"Lockdown, they're calling it. Before you know it they'll have us all done up in orange jumpsuits, wae cells in place a' dorms."
I try to laugh at Peter's statement, really I do, but the sound just won't come out. Maybe it's got something to do with how serious the situation is. How nothing can ever lighten death.
We're in the West common room – Liv, Peter and I – currently in the middle of an air hockey tournament. Since Liv won the first game against Peter she's sitting out, playing 'referee' from the cushioned beanbags as I take him down.
Technically, I'm not supposed to be in the West common room, but it's not as though anyone is complaining. The teachers all have much bigger issues on mind.
"It's just till the cops finish with the investigation," Liv says, but even she doesn't sound too sure. I was right last night: it was a murder. A young girl, still to be identified, her throat slit and God knows what other injuries. Mr Skye found her in the cul-de-sac between the main building and the staff base. I'm still trying not to contemplate how she ever ended up there to begin with, or how it took so long for us to find her when, from the rumours I've heard, they're saying she'd been dead for at least twenty-four hours.
Cops have been on scene all day, scouting the school as if they're going to find any evidence here. The mass outbreak of boys in blue has got something to do with Marks. Apparently he's worried about the safety of us students, so has ordered them to stay on the grounds. In addition to this, he's also scrapped the rule about leaving campus. Until further notice, we're not allowed off grounds at all. Lockdown.
Mom got her way after all.
"Well, I hope they're not planning on taking all month," says Peter, defending his goals as the puck spins in their direction. "I don't want tae be cooped up in here till Christmas. I'm starting tae feel like a caged mutt."
"I thought you said your mom was moving if something freaky like this happened again, anyway."
"Aye, I know. I did ask her about that on the phone last night, but she said, 'It's only a murder, Peter. No reason to be alarmed.'" He mimics his mother's voice in a high falsetto, rolling his eyes. "Only a murder? Have you ever heard as much crap in your life?"
"She's living under a rock if that's what she believes," I say, putting all my force into whacking the puck with my mallet as it shoots my way. It goes spinning back toward Peter's goals, only this time he's too slow to prevent it going in. The table lights up and he smacks his head in defeat.
"Score!" Liv hollers, cheering from her seat. "That's seven-four to April. Ha. No luck, Petey – she took you down like a boss."
"I wisnae even paying attention–"
"Don't even gimme that bull. You know the score now: snacks are officially on you. Get me a Mars Bar from the tuck shop, will you? Oh, and a can of Pepsi as well. Make that three – of each. I'll need some for later on, too."
"Aye, alright," he says, abandoning his post by the air hockey table. "I don't have six hands, you know."
"I'll help." I shoot Liv an apologetic smile. She doesn't seem bothered about having to postpone our own game, though. Sitting up straight, she scans the hectic room. It seems like half the school has gathered in here. Groups of girls sit cross-legged on the floor, applying make-up and sharing gossip. Boys crowd around the plasma TV, yelling and jeering at a football match that's currently playing onscreen. Quieter students stick to the leather couches in the corners, talking among themselves.
Liv sticks two fingers in her mouth and lets out an almighty whistle. Several heads turn her way, but she's already set her sights on one in particular. "Hey Kale," she calls over to the dark-haired boy standing by the window. "Fancy a game?"
The shock must show on my face, because Peter chuckles beside me. "Don't tell me you've got a thing for Mr Tall, Dark and Sullen, too," he says, and I can swear that, behind the laid-back mask, there lies a hint of jealousy.
"Does she?" I jerk my head in the redhead's direction.
"Pfft, don't ask me. I'm not a girl, thank fuck for that. I just know she's always trying tae talk tae 'im whenever he's in here. Not that he's worth her time. Poor lass, doesnae seem tae get that he'd rather drive iron nails through his wrists than bother with anyone."
I glance over at the two, trying to detect if there's any attraction, but from here it merely looks as though Liv is being her usual peppy self, undeterred by the bored expression on Kale's face. "You're no fun," I hear her say, and when she turns back around she's sporting a pout that would put Posh Spice to shame.
"What's up? Did he say no tae you?" Peter coos, a smug grin growing on his face as he jabs her side. "Awh, don't worry, Livvy. April'll be back soon enough tae whip your arse."
"I've gotta say, she did take you down pretty fast, bro." She smiles innocently as though it's an offhanded comment.
"What can I say? I'm just that good," I chime in, shooting Peter a sly smile.
Liv laughs. "More like Petey's too much of a Jessabel to be any good at sports, even the fake ones."
"Touché."
"Harsh but true. Innit, bruv?"
