“And if we don’t?” Drew asks.

  “Don’t what?”

  “If we don’t relive our memories exactly as they happened . . . we won’t get out okay?”

  For a moment, no one says anything. Blythe stays curled by the door. Veró crosses her arms, as if to protect herself. Drew opens their mouth again. “I mean, I don’t know about y’all, but I’d love to find a way to avoid reliving the worst night of my life exactly as it happened. Just doesn’t sound like my cup of tea.”

  I shake my head slowly. They clearly have no idea what we’re up against. “As the clock hands turn, memory erodes the mind,” I say. The line is branded into my brain though I’ve only spoken it aloud a few times. There’s a big part of me that can’t believe that I’m sharing this much with non-initiates. But since they aren’t actually Lilies, they can’t know what it all really means . . . which gives me an advantage.

  “You can’t subvert the memory loop,” I explain to Drew. “It’ll just keep repeating again and again until your mind turns to dust. That’s the legend anyway.”

  There’s a distinct click and all four of us turn toward the grandfather clock at the back of the closet.

  “Did the big hand on that thing just move?” Veró asks.

  Behind Blythe, the hardware of the doorknob creaks on its own and the closet door opens just a sliver. Before anyone else manages to react, Blythe reaches up and snaps the door shut again, holding the knob in her hand so it can’t open without her consent.

  Then the sobs come. “I told you, Rory, I’m not doing Founder’s Night again.” She gasps for breath, rattling into a higher octave. “You can say anything you want. I’m not doing it.” She shudders through her tears. Her breath is ragged. Her panic attack is in full swing. I reach for her hand that isn’t glued to the doorknob. “I don’t care about the Lilies. I just want to get out of here and go home,” she wheezes. “I just wanna go home.” She rips her hand away from me and covers her face.

  I hate seeing Blythe like this. It makes me want to break down too.

  Grandma Adeline’s words run through my head again and I find myself parroting them aloud. “We have to be strong,” I murmur, trying to be gentle as I coach her to breathe. I rest my hand on her back. I’m careful to not muss her hair. We all sit there in silence for a minute, letting Blythe’s energy swirl around the closet. Eventually she stops crying and her breathing calms.

  I whisper to her. “Blythe, we have to be strong. The only way out is through.”

  8

  Veró

  Good art weaves together traces of open secrets: the truths that we live with but don’t want to talk about. Folks don’t always like what each piece has to say, but resistance is one of the ways you know your work is honest. You know a piece has been really successful when the art and reality flow together like two streams into a wide river.

  I wish I could say that I learned about good art through creating it myself, but mostly I’ve learned through listening. You know how people say that a piece of art “speaks” to them? Since I was little, art has spoken to me. Not exactly with words . . . although I don’t know how else to correctly describe it. I guess it’s more like a mind meld. Murals come to life. Paintings invite me closer. La Virgen de Guadalupe, depicted as a seamstress by Yolanda López, winks at me.

  At first Mami and Papi thought it was cute. “Look at Verónita! She thinks the painting is alive! She’s talking to it.” They didn’t realize that I knew better than them about what the painting was doing.

  The first time I got in trouble as Malcriada was at the Getty Center when I was five. We were in a gallery with gray walls and a high glass ceiling. We’d come to see a portrait called La Revolucionaria. Within seconds of walking into the space, La Revolucionaria locked eyes with me. At first she glared, the way she was glaring at everyone else. But when she recognized me, she started to smile. She didn’t open her mouth—paintings rarely do—but I could still hear her speak to me.

  It’s impolite to stare, she said. But you’re not the first.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  I noticed how beautiful her skirt was, layered with a matte paint that almost looked like paper. It was the color of a watermelon-flavored candy. My favorite kind.

  You want to touch? she asked me. Go ’head, I guess. Nobody ever touches. It’d be a nice change. I reached out and felt the texture of the paint beneath my fingers, smooth rivulets with rough, hardened edges. It felt like if I pressed hard enough, the globbed-on paint might give in to my little fingers, like hardened Play-Doh.

