I don’t want to keep this secret. I don’t want to be a Lily.

  I take a deep breath and push the door away from me. Stepping around it, I fly to Rose’s side. “We have to do something,” I say, reaching out for what’s left of Lillian, but she’s slipping through my fingers.

  Rose looks at me, terrified, but a little relieved. She isn’t alone anymore. Someone is here to help. “What do we do?” she says.

  I reach for Lillian’s hand. Her long, graceful fingers are a little bony at the knuckle, just like mine. The flesh of her palm is still solid. Her hand is still warm. It’s not too late. It’s not too late to save her and Charlotte. It’s not too late to stop this cycle. The pattern can be broken.

  I look up at the raw brick wall and my eyes narrow in on it: the red metal box with the heavy handle. The words Duck & Cover are painted across the top in a fresh white. I let go of Lillian’s hand and run for the alarm. The handle is cold and weighty, but I use all my might and push the thing down. The alarm triggers. It bounds around the building announcing our presence. I turn around and lock eyes with Rose, who is now holding on to Lillian, anchoring her in this world. She will not let her go.

  The pattern repeats.

  Bong!

  Bong!

  Bong!

  27

  Blythe

  I can keep a secret. My grandmother taught me how, and now I know why she was so good at it too.

  “Sometimes, you have to let the past be the past,” she said. “Sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie.” I wonder if she ever took her own advice.

  Now that I know what happened, I don’t think she ever forgot what she saw in that basement. She certainly never told anybody about it, but she often dropped hints. She was always trying to warn me about what might happen to me at Archwell Academy. She wanted me to be safe, to be careful.

  Back in the closet with the others again, I finally feel safe the way Rose wanted me to, the way I felt when I was with her and Mama Letty. I felt their love around me and I knew that nothing could touch me. Here in the closet, I still feel it. I know now that I will always be safe as long as I can remember them and keep them with me.

  “Is it over?” Veró asks shakily.

  “I dunno,” Drew says, clicking on the light.

  “Are we starting over?” Rory asks. “I’m not sure I can do that again.”

  I look up at the hangers on the closet’s bar. They’re swaying ever so slightly. A few dresses remain hanging, but the rest are in a big heap on the floor. The shelves are still trashed and the ground is still covered in old papers and diamond rings. We’ve really done a number on this place.

  “Who knows,” I say, rolling over onto my side to face the door. The polished walnut shines, and underneath the foot of the door there’s a beam of light creeping into the closet. There’s something out there. It might be something terrible or something great. I do not know, and I finally accept that I cannot know. There’s no snooping I can do that will reveal our futures. There’s no rerouting whatever happens next. The lump of anxiety is still in my throat, but it’s a little smaller now than when we started. I breathe in.

  I’m in my body. I’m in this room. I’m gonna be all right.

  The knob turns on its own. The door springs open. Daylight enters the closet. Someone is standing there. She’s tall with high cheekbones. Her spotless ivory dress is cut in a way that shows off her pretty white shoulders. The look is offset by a bold red lip.

  “What are you all doing in my closet?” she asks.

  Lillian Archwell is staring at the four of us. Her expression is a mixture of amusement and concern. Her auburn hair falls over her right shoulder as she leans into the doorway and takes a look around.

  “It’s a damn mess in here,” she says.

  She’s alive. She’s alive and she’s talking to us. Like nothing has happened at all. Shock keeps us all silent.

  “Seriously though,” Lillian says. She shifts her hair over her shoulder and it catches the light. In an instant, it turns white. Her smile stays put as the muscles of her face shift and sag. The fabric of her dress begins to spread and morph, tailoring itself into a completely new garment: a white cable-knit sweater over a pair of light-gray slacks.

  “I understand wanting to come see me for a visit,” she says as her skin withers. Sunspots bloom on her forehead and wrinkles run across her eyes. The lines of her smile deepen. She is aging in front of us. “But stowing away in my closet? Are you all playing a trick on me?”

  I steal a look at the others. Rory is slack-jawed, eyes wide with disbelief. Veró is completely still, as if she’s afraid moving will shatter the moment. Drew is beaming.

