I already lost them once before . . .

  Oh no. I feel the memory rushing toward me like a tidal wave.

  I’m running through the DC streets.

  I feel myself losing my grip on Sean’s hand all over again, and it feels like I’m falling.

  I’m alone in a swirl of people, faces covered, eyes watering. Where are my brothers?

  Careful, Blythe, I tell myself. That memory’s a white bear too. It’s a trap your mind sets. You’re not back there. You’re here in this closet. Your hand is on the door.

  I try to ground myself, locking eyes with Rory, who’s looking genuinely concerned. The doorknob feels like an ice cube in my hand. I breathe in the closet’s staleness, mothballs and dried lavender.

  “Are you okay?” Rory asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  Fine. It’s the only acceptable way of saying I’m scared.

  Scared of what I’m about to see. And scared of what’s bound to happen—the others will see exactly what I did. Guilt clamps down on every muscle in my body. The closet door stays closed.

  “Before we go out there, I wanted to ask—”

  I’m relieved by Drew’s interruption. I let go of the doorknob and cross my arms, reminding myself that I am still in my body. The swell of panic subsides a little.

  “—to avoid the reset, can we just take the most direct route to relive the memory as it happened?” they ask.

  “About that,” Veró says. “I didn’t want to say before, but the whole thing actually happened in the bathroom.”

  “I knew it!” Drew grins manically. “The worst dump of your life. That’s your horrible memory!”

  “No.” Veró smiles a little, but I can tell she’s clouding over. The sorrow in her eyes softens my fear into sadness. I’ve been so caught up in my own insecurities about what happened on Founder’s Night that I never considered that Veró would be dreading reliving her darkest moment, too.

  “All right, then. Let’s go and get it right this time,” Rory gruffs. Her tone is a machete slashing at everything and everyone in her path. “Move.” She forces the closet open and leads us back out into the library.

  But it doesn’t really feel like the library anymore. While it’s definitely the same room, the light has a strange green tinge to it now. A horrible rotting smell worms its way up from the bookshelves below, collecting into a cloud under the cathedral ceiling. I recognize the odor of flower stems decaying in water.

  “What’s with the nasty smell?” I murmur. “I thought the memory was supposed to stay the same. Or did we already move on to a different one?”

  “Most memories are distortions of what happens in real life,” Veró says. She leans on the railing of the mezzanine as if to steady herself against the tide.

  “So, like, your memory is decaying?” Drew asks Veró. “Like you’re forgetting a part of it?”

  “No,” Rory cuts in. “The loop warps your memories. They get more and more twisted every time you start over. The saying goes, Memory erodes the mind . . . in a loop that turns to dust. If you spend too long replaying memories again and again, you break. The loop turns to dust and there’s no way back.”

  It’s strange to hear Rory quote the Lilies vow so openly, but she doesn’t have to explain further. I know exactly what it’s like to feel trapped by your own mind. Maybe that’s what made me a true Lily: sometimes I get in my head and it really feels like the past is present and the present turns to past.

  I hold my nose to dampen the smell of rot and follow the others. As we cross the library’s main atrium, I glance up at the portrait of Rory’s grandmother Adeline. The original Lily. Her jaw is clenched. Her expression is serious, almost sad. She had her own secrets, I’m sure. Did she experience her own version of this loop? Did guilt threaten to break her, too?

  On the west side of the main atrium, Veró pauses in front of the door labeled Girls. She stares up at the word and the little skirted stick figure underneath. I can tell she doesn’t want to go in. She doesn’t want to face whatever is behind that door. She doesn’t want to relive the memory. I know the feeling. She waivers a bit and for a second she looks like a little kid about to cry. I have the sudden impulse to hug her, but I don’t think it would do any good. She’s way too in her own head. She wouldn’t be able to feel it, not really.

  She pushes the swinging door open just a smidge and we all cover our mouths. The smell emanating from the bathroom is completely eye watering.

