Page 21 of The Secrets We Bury

“I’d have to…” I swallow. “Would I have to live with him?”

Principal Long’s face tightens, but she answers my question. “He would be required to care for you,” she states. “That may mean something different, but in all likelihood, I would assume so. This…” Her hands spread over the top of the folder with my name again. “This contains Ms. Beck’s reports along with some paperwork that Mr. Calloway brought to my attention today. You could contest his request for guardianship, but, Juliet…”

My lashes flicker as I picture Lex’s carriage house, the white doors along the side of the structure with the windows embedded into the side. Despite how they look on the outside, I know from the inside there’s no hint that the house was anything but what Lex wanted it to be—a home. A safe place for him. For Gio and Nolan. For me.

I want to go there right now. I want to go home.

“Is it true that you’re…” Long’s tone is odd, uneven, and disjointed. When I finally look at her face, she’s watching me with a strange sort of emotion filling her gaze. Pity? Sympathy? I blink.

“Is it true that I’m what?” I straighten my back and force my shoulders back.

“Juliet…” She pinches her mouth shut and then blows out a breath. “I understand the address on the form you originally filled out during your transfer was an apartment.”

Fuck.

“It burned down.” I say the words not because she doesn’t know—everyone in Silverwood knows everything big that happens, and the apartment fire was a big event for the local news. I say it because I know what’s coming next.

“I need to know where you’re staying now,” she says.

“I’m not homeless.”

“Good.” Her shoulders slump with relief. Had she been really worried about me? For the first time since I walked into the room, she offers me a small smile. “That’s good, Juliet. I will make sure that is noted in the report and any other paperwork.”

I nod my understanding, but it feels more like my head is separated from my body and acting independently. Principal Long starts talking again, words flowing from her lips, and I know I should listen, but the sound fades until all I can make out are the muffled sounds of her alto-sounding voice.

When another bell rings, Long cuts herself off and glances at the clock with a grimace. “I’ve kept you longer than I intended,” she says, standing.

I stand too and when she comes around the desk to open her office door, I lean down and grab my bag. I watch my fingers close around the shoulder strap, but there’s no weight in my palm. If there’s a strain in my forearm, I don’t notice. My feet shuffle forward, one in front of the other. Principal Long says something else and when she continues to stand there, staring at me, I realize she means for me to respond.

“Okay.” I’m not sure if it’s the answer she wants, but she accepts it with another dip of her chin.

“I may need to call you in again, but if you have any questions, you’re welcome to stop by my office anytime.”

One foot in front of the other, I move down the hall towards the front office. The walls stretch out in front of me, the ceiling expands, and no matter how many times I lift my foot and set it down again, the end where the door waits to the outside main corridor never seems to get any closer.

Then it opens and I halt as a familiar body barrels into the office in a mass of floral perfume and purple fabric. Roquel pauses when she sees me. For a moment, she looks disappointed but then she brightens.

“Juliet! Did you hear?” Her bright and loud voice pops the bubble and suddenly everything is too loud. Her voice. The copy machine behind the front counter. Mrs. Roger’s sniffling as she blows her nose now that she’s back from lunch. “Homecoming nominees have been announced!”

Out. I need out. I can’t be here.

Shoving past her and ignoring her gasp of dismay, I swing my backpack over my shoulder and I do what I should’ve done the second I walked into the office and saw Morpheus Calloway.

I run.

8

GIO

“And so being young

and dipped in folly

I fell in love

with melancholy.”

Ayawn stretches my mouth wide open, earning a sharp glare from Mrs. Foster, the English teacher, as she recites the poem again. She turns her attention to the rest of the class and imparts her seemingly bright wisdom. As if the rest of us give a shit about some old fart that couldn’t get laid in life and is just as pathetic in death.