“What’s not hard?”

  “It was like torture reliving my worst memory,” Veró growls. “I could barely bring myself to do it all over again. But you . . . watching the initiation, seeing what y’all are doing to those girls. You like it, don’t you?”

  “For god’s sake, it’s my worst memory, Veró. Obviously, I don’t like reliving it. Especially not when it keeps replaying and . . . you know . . . eroding.” Rory is seething now.

  She’s skimming over the fact that the memory doesn’t belong to just her—it belongs to me too. But that doesn’t matter to her right now. I’m just as invisible as always. The realization reignites my anger, but I can tell there’s trouble brewing between Rory and Veró right now and I’m just too tired to get roped into another fight. Let them have it out and exhaust themselves in the process. I just wish I could get the hell away from it all.

  “I don’t want to be trapped here any more than the rest of you!” she snaps at Veró.

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” Veró claps back. “I’m saying you’re out there with the rest of them in a hood and a crown. For all we know, you’re the one who’s pulling the strings in this whole operation.”

  Rory rolls her eyes. She grips one of the shelves, using it to quickly pull herself to her feet. The motion jostles one of the alarm clocks, but it doesn’t start ringing on its own like before. “You wouldn’t understand, Veró.”

  Rory’s words have a bit of an echo to them. I think of what Veró said to Charlotte in the bathroom when she was first caught. You wouldn’t understand.

  Rory couldn’t understand me when we were together. Still doesn’t.

  The Lilies couldn’t understand me when I was first initiated. Still don’t.

  Suddenly the closet feels very lonely. The words reverberate again: You wouldn’t understand.

  “I think I understand very well.” Veró’s voice is an icicle, deadly sharp. “I’m watching y’all dosing people.”

  “Possibly against their will,” Drew adds.

  “It is not like that.” Rory’s voice is louder than normal. She’s been forced into defense mode. “The initiates know what they’re getting into.”

  I brace myself for what’s next. These kids don’t know it but they’re playing with fire. It’s never safe to back a girl like Rory Archwell into a corner.

  The bickering builds for several more minutes. I try to tune it out, but my mind keeps retreating into the library basement. I ward off the stinging feeling in my tear ducts. Whenever I shut my eyes, I see Charlotte, her blindfold askew. Her fearful stare, pupils dilated.

  “Wait . . .” she says.

  Then she chokes. Blood begins to trail from her mouth.

  No. I stand, ball up my fists, and press them against my forehead.

  You’re in this room.

  You’re in your body.

  Stay in the closet, Blythe.

  Just stay grounded.

  I run my hands along the knobs of the black lacquered cabinets.

  “Your plan isn’t working,” Rory growls. “Trying to find ways to save Charlotte won’t work. Period.”

  “I don’t wanna go back down there,” Drew insists. “There has to be a way around all this. We’re just missing something. I know it!”

  “We need to stick together and let it ride. Trust me,” Rory utters.

  I begin to fiddle with the knobs. I pull a drawer open then shut it again.

  Open. Closed.

  Breathe in. Out.

  “Have you given us a single reason to trust you, Rory?” Veró counters. “This whole time you’ve made it perfectly clear that you’re just an agent for the chancellor. You love all this creepy exclusionary bullshit because it’s the only way you can feel special. You’re out here talking about who ‘fits’ at Archwell and who doesn’t. Have you noticed that the pattern of who ‘fits in’’ here falls perfectly in line with white supremacist patriarchy?”

  “What are you talking about? You know Archwell’s not like that. I’m not like that.”

  Anger roars through me, forcing me to break my silence. “But aren’t you?” I scoff.

  Rory wheels around to face me.

  “Why did you give Charlotte to me as my little?” I ask her.

  She frowns. “I . . . don’t know what you mean.”

  I push the drawer closed with my fingertips.

  It rolls open again.

  Open. Closed. Over and over.

  “Did you not know people were spreading rumors about Charlotte? That she was getting bullied for being different? By putting us together, weren’t you telling us both exactly where we stood?”