  “I think we found whatever is rotting in here,” Drew says, voice muffled. I turn and see that they’ve retracted their head into the collar of their oxford shirt to shield themselves from the stench. “Did you set off a stink bomb before Founder’s Night or something, Veró?”

  “No, it wasn’t like this,” Veró answers.

  “I think the loop is deteriorating. The memory is rotting,” Rory says. “The vow warned us about this. The clock hands turn, memory erodes the mind. If you had just let the memory play through as it happened the first time, it wouldn’t be like this.”

  “It’s not my fault that Charlotte caught us. And I didn’t know it was going to be like this the second time.”

  “All the more reason to get it right this time,” Rory says. “I mean, if we keep messing around, we might not be able to get out of here before the loop completely dissolves.”

  “We get it, okay? Jesus! Enough,” Veró growls.

  A question spills out of me. “Would you be willing to tell us exactly what happened in there? I know this is all a lot, but I think telling us what’s about to happen might make it all easier and make sure that we get through this part without a repeat.”

  Veró’s chin wrinkles. The curls around her face seem to lose their bounce. Her eyes close. I’ve touched a nerve, but it was unavoidable. We are all about to relive Veró’s worst moment anyway, whether or not she decides to give us a preview. Drew and Rory freeze, waiting for her to answer. But Veró doesn’t speak. I reach for her hand, clasp the fingers.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” I say, even though I don’t know if that’s true. I’ve played the supportive sister at Archwell before, specifically with Charlotte as my little. But with Veró I actually get a chance to be genuine. I’m surprised at how good it feels to be real for minute. “What was so bad about setting up for Founder’s Night with Charlotte?”

  Veró gathers herself together and takes a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “It was a hard night for a lot of reasons.” Then she turns to Rory with a treacherous look on her face. “Your mom didn’t make it any easier.”

  “You know, Veró, for someone who has barely said a word to anyone in the two years they’ve been at this school, you’ve suddenly got a lot of opinions.” Rory matches Veró with her own type of venom. Her fangs are out, ready to strike. I hate it when she gets like this. It happens very rarely, behind closed doors, and usually only with the littles. She can be vicious if you push her far enough. And Veró has definitely been pushing all of Rory’s buttons today. “Why exactly would my mother be responsible for your worst moment? She’s never done anything to you except let your daddy buy your spot here as a last-ditch effort to keep you out of military school. Remind me, you got kicked out of Easton Academy, right? And what about the one before that? Was that expulsion from Madras Prep or Forrest Gable?”

  “You’re trying to mess with me, but it’s not gonna work.” Veró keeps her voice even at first, but I notice her flinch when Rory says the words daddy and expulsion. Her next few sentences spatter out like machine-gun fire. “You wanna know how your mom ruined my Founder’s Night? All right, I’ll tell you. When someone reveals herself to be a total, unequivocal TERF, it sort of ruins your day.”

  Rory crinkles her brow and tilts her head, confused. “What?” she says, quiet all of a sudden. “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what you already know, princesa. The chancellor, aka your mama, is a TERF. A big one. Capital T-E-R-F. You surprised? Huh. You’re not as smart as I thought you were.” Veró expels the words from her mouth and they thud to the floor. But that one word—TERF—echoes across to the atrium.

  “That’s . . . that can’t be right. You just . . .” I can hear the tension winding around Rory’s voice. No one has ever dared tell her anything about her mom, not even the bigs back when we were underclassmen. “You can’t just throw around accusations like that, Veró. Calling someone like my mother a TERF is a big freaking deal.”

  “You’ll see. Just wait.” Veró motions to Drew and pushes open the swinging door of the girls’ room. “And don’t worry, Ms. Archwell. Imma let the memory unfold exactly as it happened so you can see just how hateful your mom really is. C’mon, Drew.” And just like that, she and Drew disappear into the bathroom, ignoring the smell of rot.

  “She’s lying,” Rory says, turning to face me now that we’re alone. “You know my mother. You know she’s nothing like that. She’s all about women’s empowerment . . . I mean, she’s a feminist talking head for cable news for god’s sake. What Veró is saying is ridiculous, right?”

