- CONGRATULATIONS.
chapter twenty-one
BY THE TIME we're a few days away from winter break, freedom is so close that everyone at Clayton just sort of collectively gives up on the semester.
The ratio of homework assignments completed to homework assignments given quickly plummets to zero. My parents stop nagging me about my grades in order to nag each other about arrangements for Christmas dinner.
And-the truest sign that it's almost vacation-teachers start filling class time with "educational" movies like Dr. Strangelove and The Day After Tomorrow because they can't be bothered to put together actual lesson plans.
Izzie, Kilgrave and I have spent the better part of the last week at Izzie's house, binge-watching Netflix episodes while binge-eating popcorn, instead of doing anything remotely resembling studying, but we're forced to make alternate arrangements on Thursday afternoon when Izzie informs us that her mother is in the process of repainting her basement art studio.
"The entire house smells like paint fumes," Izzie explains as we all pile into her car after school. "Case, can we go to yours instead?"
"Not unless your idea of a fun afternoon involves getting grilled by my mother over tea," I say.
"KG?" Izzie asks, using her best puppy-dog eyes. "Feel like inviting us over?"
"Ugh," Kilgrave groans from the backseat. She unzips her backpack, pulls out rolling paper and a plastic bag filled with weed. "I hate my house."
"KG lives in Eden Ridge," Izzie says, by way of explanation.
"You live in Eden Ridge?" I ask, dumbfounded.
"My parents live in Eden Ridge," Kilgrave states matter of factly. "And I live with my parents, so I suppose that the answer to that question is yeah, I do live in Eden Ridge."
She finishes rolling, pulls out a lighter and takes a long, long drag, as if living in the nicest neighborhood in town is a great burden to her. She exhales, and the entire car is flooded with the smell of weed.
"Fine," she finally says. "Let's go to Eden Ridge."
"Yay!" Izzie squeals. She turns the key to start the engine, and the motor revs-but doesn't start. She frowns. "That's not what's supposed to happen."
"Your car is a piece of shit," Kilgrave says between drags.
"I like my car," Izzie defends. "It's got personality."
She turns the key again-rev, rev, nothing.
"It sure does," I jeer. "The personality of a crotchety old man."
Kilgrave snickers. Izzie turns the key a third time and the engine finally roars to life.
"See? The car is perfectly fine." She shifts into reverse and backs out of the parking space, ignoring the ominous thumping noises now coming from the back.
By the time we get to Kilgrave's house, the thumping has increased both in volume and in frequency.
"Izzie," I start, "I understand that it is very important to you to drive a ... a car with personality, because, I don't know, that's what Sartre would drive or something, but it's actually very important to me to not die before I turn eighteen, because then I'll never make it out of here. So could you please just-"
But my plea for Izzie to please, please get a new car never makes it out of my mouth, because we've pulled into Kilgrave's driveway-practically the length of a street-and her house comes into view. And her house is ... not really a house at all. It's a whole freaking manor.
I'm in awe. "This is where you live?"
Kilgrave sighs and kills the joint.
The inside of her house is pretty much exactly what you'd expect based on the outside of the house, a fact that seems to fill Kilgrave with an unhappiness so profound that even Nietzsche might be impressed.
"I thought you said your parents were just 'boring computer nerds,'" I say as she leads us into the foyer, past a gleaming kitchen twice the size of my bedroom, and up a flight of stairs. "Did they invent the computer? Is that what you meant?"
She takes us down a hallway on the second floor, past another staircase and then through a set of double doors that leads to another wing of the house with yet more stairs.
"How many sets of stairs does your house have, Kilgrave?" I ask. "And do they move around, like in Hogwarts?"
She doesn't respond and finally-after what seems like half an hour of walking-she swings open the door to her bedroom. You can tell that she's tried to make it different from the rest of the house-the walls are covered in posters of rock bands and graphic novels instead of the oil paintings, and there's a visible lack of furniture other than her bed and desk-but nothing can really override the fact that her room is the size of a studio apartment and has a massive walk-in closet.
