by Sara Wolf
Cutting.
I swallow hard. It was a thing, back in middle school. Mariah started cutting in the bathrooms during recess. Everybody knew her mom was super religious and super strict. Then Jasmine started, and Selena. AJ wore sweatbands on their wrists, but we all knew. It moved through eighth grade like wildfire, and then once we hit Freshmen year it all seemed to stop. But I knew better. They weren’t stopping; they were just hiding it better. I’d never tried - I was too much of a coward. Maybe ‘coward’ isn’t the right word. Maybe my life just wasn’t as shitty as theirs. Maybe I just wasn’t hurting enough on the inside to try.
The lump in my throat hardens. Maybe, at the end of the day, pain doesn’t care about how much money someone has.
Maybe, when you’re rich, the only difference is that the closets you hide in are a little bigger.
“Hey - I’m sorry.” I exhale. “That was my bad. Weirdoes was a shitty thing to say.”
Trevino’s quiet, and then she turns and walks off with a snort. “You really don’t belong here.”
“Was it the dirty shoes that gave it away?” I drawl after her. “Or the lack of a second language?”
She flips her lustrous hair over her shoulder without looking back.
“It was the apology.”
Trevino has a point - no one actually apologizes here.
Now that she’s said it, I start to notice it. One of the French words for ‘sorry’ is ‘pardon’. But the only people I’ve heard it from are teachers. Even now, as I follow the dinner crowd into the Knight Roux building - the cafe tables dressed with red cloth and fine porcelain and lit with soft candles - a guy bumps into me from behind. Hard. I whirl to apologize to him immediately, but he’s already long gone. Oblivious? Hungry? Or just plain ol’ rude?
I look around for Ana, for a single lifeline in the uncaring crowd, but her table’s full of those girls again. Fantastic. I’ve never wanted anything more in life than to eat a super-formal dinner with absolute strangers.
Just then, I feel a tug on my sleeve. It’s the red-haired girl from this morning. She motions to the seat next to her.
“You can sit here.”
“Thanks.” I slide into the chair. “Hope the rest of your day wasn’t as bad as this morning.”
“It was awful,” She frowns. “But it’s nice of you to ask.”
Not ‘thank you’ for asking. But ‘it’s nice’. Two more students and a professor sit at our table, filling it up to the brim. They pass around the bread basket, none of them ever saying the words ‘thank you’ out loud - in English or in French. It’s just faint smiles. Trevino was on to something. They don’t say thank you here. And they don’t apologize. It’s not like they’re openly rude - they still smile and nod and make the polite gestures. But none of them admit fault or extend gratitude directly or openly, and definitely not first. Is this a cultural thing? No - if it was cultural we’d all be reacting differently. It’s absolutely 100% just a Silvere thing.
‘What the fuck’, I mouth into my bowl of soup.
“Do try to sit up straight when you’re eating, Miss Pierce,” The professor says. “It shows your figure properly.”
Because I am a paragon of forgiveness I substitute ‘Keep your eyes on your own titties, hag’ with; “How did you know my name?”
“It’s a small school,” She says, daintily ripping her bread into a bite-sized piece. “Most of the students here have been on the enrollment list since birth. You are the one exception.”
“Wait,” I put my spoon down. “Since they were born born? I can’t be the only one who’s ever transferred in, right?”
“Silvere is highly selective,” The professor sips her red wine. “We screen each applicant thoroughly, and the scholarship students are never accepted at any other time than the beginning of fourth year. Some students have been on the waiting list for years, but have never been accepted, and certainly never with test scores as low as yours. You, Miss Pierce, are quite the, well. The anomaly.” She reaches over for a crystal decanter and smiles at me. “Would you like some wine?”
I glower at the onions in my soup. The hidden message behind her wrinkly gaze is clear; I should be grateful I got in. I should be grateful to be sitting here, eating little ice-cream-like ovals of lobster puree dotted with fancy vinaigrette and micro-greens. I should be grateful to be offered wine by her, an esteemed professor at a prestigious school. I should be grateful to be laughed at and sneered at. I don’t belong here, and so I should be grateful.
