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The Denali Institute for Rebellious and Troubled Teenagers
Chapter Three
Lauren POV - Mt McKinley, Alaska. Monday 8th August 2011. 12:00am.
"Girls, follow me. Boys, go with Felix," said the thin blonde woman standing just inside the doors, her voice clear and clipped like she wasn't interested in repeating herself.
She waved the girls forward with a flick of her fingers, then turned and headed for the stairs without waiting to see if we were actually going to follow.
We did.
Barely.
No one was exactly full of pep at midnight after a full day of travel and nerves and strangers. The fact the sun apparently didn't set this time of year—a fact I'd learned courtesy of the ten words Eleazar had said to us today—should have made me feel more alert, but it did not.
We moved like a line of ghosts—quiet, slow, half-asleep on our feet.
"I'm Kate," she said over her shoulder. "I'm the counselor for the girls. There are fifteen of you now. I see three a day—one from each year group, Monday to Friday. The sessions are mandatory and an hour long."
Mandatory. Great.
"You each have your own room," she went on. "They're decorated in either light or dark colors. You'll share a bathroom with the person next door—it's both your responsibilities to keep it clean. Third years get their own. There's some basic clothing and toiletries in the rooms for you in case you don't have something you need from home. Reasonable requests for additional items come through me."
She didn't slow down once as she spoke, her heels clicking against the hardwood in a sharp rhythm.
We reached the top of the stairs, turned a corner, and stopped in a softly lit kitchen that looked almost like a real one—except too clean. Too perfect. It was like a set for a movie about well-behaved teenagers who never broke the rules or smoked behind the school gym.
"This is the student kitchen," Kate said, motioning vaguely around the room. "If you're hungry between meals, you can make something here. Breakfast is from seven to eight-thirty, lunch is twelve to one, dinner's six-thirty to eight."
Her tone stayed neutral, efficient. Like she'd recited this a hundred times already.
"Under normal circumstances, you'd be here by ten," she added, "but the weather was apparently a problem. So it's straight to bed—unless you're especially hungry. Then help yourself."
She paused. Just long enough to give someone—anyone—the chance to speak up.
No one did.
Kate gave a short nod, turned again, and resumed walking. We followed in silence, shoes squeaking and shuffling against the polished floors.
She stopped at a door halfway down the hall and glanced back. "Lauren, you're in here."
Then a few more steps. "Rosalie, in here."
Another step. "Leah."
Across the hall. "Alice."
And finally, "Isabella, you're down here."
Kate turned back toward the stairwell.
"Get some sleep. Breakfast starts in seven hours. Classes in nine. The shutters on the windows will open at seven, so if you intend on having breakfast probably don't close the curtains. Alarms go off at eight-thirty to wake you up for class if you sleep in. They are extremely obnoxious, and we don't apologize."
And with that, she disappeared around the corner—heels clicking one last time—leaving us alone in the corridor, quiet as ghosts.
I pushed my door open and stepped inside.
White and peach.
Light room.
Of course.
I let my bags drop just inside the doorway and closed the door behind me. The soft click echoed louder than it should have in the stillness.
It wasn't a big room. Smaller than mine back in Florida—by a lot. Maybe half the size. The ceiling was lower, too. It felt like the kind of space where you had to be careful not to breathe too loudly.
The walls were stark white, except for the one behind the bed—coral pink. Not bright. More like… faded flamingo. Like someone had tried to make the place feel soft and warm and just overshot the mark a little.
There were three tall, skinny windows on the far wall—floor to ceiling. I squinted. Probably thin like that to prevent jumpers. Nice.
To the left was a triple-door closet. To the right, a white chest of drawers and another door that had to lead to the shared bathroom.
The floor was wooden—herringbone pattern—and at the end of the bed was a rug, a few shades darker than the wall behind it.
It was… fine.
Functional.
Cold.
Sterile.
I stood in the middle of the room and turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. The color palette was weirdly close to my bedroom at home. White and pink. The same soft hues my mother had insisted on when she redesigned it a year ago to look more "grown up."
There was no chrome here, though. No magazine rack filled with old Vogue and Cosmo. No photo collage of me and my friends. No vanity with a makeup mirror. No personality. Just generic girl-box number seven, now occupied.
I let out a slow breath and sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing lightly once to test the springs.
Firm. But not the worst.
I stared at the blank wall across from me.
God, I wanted to go home.
I'd thought it a hundred times since the airport, but now it hit harder. Like a punch to the ribs.
This was really happening.
This place was real.
And I was here.
Bella POV
The first thing I registered was light.
Too much of it.
