Page 17 of Divine Oaths

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read online,” I said.

Luckily for me, she hadn’t made the connection that my bracelet had belonged to the victim. None of the reports had mentioned its existence.

But her line of questioning brought back memories of that night in the alleyway, from the asphalt street streaked in bloodied hundred-dollar bills to our fingers touching, just a brush, and the Westfield heir—Kasem—drawing me closer.

“People are going to wonder if that’s why you enrolled after all these years,” she continued. “Like, are you going to finish the job or something?”

“If the school thought I was a threat, they wouldn’t have let me attend,” I snapped. Heat warmed my cheeks, and I took comfort in the fact that my anger was imperceptible against my dark skin. “Besides, I’m here on a music scholarship.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely.

“I want to play again,” I said. “Like I used to. And I thought being at Westfield for the next few years would help me get back into music without all the baggage.”

“Oh,” the RA said after a long pause, before adding, “That’s so empowering. Like, that you’re doing music, even though you”—she grimaced—“have been through so much. Like, I always thought, why don’t underprivileged people become doctors or lawyers or financial brokers or something that actually makes money? But doing art or music or acting or sports totally makes sense for someone like you. Because art is suffering. And I think that’s really beautiful.” She took a breath, finally exhaling at the tail end of her tangent. “You’re so going to love the scholarship student dorms,” she said, smiling. “There are a bunch of you there with underprivileged backgrounds.”

I didn’t know if she was being condescending or genuinely believed what she was saying, but she seemed to realize the optics of her words, because she added, “Greek life gets their own houses too. Kin to kin, each like to its like—or something like that. That’s how Westfield builds its communities.”

“And what are you studying again?” I probed. Not that I probably needed to even ask. She seemed like the type of person who’d tell you the last four digits of her Social Security number if you breathed long enough in front of her.

“Math, with a minor in history and fashion,” she said. Then she leaned forward, cupping her hand over my ear before whispering, “But actually, I’m studying to be a part of a coven.”

At my startled expression, she burst out laughing.

“It was a joke, girl. A joke. There were rumors that you were doing psychic readings at the mall where the stabbing happened. You know, Westfield has some sororities that are into that woo-woo stuff. You could probably join, if you’re interested in that new age thing.”

“I don’t believe in magic,” I said, unnerved that she’d once again mentioned the night in the alleyway.

“So then you weren’t doing readings at Center City Mall,” she said. “Damn. You really can’t trust the tabloids.”

This time, I didn’t answer her.

But she was already staring into the distance and, so too, I realized, were the others in the fan boat. A hum of anticipation churned among us as the foggy swamp waters slowly gave way to land.

“There it is,” she said. “Do you see it in the distance?”

Whispers filled the boat. A guy next to me leaned forward in his seat, while another girl cleaned a set of golden theater binoculars that she’d brought with her to get a better look. My gaze followed hers to the canopy of trees that shrouded the sun-cast morning sky. Yet even as the first hints of light shone across the swamp, the trees’ tangled branches and drooping leaves were melancholic, like a procession of swooning husks and brittle bones leading to Westfield.

The air was tinged with dirt, and the bitter taste of sulfur burned at the back of my throat. Here lay death and decay, where the discarded dregs of upper society, nepo babies, the affluent, and the scholarship kids lucky enough to carve out a spot among them, were desiccated into ash and resurrected into something shinier and newer: degree-wielding members of the new elite who could run their parents’ businesses or start their careers as fully formed members of society.

I’d come here for answers. Yet, like the others, I found myself waiting breathlessly for a full view of the school, and when it emerged, I gasped in tandem with them. Honey smiled, as if she too was recalling the first time she’d seen the university grounds.

“Welcome to your new home,” she said to us all. “Welcome to Westfield.”

CHAPTER SIX

The omen coming

OUR GROUP WAS ONE OF the first to arrive at campus. We waited near the shore until the last group joined us, and together, we took in the sight of Westfield like we were all breathing oxygen for the first and last time.

The grounds stretched on for what felt like an eternity. Gravel walkways and perfectly trimmed hedges framed acres of freshly cut lawns and two separate gardens. The campus itself was divided into three branches: the dorms and staff quarters, the recreational center and the conservatory, and then there, at the center of it all, the university’s main campus, which contained the School of Business, the School of Fine Art, the School of Humanities, and the School of Sciences and Technology.

Their structures were imposing, colorless edifices at the heart of the campus, from their Gothic spires that jutted like sharpened fangs into the heavens to the stained glass windows, scored brick walls, and extended arches that loomed up ahead. Honey explained that most people on campus except for faculty were probably asleep in their dorms or away before classes began.

“Scholarship students, follow me,” Honey said. She looked at me as she spoke, and embarrassment burned through me. But I kept my expression blank, despite being singled out. “Legacies and regular admission,” she continued, “Adam and Erin will guide you through campus and the conservatory.” She gestured to a white guy and girl who’d been waiting at the dock when we’d first arrived, and they waved for groups to join them.

The driver shut off the engine. But he didn’t step off the boat, even as we filed off toward campus. Two-thirds of the first-year students, the legacies and regular admits, walked down the main trail to where Adam, Erin, and a gathering of Westfield staff waited for them with refreshments. I and the other scholarship students trekked behind with Honey. In the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but notice how when Honey separated the legacies and regular admits from the scholarship students, there was a clear divide among our undergraduate class. My brief time in the foster care system and in medical facilities had shown me just how intrinsic and insidious racial and economic divides were across institutions; it didn’t matter if it was health care, child welfare, the entertainment industry—all of them had been this way. And Westfield University was no different.

Here, most of the legacies and regular admits were white, though there were a few Black and Asian students too. But among the scholarship students, there was a wider pool of skin tones and complexions.