“Nah,” I swallow a lump. “I’m good.”
“It’s not illegal in Switzerland, you know,” She laughs. “You won’t get arrested, or thrown in jail, or any such thing.”
“I know - !” Anger makes me fast and loud and everyone at the table startles. I flush and force my voice lower. “I know that.”
The professor nods airily. “Very well. Borbeau? Would you like some wine? Thirteen is certainly old enough.”
The red-haired girl holds out her glass. “I’m fourteen, actually.”
“Ah, fourteen, then.”
How is it possible to be this embarrassed and also still be confused on what exactly I’m embarrassed about? She made me feel like a kid with her tone, all sixteen years of my living reduced to nothing in a split-second. Whatever. I’m not here to impress cobweb-infestations like her.
I crane my neck around at the other tables; I spot my calculus professor sitting with Trevino, who eats as gracefully as a well-trained swan. It looks like there’s one professor to each table, correcting the manners of the students offhandedly. Not that any of them need much correcting - they fold their napkins good and slurp soup good and I’m obviously the only glaring error. They’ve had years to practice and I’ve had a full eight hours.
The sound of gentle conversation and barely-clinking silverware wafts in the air. Von Arx herself sits at a table towards the front, dressed in a stunning shimmery lavender gown with her hair pulled up in an elegant bun. I sure as shit didn’t get the memo to dress up like it’s prom, but okay. You do you, oldie. Alistair sits at her table, too, his cronies on either side of him. At least he has the good sense to keep his fucking boots off the table this time around. Maria’s small fingers look even smaller clutching the stately silverware. And I mean, of course, actual silver-ware, the sort that’s gotta be polished once in a while or it’ll lose varnish. Thanks, Will, for that tidbit of rich-people info.
Rafe eats with a gusto Von Arx loves to snap at as much as she loves to smile at Alistair winsomely - that same pleased smile she flashed at Lionel when she greeted him. I expect McStick-Up-His-Ass to ignore her. But Alistair smiles back. Like, forreal. He grins at her like he means it - barely-there and honest - and it’s like seeing a fish fly. Who knew he had the facial muscles to do anything but megafrown? Not me. Not anybody. Except Von Arx, apparently.
I’m not, like, stalking him or anything, but I can’t help but notice his plate is already clean. Too clean. His napkin’s in his lap, but his silverware’s untouched, like he doesn’t plan to eat. All he does is take sips of water every so often, rimming the glass with one long finger absently.
I scoff under my breath. “Is the food not good enough for your highness?”
My grumbling stops the moment I spot Ciel sitting at a table with three other chittering girls, all of them blushing as they ask him questions. Ah, shit on a buttermilk biscuit. He’s popular. Of course he is - if he could win over a choosy gremlin like me, he can win over anyone. Even the professor at his table is charmed by him; a glazed look in his eyes. The candlelight glints off Ciel’s golden hair as he calmly and perfectly eats, talking with a low voice. The occasional soft smile of his smooth lips stops my heart cold. I whip my phone out to not-creepily record the moment forever.
“Miss Pierce?” The professor at my table clears her throat, angling her big pompous head directly into my camera. “This is a time for etiquette, not social media. Let’s have a direct conversation, shall we? What do you like to do
in your free time?”
“I like to look at myself in the mirror and say ‘You’re the funniest person alive’. It gets me up in the morning. And at night.” I pause. “I’m pretty much constantly worried about being funny.”
“Anything else?” The professor’s brow twitches minutely. “Anything a little more…structured? Or relatable?”
“I eat a lot of garlic,” I say. “To keep both men and vampires away.”
“Good. Right.” She looks up at the rest of the table, slightly desperate. “Anyone else?”
A boy at our table chokes down his lobster and offers timidly; “I do tennis.”
“Tennis! A lovely sport. Do you enjoy it?” I reach for the salt, and the professor’s voice does a complete 180. “Pierce, we do not salt our food. It’s an insult to the chef.”
“Then why do you put the shaker on the table?”
The other students look at the professor curiously, and she blusters. “Well, obviously, for decoration.”