  “Where they stood.” Veró picks up the thread. “As in, they might find themselves on their asses if they stepped out of line with the Lilies. Tell me, Queen Rory, was Charlotte grateful enough for the opportunity of breathing your rarified air?”

  Drew narrows their eyes. They can smell the blood in the water. “Why does Archwell consider a person like Gabe a ‘threat to the community’? Could it be because he disrupts your carefully protected order? The one with you at the very top?”

  Rory shakes her head. “Wow. I get that you all have agendas here. But can you drop the crusade for like five seconds so we can get the hell out of here?”

  I let go of the drawer again.

  Open. Close. Repeat.

  The others don’t notice the sound.

  We’re right, of course. Right about all of it. But I know we are just wasting our breath at this point.

  Rory’s confidence made me fall for her, and her stubbornness kept us together for a little while. But in the end, it was her inability to see beyond herself that broke us up. At some point, way before we knew each other, she must’ve built a wall around her heart. Unfortunately, she can’t see beyond that wall.

  Open. Closed.

  Breathe in. Out.

  I withdraw into myself. The voices grow into shouts, but I try to keep them far away.

  I get a brief flash of the contents of the drawer. Archwell-branded pens and face masks. More blindfolds. A tube of lipstick. Papers. A lot of papers.

  Open. Closed.

  Open.

  I lift the yellowing files out of the drawer and begin to leaf through the pages. An old transcript. A handwritten homework assignment on weathered looseleaf with the word Marvelous scrawled across the top in red pen. No grade. No marks. Just Marvelous.

  I sigh. If only school were that easy.

  “We’re wasting time,” Rory says to the others.

  “There is no time here,” Drew retorts.

  “That grandfather clock keeps saying otherwise,” Veró points out.

  I come to an envelope addressed in bubbly handwriting. Green ink announces the intended recipient is Chancellor Archwell. Not Rory’s mom, I’m sure. The note feels too thin and delicate in my hand for it to be written recently. Maybe it was for Adeline Archwell . . . or maybe her father, Archwell’s founder.

  The top of the envelope has been slit open, no doubt with one of those fancy letter openers. I reach inside and unfold the letter. The date at the top is written in the same bubbly script. October 6, 1958.

  Dear Chancellor Archwell,

  I’m writing to you because I’m worried about your children.

  Something catches inside me. I pause. I return to the top of the letter. October 6, 1958.

  “I don’t see why you have to make this so difficult!”

  “You’re the one who’s making this difficult.”

  “Y’all?” I interrupt the shouting. At first the others don’t hear.

  “I withheld judgment when we were going through your memory. Can’t you just do the same thing?”

  “Y’all!” I bark. “Look at this.”

  “What is it?” Veró gripes.

  “It’s a letter.”

  “Who gives a shit about a letter?” Drew asks.

  “Look when it was dated.” I hold the paper out for the others to see. “And look who it’s from.”

  The anger in Drew’s eyes melts into worry as they focus on the signature.

  Sincerely, Meredith Simmons

  “Who is Meredith Simmons?” Veró asks.

  “One of the Lilies founders,” Rory says solemnly. Her eyes are glued to the letter, as if she’s seen it before.

  “She was my grandmother,” Drew adds.

  The two lock eyes for a beat. Both statements are true, they just hadn’t been spoken aloud before. At least not here.

  “Right.” Veró narrows her gaze in on Drew. “I almost forgot that you’re a legacy kid.”

  Drew glances at me and then back at Rory. “I mean . . . technically, I guess,” they say. “I’m not a Lily, though. I wasn’t invited into the group . . . thankfully.”

  My gaze lands on Rory. She’s trying not to react to Drew’s words—bottling something up all over again. Her cheeks are turning pink. To some, she might appear furious, but I know what’s underneath all of that: years of maternal guilt trips and toeing the line, years of striving to prove herself worthy.

  Yes, Rory kept Drew out of the Lilies. And, yes, her face reveals a flicker of embarrassment, even remorse.

  Good.

  She should feel bad about all the shit she does to please her mother.

