I miss him. So much. More than I ever thought I could miss a person. It physically hurts, like someone cut out a piece inside my chest. I don’t want him to be angry or disappointed in me for isolating myself. But I don’t want to be around anyone right now … I’m too volatile. Hell, I don’t even like being around myself.
And I’m scared because I know Grant ended a relationship with someone he loved because she pushed him away when all he wanted to do was be there for her. And how is what I’m doing any different? I’ve caught myself several times with my phone in my hand, about to text him some random thought or ask what he’s doing. But when I pull out my phone, I remember ... I can't message him—even if I could bring myself to—and tuck it back in my pocket.
Grant is so good and kind. In contrast, my life is filled with destruction and lies. I feel so selfish, asking him to be a part of my darkness when he deserves to stand in the sun. As I unburdened my secrets upon him, I feared that they would latch on to him and drag him down too. Is it fair of me to ask him to listen but then demand he do nothing? His integrity won’t allow him to stay quiet indefinitely. It’s not who he is. And it’s not right of me to expect him to. It’s cruel.
I’ve been ordered to meet with Isaac every day to deal with this firestorm possessing me … but I can’t stand to see him right now. He knows it too because each morning when I receive a text, asking what time he should expect me, he doesn’t pursue me when I answer, “Never.”
When Arden sets the tray of tea on the coffee table Thursday night, she’s wearing a headband with two glittery yellow balls on springs. Her eyes are smudged with a pinkish-red shadow, and her lips are painted glossy orange. She’s adorned in a white satin robe with a thick hot-pink sash wrapped around her ribs. The colors remind me of the mushroom garden.
Each day, I find myself looking forward to how she’ll present herself. It’s like she’s ever-changing. But always exactly herself at the same time. Kind of like the Court.
“Will you tell me about the Court?” I ask, remembering her promise to do so the first night we met, which was only five days ago yet feels like a lifetime.
Arden looks up from pouring the tea. “What do you want to know?”
“How does it change? I never see anyone working on it.”
A mischievous grin spreads across her face. “I’ll be right back.”
When she returns a moment later, she has a large piece of drawing paper and a stick of charcoal. “I may have dabbled with some magical herbs in my tea before coming in. I was going to light up my floor and meditate, so if I go a little astray, forgive me.”
I nod with a smile. “I will do my best to translate. I’ve had a little practice with magic this summer.”
She eyes me quizzically but doesn’t ask. Instead, Arden lays the paper on the table and begins to sketch peaks of the buildings in a circle. Then the coal swirls to capture the likeness of the grand majestic tree in the center. A smaller tree, which I’m pretty sure is the red maple, and the willow are also added.
“The buildings are set up like numbers on a clock. The administration building is at twelve, and our dorm is at six.”
She labels the rest, and my mouth drops in disbelief. It’s so obvious now that I see it. How could I ever forget which building is where? Except for not knowing what I’m facing to begin with.
“There are only several immovable structures within the Court because they grow into the ground. This tree has been here probably before the buildings.” Arden points to the majestic tree in the middle. I know it well, having sat under it or swung from it many times. “Blackwood has always been a school, although what the first students studied is a bit unclear. The architects centered everything around the tree. I think it was their way of protecting it or maybe honoring it.”
She connects the administration building, the Great Hall, the library and the languages building with lines to represent the tall fences between each building.
“The drive on this side of campus is the only one that is paved. I have no idea why they stopped here, but it’s so delivery trucks can come through and unload. Beneath the buildings is a catacomb of service corridors. They’re fairly new; I believe they were installed when the current school took over. There are other subterranean passages that were created when the structures were first built, but they’re dilapidated and beyond creepy.” She shivers, and I inadvertently do the same, having been through them. She notices and grins. “Oh, you know?”
I shrug, and she laughs.
“Between these buildings with the paved drive, the fences roll open, granting direct access to the Court for the landscapers and the students of The Poppy Institute. The Court itself is set upon a gridwork of tracks with the hedges, pathways and even the grass on large, square trays, which are slid and maneuvered on these rails.” When I look at her like she’s speaking in a foreign tongue, she tries a different approach. “Did you ever play with slide puzzles as a child? The stupid game that has one piece missing, and you have to slide the others around to eventually form a picture?”
I nod.
“The Court is like that. Take out enough pieces, and they can manipulate and transform the interior. And if they are working on a certain section, they only need to slide a few hedges into place to block it off, creating a dead end. They could be working on it at any time without you knowing, if they’re quiet enough. But they do most of the landscaping in the early hours of dawn, before anyone is awake and before the day gets too hot. The gardens they transform the most are those on this side of the Court because they’re the easiest to access.” She taps the charcoal on the side where the fences open up.
“But like I mentioned before, the paths are set in the winter; they don’t change them. I believe it’s because it’s too difficult to slide along the tracks with the snow and ice. So they create set paths radiating out from the tree, making it much easier and faster to get to class than in the spring and summer.”
I stare at the picture that she’s been sketching this entire time, her curved pathways, floral gardens and spouting fountains. It’s quick lines and dots, but there’s talent within each deliberate stroke.
“Why?” I ask, trying to wrap my head around the confounding Court’s intention.
“Why not?” she says with a grin.
“That’s an Ashton answer.”
Arden smiles wider. “Yes, I suppose it is. How about this? Sometimes, we have to get lost to appreciate where we are. To take a moment and realize that we are exactly where we’re meant to be.”
“Is this like the peace in chaos sign? Or maybe it’s the herbs talking?”
She shrugs.
I lean back on the couch and admire her eccentric persona as she rolls up the paper. There’s an ease and grace to her movements, like she’s completely comfortable in her body. A body she chooses to playfully dress in vivid color and enhance with makeup, like strokes of art on a flesh palette.
“You don’t need to push people away to figure out who you are,” she says gently, making me shift from studying her to meet her sincere gaze.
“I don’t want to hurt them by being too … me. I’m angry. Lately, I’m angry all the time. And they don’t deserve that.”