  “It worked,” they say.

  “What worked?” Lillian’s voice has aged as much as her face. The seventeen-year-old is gone, replaced by a woman well into her eighties. “Is this a joke? For the TicTack?”

  I rise to my feet. “For what?” I ask.

  “You know. The TicTack? That app on your phones you all use.”

  “Oh.” I try not to laugh. “It’s not called that . . . and no, we’re not trying to play a trick on you.”

  “Good,” she says. “Because I’m eighty-three years old, I’m about to retire, and I don’t have time for this. Come outta there, would ya?” Lillian pulls the door farther ajar. “That closet is embarrassing. I’m such a pack rat. Rory, your mom will tell you, I never throw anything away.”

  “Umm . . . yeah,” Rory says. “Yeah, I guess she has mentioned that.” I steal a look at her and she shrugs at me and shakes her head a little.

  “Step into my office,” Lillian invites us. We exit the closet as if in slow motion, stepping into the chancellor’s lair—but it has changed. The red paint is gone, replaced by a deep forest green. The photos on the wall are still there, but they’re all arranged slightly differently and there are more of them. Some are black-and-white but many more are in color.

  There’s a photo of Edgar Archwell and his wife, Anne, next to Lillian’s and Adeline’s senior portraits. There’s a color photo of Eleanor Archwell cuddling a plump baby with Rory’s eyes. Then there’s a pantheon of group photos of Archwell students throughout the years: celebrating spring on the quad, marching together on the National Mall, standing alongside a slightly younger-looking Lillian with the pride flag. But they aren’t just girls, they’re all kinds of kids. The photo wall is awash with so much color and life, it’s hard to look away.

  My eyes land on a photo of Drew and Rory. They can’t be more than eight or nine. They’re sitting on the stone wall that surrounds Archwell’s campus, grinning and pointing to a bronze sign that reads The Archwell Academy for All.

  I look back at the others, each riding the wave of amazement. More than one thing is different here.

  Absolutely everything is different.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place,” Drew says.

  Lillian gives them a sidelong look as she sits down at the desk.

  “Drew Simmons, I know very well that I’ve barely changed this room since I started the chancellor job in ’72. I admit it could use an update, but you don’t have to razz me about it.” She picks up the desk phone and dials. “You are just like your grandmother.” She shakes her head at Drew but still offers them a little smile.

  “You have some new photos,” Veró points out, barely able to suppress her excitement. Lillian glances at the photo wall and half nods, half shrugs.

  Veró leans close to the wall, eyes widening with recognition. “It’s Gabe,” she whispers, pointing to one of the photos. It’s true. In the picture, Gabe Lewis is grinning and holding up some kind of award. Then I notice who he’s standing next to, but I can’t quite believe my eyes. It’s none other than Eleanor Archwell.

  “Eleanor, darling?” Lillian speaks into the phone. “Yes. I have your daughter and some other hooligans here . . .” She smiles, listening to whatever Rory’s mom is saying on the other end. “Yes, I know.” She flashes a warm glance at Rory and mouths, She says, Love you. Then she clicks into business mode, turning back to the phone. “Anyway, I wanted to check in about our hand-off meeting with Latrice tomorrow . . . Yes, I’m worried about the weather. I think we should move it inside. It’s going to be too cold to meet in the gazebo.”

  I drop into one of the tufted leather chairs. Suddenly, I’m very tired. Veró slides into the chair next to me. “Is this for real?” she asks. “I’m, like, waiting for all of this to go away.”

  “Same.” I laugh.

  “Let’s hope that it won’t,” Drew says. “But I hear you. I still kinda feel uneasy.”

  “We just went through a lot of bad,” I acknowledge.

  “It’s true,” Rory says. “And now it’s, like . . . everything is fixed?”

  “I mean, not everything is fixed, I’m sure,” Veró says. “This one thing changed. Lillian didn’t disappear. That changed everything about what Archwell is . . . and what it has become. But I’m sure there is still, like, global warming and white supremacy and all that other shit.”