Peter shakes his head. "How many times am I gonnae have tae tell you, 'innit, bruv' isnae Scottish slang."
"Well, I dinny ken," says Liv, grinning now as invisible steam chugs out of Peter's ears. He groans.
"'Dinny ken' is Northern Scottish – no Central – dialect for 'I don't know.' You're just acting it now tae piss me off."
"It's the same thing really, innit, bruv?"
He shoots her a glare and lifts the hockey puck from the table, aiming it at her head. Jokingly, of course. That much is obvious from the way he's began to smile. "I'm no your 'bruv,' lass. And I don't think your real bruv would be too chuffed if he heard yae–"
He cuts off as though someone's shoved a stopper into his mouth. The smile on Liv's face vanishes, replaced by a frown.
"Liv, I'm sorry," Peter says, the regret visible in his expression. "I wisnae thinking –"
"'Course you weren't, Pete." She smiles at him, but I see through the façade. "Look, forget about the Mars Bars. I'm not even that hungry."
"I'm sorry. Honestly, Liv, I wisnae thinking about Mason. I just meant –"
She holds her hand in the air, willing him to stop talking. "Look, it's fine. No harm done. I just – I'm gonna check out if those cops are still outside. It's too crowded in here."
With a reassuring smile, she weaves her way past numerous bodies and reaches the door, nudging it open and rushing out of the room. Peter and I stand there in shocked silence for a good minute, neither of us moving. It's me who finally says, "I should go see if she's okay." He nods, makes no move to stop me. So I follow in her footsteps.
The hall outside the West common room is eerily still, with only the distant hum of chatter from behind the door escaping to break the silence. It feels as though I'm in a movie studio and have switched from one set to the next, a humorous teen college movie to a gothic horror. Glancing in both directions, I try to predict which path Liv would have taken. To the right is the stairwell that leads up to the West dorms. To the left, the route to the main floors of the castle. Her dorm would be the obvious place to search . . . and that's exactly why I turn left.
The overhead fluorescent lights switch on as I walk beneath them, illuminating the corridor's path. It takes me several wrong turns and curses before I find her, perched on one of the high arched windows' ledges, the moonlight streaming in and illuminating her hair like a torch. She sits, arms crossed, with her feet propped up against the wall opposite, staring out at the glimmering stars in the clear dusk sky.
"Hey," I say, approaching her. "Mind if I sit with you?"
She takes her feet off the wall, bending her legs at the knees instead to make space for me. I sit down across from her, and we lapse into silence once more. I glance outside and try to look for any of the familiar constellations. It's a clear night, one of the best for stargazing, Dad would say. He used to let me look through his telescope in the backyard with him when I was a kid. He'd direct my gaze to the brightest of stars and come up with a silly name for each of them.
"See that one, Summer Bear?" he'd say, pointing his finger at one of the largest stars visible. "They call it Wailing Wendy, because if you listen close enough you can hear it sizzle. Like a big, fat sausage."
"Daaaaad, that doesn't even make sense!" I used to whine, but deep down I loved his lame attempts at humour, loved every moment in his company as he shared his numerous wacky passions. Those nights, rare as they were, are what I used to live for. But they're not so beautiful anymore.
After his death, Mom locked the telescope in the bike shed. I took the key one day when I was fourteen, unbolted the latch and smashed the instrument up into several broken, metal shards. It seemed fitting for our broken family.
"How do you do it?" Liv asks, breaking the silence. "I've tried, but I just can't. I saw you that day at the funeral and you know what I said to myself? 'From now on, I'll try to be more composed like April. If she can keep herself together then so can I.' And I thought it was working at first . . . but it doesn't get any easier."
I don't glance up, too afraid that the look on my face will give me away. It was a mistake to come after Liv. I can't comfort her when I know the brother she's mourning is in this very same building, a tower away. I found him this morning, seated cross-legged like a pre-schooler on my dorm room floor, a thick hardback in his hands.
"This is pretty good," he said, not breaking eye contact with the page. "It's got everything you need for a good dystopia: corrupt government, badass characters, twisted ideals – hell, it's only missing one key ingredient."
"What's that?" I asked.
He grinned wickedly. "Zombies, of course."
"I guess . . . it doesn't. Get any easier, that is," I say to Liv. "I just learn to deal with things – or put them out my head so I can get by."
As I say these words I realise that, even though I may still be in contact with Mason, they're true. Liv and I truly are mourning for the same boy. Just in a different sense.
"I always wanted to be more like you, you know that?" This time I do look up, my eyes growing wide. "Hey, don't act so surprised. Mason always used to say he'd swap a hundred of me for one of you whenever we had a fight."
