Chapter Text
Senior Year, High School
The hot, humid air makes Harrow think she’s being drowned. Never mind that she hasn’t been in any body of water larger than a bathtub since she was ten-- never mind that she never asked to go on this field trip-- but her ridiculous guardian had found out about the trip and sent in the permission slip over her objections. She’s seventeen, which ought to count for something. Apparently, the trip will be enriching. Even better, as far as Crux is concerned: it’s free. Harrow still has doubts.
Her college applications have been in for months, fee waivers in order. As the weather begins to turn warm, she’s even beginning to amass a healthy pile of acceptances-- enough that one of them will likely have the kind of financial aid package she needs. Half her graduating class has used that as an excuse to blow off their schoolwork, but Harrow is taking five AP classes and if she scores well enough she can shave a whole semester off her undergrad. Her time would be better spent studying in the library.
In spite of all her carefully-crafted objections, her teachers crowd her onto a school bus. It smells of gym bags and rotten apples and someone’s overripe tuna fish sandwich. Harrow cracks open the window, which sticks at an angle and refuses to open the rest of the way. She can’t jimmy it free-- there are other students who can, but she’ll be damned if she asks them for help. Breathing as shallowly as possible, she endures the bus ride.
Even that had been better than this, though, if only for its familiarity. The botanical gardens are a sensory nightmare. The sun is out, beating down through the glass ceiling panels, but they haven’t shut off any of the glaring interior lights to compensate. Gideon Nav, that ass, whips a pair of aviators out of her pocket, and Harrow seethes with both hatred and jealousy.
Even worse than the overbright lighting: the flowers. Harrow had tried to prepare for the onslaught of pollen by taking a Benadryl before entering the first greenhouse. Her nose is clear, and she belatedly wishes it were clogged with snot, because the flowers are overwhelmingly scented. Worse, she’s groggy, her reflexes slowed to go along with the incessant hum of the overhead lights. She checks her cheap digital watch: she has only to survive another two hours of this, and then they’ll all troop back onto the bus-- which will have marinated in the godawful heat-- and go back to the normal, bearable level of misery that is high school.
Maybe Harrow will stay late at school, bringing her books into the cool basement that’s absolutely off-limits to students, where she’s picked several locks and found an old empty broom closet that can be her refuge. There, she can compose herself before returning home.
The group is eager to forge ahead of her, and she lets them so that she can trail behind. She allows herself fantasy as a comfort in these untenable circumstances, imagining the constant chill of the basement air against her cheek, the comforting scent of mold under bleach in her nostrils. Seeing nothing but the world she’s conjured in her mind, Harrow passes through an automatic door out into the unseasonably warm spring air.
“There she is!” Cytherea cries out to her cronies, Loveday and Titania. They glitter in the sunlight, all malice and hairspray.
This is why Harrow apportions herself only thin slices of fantasy, she reminds herself furiously. Because if she doesn’t, the popular girls corner her for sport. They’re almost out of high school. Harrow had hoped they would eventually outgrow this, or at least be too busy smoking pot and fucking each other to bother her. Perhaps they had, but neither sex nor drugs are on the menu on a field trip crawling with teachers, chaperones, and garden staff. And Harrow’s an easy target, shielded from view by lush foliage that’s crept and grown up over everything from the decorative wrought-iron railings to the posts holding up the sign labeling each horrible plant. Only the neon-painted hoses have escaped the promiscuous overgrowth.
“Harrowhark Nonagesimus,” says Cytherea, sing-song. “You’re not with the group. What are you doing, little witch?”
There’s no point in arguing. Harrow just has to bear up until they stop circling her. They never say anything overtly cruel, but they surround her and talk at her, seeing if they can provoke her into a panic attack. (They can. They have. Harrow once tried explaining this to her teachers, but apparently “they wouldn’t stop talking” means that Harrow has to attend mandatory therapy sessions and the instigators receive no consequences whatsoever.)