  Rory is pleading with me to back her up. She doesn’t want to be on the wrong team. She doesn’t see herself as the villain here. At the same time, this situation is painfully familiar. If I had a dime for every time someone tried to smooth over a racist thing said to me at an Archwell alumni event, I’d be a rich woman. Every one of those things gets brushed off as a “misunderstanding” or being “out of context.” Something tells me that Veró’s experience with the chancellor might not be much different.

  “I don’t know,” I say to her. “Veró clearly got that impression of your mom somehow.”

  “My mother is not a TERF, though. I know it. I mean, I’m not a TERF so . . .” The words spill out of her quickly—forcefully—as if saying them will protect her somehow.

  Denial is a powerful thing, especially when it comes to white people and their families. Still, I feel for Rory. It’s not like she brought this on herself.

  “Look, I know it doesn’t feel good to hear,” I soothe. “But you’re just gonna need to let the memory play out and see for yourself. It’ll move us through the loop and get us closer to getting out of here. And we have to get out of here soon, Rory.” I shiver away the thought of my brain slowly turning to dust as my worst memories play on a loop again and again. “I don’t wanna be here. I don’t wanna do this any longer than we have to.”

  She lets out a long sigh and is quiet for a beat. When she finally does speak, her voice is small. “You’re right. It’s just hard. I wasn’t expecting . . .”

  “Have a little empathy,” I tell her. “We’re all gonna go through this sooner or later.” I’m right, but I wish I weren’t. And I wish I weren’t scared of what’s bound to come.

  The feeling forces the truth out of me. “Rory, we need to talk about what we’re gonna do about the loop once it gets to our memories of Founder’s Night.”

  We haven’t talked about what happened, not directly . . . not unless you count the low-key threatening texts Rory sent me before our exam. It’s time to be real with each other for a second while we’re alone.

  But before Rory can say anything, there’s the creak and slam of the main doorway opening and shutting.

  “Veronica?” Charlotte’s voice reanimates my panic. Sweat begins to gather under my blouse again and my knees threaten to give.

  I can’t lay eyes on her. Not after what happened during her initiation. Charlotte Vanderheyden might as well be a ghost.

  “We need to hide,” Rory hushes. “If she finds us, the loop resets again.”

  “Ver-AH-ni-CAH?” The voice wrenches my guilt back into my throat. The feeling chokes me. There’s no avoiding this, no matter how hard Rory tries to resist.

  “We need to talk about what happened to Charlotte, Rory. We never talked about what we did to her.”

  “You mean what you did to her,” Rory snaps at me.

  I’m speechless. Shame spreads through my body, replacing the tightness of guilt.

  Rory continues, her voice rushed and harsh. “Listen, we don’t have time for this, Blythe. We need to go in there and hide so the memory can move forward. I get that what happened freaked you out. It’s understandable. But I need you to forget about that right now. The others don’t have to know.”

  I break my silence. “They’re gonna find out! The loop is going to show them. They’re going to see how Charl—”

  “Hello? Veronica?” Charlotte’s voice is a bookshelf away. If she finds us, the memory is derailed and this all starts over. As the clock hands turn, memory erodes the mind.

  Not wasting another moment, Rory springs into action. She shoves me with all her might against the swinging restroom door. I topple through the opening, body thwacking against the green tile floor. Rory is right behind me, pushing the door shut, and steadying it so it sits still on its hinges. My arm throbs against the cold tile. Pain shoots up into my shoulder.

  “God damn,” I groan. “What the hell, Rory?” Through the ache, I notice that it feels kind of good to curse at Rory.

  “Shut up, Blythe. Just shut up,” Rory whispers, pulling me to my feet and guiding me toward an empty bathroom stall.

  Yep. I definitely should’ve started cursing this girl out a long time ago.

  Next to the row of sinks, Drew and Veró are gawking at us.

  “Charlotte’s outside,” Rory announces to them. “We have to hide. Not you, Veró.”

  Drew leaps into one of the other empty stalls as Rory faces me. “Stand on the toilet,” she barks. “Don’t let her see your feet.”