"And what did you say back?"
She smiles faintly. "That there weren't that many of me to go round – 'cause he wasn't an evil, geneticist mastermind yet."
We laugh together, the picture of a white-haired Mason in a lab coat too funny to deny.
"Mom used to think the two of you would get married, did you know that?" Liv asks me, and I have to muffle another snicker. "I always told her there was more chance of Mason getting the neighbour's cat pregnant than putting a ring on your finger, but she never listened."
"So that's why she was always so obsessed with your grandma's wedding gown around me," I say, and groan. "I thought it was because I told her I wanted to be a fashion designer when I was ten."
"Fashion designer? Are you for real, bro?"
"I was going through a phase with sequins at the time, don't laugh! Anyway, it's true. She used to always ask my opinion on it like I was some expert on lace."
"Oh, she was totally trying to hook you up. I bet that's why she'd always hang up the pictures of Mason in a tux from our uncle Al's wedding whenever you came over. She must've thought you'd be charmed or something." Liv rolls her eyes, but the glimmer in them fades. I stare out the window, quiet now, lost in memories of brighter times.
The rustle of paper pulls me back to the present. Liv pulls something out her pocket: a worn and crumpled photograph.
"I found this the other week." She unfolds it and holds it out. I peer down. The photo itself isn't familiar but the memory it holds is fresh. A late summer's afternoon down by the lake near the Deveaux's house. The three of us – Liv, Mason and I – clothed in shorts and t-shirts and wielding toy lightsabers. It was always Mason's idea to have us play at Star Wars. He was convinced he could be the next Obi-Wan Kenobi, 'cause in the eyes of a ten year there's nothing cooler than a badass Jedi. I never minded, though. I'd play along at his make-believe games, a better person then than the bitch I've become.
In the photo we're standing on the boardwalk, a squealing nine-year-old Liv scurrying after Mason as he chases me with his green lightsaber. I'm holding the red one in my outstretched hand, poised by the water's edge and readying myself to attack, and I don't look frightened or guarded or cautious at all. I embody brightness, and the smile on my face is as candid as they come.
"I remember that day," I say. "Just after your birthday, right?"
She nods. "Mom and Dad had a barbeque."
"And Mason took a huff because you stole the last hot dog!"
"And broke the other lightsaber."
"He was such a dork."
"'My brother was the world's biggest dork' – maybe I'll put that one in my speech next time." Liv lets out a deep, shuddering breath. "He loved you, you know."
I frown. Our friendship's become so twisted that I'm unsure the word love could ever apply. "He told you that?"
"Not exactly. But he said you were the greatest friend he could ever have." She runs a trembling hand through her hair, eyes filling with tears. "April, do you think . . . do you think they'll ever find him?"
Now is the time I break down and tell her everything. Now is the time I get to share my burden with someone else. I press a hand to my mouth to block the words that are there, waiting to be said.
I glance again at the photo. Mason's smiling, too. Shoulders loosened, gaze warm, green braces on display. He's just finished telling a joke, I think, and it's funny enough to eclipse every trouble of ours under the sun. How long has it been since his humour didn't come at someone else's expense? Months? Years? Or maybe I'm wrong – maybe I'm the only one who's ever seen this dark side of him.
It must've hurt, me pushing him away.
"I hope so," I say. "I don't know for sure, but . . . I do think they'll find out what happened to him. Eventually." If by 'they,' I mean us. Mason and I. Me.
Liv nods, wiping a stray tear. "That's all I want," she says. "To know what happened."
And I know right now that I'll do it – I'll take matters into my own hands. I'll go against every instinct I have and enlist Daniel's help if it shines a light on Mason's murder. If it means a mourning sister can finally put her brother's memory to rest.
"Me too," I say, confident now in my resolve.
Later, when we go our separate ways, I take a walk through the building to help clear my mind. Now that I'm sure of myself, I work up the courage to pull out the dreaded phone and text Daniel to let him know about the current situation in the school. Leaving on Saturday is no longer an option. We'll have to find another way to meet. Desperate times call for desperate measures, they say.
I'm just sliding the phone back into my pocket and about-turning when I hear it: a faint whimper, like that of a wounded animal. I swivel on my heels and attempt to place where the sound's coming from . . . and then I realise it's from the room I just walked past.
Don't be nosy, April. Just turn round before you wind up caught, the voice of reason murmurs in my head. But I tell myself it's not nosiness that's pulling me back, toward the half-open door, toward the indiscernible sound.
It's dread.