by Yvonne Woon
Horticulture
Philosophy
The Arts
Crude Sciences
Horticulture? Imaginary Arithmetic? In California we studied normal things like English, Algebra, Biology, and languages that people actually spoke, like Spanish or French. What did Crude Sciences even mean?
I picked up Mythology and Rituals, which I assumed was my Ancient Civilizations textbook. Back in California, History had been my favorite subject. Out of my entire schedule, it was probably the only class I would really enjoy. But I guess I didn’t have a choice, which seemed to be a recurring theme in my life over the past few weeks.
The sound of footsteps broke my train of thought. They stopped in front of my door. Startled, I stood up and watched the knob turn and the door creak open.
A girl walked in, lugging two overstuffed duffel bags behind her. A mess of wavy blond hair was piled on top of her head, and her round cheeks were flushed from walking up the stairs. With a sigh, she let a bag drop from her shoulder. It fell to the ground with a thud.
“Who are you?” I asked, confused.
“Eleanor,” she said, fanning her face with her hand. “Eleanor Bell.”
She was carelessly pretty, with rosy skin and wisps of windblown hair framing her face in a way that made her look like she had just stepped off a private yacht in Nantucket.
“So why...what are you doing in my room?”
“What are you talking about?” she said, looking at me as if I were crazy. “I’m your roommate.”
“Oh.” I felt my face turn red. In my hurry to open the package, I hadn’t even noticed that there were two beds. I looked around the room more carefully and realized that it was true, there seemed to be two of everything: two desks, two chairs, two wardrobes, all divided by a fireplace. “They didn’t tell me I had a roommate.”
“They almost didn’t tell me either. My old roommate left Gottfried at the last minute, and I was set to have a huge single all to myself...until a few days ago.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Sorry.”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. It’ll be fun. Besides, living by yourself can get lonely.” She looked at my legs and frowned. “You know you’re not in dress code.”
I glanced down at my shorts and then at her outfit. She was wearing an impossibly short wool skirt, a perfectly pressed white collared shirt, and black knee-highs. I imagined that her parents were the sort of people who owned horses and played tennis on the weekend after hosting large brunches on their waterfront estate. “And you are?”
Eleanor ignored my comment. “No denim or clothes with writing on them,” she recited. “Only skirts, collared shirts, and stockings. And if you want to wear pants, you have to wear a blazer.”
I rolled my eyes. What was the point in getting so dressed up for school? “Well, I think I look fine.”
Eleanor scoffed at me, sticking her button nose into the air. “You look fine for going to the beach. We’re at Gottfried Academy! One of the oldest and most competitive schools in the country. Do you know how many people would die to be in your position?”
I had never heard of Gottfried until my grandfather told me about it, and I definitely didn’t care how prestigious it was. I would have given anything to be back at my old school. “I guess it’s just hard moving away from my friends.” I unzipped one of the suitcases and then added, “I’m new here.”
“I know.” Eleanor hoisted one of her bags onto her bed. “That’s the first thing you need to understand about Gottfried—it’s small. Things have a way of being found out.” She untied her hair, letting thick blond locks fall around her shoulders. The smell of citrus and shampoo wafted through the room. “Which brings me to the second thing you need to know. The secrets that aren’t found out are buried well. And probably for a reason.”
I gave her a perfunctory nod, but thought she was being overly dramatic. I had been to high school; I knew how things worked, how people talked, how secrets were leaked.
Eleanor paused, and for a moment I thought she had finished and I could finally unpack in silence. But then she said, “For example, your name is Renée. You’re five foot four, you got straight A’s at Costa Rosa High, you’re a sophomore, like me, and you have an inclination for history and the social sciences. Your parents were teachers, but then they died and your grandfather sent you here. His name is”—she tried to remember—“Brownell Winters.”
Surprised, I looked up at her. “How did you—?”
“And now you’re here, probably thinking I’m some spoiled, self-centered trust-fund girl who’s obsessed with makeup and name brands and only got into Gottfried because my family has legacy here.”
“That is not true! That’s just... It’s not... I don’t think that about you.” The retort sounded cleverer in my head, but the worst part was that I probably would have thought all of those things if I’d had more time.
“It’s all right. Everyone thinks it. And maybe they’re not totally wrong. But I know that your family has legacy too. Which is why you got in. You didn’t even have to take that ridiculous admissions test. And even though you couldn’t have grown up rich—I mean, your parents were teachers—I know that you’re an only child. Which probably makes you more spoiled than me, because I have an older brother, and everyone knows that only children don’t know how to share.”
I gaped at her, torn between anger and confusion. How did she know all this? I wanted to ask if it was her family’s money that made her think she could talk to someone else that way, but all I managed to spit out was, “I know how to share.”
“I told you,” she said, reading my thoughts. “Things have a way of being found out here. My parents are divorced, so I don’t really see them. It happened a few years ago and was really messy. My mom got the house in Aspen, my dad got the house in Wyoming, and they’re still fighting over the rest.” She rolled her eyes. “Or their lawyers are. My parents can’t even stand being in the same state. So of course they couldn’t stop fighting about where we would live. Which is why my brother and I are here. That and the fact that practically our entire family has gone to Gottfried.” She smiled. “And now you know everything about me, in case you were wondering.” She looked into my open suitcase. “That’s a really cute skirt.”