  I turn to Veró, holding out Meredith’s letter. It’s about time we were all on the same page. “You weren’t with us when this happened, but we ran into Charlotte earlier in the loop at the Founder’s Night party. She was talking about her grandma Evelyn and how she knew Drew’s grandmother Meredith. They went to school together.”

  I steal a glance at Drew for a split second. Their eyes are traversing their grandmother’s handwriting, puzzling the meaning of her words.

  “She called her a double-crosser,” I add.

  “Why?” Veró asks.

  “Look at the letter,” Drew says.

  We read in silence, anger draining away with every word.

  The note is a skeleton key.

  Dear Chancellor Archwell,

  I’m writing to you because I’m worried about your children. As you know, I often take Lillian, Evelyn, and Adeline into Georgetown. There, I have witnessed Adeline’s habits in the company of nefarious gentlemen. I have spoken to Lil about Adeline, but he will not listen. He does not want to acknowledge the terrible truth that Adeline is an addict. He’s too wrapped up with Evelyn.

  I know you and Mrs. Archwell are good, concerned parents. Please know that I tell you this as a friend with the very best of intentions: please pull Adeline away from this path that will surely lead to self-destruction.

  Sincerely,

  Meredith Simmons

  We finish reading, each of us shifting uncomfortably from side to side, piecing things together.

  “So . . . hold on . . . your grandmother wrote this?” Veró asks.

  “Yes,” Drew answers.

  “On October sixth,” I point out. “The same date all this Charlotte stuff started for us.”

  “And the same day that Lillian disappeared in 1958,” Rory murmurs.

  “And she wrote it about your grandmother Adeline,” Veró says and turns to Rory and continues, “who had a—a drug problem?”

  “Yes,” Rory admits.

  “And she mentions Lillian, too. Adeline’s sister,” Veró says.

  “But hang on a minute.” I look back at the letter, zeroing in on the pronouns in the bubbly green handwriting. “I’m confused . . . She’s talking about your grandmother’s sister?”

  We all look back at the paper. “‘I have spoken to Lil about Adeline but he will not listen,’” Drew reads aloud. “‘He does not want to acknowledge the terrible truth that Adeline is an addict . . .’”

  “I’m confused,” I say. “Meredith Simmons is using male pronouns when she’s talking about Lillian . . . ?”

  “Yes,” Rory says.

  “Is it some kind of mistake?” I ask.

  Drew hesitates for a second, seemingly gathering facts in their head. “Wait. The way this is written . . . Could it suggest that . . . Meredith, my grandma . . .”

  “. . . outed Lillian as trans back in the 1950s?” Veró gasps.

  The comment sucks the oxygen right out of the room. We all pause and consider. Trans girls “disappear” in America all the time. Lillian wouldn’t have been the first, or the last, to “vanish.” But my mind snags on all the details in the letter that don’t add up.

  “Meredith refers to Lillian by her name, though,” I say.

  “It’s true,” Drew says. “She doesn’t use a dead name.”

  “And Lillian’s parents created the school for their daughters,” I add. “So they would have a safe place to go to school. Away from the world of men.”

  “And that makes it seem like Meredith is just messing up Lillian’s pronouns without thinking of the consequences,” Drew adds. “She’s misgendering her . . . maybe not outing her though. We’d have to know more about the context to know for sure.”

  I watch as a flash of pain spreads across Drew’s face. “But Lillian disappeared,” they say. “Archwell wasn’t safe for her after all.”

  “So how did it happen? And why?” Veró asks.

  I think of the Archwell sisters, Lillian and Adeline. They were students here just like us. It’s almost weird to consider. The 1950s seem like so long ago. It was a time when my grandma Rose couldn’t attend Archwell, not that she would’ve wanted to. Rose’s mother, my great-grandmother, spent seventy hours a week cleaning the Archwell dorms and classrooms. Adeline, Lillian, Evelyn, and Meredith would’ve passed her in the halls . . . probably ignoring her in the process.

