After lights out, I meet Evelyn at our spot in the servant’s corridor. She’s acting strangely but promises me she has a way to get my mind off our worries.

  I breathe the stuff in and let it take me away. And at first, it is glorious. Evelyn and I are stars in a galaxy, able to be exactly ourselves, unique and still beautiful. But soon I remember that there is no oxygen in outer space.

  The worst part of reliving the memory is the choking. I hate staining my dress over and over again. I hate coughing up blood. Evelyn is scared, and then, suddenly, she’s gone. The last face I remember seeing isn’t hers at all.

  The girl is familiar, but I don’t know her name. By now, I’ve seen her so many times, I could probably draw you a picture. Rich brown skin, luxurious long eyelashes, glossed lips. Some might say she doesn’t belong at Archwell. But if they knew me, those same people might also say that I don’t belong here either.

  Each time I see her, I hear the alarm blaring: Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . . And I know the loop has come to an end and will begin again like a snake eating its own tail. Still, I’m hopeful. Still, I find a way.

  25

  Veró

  Malcriada lived for the naked truth. Her art was guided by anger and justice, an eye for an eye. But even her best work—even the most thoughtful art in the world—could not achieve what the loop has done to us. It has taken a magnifying glass to each regret and twisted our memories into something unrecognizable. We’ve been in the loop for so long now that I’m starting to wonder if maybe that’s just how memory works: whatever happens in your head is not exactly the same as what really happened.

  Your fear, your anger, your shame, all of that distorts your world. It doesn’t change just what you remember. It changes how you see everything. It changes the way you act and the way you treat people. And as long as you try to keep that shame hidden, it’ll tear you to shreds from the inside.

  Now there’s nothing more to hide. The naked truth is finally in front of us. Everyone did something they regret.

  Everyone had a role to play in Charlotte’s disappearance. Everyone is responsible . . .

  “Everyone is so fucked-up,” Drew says. They lean against the wall near the closet’s door. They don’t reach for the knob. We’re not ready to go back out there, not yet. We don’t know what’s on the other side.

  “Some worse than others,” Blythe says in a tone that could burn the hair on your knuckles.

  “I fucked up,” Rory says, sniffling. “Because I’m fucked-up.”

  We’re all silent for a moment, none of us quite sure how to respond. No one wants to hold space for Rory Archwell . . . not really. Still, what we saw in her loop—what the chancellor did—seemed just as messed-up as anything Rory did with the Lilies. For the first time, Rory makes sense to me.

  “How long has your mom been locking you in here like that, Rory?” Blythe is standing now, facing her “sister” head-on.

  Rory crumples a little and starts to cry softly. Now I’ve seen everything.

  “Forever,” she says, sinking to the floor. “It’s been my punishment for forever. It’s what—” She sniffs a little. “What the Archwells do.”

  “What does that mean?” Drew asks.

  Rory shrugs. She folds her body into itself, making herself as small as possible. She’s trying to disappear.

  Blythe softens a bit and sits down next to her. “Your mom locked you in here as punishment, the way her mom . . . ?”

  Tears drown any hope of a decipherable response from Rory. The rest of us take it as proof that Blythe’s guess is accurate. It’s easy to see now what shame has done to Rory and her family. What it has done to everyone at Archwell Academy.

  “I’m sorry,” she cries. “I didn’t mean to hurt anybody . . . not like that . . . I’m just . . . I’m just a fuckup.”

  Rory’s tears are steady. Blythe’s crying ever so slightly now too. “I wish none of this had ever happened. I wish your mom hadn’t done all that. And her mom before her . . . And Charlotte and Lillian . . . I just—”

  “So many regrets,” Drew murmurs.

  So many. If I hadn’t done the #transinclusion installation, we might not all be right here now. Gabe would still be a student at Archwell. Charlotte wouldn’t have been caught alongside me in the bathroom. And maybe if she hadn’t been caught, she might have had the guts to step out of line and follow her instincts. She might have left the Lilies before they could destroy her.