I watched as she leaned over my personal belongings in all of her blond, rosy glory, completely unapologetic for who she was and where she came from.
“Thanks,” I said. “It was my mom’s.”
“She had great taste. Do you mind if I take a peek?” And without waiting for an answer, she bent down and sifted through the rest of the clothes in my suitcase. “You know, I’ve always had this fantasy of growing up in a normal family. A small, cozy house. My parents cooking pancakes for breakfast and borrowing eggs from the neighbors. Riding the bus to school. Oh, and of course I’d have to have a summer job. It’s so romantic. I could work as a waitress and wear an apron and everything.”
I gave her a confused look. “It’s really not that romantic. The bus was crowded and there was always gum stuck to the seats. And I would have killed to not have a summer job. But then I would never have met the guy I was dating. He asked me out at the farmers’ market where I worked.”
She looked up at me in awe. “See! It is romantic! Tell me everything.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. I had never met anyone who fantasized about having a crappy summer job or living in a small house.
“Let’s start over,” I said, and held out a hand. “My name is Renée.”
Eleanor smiled. “It’s nice to meet you.” She held up a tan shirt with ruffles on the collar. “This is so vintage. Do you mind if I borrow it? It would look great with my new skirt.”
I let out another laugh. “Sure. So how did you know all that stuff about me?”
“It wasn’t hard. My brother, Brandon, is on the Board of Monitors. He’s a senior, and practically the headmistress’s pet. When I found out I had a roommate, I asked him to look in your file and
relay the details. He’s not supposed to, but he’d do anything for me.”
It didn’t sound that easy. Actually, it sounded like a lot of work for information that she could have just found out by asking me. I watched her go through the clothes in my suitcase, holding them up to her body.
“Eleanor, how come your old roommate didn’t come back this year?”
She gave me a mischievous smile, as if she had been waiting for me to ask. “Now that’s a question that’s not so easy to answer.”
CHAPTER 3
The Awakening
HER NAME WAS CASSANDRA MILLET. THAT WAS all I was able to find out about Eleanor’s old roommate before we were interrupted by the chiming of church bells. Eleanor suddenly looked distraught. “Is it six o’clock already? We have to go!”
“Go where?”
“Fall Awakening, of course. Come on, we’re late.”
“Wait, but what’s Fall Awakening?”
Instead of answering, Eleanor grabbed a cardigan. I did the same, and she took me by the elbow and rushed me out the door.
We walked briskly through campus, past Verning Theater, a massive stone building with Greek columns lining the front; past Horace Hall, made of red brick, with tall darkened windows that gaped vacantly into the mountains. I could barely make out the engraving over its entrance: COGITO ERGO SUM. “That’s where our classes are,” Eleanor explained. Finally, we passed the Observatory, a stone tower in the middle of campus that doubled as an astronomy lookout and science laboratory. It was almost sunset when we reached the green. A low murmur of voices filled the air, and we walked toward them until we reached the clearing.
The trees grew thicker at the center of campus, enclosing the lawn in a semicircle of oaks and evergreens. Above them, the darkening sky was scratched open, bleeding bright streaks of red and orange. In the distance was the chapel, its bells still swaying.
“This,” Eleanor said, “is Fall Awakening.”
The students were divided into four sections, one for each year, she explained. Everyone was already seated on long wooden benches that lined the outskirts of the lawn in the shape of a U. The first row of each section was empty. Eleanor was already squeezing her way onto a bench in the sophomore section. I followed her, but when she saw me take a seat beside her, she shook her head.
“It’s supposed to be alphabetical,” she explained. “Which means you should be in the back with the rest of the W’s....”
We both turned to look at the back row. The only space left was on the far side, in between a scrawny blond boy with thick-rimmed glasses and a plump girl with frizzy brown hair who did not look very friendly.
“Oh … right. Okay.” I hesitated before standing up, studying the blond boy in the back, who seemed to be counting something that no one else could see. “Who is that?”
Eleanor ignored my question. “But since the guy who sits next to me isn’t here, I doubt anyone will notice if you stay,” she said just as I was about to leave. “You’re way better company. I’ve tried to make conversation, but he barely acknowledges me. Sometimes I think he doesn’t even notice that I’m sitting next to him. He’s like that with everyone. He even stopped hanging out with his friends, and now just does everything alone. He’s sort of like this social outcast, except that everyone is secretly obsessed with him.”
“Obsessed? What do you mean? I thought you said he didn’t talk to anyone.”
“He doesn’t. The thing is … he’s beautiful. He’s this rugged, devastatingly gorgeous guy who has inexplicably chosen a life of solitude. And he’s brilliant. Some Latin prodigy or something. Most people here can’t decide if they love him, hate him, or are scared of him. For most people it’s all three. Especially my brother. Brandon hates it when I talk about him, which is sort of weird because I don’t think they’ve spoken even once.”
“Who is he?”
Eleanor lowered her voice, the name rolling off her tongue like a dark secret. “Dante Berlin.”