  “Hey, she can’t touch that,” someone rumbled behind me. Then I heard the BLEEPBLEEPBLEEP of an alarm and someone was yanking me hard by the arm. I screamed, feeling my limb nearly slip from its socket. My eyes burned hot and I let out one long wail.

  “Tranquila, Veró!” I recognized Papi’s voice, hard and angry. “You can’t touch. How many times do I have to tell you? Niña malcriada!” He swept me up in his arms. “Quiet, quiet now.”

  I caught a glimpse of La Revolucionaria as Papi whisked me out of the gallery. She was grinning at me, shaking her head as if it had all been a game.

  Mi niñita malcriada, she clucked.

  To this day, I will not go back to the Getty. La Revolucionaria is in their permanent collection and I don’t trust her not to mess with me again. What happened between us stayed a secret.

  I have to be secretive about art. It was the only way to make sure Malcriada survived . . . at least until I blew it with my installation in the belfry. I suppose the secrets remain, even if Malcriada doesn’t.

  I can tell that the chancellor’s closet is full of these kinds of secrets, each one a loose thread on a silk gown. I can feel it. As Malcriada, I would have been able to weave all the threads together into a new garment and make sense of it all. But now that she’s gone forever, the closet is just a wall of sounds that it seems only I can hear: a sea of wails welling up from the past. There’s pain in these rings, these clocks, in the lining of these robes. Pain that means something, but I can’t decipher it. It will not speak to me. It only cries.

  I see that pain on Rory’s and Blythe’s faces as they huddle together in front of the closet’s opening. It’s the pain of whatever waits for them on the other side of that door: their worst memories, their biggest secrets. The muscles in my shoulders pinch. I know that my worst memory is waiting for me too. The realization fastens itself to my neck like a vampire bat.

  I’m not proud of what I did on Founder’s Night, and I’m with three people who are going to relive it with me. They’ll see the truth, see me for what I am: a vandal and a villain. See the installation that went so wrong: the one for which I’ll never be forgiven.

  Drew will definitely hate me for it. And what then? We’re the only two outsiders here. I need them on my side. I shiver and pull Malcriada’s black hoodie closer to my body.

  “What happens if we just stay in the closet?” I ask.

  Rory shakes her head solemnly. “Same as if you stayed in any closet. Starvation? Death? The faster we can move through the memories, the faster we can get out of the loop. The Lilies initiation basically trained us for this. We just . . . didn’t realize it wasn’t a metaphor.”

  She stands and helps Blythe to her feet, rests her hands on her shoulders. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine,” she says. She uses that word a lot . . . even when she’s clearly not fine. But I can’t blame her. If I got mixed up in all this secret cult crap, I would be beside myself too.

  Wait. I am mixed up in it.

  We’re all in the same boat now.

  “Are you sure?” Rory asks Blythe, genuine concern on her face.

  Blythe takes a deep breath. “I don’t have a choice, it sounds like. We all gotta make it through the loop. I guess we’re just starting with my worst memory. It’s okay. I can go first. Really, it’s fine.”

  It’s definitely not fine, I think to myself.

  “Wait,” Drew says. “Your worst memory happened on Founder’s Night?”

  “Yeah.” Blythe narrows her eyes. “Why?”

  “Nothing,” Drew shoves their hands in their pockets. “I guess I just thought we were going into my worst memory. I’m . . . not proud of what happened on Founder’s Night either.”

  “Interesting,” Rory says.

  Something pricks at the back of my neck. I get a strange sense. Like déja vu, but not quite. Are all our worst memories of Founder’s Night?

  I envision a string invisibly tying us together. Each of our memories, a link in a chain. I see it so clearly, as if the image were painted on canvas. For a second I consider whether or not to keep the premonition to myself. Then I decide: in this situation, it’s better for all of us to operate with the same set of information, at least for now.

  “So,” I cut in. “I had some pretty messed-up stuff happen on Founder’s Night too.”

  “Are you saying that all four of our worst memories—”

  “—happened within the same twenty-four hours?” Rory cuts Drew off, stating the truth of the matter before I can. “Yes.”

