Young Writers Society

I wonder what it would be like if people found out about my Whites. What would they think? I suppose they’d want to know what those strange silhouettes really were—and that’s easy. They’re secrets. They’re the form secrets take because they want to be heard.

I guess some people would wonder if they were like ghosts. Well, no, they really aren’t like ghosts; ghosts actually have features and they retain personality and most of the time they aren’t see-through like on Hollywood films, though their colors are sometimes a little washed out. But ghosts are imprints of a person as a whole, and a White is an imprint of a single secret.

I also wonder if anyone else can see them. Am I the only one? It isn’t something I’ve ever heard of before, not even in fiction. Well, there are books about people who can sense secrets, but I’ve never heard of them seeing them before. It’s just strange.

I’m strange.

There’s a bunch of empty spaces around me, which seems proof enough. I intimidate people. They don’t like the way I know what they want no one else to know, and I’ll use it too, if I have to. I’ll use it to protect him when things get rough. And I’ll fight tooth and nail, too. Last year there was a group of boys who found that out and decided never to tangle with me again, though they’re happy with spreading ferocious rumors about me. I don’t really care. I don’t get along well with people, so it’s okay if they avoid me.

Supper here is a four-course meal. I can’t believe school kids would ever eat this fine—that I’d ever eat this fine—but I don’t have an appetite for it tonight. Going to new places always sets me off balance for a while, because I have to grow used to new Whites and learn what areas to avoid. The only time I ever felt at home anywhere was when I was a small child and I’d play with my friend. He didn’t think there was anything wrong with me. Back then we were protected by the innocence of youth—but his father hated me because he thought I was just a street rat trying to get handouts. Mr. Archer thought the poor deserved to be poor.

So there’s no way he could be my mysterious benefactor. Not Mr. Archer. He’d sooner die than fund someone else’s education, let alone send them to the finest schools to be had and give them generous monthly allowances!

I pick my way through the courses, then wait around as the students are dismissed from dinner. They leave with lots of bustling and calling out to familiar faces. As promised, Mrs. Hayes comes and finds me. “Miss Fischer! Come this way to my office!” she calls, waving her arms to be seen over the heads of some tall senior boys. I stand and squeeze through the crowd to reach her and she beams at me. “My office is just off the main hall,” she tells me, walking quite fast in spite of her shortness. I stride in her wake, unwilling to walk at her side. That might inspire more conversation.

The main hall has filled up with tiny knots of students catching up after a summer apart—most here know each other because they come from the same circles of society. I know them because someone keeps trying to launch me into those circles in society, even though it’s pretty obvious I don’t belong there. I get a lot of sidelong glances before vanishing into the isolation of Mrs. Hayes office.

The room is small and a little stuffy, but not uncomfortable. It has a chintz armchair facing a walnut desk, behind which Mrs. Hayes settles in, running a hand through her graying hair and sighing. “It’s exhausting trying to deal with all of them together like that,” she says, and then smiles again. I wonder if she thinks she can get me to return the smile but I feel like the muscles required have simply ceased to work. I perch at the edge of the chair and admire the handsomely crafted desk while Mrs. Hayes pulls out a sheaf of papers and slides them in front of me.

“These are the rules and the entrance forms,” she tells me. “Since you’re a ward of the state we had them fill out your paperwork already, so you don’t need to worry about it. Basically they’re allowing you to come board here if you’ll come back once a month for any possible adoptions that have arisen. If none have you’ll have the option to stay here.”

“They won’t come and I won’t go,” I cut in, rather fiercely.

“You can’t know that,” Mrs. Hayes replies gently, but I don’t speak again. I believe it to be true. No one has ever looked twice at me since Mother abandoned me when I was twelve. It was a bad age if you want to be adopted, and I have a pale, sour face and dark eyes and a bad temper. I’m fully aware of it too, but I’ve never made much of an effort to be pleasant so I guess I’ve got no one to blame but myself.

Mrs. Hayes gives me a familiar “you’re hopeless” sort of look and continues to explain the rules. Students are allowed to wear their own clothing during free time, but must always wear the school uniform during class. One has to be inside their dorm by nine and lights have to be out by ten—on weekends this was an hour later and on holidays (if you stayed here) it was even more loosely regulated. Clothing must always follow the standards of modesty. Unnatural colors of hair dye are not allowed. Neither are multiple piercings or tattoos. There are many rules besides these, your ordinary sort of rules about cheating and fighting and proper conduct. Mrs. Hayes wraps it up to tell me any infractions are severely punished. Then she smiles kindly again. “I’m sure you’ll do fine here, Miss Fischer. You have about half an hour before nine, so you can do what you’d like until then. The library is across from the dining hall and is open a little longer if you wish, and there should be a map somewhere in your room if you wish to familiarize yourself more with the school. It’s a good idea to do so tonight. Most students have been here a week already and have grown used to it, but classes start tomorrow and you only just got here.” She waves a hand at the door to show I can leave, and I do so without another word.

I decide not to bother with the map; I’d been sent one in the mail weeks ago and had already studied it. Rather I decide to go rid myself of some Whites. I ignore everyone and everything, making a beeline for my own personal tower room. Once or twice I think I hear my name but I resist the urge to see who called it. I know from experience they won’t have anything pleasant to say. Well, he might, but we don’t talk much anymore anyway. That thought saddens me a little so I plunge ahead more recklessly than ever, bumping into a couple of students as I go. I’m happy to deal with someone else’s secrets if it’s to keep me from thinking about my lost childhood friend.

When I get through the tower door I lock it behind me—just to be sure. I don’t want anyone trying to get in here at night. I don’t really like the idea of sleeping in a big house with several hundred other teenagers! I plop down on my bed and yank off my black, formal shoes and tousle my long black hair before falling backwards and staring at the canopy. You can do this, Hazel. I pull out my little glass charm and stare at it. It’s pretty but very fragile, with a symbol painted on it in black. I’d been told it meant control, as in self-control. Something about the little charm must be magical, because it did it’s job. I close my eyes, take a deep steadying breath, and remove it.

Instantly my blissful silence is shattered. Without my necklace draped around my neck, I can hear the crying and whispering of the Whites. Shivers run down my spine as the one under the bed wails, its voice echoing and eerie. Very carefully I set aside my necklace and slither off the bed, sinking to my knees. “I’m here,” I tell it gently, looking under the bed. As much as I fear them, I pity them too. They have such a lonely existence. I can empathize with that. “I’m right here, and I’m listening. Tell me everything.”