  My heart sinks. Then Mami’s words come back to me, You have to learn to accept the past and move on. But it seems like the loop won’t let any of us move on. Shame keeps dogging me.

  We fall into silence again. Blythe wipes her face, stands, and stretches. She looks tired. We all do. The truth has destroyed us, but it’s also given us a rare moment of peace here in the closet.

  “I don’t want to be like her, you know,” Rory says, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She’s obviously referring to her mom. “I just . . . didn’t have a choice.”

  “That much is clear,” I say. I may not agree with my papi’s politics. I may get on his and Mami’s last nerve, but he would never treat me the way the chancellor treated Rory.

  “For what it’s worth,” Drew says, “I don’t think you are like your mom, actually.”

  “No,” I affirm. “You’re not.”

  “Trauma patterns,” Blythe whispers.

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  “Ever hear of generational trauma? Trauma patterns?” Blythe asks. Everyone stares. “I read about it in sociology. Trauma can be passed down from generation to generation, sometimes without even realizing it. People unconsciously repeat abusive patterns and then pass them down. Like traditions, but”—she glances around at all the Lilies ceremonial crap—“Messed-up ones.”

  “Hurt people hurt people,” Drew adds.

  Rory nods. Her tears have stopped. “Our grandmothers, and Lillian,” she says. “Now . . . us.”

  We slip into silence again, just as a scrap of paper falls from one of the closet’s high shelves. It floats down to the floor like snow. It lands squarely among the four of us, face up.

  “I would like this closet to leave us alone now,” Drew says. “My brain can’t take it anymore.”

  An awkward giggle escapes my mouth as I stoop to pick up the paper. I study it for a moment. The handwriting is unfamiliar, the edges are withered, but the message is timeless. I look up at Drew.

  “It’s a love letter.” I smile. “It’s to Lillian.”

  “Let me see,” Rory says, reaching for the page. I hand it over.

  “‘Dear Lil,’” she reads. “‘You bring me light on my darkest days. You are my every hope for what the future may be. You make it safe for me to dream. I love you. XO, Evelyn.’”

  “Aww,” Drew says. “Cute! We love to see it!”

  “So Charlotte’s grandmother and Lillian were in love . . . They were together.”

  “It was 1958,” Blythe reminds us. “They might have been . . . stuck in the closet.”

  “I know the feeling,” I say, looking around at our closet.

  “Time wouldn’t let them be together,” Rory says. “And also . . . more than likely my great-grandparents. They loved Lillian. This whole place exists because of her. But the fact that she was trans was a secret. One they were trying to bury right here. And if she was queer and trans? It might have been too much for them to handle.”

  “There were also a bunch of laws at the time against things like homosexuality and wearing clothes that didn’t line up with a person’s assigned gender,” Blythe adds.

  I can’t help but shake my head. “I’m not sure much has changed,” I say, making eye contact with Drew. “The laws may be different but . . . there’s still the same old gender oppression and the same old homophobia.”

  We all stare at the letter, eyes following the graceful lines of Evelyn’s handwriting. I trace the word Love onto my forearm with my index finger over and over again. My eyes flicker over to Drew, who’s staring at Lillian’s gown.

  “Therein lies infinity—the place where she survives—while we protect our sisterhood, our secrets, and our lives,” they mutter to themself. “For only when her sisters’ wrongs are once again made right will she escape anew and take her place within the light. And so shall . . . so shall . . . What’s the end of the Lilies vow again?”

  “I thought you had it memorized,” Blythe says.

  “It’s been a long day,” Drew counters.

  Rory speaks now. “And so shall four return again beneath the waning moon to resurrect the memory, or find our way to ruin. Ut sacram memoriam.”

  “The four,” Drew says. “The founders, right? Meredith, Adeline, Evelyn . . . and who else?”

  “Lillian?” I volunteer.

  Drew shakes their head. “Lillian disappeared before they started the Lilies. That’s why it was named after her.”

  “That’s true,” Rory affirms.

  Drew takes a deep breath and runs their hand over their buzzcut. They meet my eyes. “What if it’s us?”

