Outrun the Moon

by Stacey Lee

  Our teacher smiles, arousing his clipped mustachio from its slumber. “I am Mr. Waterstone. As it turns out, I’m a bit of an enthusiast on the social rituals of other cultures, especially those of the Far East. I’m even writing a book, Comportment Around the World. I will be observing you very carefully. Perhaps you will consent to an interview?”

  I smile, though my sweat factories have begun to double productivity. Just my luck I would get a Far East enthusiast for a teacher. “Certainly.”

  Someone snickers, and I don’t have to turn my head to know it’s Elodie.

  The man rubs his hands together. “Now, who shall tell Miss Wong what is our motto?”

  No one moves, and I wonder if it’s because no one knows, or no one wants to tell me.

  Ruby stops fiddling with her rosemary and raises her hand.

  Mr. Waterstone nods at the girl. “Yes, Miss Beauregard.”

  “Comport yourself with unselfish regard for the welfare of others.” There’s a sad quality to Ruby’s gentle voice that reminds me of my old boss, Mr. Mortimer. I think back to how rosemary was often left on graves for remembrance and wonder if she has experienced tragedy.

  Our instructor walks the length of the fireplace. “A St. Clare’s girl comports herself with unselfish regard for the welfare of others. When we have guests, we offer them tea, knowing they may be in need of refreshment. We keep extra umbrellas in case it is raining when they leave. What sort of hospitality do they show callers in China, Miss Wong?”

  “We, er, we have buckets of water ready for washing feet. And when they leave, we give them kumquats.” I hope he doesn’t put that one in his book.

  He strokes his chin. “Fruit? How interesting. What about in winter?”

  “We give them winter melons.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

  “Winter melons? But are those not the size of watermelons?”

  “Yes, well, it is to discourage visits in winter when the roads are slippery.”

  “So it’s more of a . . . punishment, then?” His mustachio holds very still.

  “Yes.” Sweat rings my collar.

  He winds up for another question just as Mrs. Tingle wheels in a cart loaded with tea, cakes, and tiny sandwiches. I could kiss her droopy cheeks.

  “Aha, here we are. Now, whose turn is it to host?” As Mr. Waterstone’s gaze sweeps the room, the girls find other places to look: the fireplace, the floor-to-ceiling windows, one another. I suddenly feel exposed, though I’ve poured tea lots of times. Mr. Mortimer often drank a cup with his clientele—not the dead ones, of course.

  “Miss Wincher.”

  My shoulders relax a notch.

  He nods at Harry, who has gone still as a rabbit. “It is your turn.”

  When Harry doesn’t speak, Katie elbows her, eliciting a grimace. Harry scrambles to her feet and bobs a curtsy. “Yes, sir.”

  Elodie exchanges a smile with Wood Face. Those girls are up to no good. I can see it in the way Elodie flicks at her skirt like a cat batting its prey.

  Harry dips her head at each of her “guests,” holding her spectacles to her face as if afraid they might come loose. “How lovely to see you, Miss Quinley, Miss Foster, Miss Du Lac.”

  “Lovely to see you, too,” Katie chimes out in her loud voice, all her dimples making an appearance. The tomboy’s cheerful eagerness reminds me of Jack whenever Ma imparts her fortune-telling wisdom. Unlike me, he can listen to her for hours as she describes the ten heavenly stems, or the twelve earthly signs.

  “Enchanté,” says Elodie, sounding bored. Wood Face murmurs a nicety as well.

  “How do you take your tea?” Harry asks Katie.

  Mr. Waterstone waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t forget to pass linens first.”

  Turning redder by the second, Harry doles out embroidered linens.

  “Three teaspoons of sugar for me,” Katie says brightly.

  The instructor frowns—likely disapproving of the quantity—but he does not interfere.

  With her tongue peeking out of her mouth, Harry carefully measures three teaspoons of sugar into her best friend’s cup. “Miss Foster, do you take sugar, too?”

  “Finish the first before beginning the second,” Mr. Waterstone orders. “The hostess is not an assembly line.”

  Who knew there were so many potential pitfalls in serving tea? At home, we have no pretend niceties. If we are thirsty, we fill the pot, throw in some leaves, and that’s that.

  The lid of the teapot rattles as Harry pours. She passes a teacup and saucer to Katie, who accepts with a gracious, “Thank you ever so much, Miss Wincher.”

