Heartless Read Free Page B

almost laughed at the thought. The snow was only knee-deep. Smytheville never shut down, not even when it was over my head. Instead, they kept snowplows on duty for the entire winter, ready to keep our streets free from snow and our sidewalks safe for student pedestrians.
    The buildings around me looked sleepy in their thick winter blankets, the gothic towers standing straight against the wind, blurred and softened with white. Drifts collected on the faces of gargoyles high overhead, hats and scarves hiding the ugly faces that had kept watch over college co-eds for centuries, or so the school’s administration wanted potential students to believe. Me? I just thought they were creepy. I shuddered as I passed them on my path toward home. My dorm.
    Smytheville College, my father’s alma mater and the only school to which my parents allowed me to apply even though it was far from our Colorado home, was created in the image of the classic Ivy League schools. In warm months, buildings crawled with ivy. It blanketed them, made everything look lush and verdant and like it belonged here in the mountains. It was stunning, really. Once I’d arrived on the busy Smytheville campus, with its hiking parties and skiing excursions, I rarely missed the west. Smytheville quickly became home. Comfortable. Cozy, even on those frequent snowy nights.
    But suddenly I was disconcerted by the absence of people on the usually crowded campus, where students often built snowmen like small children celebrating a snow day. It was creepy, and empty, and the soothing, homey feeling wore off quickly.
    Where is everybody?
    I cut behind Shepherd Hall, home of our English Department, past the athletic center. My dorm, Calvin Hall, stood behind them in all its nonconformist glory. Calvin was a recent addition to the campus; it was covered with cheap yellow stucco, and it stood out like a dandelion among the ivy. Still, it was home, and I wanted to go inside. The only problem? The front desk, where a student attendant would be waiting to check my ID card and make sure I was allowed inside. Too bad a naked girl who couldn’t speak, oozing greenish goo from somewhere , would likely cause a stir. I had to hope not to draw any attention to myself if I had any hope of reaching Lucy inside.
    I walked past the front doors of the building, peeking in. A girl sat, dozing, at the front desk, her face cushioned in an open palm. Her head bobbed and nodded while she tried and failed to stay awake.
    I knew her, sort of. She was an RA on a different floor from mine, a mousy little thing with thick glasses and curly hair. She sat at the front desk most mornings, and probably knew my face well enough to raise an alarm if I looked as bad as I suspected I looked. Since she was half awake, I didn’t trust my battered body’s ability to sneak past her. I wiggled my toes in the snow and thought for a second.
    What I needed, really and truly needed, was the perfect thing to say to shut her up if she saw me. Only problem was I hadn’t said a word since the morgue the day before. I’d only moaned. I’d need to practice first.
    Staying outside, I slipped past the dormitory’s doors, cringing when they auto-opened, and sneaked around the corner of the building to the bench where students often gathered to smoke. Even in the snow, the ground was littered with cigarette butts.
    But the area was blessedly empty; even the ever-present smokers were missing, and I shuddered at the oddness of it all. I brushed the snow off the bench, sat down on gems like “LC & JB 4EVER” and “FU PROF PRICE,” and I tried to talk.
    My first attempt at the not-so-creative “Can I talk?” came out like a gravelly “Cra gaaa tass?” I was a six-pack-a-day-smoking, broken old lounge singer.
    I cringed. That’s not gonna cut it.
    I tried again. “How about now?” Another moan. Throaty, dry. Way too raspy to formulate proper vocal sounds. I took a handful of snow and forced myself to swallow it,