I nod like I understand when I abso-fucking-lutely do not. The professor mercifully starts talking the boy’s ear off about Wimbledon’s many bouncing balls. Next to me, Borbeau giggles.
“You eat garlic to keep men away? Does that mean you’re a lesbian?”
“Yes?” I pause. She’s one of those people who say lesbian like it’s a bad thing. “No. Maybe? Girls are pretty. Honestly, I dunno. I’m just here to party.”
She laughs again. “You sound like Gabe.”
“Gabe,” I repeat. “That’s the groundskeeper guy from this morning?”
Borbeau nods. She doesn’t start to tear up at the mere mention of him, which is an improvement from this morning, but her smile is oddly rueful. She leans in to me and whispers around her napkin.
“We’re dating.”
“Dating.” I repeat.
“Dating!” She sighs happily. “He’s fired now so it’s going to be harder to see him, but he’s promised to come visit me. On the weekends he takes me down to the village, and we eat bread and fruit in the fields and…you know.” She goes red down to her neck. “He’s very sweet.”
You know. I know? I do not know. I have no clue what sex is, or what it consists of other than bumping uglies in the theoretically vague Ken doll-esque, embarrassing-movie-sex-scene-you’re-forced-to-watch-with-your-family-oops sense, but I know for sure when someone’s alluding to it. Comes with the territory of turning fifteen one day and noticing keenly just how omnihorny everybody got overnight.
The gears in my head start to grind to a halt. I remember Gabe’s face - how could I not? Thin eyebrows, blood running down his nose and into his beard from Alistair’s punch. Wait - he had a full-blown bushy beard. He’s employed here. He had crow’s feet around his eyes and a career and -
I look over at the still-blushing Borbeau. She’s fourteen. What’s the hell is a full grown man doing with a fourteen-year-old?
Horror creeps up on me, bit by slithering bit. I adjust my glasses rustily and turn my gaze to Alistair, to his place at Von Arx’s table. That’s why Borbeau defended Gabe this morning. That’s why she beat on Alistair’s back furiously, that’s why she dumped juice on him. And I cheered her on. For a flash of a second, Alistair’s dark, green-shot eyes meet mine between the dinner crowd. They flicker over to Borbeau, to me, and then he rolls them tiredly.
That’s why Alistair Strickland punched that guy’s lights out.
He wasn’t beating the shit out of someone more powerless than him for fun.
He was beating the shit out of a pedo.
12
The Forest (Or, How many steps you can count between you and the person you want to be)
“Hi, Alistair,” I breathe deep and pull my favorite oversized knit sweater on, the one I got from Goodwill with letters across the chest that say I NEED PIZZA OR I WILL DIE. “So I’ve been doing some thinking, which is something I try not to do too often -” I yank on sinfully comfy rainbow fuzzy socks. “- and I’ve come to the conclusion that maybe I was…that maybe I was…” I hiss the syllables slowly into the mirror with utmost pain. “…wrrrr-oooon-ggguh.”
The girl with the oversized sweater and rainbow fuzzy socks and no pants on stares back at me, the letters on her chest backwards and making no sense and her underwear three years old with a hole in the side because she refuses to let her step-dad take her ‘shopping’. Her black glasses are huge against her zit-scattered face - like some drunk pilot went on a crop-dusting pus bender. Her blond bob looks like a mop that’s soaked up a bunch of rain puddles in an oily parking lot.
What a catch.
“Wrong? You?” Ruby laughs from my phone resting against my dresser. She finally answered my Facetime after dinner and I caught her up on everything that happened today. “You’re Lilith Pierce. You’re never fucking wrong.”
“We are wrong,” I say slowly and imperiously as I attempt to salvage my hair by yanking it up in the usual messy, gotta-concentrate tiny bun. “Sometimes.”
“What if this Gabe guy just looks old for his age? What if he’s like, actually 19? That’s not so bad.”
“It’s all bad,” I hiss at her. “Anyone who messes with high school girls and isn’t in high school themselves is a 100% bonafide predatory creep.”
“Yeah, no, you’re right.” She agrees with a sigh, painting her nails slowly on her desk. “Welp, put your big girl pants on, then. You’ve got some apologizing to do.”