  “What exactly does that mean?” Blythe asks.

  “Not sure.” Rory is serious, her face clouded with confusion.

  “I guess we’ll find out,” Drew says. “So . . . let’s do the time warp?” they ask.

  The four of us nod to one another, sealing our agreement to open the door.

  “Whose worst memory started in the library at five twelve p.m.?” Rory asks.

  I close my eyes and gulp as much air as I can. My fingers dig into my forearms. I steady myself. My body is already giving away a trace of my secret. Malcriada’s ghost whispers to me. Go ahead and say it.

  “It’s mine,” I say as I step toward the door and pull it open. “It’s my memory.”

  I take a step outside of the closet. The library looks as it always has. But at the same time, the air feels heavier and colder than I remember. On the mezzanine of the reading room, the shadows are like storm clouds, dark and thick somehow. I notice the bookshelf at my elbow is littered with dead flies. Gross. I flick one to the ground and its little black body disappears into the plush green carpet.

  From here on the balcony, I can see Mrs. Pendleton, the head of security, and Jerry, the maintenance guy, below. They’re hauling in event tables, banners, and tablecloths—all in dark green and gold—for Founder’s Night. An army of black-eyed Susans and calla lilies stands at the ready. Something about the light in the room makes the white petals look a little gray. I catch a sickeningly sweet whiff of the floral arrangements. I gag.

  Yes, this is Founder’s Night as we all experienced it, but here in the loop, the memory is twisted into something else. Familiar but also . . . grotesque.

  I glance at the clock. 5:15 P.M., OCT 6.

  “What now?” Drew asks, snapping the closet door shut behind us. “Veró, should we follow you?”

  “I guess,” I say. “I really don’t know how this works.”

  I glance at Rory for a split second, the ringleader of this cursed quest. When I feel her eyes on me, I let my gaze float up to the ceiling. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking that she’s in charge here.

  “Or should we split up?” Drew asks. “We weren’t all together on Friday evening, obviously. If we have to replay the memory as it happened, does it make sense to stay together?”

  “It all depends,” Rory says. “It’s five fifteen now. Do you remember where you were at this time last Friday, Veró?”

  I hesitate. It’s not that I don’t remember. It’s that I don’t want to think about it. I summon the memory of my alibi reluctantly. At five thirty p.m. Friday, October 6, Veró Martín is on the first floor of McClure Library, “volunteering” for the Student Activities Committee. No one sees her slip behind the swinging door marked Girls.

  But then the rest of the memory comes.

  The smell of spray paint.

  Charlotte’s scowl.

  The terrible, sinking feeling of being caught.

  There’s a new tension in my throat that wasn’t there before. It’s painful, remembering that you’re the villain in someone’s story.

  I cringe and muster the guts to answer. “I was definitely in the library,” I say. “As for my exact location at five fifteen sharp . . . I can take us to the general coordinates. I remember checking the time around five thirty.”

  “Why don’t we all stick together, then?” Blythe asks. “The rest of us can duck out of sight when the time comes,” she tells me.

  I nod. “All right. Let’s go.”

  The four of us slink down one of the spiral staircases. I grip the railing with both my hands, letting the extra-long sleeves of my sweatshirt slide along the cool wrought iron. We reach the bottom of the steps. To our right, there’s the arched stone doorway. I know it leads to a hallway that connects to the library courtyard. Was I still out in the courtyard at 5:15 last Friday? I can’t remember that part of my day. Out of curiosity, I turn the knob and push. The door doesn’t open.

  “That’s weird,” Blythe says, glancing up at the electric red letters—Emergency Exit. “Shouldn’t this be unlocked at all times?”

  “Could be a fluke,” Drew says.

  We steal behind a row of low bookshelves, toward the main library entrance. The sound of muffled voices and furniture dragging across the carpet has stopped. Pendleton and Jerry must’ve finished their part of the event set up. The rest is left for all of us on the Student Activities Committee. I glance at the circulation desk. Ms. Katz is gone for the day too. The library is empty except for the four of us.