  “What?” I yelp.

  “What if we are ‘the four.’ And so shall four return again beneath the waning moon to resurrect the memory, or find our way to ruin. What if we’re the ones who might be able to turn the wrong right? Some of us are descendants of the original four. What if all this is happening . . . because we’re here?”

  “I dunno, Drew,” Blythe says. “The vow says ‘again.’ All four of us haven’t met before today.”

  “But time, in this place, is warped,” Rory says.

  “What does ‘again’ even mean in a place where everything repeats?” Drew adds. “In a place that’s beyond the bounds of time?”

  They’re met with silence as everyone works it through.

  “But we tried to change things before—and it didn’t work,” Rory says.

  “We tried to save Charlotte,” Blythe reminds us. “That’s what didn’t work.”

  “We need to go back farther,” Drew says. “Like way back.”

  Blythe runs her hands over her face. “Drew. It’s been, like, a day. Can you explain this like I’m a three-year-old?”

  Rory’s eyes narrow. “Drew. Are you suggesting . . . ?”

  Drew nods. “I think we need to open that door and try to find the whole truth about what happened to Lillian.”

  “Huh?” Blythe squeaks.

  “Her story has been buried all this time,” Drew tells her. “If we witness it, then . . .”

  After a beat Blythe whispers, “Then the wrongs are once again made right.”

  A strange feeling fills my chest. Something that feels like . . . hope.

  The four of us stare at each other, then shift each of our gazes to the door. Its polished wood gleams in the low light.

  “Why would the loop let us go back that far?” I ask.

  “Because we’ve already survived reliving our own memories,” Drew says, “and it’s clear whatever is with us in this closet wants us to know what happened to Lillian.”

  “It’s true,” Blythe says. “All the clues, everything we’ve found, has been about her.”

  We’re quiet for a moment, each of us still eyeing the door.

  “Let us see what happened,” Rory calls out to no one in particular. Her voice is louder than before, more willful. I realize she’s not speaking to any of us . . . she’s speaking to the walls of the closet. “We four are here to right a wrong.” As she speaks one of the alarm clocks on the shelf starts to buzz.

  Maybe it’s an answer. Maybe we’re actually on to something.

  “Let us see what happened,” Drew says now, as more alarms begin to sound. “No more secrets and lies.”

  “Let us see what happened,” Blythe says as the grandfather clock starts to bong. She looks at me as she speaks. “Nothing can be changed until it’s faced.”

  “Let us see what happened,” I say. Then I smile because I can’t really believe what I’m about to say. “Ut sacram memoriam.”

  “Ew, Veró,” Drew mutters, eyes smiling.

  The closet door flings open.

  26

  The Lilies

  Veró

  The moment the closet door opens, my ears pop. The room becomes a wind tunnel, then a jet engine. Sheer air pressure wrestles each of us through the doorway, and then we’re streaking through a passageway so bright that I lose all sight of the others. Something is pulling us through, and all I can do is give in to it. My body becomes a silk ribbon in the wind, flowing and snapping as the force that pulls me forward speeds up.

  Then my feet hit softly against carpet. The impact forces me to my hands and knees. Rug burn spreads up my forearms. I gasp for air, gripping at the weave of the burgundy rug. I’m not moving anymore. I’ve landed. The room around me is still and I’m alone. Where are the others?

  As soon as I can breathe a bit, I lift my gaze to the window above me, seeing only blue sky and slate-shingle roofs. In front of me, below the window, there’s a twin bed with a flouncy skirt. To my left, there’s a small desk with a single chair, both in a blond wood. It clashes a little with the room’s cherry paneling. This isn’t the library. The loop has taken me somewhere else entirely.

  Did it work?

  I sit up and something scratches against my legs. I glance down.

  Somehow, I’m wearing a skirt. Underneath I find an itchy crinoline lining. Okay, now I know I’m tripping. My collared shirt’s been replaced by a lavender cardigan buttoned all the way up, topped with a string of pearls.

  I would never.