It knifed through the narrow window in the corner of my room like some celestial spotlight, cutting directly across my face and dragging me out of sleep like a shovel scraping gravel. I groaned, twisting away and yanking the blanket over my head, curling tighter under the covers as my pupils rebelled against the glare.
This was not Forks. There, mornings were grey and reluctant. Here… it felt like I'd fallen asleep under a tanning bed set to burn me alive.
"Ugh," I muttered, voice muffled by the blanket. "This is ridiculous."
I squinted out again, cautiously, keeping my eyes angled away from the window as I fumbled blindly toward the edge of the bed. No clock on the walls. Of course not.
"Where's the fucking clock?" I grumbled, dragging my overnight bag up by its frayed strap and fishing through the top until I found my phone.
7:30 a.m.
Shit.
That left me about thirty minutes to drag myself into something resembling a human being, and get to the cafeteria and be seen eating before breakfast ended—which I needed to do, if only to keep fueling the illusion that Charlie was exaggerating when he mentioned the whole eating disorder thing.
And first class started at nine...
I sighed, dropping back onto the mattress with the kind of theatrical resignation only chronic insomniacs ever truly mastered. Every inch of me wanted to stay put. But I already knew this place wasn't going to be forgiving. There was no version of this where I coasted.
I forced myself upright, the sheets falling away with a reluctant rustle, and swung my legs over the edge of the bed.
In daylight, the room was… not what I expected.
The cozy little coffin vibe from last night was gone. The walls were painted a soft, creamy color that seemed like it was trying too hard to be cheerful. The furniture was clean, the closet already stocked with basic clothing. Somehow, it all felt both sterile and too personal. Like someone had tried to guess what "homey" meant to someone like me, and gotten it wrong.
I crossed to the bathroom, closing the door behind me, then turned the lock on both sides. Leah shared the space, and there was zero part of me that wanted to risk a confrontation at eight in the morning. Especially not naked.
The bathroom was nice. Gold tones, champagne accents, too many towels. I opened the cabinets under the sink, scanning the supplies: shampoo, conditioner, body wash. Tampons. Wipes. Wax strips.
No razors, of course. They'd taken those from me back at home—same time they took my bags and my privacy.
Still, I held out a flicker of hope and checked again. Nothing sharp.
I stared at the box of wax strips, lips tightening.
Cardboard cutting seemed to be the only available option.
I popped the lid and then ripped it off, and took a seat on the closed toilet lid. It wasn't my favorite method. Not even close. But it worked.
A few quick tears across my arm. Nothing dramatic. Just three short lines, right below the others.
The sting bloomed quickly, followed by the familiar pulse of warmth through my chest. A flush of endorphins chasing back the fog in my brain. I exhaled, leaning back against the cold tile wall behind me, watching as the blood welled up in slow beads, not quite enough to drip.
It wasn't the healthiest thing.
But it worked.
After a minute, I tossed the piece of the box in the trash, wiped off my arm with one of the baby wipes from the cabinet, and grabbed what I needed for the shower.
The water took a few seconds to heat, but it came. Clean, hot, and strong enough to numb my thoughts for a while. I let it run down my spine, tilted my head back, let the water hammer against my skull in place of clarity. Everything felt hazy. Like I'd only half woken up and was still waiting for the other half of me to come online.
I was in the middle of washing my hair when it happened.
A loud, aggressive bang on the bathroom door, followed a split second later by Leah's voice on the other side, already halfway to fury.
"What the fuck are you doing in there?"
And just like that, whatever peace I'd carved out of the morning slipped straight down the drain.
Leah POV
I stared at the bathroom door like I could will it open through sheer hatred.
The sound of water hitting tile had been going steady for at least twenty minutes, and I was fairly certain Bella wasn't just shampooing her hair on repeat. Given how late we'd gotten in last night, I doubted she even had that much hair-washing energy.
"Get out of the bathroom, you bulimic head-case, before I miss breakfast and both of us starve," I yelled, glaring daggers at the soft steam curling out beneath the door. Rage simmered low in my gut, slow and familiar, and it ticked up with every passing second.
When another five minutes dragged by and the shower was still going full blast, I snapped.
Clothes in hand, I stomped across the hallway barefoot and didn't bother knocking. After four days crammed into a van and two more in the same dingy hotel room, the illusion of privacy was long gone.
I pushed the door open and strode inside, only to halt at the very specific, unmistakable buzzing sound coming from under the duvet.
Seriously?
"Before breakfast?" I scoffed. "That's bold."
The sound stopped abruptly.
Rosalie's head popped up from under the covers, looking about as disheveled and unamused as a cat in a rainstorm. "Ever heard of knocking?" she hissed, voice ragged.