  No one says a word as we make our way to the double doors that lead out to Archwell’s quad. As we walk, I can feel Rory’s breath on the back of my neck. I tense and glance back over my shoulder. She’s trailing behind me by at least eight feet. So why do I feel like someone’s following close, watching my every move? In front of the double doors, Drew jostles both handles. They do not budge.

  “They’re stuck,” Drew says. “Not locked. See?” They point to the latch at the top of the doorway that secures the entrance from the inside. It’s open.

  Fear loops around the nape of my neck like Mami’s string of pearls. The doors will open. Just not for us. We’re stuck in here. I suppose we all already knew that. But it doesn’t make it any less frightening. The rules here are unfamiliar and unpredictable—it makes it hard for me to bend them.

  In a panic, the others try to pitch in with opening the doors, struggling against the polished wood and hardware. My eyes pause on the gilded portrait above the exit. It’s of a woman with a gray bob and beige pantsuit. The portrait’s frame sports a shiny engraved plaque: ADELINE AMELIA ARCHWELL, SCHOOL CHANCELLOR 1975–2011. She frowns down at me, and says, Better watch yourself. You’re not supposed to be here.

  “Listen,” I say, speaking to the others but not daring to avert my eyes from the portrait’s glare. “My memory happened here in the library before Founder’s Night. And we have to let the memories play out exactly as they happened, right? So, maybe that means we can’t go anywhere on campus that I didn’t actually go to in my memory?”

  “That makes sense,” Rory says.

  Blythe chimes in. “So, okay, let’s go where you were. The sooner we’re done with this the better.”

  Drew groans. “So much for getting some fresh air.”

  I lead the group away from Adeline Archwell’s disapproving gaze. We end up congregating around the water fountain outside the girls’ bathroom, at the edge of the stacks. Rory stoops to take a sip. I imagine the taste of memory water: bitter and congealed.

  “Maybe don’t do that, Ror,” Blythe says.

  “Yeah, you don’t know what memory water will do to you,” Drew adds.

  Rory gulps the water down anyway. Watching her do it makes my intestines slither against each other. My stomach turns. “Mala suerte,” I mutter to myself.

  Rory scowls at me. “You wouldn’t know anything about it,” she snipes.

  “No, I wouldn’t! You’re the expert on this creepy-ass place. We get it,” I spit back. This girl is really working on my last nerve.

  Before Rory can get any uglier, the echoing creak of the library’s main doorway makes me jump. It’s strange to hear it open and close after all the efforts to pry the thing ajar. The sound announces something important: someone is in the main atrium with us.

  “Veronica?” A tinny voice calls from a few bookshelves away. I can’t see her face, but I recognize the vibration of Charlotte Vanderheyden’s words. It makes my skin prickle. This is the beginning of something bad. All eyes are on me now as Charlotte calls my name again, drawing out the central ó sound into a long, Americanized ahhh.

  “Ver-AH-ni-CAH?”

  I hate it when white people say my name like that.

  The others are paralyzed by the sound of the approaching sophomore. Blythe is frozen, as if she’s heard the voice of a ghost brought back from the grave. Rory’s glaring at me, but I see some fear underneath that poisonous look. Drew’s face bears the shadow of betrayal, as if the sound of Charlotte’s words has opened an old wound.

  It’s all kind of weird. I thought I was the only one who had beef with Charlotte . . . although I suppose Drew and Charlotte weren’t winning any contests for best roommates.

  I whisper my explanation. “Charlotte and I are both on the Student Activities Committee. We’re supposed to be decorating for Founder’s Night starting at five thirty.”

  Charlotte and I never really vibed, but I’ll admit that she wasn’t the worst person to have on the committee. Everyone else was deeply wrapped up in the nostalgia of Founder’s Night. Silks, lace, pearls: it was all the usual prep school bullshit. But serving on a committee is a grad requirement and Student Activities seemed easy enough to coast through. Plus, the meetings were virtual so I could keep my camera off and work on my 404 pages in peace for most of them.

  I’d pretty much completely tuned out of the last committee meeting when Charlotte interrupted Libby Hallsworth before she could move on to the next agenda item.