I laughed. “Dante? Like the Dante who wrote the Inferno? Did he pick that name just to help cultivate his ‘dark and mysterious’ persona?”
Eleanor shook her head in disapproval. “Just wait till you see him. You won’t be laughing then.”
I rolled my eyes. “I bet his real name is something boring like Eugene or Dwayne.”
I expected Eleanor to laugh or say something in return, but instead she gave me a concerned look. I ignored it.
“He sounds like a snob to me. I bet he’s one of those guys who know they’re good-looking. He probably hasn’t even read the Inferno. It’s easy to pretend you’re smart when you don’t talk to anyone.”
Eleanor still didn’t respond. “Shh …” she muttered under her breath.
But before I could say “What?” I heard a cough behind me. Oh God, I thought to myself, and slowly turned around.
“Hi,” he said with a half grin that seemed to be mocking me.
And that’s how I met Dante Berlin.
So how do you describe someone who leaves you speechless?
He was beautiful. Not Monet beautiful or white sandy beach beautiful or even Grand Canyon beautiful. It was both more overwhelming and more delicate. Like gazing into the night sky and feeling incredibly small in comparison. Like holding a shell in your hand and wondering how nature was able to make something so complex yet so perfect: his eyes, dark and pensive; his messy brown hair tucked behind one ear; his arms, strong and lean beneath the cuffs of his collared shirt.
I wanted to say something witty or charming, but all I could muster up was a timid “Hi.”
He studied me with what looked like a mix of disgust and curiosity.
“You must be Eugene,” I said.
“I am.” He smiled, then leaned in and added, “I hope I can trust you to keep my true identity a secret. A name like Eugene could do real damage to my mysterious persona.”
I blushed at the sound of my words coming from his lips. He didn’t seem anything like the person Eleanor had described.
“And you are—”
“Renée,” I interjected.
“I was going to say, ‘in my seat,’ but Renée will do.”
My face went red. “Oh, right. Sorry.”
“Renée like the philosopher René Descartes? How esoteric of you. No wonder you think you know everything. You probably picked that name just to cultivate your overly analytical persona.”
I glared at him. I knew he was just dishing back my own insults, but it still stung. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” I said curtly, and pushed past him before he could respond, waving a quick good-bye to Eleanor, who looked too stunned to move.
I turned and walked to the last row, using all of my self-control to resist looking back.
“Sorry,” I said as I squeezed through the row at the end of the alphabet, stepping over feet and pushing past knees. I stopped in front of the blond boy I’d seen from up front. He looked up at me through his glasses, then quickly averted his eyes, as if he had done something wrong.
“Is this W?” I asked.
It took a few seconds for him to realize I was speaking to him. Finally he nodded. “Welch, like the juice,” he said, referring to himself, “and Wurst,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper as he pointed to the girl to his left, “like the sausage.”
I let out a surprised laugh. “I’m Renée. Winters, like the season,” I said, and sat down next to him.
He was a shrimp of a person, and blond all the way down to his eyelashes. He had inordinately skinny arms and looked like he’d spent the majority of his life in his parents’ basement playing video games. Yet still, there was something strangely interesting about him. I tried to place it. Was it the fact that he hadn’t blinked since we’d started talking, or the way he leaned a little too close when he spoke? No, it was something more.
“I’m Nathaniel. I mean, that’s my first name.” He adjusted his glasses. His shaggy hair looked like it hadn’t been washed or brushed in days, and his ski
n was as pasty as waxed paper, save for a collection of blemishes on his chin and forehead.
I smiled. “Got it.”
“You’re new here, right?”
I nodded.
“Me too. Well, I was last year. I’m not new anymore.”
A hush fell over the crowd. From the back, a line of people filed onto the lawn.
“Those are the professors,” Nathaniel said.
They walked stiffly and all wore the same blue-and-gold scarf around their necks. The frayed ends dangled loosely above their waists as they took their seats in the front row.
At the center of the lawn was an ancient oak tree. Its gnarled trunk was so thick that it looked as if three trees had twisted themselves into one. Draped over its branches were two flags. They were deep blue, and bore a constellation of a bear and the Gottfried crest of arms in yellow stitching. A small podium stood between them.
And then out of the darkness emerged the tallest woman I had ever seen, striding through the trees like the wisp of a ghost.
“That’s the headmistress, Calysta Von Laark,” said Nathaniel.
She stood at least six feet tall, with wavy white hair that was pinned loosely to the back of her head. She had blue eyes, large hands, and a slender figure that was slightly masculine in its proportions.
She walked to the podium and waited. The wind slowed, and everything was still.
“Students, faculty, welcome to another illustrious year at Gottfried Academy.” Her voice was low and velvety as it echoed off the buildings surrounding the lawn.
“I hope that you all had an enlightening holiday and were able to use the time away from your studies to wade in the warm waters of everything that summer has to offer. To our new students, welcome. There is a complete list of school policies and procedures in the Gottfried Code of Discipline, which you received with your books and schedules. If you have any questions, I trust that our returning students will be able to aid you, as well as the dormitory parents, Mrs. Lynch and Professor Bliss.”
A man and woman from the front row stood up and waved.