"Why? I think we're past that. I need your bathroom. Carry on." I flashed her a grin and made a beeline for the door at the side of the room.
She growled something I couldn't hear, but the buzzing started up again a second later, so I figured that was as close to permission as I was going to get.
Ten minutes later, just as I was finishing up, she banged on the door. "I have to shower too!"
I shut off the water, wrung out my hair, and wrapped myself in two towels before cracking the door open.
She was standing there, arms crossed, foot tapping.
"You really need to learn about boundaries," she said, barely disguising her irritation.
I stepped out, brushing past her. "Once you've peed while someone else is showering, boundaries are pretty subjective."
"There were four of us locked in one hotel room. Extenuating circumstances," she snapped, squeezing into the now-vacant space.
"I'll knock next time," I said, straight-faced. I even managed a mock-sincere tone for bonus points.
Back in my room, I changed quickly and glanced toward the still-closed bathroom door where Bella had disappeared earlier. Either she was showering, or she'd drowned herself in there. Not my problem either way.
I headed downstairs, tracing the route we'd taken last night. The building was waking up in slow waves—doors creaking open, students emerging one by one like groggy wildlife. I followed the flow of bodies down the long hall until we reached the cafeteria.
The room was all glass and clean lines, flooded with pale morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the back wall. Snow and clouds outside cast everything in a cold glow, but it was oddly peaceful. Like we were in a snow globe—sealed off from the world, whether we wanted to be or not.
There were ten tables, some occupied already, and a food station against the right wall stocked with trays and steaming buffet dishes.
I grabbed a plate and went for the basics—scrambled eggs, pancakes, and a bottle of apple juice—and turned back around, scanning for a spot to sit.
"New girl," someone said nearby.
I glanced over and found a dark-haired guy with a tanned complexion and sharp grin sitting at a table halfway down. He looked me up and down like he was sizing me up for something he hadn't decided on yet.
"Old guy," I replied, tone matching his, gaze unapologetically raking over him.
He grinned. "Paul."
I didn't bite on the Tarzan energy, though it was hard not to. "Leah."
"Hot," he said, lips twitching.
"Not bad either," I shot back.
He gestured to the empty spot beside him. "Sit?"
I hesitated. But… whatever. Not like I had anything to lose.
I slid into the seat.
"Embry. Claire," he added, pointing to the two people across the table. They both gave polite nods, Claire's smile the kind that actually reached her eyes.
"Hi," I said simply.
"So you're new here," Paul said again, stating the obvious like it was breaking news.
"There's like thirty of us. And we haven't met before. What gave me away?" I deadpanned.
He smirked and shrugged. "Second year," he offered. "Though it feels weird saying that. First day of it."
I nodded, sipping my juice.
A lull passed, but Paul wasn't the kind to let silence win.
"So, where you from?"
"Maine. You?"
"Vermont. If only you'd come last year, you could've seen Demetri hurl me butt-naked and puking into the back of the van." He laughed, glancing to Claire and Embry who both groaned and laughed at the memory. "Good times."
"Yeah, I wish mine had just been yesterday," I muttered, more to myself than anyone.
"You were first pickup, huh?"
I nodded again. "The week in the van wasn't even the worst part. That was Tyler."
Paul winced. "He's a lot?"
"He's... everything. Constant. Loud. And his voice—like, physically can't tune it out."
He laughed. "Yikes."
There was a beat.
"So what about the others? Give us the four-one-one."
I didn't even hesitate. Maybe I just needed to get it out. Maybe I just wanted to talk to someone who didn't already annoy me.
For the next half-hour, I told him everything I could remember about the last week. The pickups. The drama. The dynamics. Claire and Embry leaned in as the picture filled out—my sarcastic commentary painting each of the other first years in vivid color.
And it felt... okay.
Until Kate showed up to collect us all for the classroom tour.
And then the real day began.
Rosalie POV
What the hell kind of teacher dresses like that?
The thought had been looping in my head since the moment Irina stepped into the room, and this was probably the tenth or eleventh time I'd repeated it. Internally, at least.
She stood at the front of the room like she was about to start a performance rather than teach science. The dress was red, but overlaid with black lace—swirling vines and stars stitched into the fabric like something off a vampire-themed runway. Her legs were covered in diamond-patterned fishnet stockings that looked far too delicate for actual warmth, and her boots were something else entirely. Black, knee-high, platform monstrosities with buckles all the way up and soles thick enough to use as free weights. I was half convinced they doubled as weapons.
She wore a heavy amount of black jewelry—chunky rings, layered chains, fingerless mesh gloves—and yet, nestled beneath the darker pieces, I spotted a single gold necklace with a small peace sign pendant.