  “Wait,” Veró cuts in. “Is it possible that ‘double-crossing’ Charlotte’s grandmother told her about has something to do with Lillian? Like maybe she and Meredith backstabbed Evelyn and that’s why Lillian disappeared? Evelyn is responsible?”

  “I don’t get it. Are you suggesting that what happened to Charlotte is some sort of . . . intergenerational cosmic payback?” Rory asks.

  “Umm. I’m not sure what Charlotte’s grandma Evelyn’s relationship was to all this,” Drew says. “I suppose her granddaughter definitely inherited some TERFy tendencies.”

  “But Evelyn was Lillian’s friend. She couldn’t have been a TERF,” I tell them. “They quoted her in that article we found about her disappearance, remember? She was devastated.”

  “She was also a founder of the Lilies Society.” Rory sounds a little distant. It’s almost as if she doesn’t realize that she just made that comment out loud, because she startles and shrinks beneath our gazes. She’s cornered again.

  That’s it. I’ve had enough of her secrets. It’s time for the truth to come out once and for all.

  “Is it true, Rory?” I ask her. “Did Lillian’s parents found Archwell Academy for Lillian because she was trans?”

  Rory inhales deeply through her nose, bracing herself for something. Instead of exhaling, she manages to squeak out one word. “Yes.”

  The closet trembles, swelling and expanding. The bare bulb above us buzzes a little louder. All of this seems so impossible in a place like this. A place where Gabe Lewis can’t use the appropriate bathroom—can’t use his proper name—can’t be himself.

  “It’s not . . . It was something I was never supposed to tell anyone.” Rory winces. “I didn’t know about it for a long time . . . My mother only told me about Lillian the night before I was initiated into the Lilies. She told me that she was the namesake, the reason the school was started. She told me about all of it.” Her face is pinched and pained. “I feel bad telling you all but . . . I dunno.”

  “Bad like ashamed?” Veró asks.

  “Ashamed of what? Of Lillian?” Drew adds.

  “No . . . it’s just that, it was a family secret and . . .” Rory tries to finish her explanation, but she can’t.

  I turn the thoughts over in my head, replaying what I know.

  The Archwells had a secret. At first, the secret was kept to protect Lillian, but then something shifted along the way. The truth became twisted, distorting into something else entirely. The secret changed. Its purpose was transformed.

  I think of the Lilies—of my initiation, of Charlotte’s initiation—and my blood runs cold. Grandma Rose warned me about this. About these girls and what they might do.

  This is what happens when someone deals in secrets for too long. They swallow shame. It turns them into monsters.

  I understand, because I have choked down so much of my own shame: the shame of what I did to other girls, what I did to Charlotte, what I did to myself.

  In this moment, inside the closet, the bulb growing brighter above me, I make a promise to myself: no more shame. I will not participate. I will not be a monster, not anymore.

  I understand now that the loop has turned me hideous in my own imagination.

  But I know my own mind. And now I know what I need to do.

  18

  Rory

  I am not Adeline. I am not my mother. I could never be them, no matter how hard I try. But the closest I’ll ever come to proving that I’m a real Archwell woman is standing in front of these girls, leading initiation. It’s strange to watch myself do it.

  I didn’t have to say much else to get the others to dive back into the loop and let the memory run its course again without interruptions. No more trying to break out of the loop. No more attempting to change the past. No one wants to run the risk of having to relive the initiation anymore. Everyone just wants out, and fortunately, the others finally realized that I do know what I’m talking about.

  Of course, I had to reveal more than I wanted to in the process, but at least I didn’t give away everything. The truth of my memory thankfully stayed buried, even if I gave up a family secret to keep it that way.

  Lillian deserved her due, I suppose. She deserved remembrance. I always thought that the way we conducted initiation honored her memory but . . . the loop is beginning to make me question that. To question everything.

  Is this really how I remember it all happening? Am I the hero? Or the villain?

  The basement is certainly darker than I remember. The arched brick ceiling bears down on me. The branches of my flower crown nearly scrape the mortar. The pink flowers smell sickly sweet, that same rotten smell from before.