“To whomst?”
“Whomst do you freakin’ think? That Alison guy.”
“I will die a thousand noble deaths by the sword - !” I yank on one leg of my jeans then the other, sticking my legs way out like I’m kicking someone. “- before I apologize to that prickhole Prickland!”
“Stop.”
“He grabbed my wrist, Ruby! And like, held me there!”
“You were running in the halls. How else was he supposed to stop you - a javelin?”
“Uh, his voice maybe?”
“You don’t listen to voices.”
I consider this. “Yes, but people shouldn’t grab other people! Especially people named me!”
“Did you tell him you have a no-touching rule?”
“Yeah!”
“With your mouth? And your words?”
I flinch. “N-No. But like any functional human, he shoulda picked up on my body language! Also, do I still have a no-touching thing?”
“Of course you do.” Ruby exhales. “Remember what happened with Ethan in P.E. last year?”
I groan. “His mom still hasn’t stopped glaring at me every time I see her in the grocery store.”
“It’s fine. Everything turned out fine.” She hand-waves it off, black polish gleaming. “He always wanted plastic surgery on his nose, anyway.”
“But!” I blurt. “But this Ciel guy - Ruby, he caught me from falling on the stairs and I didn’t - I didn’t freak at all, Ruby. Like, period. I was totally fine! No panicking or urge to punch or anything!”
“Hrmmm.” She taps her chin. “That’s a good sign. Maybe you’re getting over it.”
“Or maybe…” I lead. “Maybe he’s special.”
She grunts. “More investigating required.”
“Okay. Fine. But I want to make it clear I am not apologizing to Prickland. Ever. Talking to him is like talking to a pincushion with all the pins facing out. Apologizing would be like using it for a back massager.”
“Oh, quit acting so above it all. Like you wouldn’t have joined in on punching that creepy Gabe dude this morning if you knew the truth about him?”
“No! Of course not!” I pause. “I would’ve gotten a baseball bat, first.”
Ruby’s grin is huge. “That’s my girl.”
“I love you,” I sigh.
“Gross,” She laughs. “I’m hanging up now. Text me more pictures of that place, okay?”
“Why? You hate landscape pictures.”
“Not anymore! I’ve started a new aesthetic Insta. The username is my-friend’s-very-cool-t
rip-to-Europe-without-me.”
“Ruby…” I groan. “It’s not a trip. I like, live here now.”
“Physically,” She agrees. “But spiritually you’re always here with me. That’s why I have that envelope with your hair in it, remember?”
She pans the camera to the aforementioned envelope tacked to her corkboard. I exhale wistfully.
“I miss you. All they talk about here is, well…I don’t actually get what they talk about here, because it’s in French.”
“They’re not aliens. It’s probably the same shit we talk about; death and college.”
“And girls. And sometimes boys. If they’re pretty. How’s Anthony Nguyen, by the way?”
She gets all bashful. “Ew, now I’m really hanging up.”
“Bye!”
“Remember,” She adds at the last second, her mouth so pressed-up against the phone it aggressively crackles her voice. “You can’t expect people to know how you feel about shit unless you tell them.”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Yeah, okay.”
“Love you,” She chirps. “Bye-bye.”
Nothing like an hour-long Facetime to your best friend to make your chest seem lighter. I feel stupid for being so homesick. No matter how much I bitch and whine, I’m not really alone, am I? Ruby and I, Mom and I - we’re still on the same planet, still under the same sky. Even if my view of the sky right now is a lot fancier than theirs.
As always, Ruby’s got a point. Everybody at Northview knew not to touch me unexpectedly. Or at all. I was - quite fuckin’ literally - untouchable. I only got out of trouble with punching the daylights out of Ethan because he refused to let go and also Mom talked to the principal for three hours. But here at Silvere, I have to start all over again. Build that reputation again from the ground up, and without getting sued by ultra-rich family lawyers.
It sounds exhausting. But maybe…maybe I won’t need to build from scratch. Maybe Ciel will fix it. Fix the broken part of my brain. Not like, totally. Nobody can fix things totally. That’s impossible. But maybe just being around him will get me used to it again.