It was disorienting. The whole aesthetic screamed emo-punk-apocalypse, but then she smiled like a Disney Channel star and spoke in a tone weirdly reminiscent of Taylor Swift. The contradiction was jarring.
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper on death!" she declared theatrically, flinging her arms out as if she were casting a spell.
The class just kind of blinked at her.
Edward didn't even look up from the desk in front of him when he said flatly, "Are you trying to be relatable and demonstrate that you're in touch with the pop culture of this generation? Or are you just straight-up lame?"
Irina grinned, undeterred. "Well, you would've been about three years old—possibly still crapping your pants—when the books came out. I was… much older than three. I read them as they were released, so honestly? I'd say it's more my generation's pop culture than yours. With that in mind, I'm both relatable and lame. At the same time."
I tilted my head slightly, trying to figure out how someone could have that much chaotic energy and still seem like they were in complete control of a room.
We were only on our third class of the day, and already I felt like I was running a marathon. History with Sam had been tolerable—he seemed like he couldn't decide whether he was laid-back or borderline militant. Then English with Marcus, who honestly just gave off the vibe of a man quietly waiting for death to come collect him.
Now we had Irina, and she was the exact opposite of the last two. She had too much energy. Too much personality. The whole thing probably should have come across as refreshing, but instead it made me feel vaguely unmoored. Like the room itself didn't know how to contain her.
She continued, striding across the front like she was pacing a stage.
"The statistical likelihood of any of you going into a career where basically anything I teach from the standard curriculum will be useful is slim. So while we will cover the essentials, I'm also going to teach you weird and wonderful things that might actually spark some interest."
She paused dramatically, scanning the room. "So I ask you to bear with me when it gets bland—we'll blow stuff up and melt things later."
That earned a murmur of intrigue from a few corners of the room, including mine. Slightly.
"If you want to teach us useful shit," Tyler chimed in, far too loud and far too confident, "how about we just skip straight to pharmaceuticals?"
There was a ripple of laughter across the classroom.
Irina didn't miss a beat. "So I take it you've seen Breaking Bad?" she asked, making her way directly to Tyler's desk.
"If that's the kind of science you're teaching, I'm all ears," he replied, resting back in his chair like he'd just won something.
They stared at each other for a beat. Both amused. Both clearly playing their own version of the same game.
Then Irina grinned. "I'll make you a deal, Tyler. If you can maintain a passing grade—and I mean a real passing grade, none of this miraculous-curve-on-a-zero crap—and if you see no better prospects by the end of third year, I will personally teach you how to make meth."
Tyler's eyebrows shot up and his mouth opened a little, stunned into momentary silence. Honestly, the rest of us were just as caught off guard.
Irina extended a hand, eyes sparkling. "Deal?"
Tyler blinked between her and the offered hand like he wasn't sure if this was an elaborate prank or the start of the best education he was ever going to get. Then he reached out and shook it.
"Maintain a D or better," she emphasized again, "and I'll hold up my end."
"Oh, I'll give you the D, miss. Don't worry." Tyler winked in an exaggerated way that made me groan under my breath.
Irina rolled her eyes, pulling her hand back. "Consistency over intensity, Tyler. Remember that."
I wasn't sure whether to be annoyed by her or… impressed.
Maybe both.
Either way, science was about to get a hell of a lot less boring.
Alice POV
Dinner was the last thing I wanted. I picked at it anyway—mechanically—moving food around my plate more than I actually consumed it. Occasionally I forced myself to take a bite, not out of hunger but obligation. Keeping up appearances. Staying under the radar.
"Alice?"
The voice was soft and even, but it still startled me.
I looked up to see Kate standing across from me at the table, arms loose at her sides, that calm, unreadable expression etched across her face.
"Could you grab your dinner and come with me, please?" she asked, her eyes flicking to my plate and then back to me.
I nodded silently and stood, collecting the tray. She waited until I was beside her, then turned and began leading the way out of the cafeteria. We passed through the open foyer and around the back side of the reception desk where the administrative hallway stretched like a spine into the quiet parts of the building.
"I schedule sessions during dinner so you won't lose your personal time or miss classes," Kate explained, still walking, not looking back.
I gave another nod, more out of politeness than anything else. I had nothing to say to that.
We stopped outside a door and she pushed it open, stepping aside and gesturing me in ahead of her.
The room was softly lit, warmer than I expected. Not cozy, exactly, but not sterile either. The walls were lined with shelves and framed certificates, and the furniture scattered around the space felt more like a mismatched lounge than a therapist's office.
