I
When winter break ended, there was no thaw or warming of the air; instead, the temperature grew even more biting, and Emma came to school wearing four scarves - red, tweed, tartan, and pure white. The river that Joshua Hendricks had made into his graveyard froze over. The school offered counseling to students disturbed by what everyone knew was a suicide, but the three remaining vowed that they were quite all right, and no one worried over them. They were the golden children, the future politicians and scientists and doctors; their first words had each been “genius,” and they spoke in a language unknown to the average; they were loved and resented, and they did not particularly care either way. Children like these felt nothing at all but the cold drive to success, or so Society assured them.
They met as always, on the icy bench at the edge of the courtyard, as they had made a dutiful habit of. It was still early, and the signs of exhaustion weighed heavy on their features.
“How was your break?” Liam did not mention Joshua, or even imply that he ever existed at all, that anything at all had gone wrong. Emma did not look up at him, her eyes still glued to her biology textbook. She shivered every so often, but she made no attempt at complaint or suggested that they go inside, especially not before Helene arrived. If anyone was late, it was always Helene, rushing in with her leatherbound books and her curls and her assurance that she was not from any world as dreary as this. In fact, Helene was not from here at all; instead, she had moved from Massachusetts at the start of high school. She was rich and one of the elite, but she wore it well, only occasionally suggesting that she would never have to fight for anything at all, that she was the percentage that everyone spoke of, that she had an inherited advantage that would always clothe her as a statistical outlier.
“It was all right. I got into Yale, but I don’t really know if I want to go. I’m not sure if it’s the right fit for me, that’s all. If I get into Stanford, I’m starting to think that maybe I’ll go there instead. I think I’d like the west coast” Emma continued to stare at her biology textbook, even as Liam sat down beside her, keeping a cautious two feet between them, where Helene would slip in easily. The tension between Emma and Liam, ever present and ever obnoxious, never existed with Helene, perhaps because most regarded her as something else, mythical and god-like, cold and already a statue too soon. She was not to be loved and she was never to be fucked; she was holy and unholy all at once; she would never wear white, or so she had vowed rather vehemently, even as the others made it an unspoken staple, a symbolic gesture of class and organization more than one of virginity.
“Yeah, Stanford is better for bio and premed, I’d say. That’s what Nina told me.” Liam looked at Emma for a moment, then took out a notebook. He rummaged in his backpack for a moment, then turned to her. “Hey, do you have a pencil?” She smiled slightly, in a condescending sort of amusement, reaching into her purse and handing him a pencil, freshly sharpened and knife-like, the sort of weapon favored by this sort.
“That’s what I’ve been thinking. Besides, I need to get out of here, get to warmer weather. This place will kill me, I swear. I’m not built for it, I mean.” Emma turned back to her biology book, as if she was willing herself not to look at Liam. “Have you heard from Helene?”
Liam shrugged and began to write something rather urgently in a notebook. Emma made no attempt to glance over his shoulder; if she was curious at all, she hid it very well.
“Do you think she’s doing okay?” At this comment, Liam closed the notebook rather violently, turning to Emma and giving her an icy glare. She remained empty-eyed, and if she was hurt at all, she did not show it outwardly. Liam was, out of the three of them, the only one with a gift for politics, but they were all born politicians, forever obsessed with image and clothing themselves in fine things that would always fit too large around them.
“It’s Helene. She’s doing all right, I’m sure. She always is. I wouldn’t worry about it, and I certainly wouldn’t say anything to her. I think that would be a really bad idea. We said we wouldn’t say anything about it.”
Emma shifted uncomfortably on the bench, crossing and then quickly uncrossing her legs. “Scientifically, it’s supposed to be better to just talk about it.”
Liam frowned, raising one dark eyebrow and leaving his eyes entirely blank of emotion. “Talk about what?” Above them, the air still cold, the sun hid itself back behind a cloud, and Emma shivered again, adjusting her scarf until it covered not just her neck but the bottom of her chin and her chapped lips. If she hid away from the air for long enough, scientifically, she would begin to be happy again, a feeling that she had not known for some time now.
Emma did not respond. The silence hung comfortably in the air, familiar and clean-edged, waiting patiently for the next person to disturb its hibernation. Other students passed by, but while they laughed with their friends, muttering curses and slang so detached from the “golden children” and their polished vocabulary, they quieted as they passed the bench. The elite did not like to be disturbed, and the ordinary were too afraid to break with what the greatest among them wanted. None of the four were entirely popular, per se, although Liam was elected president of the senior class and Emma frequented parties. Even so, the three of them tended to be too respected to love, too envied to befriend. If they were bitter, they hid it well.
“She must be late again.” Liam turned his head, as if Helene was lurking in the corner of the courtyard or talking to someone else, but this was futile. She had few other friends, and those that spoke to her in passing did it in hopes that she would write their English paper or allow them to copy her math homework.
Emma frowned and muttered, “she’s never late.” Then again, this was new territory, with Joshua dead and the balance upset. Helene would be lonelier now; it had often seemed that he was the only one who understood fractions of her, could untangle the mess of her stumbling intellect and biting temper, her share of eccentricities and the burden that all of them held, but that she bore worst of all. Without Joshua, Emma was almost afraid that Helene would fall apart as well, and by the time the frost fell away from the asphalt and the river began to rush with spring rainstorms, Helene would join him in his grave.
As if they had summoned her, Helene appeared then, clutching her woolen coat shut and holding a heavy stack of textbooks. Her curls were wilder than usual, falling this way and that and dusted with flecks of snowfall, her glasses slightly askew and cutting across her melancholy eyes. Helene was pretty, as they all were, but in a more ancient way, in a manner unbelievably detached from the rest and from earthly rules of attraction. “I nearly missed my alarm.” She slid easily between Liam and Emma, setting her messenger bag at her feet and shivering in the cold. Her hands were caught in leather gloves, with the fingers ripping at the edges and the material well-worn.
“Are you.... are you doing okay?” Liam left everything else unsaid, but Helene was beyond smart, and she clearly understood. She nodded curtly, but spoke no further of the matter, instead changing the subject to gothic literature.
They spoke of it until a heavier snow began to fall, and, at long last, they stumbled inside and to class. Joshua was not forgotten, but the process was beginning, and they were skillful at denying that he had ever fit easily between Helene and Liam, shoulder to shoulder and frost dancing from Liam’s hand to his and, finally, to Helene, who shook away the frigid cobwebs with a light smile. Instead, she would grasp his fingers tighter, with something unspoken passed between them, ironic for a woman so gifted with words: “I will never let you go.”
