’ve swallowed splinters, and not just because she let me go. Because I didn’t tell her any of this. She had to hear it from someone else. I thought I’d have more time.
But maybe this is the way it happens. One day you just leave. You don’t talk about it, or think about it. You just go.
“I’m told she was surprised, but quite proud,” he says. “You can check in with her later, if you like. We’ll see to it that you get a phone. If you brought one, just give it to Mr. Moore. He’ll have the data transferred to the new model.”
“I didn’t bring one.”
The lie slips out as easily as if I rehearsed it. I don’t know why I say it; my phone is right there in my back pocket, hidden beneath my baggy shirt, and if he searches me he’ll know that I’m lying. But my phone, even if it’s prepaid and I only have a few numbers in it, feels like my only connection to home. For some stupid reason, I don’t want to give it up.
“Fine,” he says. “When you speak to her, I’ll ask that you don’t tell her the details of what we’ve discussed.”
My head is spinning. This is everything I’ve wanted. Everything. I’ll still have to work to earn my keep, but that’s nothing new.
“If you agree, you can begin here immediately. Ms. Maddox has already taken the liberty of preparing your room. And if I’m correct, the upper classmen have Vocational Development in a few minutes. You’re welcome to join them. Jump in, as they say.”
“Okay.” As I say the word something changes inside me, cuts the last rope holding me back. I want to scream. I want to jump on his fancy desk and dance.
Goodbye Jarvis High. I’m going to Vale Hall.
“A word of caution,” Dr. Odin says.
I sober immediately, waiting for the catch.
“If I find out the truth of what you’re doing here is exposed, this all goes away. You’ll be asked to leave, no questions asked.”
I force my shoulders back. “I won’t tell anyone.”
His smile is like a lion’s: wide, and dangerous.
“You’re going to love it here, Brynn,” he says. “I promise.”
CHAPTER 11
Ms. Maddox is round and wrinkled, and probably close to five hundred years old. She doesn’t speak, according to Dr. Odin, but I’m not sure if that’s because she can’t, or she just won’t for some reason. All I know is she walks slower than anyone I’ve ever met in my life, shuffling across the catwalk while gripping the bannister in her left hand. Honestly, I’m shocked she made it up the stairs.
Since she’s not much for conversation, I try to make my own assessment of the place. The second floor looks to be mostly bedrooms—at least, that’s what I’m gathering. All the doors to all the rooms are shut. I wonder if Caleb or the others are behind any of them, if they can hear my shoes squeaking over the shiny marble floor. If they do, they don’t come out.
Finally, she opens a door near the end of the hall. I’m not sure what I expect, but as I step inside it’s definitely not this.
A giant four-poster bed sits against the far wall. The window is draped with gold and lace. A desk sits close to the door, a closed silver laptop atop it. Books are stacked neatly beside it.
“Holy Jesus,” I say. This isn’t your typical dorm. This room is fit for royalty.
Ms. Maddox crosses herself with a scowl.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
She warms at this, and reaches for my hand. Her grip is warm and soft, and when she squeezes I feel everything beneath my collarbones go hot. I clear my throat.
She leads me forward, over the plush beige carpet, and I see that the room is L-shaped. Around the corner an oval, wood-framed mirror stands beside a closet. Both doors are open, and inside there is a neat row of clothing on hangers.
“Oh,” I say, suddenly realizing what’s happened. “Sorry. This must be someone else’s room.” That explains the laptop.
She shakes her head and pulls me closer to the closet, reaches in, and takes down a hanger. A white shirt with a black raven in flight hangs on the hook. She holds it up to my chest.
It’s the right size.
“These are for me?”
She nods and smiles, then replaces the shirt. I gape at the other clothes. Jeans. T-shirts. Sweatshirts. Even a dress.
I have zero words for this.
She takes me next to the bathroom, where there’s a bathtub big enough for a horse, and a shower with glass doors. The mirror over the white stone sink is spotless and stretches the length of the counter. A toothbrush, still in its packaging, sits in perfect alignment with a hairbrush, a blow dryer, and a flat iron. There are shampoos and soaps already on the counter, and to the side, neatly arranged, are compacts of makeup with fancy looking brands I’ve never heard of.
“All of this is mine?” I step forward, opening a box of eye shadow with a pallet of colors ranging from dark gray to copper. The hollowed-out drug store eye shadow on my dresser at home doesn’t hold a candle to this.
Ms. Maddox, still holding my hand, gives it another squeeze.
This is crazy.
Any time, someone’s going to pop out and tell me this is a mistake.