  My eyes catch on a pennant tacked to the bulletin board next to the bed. It is forest-green with gold lettering that boldly announces The Archwell Academy for Girls. It finally dawns on me that I’m in the Archwell dorms. I rise to my feet and peer out the window at the familiar stone buildings of the central courtyard. They are naked and vineless. Their craggy blockwork is barely weathered. The trees in the courtyard are smaller too. It all looks just like Archwell but . . . everything is newer.

  I turn to the bulletin board and lean across the bed, kneeling on the mattress to get a better look. There are some magazine cutouts from Vogue, a handful of drawings and notes, a certificate of achievement, and a calendar. By the time I notice the month, day, and year marked on the page, I’m not even surprised.

  Of course. It’s October 6, 1958.

  But whose dorm room is it? There are only a handful of options.

  I turn to the desk and begin rummaging in the drawers and through the stacks of papers. Nothing. I turn back to the bulletin board and find the certificate of achievement.

  For Excellence in French IV, Spring Semester ’57: Meredith D. Simmons

  Por Dios. This is Drew’s grandmother’s dorm room. A lair for one of the original Lilies. I can’t believe this. Before I know it, I’m pacing the room, pinging from wall to wall. Why am I here? Why am I alone? Why isn’t Drew here? Shouldn’t they be the one transported back to see their grandmother? This has got to be a mistake.

  I pause at the windowsill and notice how Meredith has filled an empty glass bottle with water and a single black-eyed Susan. It looks a bit withered, as if it’s been sitting on the ledge for a while. Next to the flower, there is a piece of heavy paper and a little plastic box that I recognize as a watercolor kit. The paper has some pencil marks and brushstrokes: the beginnings of some kind of caricature. I don’t recognize the figure, as the piece isn’t quite fully developed. I can tell it’s a girl, though. She looks suspiciously familiar, a lot like the Archwell girls from my painting. Malcriada would approve.

  The door on the far side of the room stirs and I freeze. I don’t know if the loop will reset if Meredith finds me here and I don’t want to find out. I dive into the dorm room closet and pull the door behind me, leaving it open just a crack so I can still see the desk. I hear the room door open all the way and then shut again. Someone heaves a sigh and shuffles around a bit. Then Meredith Simmons rounds the corner into my line of view and drops into her desk chair. She has Drew’s mouth. The way her nostrils flare when she sighs is exactly like her future grandchild . . . who isn’t born yet? Is that why Drew isn’t with me in this memory? They ceased to exist?

  Before the questions can spiral too far away from me, I notice that Meredith is wearing the exact same lavender sweater and striped skirt as I am. Creepy. I hate to think what she might say if she were to find me, a brown girl in her closet dressed as her double.

  I watch Drew’s grandmother as she putters around her desk, placing a record on her little turntable and letting the needle drop. I’m surprised when I recognize the sound of old-school country and western. Mami has this album in her record collection. Patsy Cline begins to sing:

  I can’t forget you. I’ve got these memories of you.

  Meredith shifts in her chair, opens the top desk drawer, and reaches in for paper and a fountain pen. I watch as she writes. I’ve come to recognize her bright, bubbly penmanship. Thankfully, her handwriting is a bit larger than average. It’s big enough for me to make out the beginning of the letter she’s writing.

  Dear Chancellor Archwell,

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

  Oh my god. It’s a letter to Rory’s great-grandfather. The letter. The one that exposed Adeline’s addiction. The one that misgendered Lillian . . . and possibly outed her romance with Evelyn.

  I can’t see all of Meredith’s face, but October sunlight illuminates her honey hair and a sliver of her profile. I can make out the corner of a deep frown. Her shoulders are stooped and tight. She is a knot of worry. She sniffles softly. Is she crying? Why? She’s doing something awful. She’s knowingly betraying her friends. She doesn’t get to cry.

  Meredith pauses and leans back in her chair. She runs her hands under her eyelids, then stretches her arms out wide. “Ah!” she says, shaking out her hands as if trying to throw something off her, something that is tearing her up inside. Then she lets her arms drop and is still for a moment.