“Hey, leave her alone.” Harrow’s heart sinks further. This is worse. This is rescue, rescue from a situation that, while unpleasant, is survivable. This is Gideon Nav, sunglasses and bravado, interfering in matters that do not concern her. Harrow would wonder why Gideon’s parents didn’t strangle her at birth, except she knows exactly why. Gideon Nav’s parents are dead, and have been dead for Gideon’s whole life.
Gideon slips in the gap between Cytherea and Titania-- they let her, because she’s the star of the soccer team and everyone lets Gideon do whatever she wants-- and stands in front of Harrow. She’s wearing Axe body spray, a scent that has made Harrow vomit more than once-- in front of her locker or all over the floor of the locker room. Right now, it’s the best thing Harrow has smelled all day. Probably because her nasal passages have been bludgeoned into a pulp over the course of the field trip.
“Guys, knock it off,” Gideon is saying. “You have better things to do.”
Titania scowls. “Defending Nonagesimus? Really? Surely you have better things to do, too.”
“Nah,” says Gideon. “I’m good right here.”
Cytherea elbows Loveday in the ribs, and slants her a knowing look. Harrow’s stomach lurches, even though she didn’t bother eating lunch. She did manage to drink a little water, and she hopes it’s enough to keep her from dry-heaving if it comes to that.
Cytherea flips her shiny curls over her shoulder and turns to go. Her sycophants follow her.
Titania calls back: “Kinky, Nav.”
“Fuck you, Titania,” Gideon calls back, and then turns to Harrow. “Are you okay?”
“I didn’t need you.” Harrow is furious with her own impotence. “And now they’re going to spread vile rumors about us-- I can’t believe--”
“You looked like you were having a rough time,” Gideon says in a low voice, like she doesn’t want Harrow to startle and run. As if there’s anywhere Harrow could go. “You looked dazzled. I was going to offer you these.” She pulls her sunglasses off her face and holds them out to Harrow, blinking against the intensity of the sun. Her golden eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Is that some kind of line?” Harrow demands. “Because I’m not interested.”
Gideon holds up her hands. “I only wanted to help.”
“I didn’t need your help!” Harrow says again. “Get away from me.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. But take these, okay? I can see you wincing every time the sun comes back out from under a cloud. It’s really annoying.” Gideon presses her sunglasses into Harrow’s palm and starts backing away, all mocking surrender.
In self-defense, Harrow sneers. “I wouldn’t want to annoy you by existi-- watch out!”
Her warning comes too late: Gideon trips on one of the hoses crisscrossing the uneven paths and falls backwards. Harrow holds her breath-- maybe she’ll land on the ridiculous carpet of dense foliage, maybe she’ll be all right-- but nothing else in this day has gone right and so of course Gideon lands on the fence.
Harrow jams the sunglasses onto her face and runs over. There's a spike deep in Gideon’s side. The muscles in Gideon’s forearms strain, wrapped around the fence posts to keep the iron from driving any deeper into her body.
“I’m fine,” says Gideon. She is not fine. There’s blood soaking into the black cotton of her graphic tee. Harrow can’t even try to help her up, for fear of making it worse.
“Don’t move,” Harrow blurts out, and runs for a teacher.
“The sunglasses look good on you!” Gideon yells at her retreating back.
The flashing lights and hideous wailing of the siren barely register. Harrow slips under the caution tape, lurking as close as she can to the emergency responders.
“I think it missed everything vital but she’s lost a lot of blood,” she manages to hear before she has to duck back behind the thick foliage of a willow to avoid getting caught.
The ambulances scream off, carrying Gideon to the hospital. It cuts the trip short. Harrow hides Gideon’s glasses under her shirt. No matter how much Harrow had wanted to get away from the gardens, this wasn’t worth it.
Gideon’s back in school two days later on crutches. Harrow lurks in the stairwell just long enough to hear Gideon reassure Dulcinea that she’s fine. Apparently, she had to get a bunch of stitches, and it’s a bummer but she’s out of soccer for the rest of the season.
Satisfied, Harrow slips away. Gideon will heal, and then Harrow can go back to hating her in peace.
There’s only a couple of months left before graduation, anyway. Even if Gideon has bothered to apply to college, there’s nearly no chance they’ll end up at the same one.