  “For sure,” Drew says. “But this one change—”

  “Huge,” I say. I turn back to the photographs, scanning over all the faces that look like mine. It occurs to me that making Archwell a safer place for some folks has had ripple effects for all. The air is clearer somehow. The sun is shining brighter through the windows. Is this what it feels like to be safe at school?

  I look back at Chancellor Lillian, cradling the phone in the crook of her neck as she types something onto her tablet. If things turned out differently for her, maybe things turned out differently for Grandma Rose too . . . Maybe she lived her life with less regret. Maybe there turned out to be fewer reasons to be wary of Archwell girls. Maybe this small change of fate made a big difference for her. What would that mean for our family? I don’t how to parse this yet, but I’m suddenly bursting for answers. I want to talk to Salim. To Sean. To Mama and Daddy. It’s possible that—in this reality—I’ll be able to talk to Rose too.

  Before I can dig up my phone and blow everyone up with texts, Rory speaks.

  “No one’s going to know what we all went through to get here,” she says. “No one can know.”

  Oh, man. She’s right . . . If I tell Salim and Sean what happened in the closet, they’re gonna think I’ve inhaled a deadly amount of sand. But I don’t know if my heart has room for more secrets.

  “I hear ya. But do any of y’all feel weird about keeping all of this to ourselves?” I ask. “It feels like . . . I dunno.”

  “Like you’ll always be waiting for the other shoe to drop?” Drew asks, reaching into the candy bowl on the coffee table for a fistful of butterscotches. They offer me one but I wave it away. They unwrap one of the candies and pop it in their mouth. “Trauma’s gonna have us looking over our shoulders for a while,” they say. “No one else is gonna understand why.”

  “So what do we do with that?” Rory asks. “Now we all just have a new secret we need to keep.” Her face is surprisingly strained. Even in a world where her life seems to have notably improved, she’s still carrying around the past like deadweight.

  “Well, it doesn’t have to be a secret between us,” Veró says as she stands, stretches, and leans against the back of her chair. “I’m not about to pretend like all of that was just a bad dream. It wasn’t just in our heads.”

  “For sure not,” Drew says. “But I want to make sure that nothing like that can happen again, at least not here at Archwell.”

  “How do you do that?” Rory asks.

  “It’s gonna look different for everyone,” Veró says.

  “How?” Rory is as bewildered as ever. “What does that even mean?”

  None of us is quite sure how to answer her. We sit there for a moment. The only sound is Lillian’s murmuring into the phone.

  “Mmm, yes. Yes, I see what you’re saying,” she says. Hearing her voice is comforting. Like when you finally get to listen to a song after hours of the melody swirling around your brain.

  “You just have to find what that means for yourself,” Drew finally says. “It’s gonna grow and change . . . like everything else.”

  “It’s true,” I say. “All of us will have to show up differently, regardless. No more lying. No more fronting.”

  “No more backstabbing,” Rory says.

  “Mmm, mm, mm.” Veró grins. “Rory Archwell. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  Someone knocks on the office door and opens it. I nearly slide out of the chair when Charlotte walks in carrying a stack of papers. She smiles and waves at Drew as she walks to Lillian’s desk and drops the pages in a tray labeled In.

  Lillian covers the mouthpiece of the phone. “Student assistant extraordinaire,” she whispers to Charlotte, and winks before turning back to her conversation with Rory’s mom.

  Charlotte turns to leave. “See y’all later,” she says faintly.

  “Hang on just a sec, Charlotte,” Rory says. “I just . . . have a quick question.”

  Drew and Veró both meet my eyes. We brace ourselves, preparing for whatever Rory might have up her sleeve this time.

  “I just wanted to know if you’ve ever heard of . . . the Lilies?”

  “Is that like a band or something?” Charlotte asks.

  “Um . . .” Rory turns to me, her eyes the size of dinner plates. “No . . . I mean . . . Yes . . . sort of.”

  “Should I have heard of them?” Charlotte asks.

  “No.”