"Take a seat," she offered, motioning to the collection of seating options opposite the desk where her high-backed chair sat like a throne.
A standard armchair. A ridiculous-looking blow-up one. A bean bag. Some mattress-like thing on the floor. A strange round nest of a seat. And another desk chair like hers, but without the intimidating height.
I hovered for a second before settling into the chocolate-brown inflatable seat. It was enclosed, like a shell, but didn't scream I've completely given up the way the bean bag did. I balanced my tray on my lap and waited.
Kate smiled faintly and typed something into her laptop. "I suspected," she murmured.
My brows twitched slightly. "What?"
"The chair choice," she clarified, eyes still on the screen. "Most guarded students go for the most physically enclosed option, but not too casual. It gives the illusion of control without vulnerability."
I blinked. I'd just… sat.
She finally turned toward me more fully. "Your teachers mentioned you're not really talking," she said mildly. Her tone suggested she expected a reply, but wasn't surprised when she didn't get one.
I shrugged.
"Is it that you don't have anything to say, or that you're too upset to say it?" she pressed.
The answer was both, but I didn't give it. I stared down at my food and jabbed a piece of carrot with the knife.
She waited a beat longer, then added, "Just for the record—you only get one of these silent sessions before I lose patience. I understand you're out of your element here, but you do have to speak eventually. Or you're in for a very long three years."
She wasn't cruel about it. Just blunt. I didn't hate that.
"For today, if it's easier, I'll stick to yes or no questions," she said, tilting the screen toward her. "Did you have a decent first day?"
I nodded after a pause. It hadn't been good, but it hadn't been catastrophic either.
Click. Probably selecting a box.
"Have you spoken since leaving home?"
I shook my head.
"Do you want to tell me why?"
Another shake.
"Have you made any friends here?"
Shake.
"Does that bother you?"
I shook my head, then shrugged. It wasn't a choice so much as a circumstance.
"Were you completely against coming here?"
Nod.
"I don't suppose you're ready to talk about that."
Stillness.
She sighed, glancing at my plate. "You should eat. Or did we miss something on your intake forms? An eating disorder, maybe?"
I picked up my fork with a soft sigh and put a bite in my mouth. The food tasted like nothing.
"So can we cross off anorexia?"
I swallowed. Stared.
"Bulimia?"
Another shake.
More clicks. More quiet typing.
"Still don't feel like talking?"
Shake.
"All right. A few more," she said, scrolling through what looked like a standard psych questionnaire. "Do you fear spiders?"
Shake.
"Do you sleep with the light on?"
Another shake. What kind of question was that?
She glanced up. "Why's that one so strange to you?"
Shake.
"Do you faint at the sight of blood?"
No.
"What's your natural hair color?"
I looked up toward my scalp, then nodded at her guess when she offered, "Black?"
She nodded. "Eyes? Brown?"
I nodded.
"Skin?"
I pulled my sleeve up briefly. She glanced down.
"Pale white. Surprising, considering you're from Mississippi. Good to see no scars." She offered a too-bright smile and marked something down.
I pulled the sleeve back over my wrist.
"What color nail polish are you wearing?"
I lifted my bare fingers.
More notes.
"Would you say you're happy with your current situation?"
I hesitated, then shook my head. There was nothing specific, but also nothing good about being here.
"Do you believe in ghosts?"
I nodded.
"Any reason?"
I shook my head.
"Just one of those things?"
Another nod.
"Do you consider yourself normal?"
I almost smiled. Almost. Shook my head.
"Are you short? I think we can just say yes."
I nodded.
"Do you talk to yourself when no one can hear?"
I shrugged and gave a soft nod.
"Have you ever considered skydiving?"
Frown. Shake.
"Do you have any scars?"
I paused. Then nodded.
"Wanna say where?"
I shook my head.
She exhaled, I suspected she was getting rapidly annoyed by my lack of answers, but didn't push.
"If you had the chance to make your life perfect, even if it meant some things changed—would you take it?"
I blinked, caught off guard. She was looking directly at me, something bright and strange in her eyes. I looked away. Then back again, inexplicably drawn to her pale green—almost golden—eyes.
I didn't want to answer in any way, but something pulled it out of me.
I nodded slowly.
Kate nodded back, breaking the intense eye contact.
"Anyone you like—romantic or otherwise—but would never admit it?" Her tone shifted again so fast it was dizzying. Light. Almost teasing.
I shook my head automatically. The question confused me more than anything.
What the hell was that?
She wrapped up the session then and I headed back down the long, dim hall alone.
But something about that moment stayed in the back of my mind long after I'd left her office. A strange, quiet hum I couldn't shake.