"All this time," I say. "All this time we've been hanging out at Izzie's when you have a closet that could house my entire neighborhood?"
"I hate being here," Kilgrave explains. "My parents are never around, so it's always empty, and the house is so old that everything's always making weird noises-it's creepy."
I walk over to her desk and start scanning her books. There are a few novels in the corner and a stack of comic books. Other than that, most of her desk is covered in textbooks and homework assignments. There's also a pile of letters, the first of which is addressed to:
Debonaire Aubyn Evangeline IV
10 Ashboro Lane
Glastonbury, CT 06033
"Don't-" Kilgrave says, but it's too late.
"Your name ..." I start.
"Please don't," she pleads.
"... is Debonaire ..."
"Casey," she whines.
"... Aubyn ..."
"I think it's too late," Izzie chimes in, casting Kilgrave a sympathetic look.
"... Evangeline ..."
"Technically, you already knew the Evangeline part," Izzie provides helpfully.
"The fourth?"
"No, it's Kilgrave," KG sighs deeply.
If this were any other time, any other situation, I might take a moment to bask in the fact that for once, I, Casey Gardner, am not the person in the conversation who is desperate to melt into the ground from mortification. But this is no time for basking.
"Are you British?" I ask. "I feel like it's one of those names that only makes sense if you're British. Debonaire Aubyn Evangeline the fourth," I repeat, now in a British accent.
Izzie snorts, then hastily rearranges her face into a solemn expression after Kilgrave shoots her a glare.
"All this time, your real name has been one of those long-standing Clayton Prep mysteries, you know, like whether or not the hidden classroom in the B wing of the Edgerton building actually exists, or what that horrible statue in front of the Pergis Quad is actually supposed to be. And everyone always figured it was something embarrassing like-oh, I don't know, Allegra, or Kleenex, or something like that. And it's actually-"
Kilgrave cuts me off. "You don't need to say it again, Casey. My parents are suckers for tradition."
"But why Kilgrave?" I ask. "Why not just go by Debby or Aubrey or just your last name? Evangeline is a pretty cool name.
Kilgrave sighs again, then flops down into a desk chair. "When I was younger," she says, "it was always Debonaire Aubyn Evangeline this, or Debonaire Aubyn Evangeline that. Debonaire Aubyn Evangeline, we are going to the country club to see your grandparents, and that's that. Debonaire Aubyn Evangeline, keep your eyes closed when we say grace and stop pouting. Everything was always so serious and official. Even playing games with my friends had to be this ridiculous, proper affair: Debonaire Aubyn Evangeline, sit up straight and act like a lady!
"And then one night-I must have been ten or eleven or something like that-I was at this ridiculous dinner party being called Debonaire Aubyn Evangeline over and over and over again, listening to a bunch of old people in suits talk about Wall Street and golf and other crap I didn't care about in the slightest, and I just couldn't take it anymore. I didn't want to be Debonaire Aubyn Evangeline anymore. So I picked the most ridiculous name I could think of-which, to ten-year-old me, ended up being Kilgrave because one of my older cousins used to read me comic books and was obsessed with the supervillain. That day I told everyone that that was my new name, and they could either call me that or be ignored."
"Wow." I look over at Izzie, who is now scrolling through something on her phone. She's heard this story before, I guess.
"So then, to really drive the point home, you became a ... stoner?" I ask.
"I'm not a stoner," Kilgrave objects.
Izzie looks up from her phone. "That's news to me," she says.
I decide to save my response-that anyone who has as much advice to give about the difference between indica and sativa as Kilgrave has definitely qualifies as a stoner-for another day.
I turn back to the pile of letters. There's one in the stack that's thicker than the other ones-printed on cream-colored paper, and unexpectedly heavy in my hand as I pick it up. It's the kind of letter that screams OFFICIAL BUSINESS.
And it's also from Harvard University Office of Admissions.
"YOU GOT INTO HARVARD?" I screech.
"We couldn't have hung out at your place?" Kilgrave muttered, turning to Izzie.