  And with that, she slams the stall door in my face.

  Outside the bathroom door, I can hear Charlotte calling for Veró.

  “I’m just in the bathroom. Be out in a sec!” she calls back.

  But I know Veró won’t come out to meet Charlotte. She’ll stay in here until Charlotte finds her doing . . . I’m not sure what.

  It was something bad that she didn’t want to say.

  But I can’t blame her.

  It seems we’ve all done something very, very bad.

  11

  Veró

  Growing up, Mami said I played too rough. I tended to get in the most trouble on Sunday afternoons after services ended and we went home but before the sun went down and family and friends parted ways. My cousins and I would get into a game of tag and someone would wind up falling on the deck and splitting open their lip while I was chasing them. We’d play chicken in the pool and whoever was bearing my weight on their shoulders would wind up underwater for a bit too long. One time I knocked the wind out of my cousin Julio with a toy golf club. I got sent to my room a lot.

  “Vete a tu cuarto, Veró,” Mami would say. “What you did was very bad.” I’d stomp up the stairs and slam my bedroom door behind me. Then I’d spread myself across my bed and fix my eyes on Papi’s poster from college that I’d commandeered from the attic. It was a museum print of Manuel Caro’s El Alma de la Virgen. I sat and stared and fumed.

  Outside on the pool deck below, I could hear my tías talking.

  “La niña se porta mal. She doesn’t think before she does things.”

  “I’m sure she’ll grow out of it.”

  “You should be stricter with her.”

  La Virgen in the reproduced painting always smirked at me, amused by my predicament. One day, she asked, Eres una niña buena o una niña mala?

  “I am Malcriada,” I answered back. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

  But you did hurt someone, didn’t you? You do it often. Why else do they send you here?

  “It was an accident,” I said. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  La Virgen didn’t say anything after that. I filled in the blank of her silence.

  I have hurt people. Malcriada has hurt people. And here, in the loop, I have to face that fact.

  The air in the library bathroom is thick and pungent. It’s hard to breathe normally. Or maybe I’m just holding my breath without realizing. It’s about to happen again: my mistake, my shame. The worst damage I’ve ever done. I feel it building up. The memory is pressurized, ready to explode and set the loop on fire. I turn my back to the row of bathroom mirrors. I can’t stand to look at myself. I don’t want to see what happened again . . . what I did.

  Dread is interrupted by a vaguely familiar wave of excitement. Something is materializing in my hand, molecule by molecule. Propane, butane, and pigment, all encased in a cylinder. Then I remember how all of this started—with a can of spray paint. I glance down and see that it’s in my hand: Rust-o-Color, pigment #1356, Hot Pink.

  But wait. I’m not the one holding the spray paint. Malcriada is. Relief washes over me. In the memory, Malcriada is alive. I feel it in my fingertips, in my legs, in my gut. She’s here. I’m her again. Wrapped around me, her black hoodie is no longer a funeral shroud. It’s armor. And in the next moment, I remember what I need to do. I reach out my hand and the paper stencil assembles itself out of a snow shower of tiny fibers. Yes, this is how it started.

  Stencils aren’t hard to make, but I’m quick and imprecise with an X-Acto knife, ruining designs with just one stray stroke. As Malcriada, my hand was always a little steadier. I breathe in the feeling of being her again, a surge of power burning in my belly. My fingers curl tight around the spray paint can, each of them individually resolved to carry out the mission. It’s exactly as I remember it: the blank black expanse of the bathroom stall doors, the little blue shimmer of fluorescent overheads reflecting off the green tile, the feeling of total and utter belief in the work I’ve set out to do.

  I lift the stencil and steady it against the door of one of the bathroom stalls. Inside, I hear Drew sniff. Once. Twice.

  “Shut up.” Rory’s rebuke slithers beneath the dividers from two stalls away and silences Drew. What happens next has to be exactly as I remember. No disruptions, or the loop will reset. I hate that I’m relieved by Rory’s correction, but I don’t want to replay all of this again. Once is enough.