  “Nah.”

  “Definitely not.”

  “I think they kinda suck.”

  Charlotte replicates Lillian’s side-eye, examining each of our grinning faces. “Um, okay, whatever,” she says. “See y’all later.”

  “Yep,” Drew says. “Later.”

  “Like maybe tomorrow,” Veró says, locking eyes with them. I can tell what will happen next, even though I haven’t seen it play out yet. Veró and Drew are bound to be something more.

  “Tomorrow could work.” Drew shrugs and smiles. “Or maybe the next day.”

  “Or after that,” Veró offers. “We’ve got time.”

  “Yes, we do,” Drew answers. “So much time.”

  Acknowledgments

  For every threshold and every milestone in the writing of this book, there was someone there to support my process and offer encouragement. These people acted from a place of joy and unwavering patience. Their kindness is something I’m endlessly grateful for, especially as a debut author.

  My partner, Natan, gave me the love and support that I needed to stay whole throughout this process—my love, you win the award for Most Patient. My parents, Michael and Mel, and my sister, Julia, continuously celebrated this story’s progress and stoked my excitement in the face of challenges—thank you for supporting me in all my iterations. As I learned more and more about publishing, Sarah Ropp generously offered her thoughts, opinions, and contagious glee—thank you for being the sort of friend who every writer dreams of. Miriam Cummons, Genna Ayers, and the Ticket-to-Ride group chat fielded my many late-night texts—thank you for being there for me.

  If this book were a baby, it would have two editor mommies: Kristen Pettit and Alice Jerman. This story would not exist in its current form without Kristen. She was a believer in The Lilies from the beginning and her guidance made it far better than I could have on my own. Her thoughtful input helped me grow as a writer, and her even-handed approach—come hell or high water—helped pilot this project to safe harbor. Picking up where Kristen left off, Alice nurtured this story to maturity, approaching each revision with grace and consideration. She saw The Lilies through to fruition and for that I’m forever grateful. Thank you, Kristen and Alice, for your kindness and enthusiasm.

  A massive thank-you is due to the amazing people at New Leaf Literary. Thank you to Kate Sullivan for midwifing this story in its early stages. Thank you to Meredith Barnes and Joanna Volpe for your fantastic guidance and insight. Thank you to Kendra Coet and Olivia Coleman for coordinating all the logistics. And a very special thank-you to Sophia Ramos for being an awesome cheerleader and for ushering this project along the publishing path. This brings me to Suzie Townsend, an extraordinary agent and champion for storytellers—I feel so deeply privileged to have worked with you. Thank you for showing me the ropes and for setting the bar.

  Thank you to the entire team at HarperTeen—especially to Alexandra Rakaczki and Emily Andrukaitis for such a responsive copyedit. Thank you to Alejandra Torres, Fin Leary, and Natalie Norwood for your readership and expertise. Thank you to Erica Sussman and Clare Vaughn for pinch-hitting at the end of the publication process.

  Deep gratitude and credit is due to every single person from Electric Postcard Entertainment: Carlyn Greenwald, Clay Morrell, Shelly Romero, Haneen Oriqat, and Eve Peña. Your collaboration has made this story what it is. Thank you for your creative fellowship and your generosity of spirit.

  Last but not least, we have Dhonielle Clayton—my teacher, mentor, and YA fairy godmother. Reader, if you didn’t already know, Dhonielle is a visionary who is reshaping the landscape of young people’s literature. This story was her brainchild and I’m unspeakably grateful that she trusted me to write it. Thank you for believing in me, mentoring me, and making this dream a reality.

  About the Author

  Photo by Natan Diacon-Furtado

  QUINN DIACON-FURTADO is a writer and creator who explores gender, magic, intuition, and memory across multiple genres. A 2022 Lambda Literary Fellow, they have a BA from the University of Virginia and an MFA in creative writing for children from Hollins University. They are best known for their portrayal of Danny Zuko in a 1998 summer camp musical revue of Grease. The Lilies is their debut novel, and you can find them at thisisquinnswebsite.com.

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