"Sorry," Izzie apologized. But there's a bit too much of a smirk underneath the regretful look she shoots Kilgrave for it to be believable.
Kilgrave turns to me. "Yes. I got into Harvard."
There's a few seconds during which the reality of the entire situation-the house, the name, the letter-is truly too much for me, and all I can do is turn from Kilgrave to Izzie back to Kilgrave, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.
"Well," I finally say, "congratulations."
"Thanks." Kilgrave manages to muster up a weak grin.
"Seriously," I add. "I know I don't sound very excited for you, because I'm still in shock over the fact that the Kilgrave Evangeline we've all known, loved and turned to in our darkest, soberest times is actually named Debonaire Aubyn Evangeline the fourth who lives in a mansion the size of a modest hotel and is going to Harvard next fall. But that's awesome, Kilgrave, really."
"It's not that big of a deal," she shrugs. "Everyone from my family going back, like, six generations has gone to Harvard. There hasn't ever been a Debonaire Aubyn Evangeline that hasn't gone to Harvard. They couldn't not let me in."
"Oh, shut up." Izzie rolls her eyes and looks at me. "No one realizes that Kilgrave is actually really smart because of the whole-well, being named Kilgrave and selling weed thing. But she's taken every AP test that Clayton offers. If we had class rankings, she'd definitely be valedictorian. And she's the only reason I passed honors chemistry."
"Kilgrave taught you chemistry?" I ask.
"No, Kilgrave let me copy her homework. I still don't know jack shit about covalent and ionic bonds."
Now that the shock has started to wear off, what Izzie is saying actually makes sense. Evan did mention that he was in AP Lit with her, and there was that one time that I talked to her in study hall while she was doing homework for AP Physics ...
The realization hits me like a ton of bricks.
"Oh, fuck," I say.
Izzie and Kilgrave both look startled by my sudden change in demeanor.
"Oh, fuck," I repeat. I grab my coat off the bed and start putting it on.
"What's going on?" Izzie says.
"When did you get this letter?" I ask Kilgrave. Before she can answer, I pick the envelope up off her desk and look at it myself.
"Huh?" she says. "Casey, what's going on?"
December 08, 2019, it says. Eleven days ago.
"Oh, shit," I say. "Izzie, we have to go. We have to go right now."
I grab my backpack and turn to her, feeling the panic rising inside my chest.
"See, this is why I didn't want people finding out," Kilgrave discloses. "Everyone's going to get all freaked out and start acting weird around me. That's the problem with having a name like Debonaire Evangeline with a numeral at the end. No one feels like they can hang out with you like you're a normal human being."
"Right," Izzie agrees. "Which is why you decided to go by Kilgrave and sell drugs. Nothing remotely conspicuous there."
"This isn't about your name!" I say, pulling Izzie out of Kilgrave's room and down the hallway. I grab her jacket on the way out and help her quickly put it on.
"Um, okay," Kilgrave says, trailing behind us.
I speed-walk furiously until we reach a fork in the hallway, where I spin right, then turn back to the left. Was this the point where we turned right and went through the double doors? Or was this the point where we turned left and passed the room with all the bookshelves? I look helplessly at Kilgrave, who arches an eyebrow at me.
"I'm sorry," I sigh. "I didn't mean to be rude. I just-I really have to go. I'll explain in a second, but could you just-I mean, these hallways are just-where do we-"
Kilgrave points down the hallway on the right.
I take a deep breath and start walking again. Izzie takes her car keys out of her pocket and gives me a look: What happened?
"Kilgrave," I say, as we go back through the double doors, down the stairs, past the kitchen and into the foyer. "Congratulations on getting into Harvard. Seriously. That's amazing. And I promise I won't tell anyone about your real name, mostly because I don't think anyone will believe me. But I have to go now, because you found out about Harvard eleven days ago, which means Evan probably found out about Brown eleven days ago, which means that either all of his dreams have come true or he's totally crushed, and I totally forgot.
"Oh," Izzie says.
"Oh," Kilgrave repeats.
Without another second to waste, I pull Izzie out the front door.
✦