New Openings

It starts with a rumor.

A girl was found dead on campus.

It starts with wide eyes and gasps and people whispering oh em gee. They clutch to the cross broaches pinned to their uniforms for dear life. Of course, the whole time this is all going down, Olivia and I are laughing because a) we're stoned and b) the idea of a girl being found dead at a prep school is just so Nancy Drew.

Rumors are run of the mill here. They vary from the slightly scandalous to full-on soap opera style and are almost never true. And right now, the vision of a bunch of well groomed kids in blazers trying to get to the bottom of a one lined rumor about a dead girl is just fucking comical.

I scan the halls for Naomi's bleached blonde faux hawk. I don't see it, or her, I just see all these kids in tight little huddles. They whisper to each other and look at us as we walk by. It all seems so ominous, but I'm pretty sure that's just the joint talking.

But then Mind and Society class starts and a cop comes in and I'm suddenly aware of how red my eyes probably are. I fumble around in my purse for the hand lotion that has an obnoxious lemongrass scent and snap open the cap. I'm rubbing it into my hands when he calls my name.

“Violet Nolan?” Mr. Moench repeats after the cop leans away. “Where's Violet?”

Then they all turn and look and touch the crosses again, probably thanking Jesus for all of this delicious drama. Olivia looks paranoid too and I wonder if we're somehow busted for the weed, even though my gut tells me that it's something else.

I hate being right.

“You're one of Naomi Andrews' roommates, correct?” the cop asks me after we've stepped outside the classroom.

A girl was found dead on campus.

“Yes,” I say.

The cop is fat and has stale coffee breath that washes over me as he tells me that not only was a girl found dead on campus, but that the girl was found dead from suicide and that the girl was my roommate. My roommate Naomi Andrews. Naomi Andrews, my best friend since second grade.

I wish I had smoked two joints instead of one.

I think the cop asks me something, but I'm too busy thinking about Naomi in a slide show format in my head to respond. In fifth grade with her braces shining nervously, in ninth grade when Stan Marshall finally asked her out. Last year, when she seriously asked me if saran wrap could be substituted for a condom. I burst out laughing, and the cop starts to look genuinely worried. I decide that he is lying about Naomi.

“How did she die?” I say.

The cop looks uncomfortable. “Would you mind coming back to your dorm so you can answer a few questions?” he asks instead of answering.

“Okay,” I answer.

Naomi can't be dead, especially not from suicide. She told me just yesterday that she was excited for the weekend. We had plans. We had goals. She wouldn't just do that to me.

“Do you have any stuff I should grab from your class before we go?” the cop asks dutifully.

I shake my head no and walk to the door that leads to the snowy quad, thinking about my book bag, library book, and assortment of other random stuff that will be abandoned in Mind and Society. I remember the whispers in this same hall when it was full a few minutes ago, the whispers that I had laughed at and written off as anything but true.

A girl was found dead on campus.

And just like that, my reality becomes a black fucking wonderland.