CHAPTER2When I got to my room, my clothes were already unpacked,and whoever had done it felt leggings deserved to be hung up. I couldnt decide if that made me feel fancy or violated. I was trying to appreciate Wickham Hall, so I decided to feel pampered, like Id checked into a hotel so lavish they unpacked your bags. And this invisible valet had made my bed, too. The crisp white sheets and pillowcases had WH monogrammed on the edge. I wasnt used to having my bed made for me. Or crisp sheets for that matter.Its not that it was so bad at home. My parents were nice people. Nice peopleI always spoke of them as if they were someone elses parents. Legally, they were mine, and its not that I wasnt grateful they got me off the foster- home circuit; I was deeply grateful. But I felt about as close to them as I did to my chemistry teacher. And chemistry was not exactly my favorite subject.My dorm, Skellenger, was one of those Mount Vernon

1 6AMY TALKINGTON buildings in the stretch known as Dorm Row, but the styleinside wasnt quite as presidential. The room was simple and small. A bed, a desk, and a giant wardrobe with a mirror. Cold linoleum floors.The first order of business was to rearrange the furni- ture. I always did this. My foster parents had always been so surprised when theyd come to see how my first nap was going, only to find Id rearranged the room. Some would laugh; some were impressed by the strength of such a slight girl. But usually theyd get angry. I guess it was my way of making those short-term rooms feel like my own. Or, if you want to psychoanalyze, you might say I did it as a way to assert some control over my erratic life. Or it might just be that Ive always liked things to look a certain way.I decided to move the giant wardrobe so that it blocked the view of the room when someone entered. It provided some mystery and privacy. I pushed the bed into a corner and the desk beneath the window. Then I pulled out my homemade cardboard portfolio. Id brought a few collages to hang on the walls to create some semblance of home.My collages were mostly black and white with an occa- sional streak of color, and always very precise. I used text from old books and magazines, pencil, ink, and acrylic paints. Sometimes I wrote in big words. Not big as in fancy, S.A.T. vocabulary, but small words that represent big ideas. Love. Truth. Beauty. Death. Home. Stuff like that. I always avoided God, not because I was afraid of some divine retribution, but because I wasnt yet sure where I stood on that particular issue. My parents belonged to aBible church where they dragged me as often as possible,

LIV, FOREVER 1 7but I could just never get with the being-gay-is-a-sin thing.I mean, does Jesus love you or not?I liked to use duct tape to hang art, but wed been spe- cifically instructed to use only poster tack on Wickham Halls historic walls. They were so serious about this rule that they provided me with two packages of Elmers Tac N Stik in the welcome pack I found on my desk. As if they knew. Had my parents told them?I should call them and tell them Im here and safe.I tried to get through several times, but the signal wouldnt hold. So much for the omnipotent iPhone I spent six months saving up for. Finally, I just texted. Then I sat down and started something newa picture of a girl floating. A self-portrait. Almost all my drawings are self-portraits. They dont necessarily look like mein fact, they rarely dobut they represent me. It doesnt take a degree in art history to imagine why Id draw myself floating. I jumped, startled, when someone rapped on my door. Theres a manda- tory dorm meeting in the common room, a clipped voice announced from behind my wardrobe.THERE WERE ABOUT TWENTY girls draped in a variety of relaxedposes over the chairs and low tables in the common room. I never realized people could look so uptight and so relaxed at once. Abigail Steers sat in the center of the most central couch, surrounded by the others. They seemed so at home, and considering most of them had been living at Wickham Hall for at least two years already, they probably were home. Its a feeling Id never felt, and I certainly didnt feel it then.

1 8AMY TALKINGTON But there was something else. You know how they saygirls who live together will start to get their periods at the same time? Well, it was like these girls had started to become the same. They dressed the same. Their hair was almost identical. Their skin was milky with the occasional bout of freckles. Their noses even turned up in the same way. But mostly, they all talked the same. They talked about prefects and proctors and coxswains. Harkness. The Tuck. I didnt have a clue what they were talking about, but the Head of the Charles sounded pretty gruesome.The dour dorm mistress, Mrs. Mulford (think pitch- fork lady from American Gothic, but in ill-fitting slacks and a Wickham sweater) introduced me to the disinter- ested group of Sloans and Charlottes and Elizabeths. She announced that Abigail was our appointed dorm prefect. A student monitor, she explained to me, as if I were three years old. Then she went over the standard safety issues and quizzed me on Wickham Halls strict code of conduct. Just me. When I couldnt tell her the exact pro- tocol required to leave campus, the girls tittered. Mrs. Mulford suggested I reread the student handbook. She went over the main dorm rules: curfew at 9 p.m. and no boys allowed in our rooms. Period. Then she excused usto get ready for dinner.I THOUGHT I WAS dressing properly for dinner when Ichanged into my vintage sundress. Big mistake. When I arrived at the dining hall, I found all the girls in sleek cocktail dresses and the guys in dark suits. I quizzed a cus- todian-looking person near the entrance. First Dinner,

LIV, FOREVER 1 9he sniffed. Another phrase that had no meaning. No onehad told me about First Dinner. Was it a Wickham Hall tra- dition for the students to dress formally for the first dinner back at school? The word perfection rang in my ears.The dining hall was perfect, with dark, wood floors and a hand-carved vaulted ceiling. Students sat at dozens of round tables, served by waiters. Waiters? What kind of school had waiters?In an effort to avoid the dreaded looking-for-a-seat-in- a-new-cafeteria moment, I decided to walk with purpose until I saw an empty seat or a friendly face. The problem was, I didnt see any empty seats. Or friendly faces. So I kept walking, and the more I walked, the more I began to hope Id see a back door I could just slip through. No door, either.But at the farthest end of the room was a table with just one person. His wasnt a friendly facehe was looking down, his darkish long hair hanging over his eyes. But it was a seat, so I took it to spare myself the embarrassment of having to parade, underdressed, back through the enormous dining hall.Just as I sat down, everyone in the room started to stand up. Perfect, I thought. I stood back up. The guy at my table also stood, and I could see he was dressed even more shab- bily than I wasbeat-up cargo pants and a dark hoodie over an old, indecipherable band T-shirt. They all raised their hands to their heartsall except the guy at my table. I expected to hear the Pledge of Allegiance, but instead they started to sing, Wickham Hall, oh Wickham Hall, ourjoy and our pride! Wickham Hall, oh Wickham Hall! Then the

2 0AMY TALKINGTON guy leaned in close so I could hear him defiantly changethe lyrics, Youve got nowhere to hide!I pulled away from him.Dont be afraid of me, he snarled. Be afraid of them. I thought he was making some sweeping generalization about the student body, but then he gestured across the room and I looked. There was a group of four students carrying a giant silver platter with a dead animal draped across it, and they were followed by five or six other stu- dents, all swinging silver carving knives back and forth tothe beat of the song. What is that?A boar, he delighted in telling me. I had to laugh, which immediately put him more at ease. Im Gabe, he offered.Liv, I said.He was skittish and intense, but his brown eyes were gentle. Still, I wanted to keep at least three feet away. He was almost exactly how Id always pictured Vincent Van Goghin other words, pretty crazy.While everyone continued to sing the Wickham Hall alma mater, the students placed the boar platter onto a table in the center of the hall. The students with the knives quickly and deftly carved it up. Then everyone clapped and took their seats. All I could think was, Theres been a terrible mistake. I need to go home. I dont belong in this place. I didnt know people ate boar or that they even still existed.Gabe turned to me and said, Its crazy, right? Am I crazy, or is it crazy?I cringed. It looks pretty crazy to me.