  Harry moves on to Wood Face.

  “I like my tea plain.” Wood Face reaches for her cup, but then Elodie gives a slight shake of her head, so subtle that I’m not sure I see it at first. The girl returns her hands to her lap. “Thank you, Miss Wincher, but that tea is too strong,” she says dramatically, eyes flicking to Elodie, as if seeking approval. She’s rewarded with a smile.

  “Dilute it with the hot water pot, Miss Wincher,” Mr. Waterstone instructs Harry.

  Mrs. Tingle begins to wheel her tray away, and Mr. Waterstone leaves to hold the door open.

  Katie juts up her chin and whispers, “The tea looks fine to me.”

  “If you like drinking bathwater,” hisses Elodie. “I’ve heard hillbillies do that.”

  Katie jumps to her feet, hands curled into fists and spots of pink blooming on her cheeks. “At least I don’t eat snails.”

  Mr. Waterstone glides back to us. “What is the problem, Miss Wincher?”

  Harry grimaces. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Tea is not taken standing, Miss Quinley.”

  Katie drops back onto her seat, scowling.

  Harry pours liquid from a second plainer teapot into Wood Face’s tea, but it dispenses too fast and overflows onto the saucer. The girl emits a loud sigh, passing Elodie another long-suffering glance.

  “Use another cup, Miss Wincher,” says Mr. Waterstone in a tight voice.

  Harry looks near to tears, and I wonder if she’ll remember to place her tongue against the roof of her mouth. When the tea has been dispensed and all of Harry’s guests have successfully been offered doll-sized treats, she nearly collapses back into her chair.

  Mr. Waterstone gives a satisfactory nod. “Now, who shall be next?”

  In my foursome, Ruby and Minnie Mae both shrink into the upholstery, and Francesca shifts uncomfortably.

  With a glance toward me, Elodie sets down her cup and raises a hand. “Mr. Waterstone?”

  A streak of cold runs down to my belly. Somehow I’ve become attuned to her pranks before they happen, like how certain birds can sense an approaching storm.

  “Since it was the Chinese who gave us tea, I wonder if our visitor could show us her traditional customs. You do keep that formal Chinese tea set in the sideboard.”

  My knuckles pop like firecrackers. She couldn’t know that I don’t know how to perform a formal tea ceremony. Such things are done for weddings, and given the rarity and private nature of weddings in Chinatown, I’ve only seen it done once. I briefly wonder if all the fours in this room are conspiring against me.

  Mr. Waterstone rubs his well-manicured hands together. “That’s a wonderful idea. Miss Wong, please indulge us.”

  “While I am honored—” I begin, casting about for an escape.

  If I demure, people may suspect me of fraud—no doubt, her intent. After all, I’m supposed to be the daughter of a tea merchant. If I show them what they want, perhaps those doubts will be harder to raise. Never let it be said that Mercy Wong backed down from a challenge.

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  Soon, I’m staring down at a complicated tea set made of the porous purple clay that marks it as yi-hing in origin. It looks even older than the on
e Ah-Suk keeps on a high shelf and never uses. A slatted tray holds three tiny cups and matching “sniffer” cups, used only to smell the tea; a round teapot shaped like an elephant; a second one shaped like a fish; and a collection of wooden tools, whose purposes I can’t remember.

  All the girls crowd around me.

  Mr. Waterstone stands right next to my chair, bringing with him the smell of cloves. Francesca watches me closely with one eyebrow slightly higher than the other.

  I make a show of smelling the tea. Ceylon. Weaker than what we throw in the pot at home, but passable. I fold my hands in my lap. “Welcome to the Nine Fruits Tea Ceremony!” I cry in my best Cantonese. At my outburst, Harry shrinks back, bumping Katie into Wood Face, who cries out. Cantonese sounds harsher than the language they’re used to. I switch back to English. “The first thing we must do is bless the tea.” I select one of the wooden implements, a twisty stick, and wave it around the tin. I continue in Cantonese to lend authenticity, “May you be in good health with this cup of tea, and may I not make a pigeon egg of myself.” I don’t bother to translate. I shovel some tea into one of the pots.

  Katie leans over and peers inside. “Why do you put the tea in the fish rather than the elephant?”

  “The mouth of the fish is wider than the elephant’s trunk for the pouring of larger quantities. The narrow trunk prevents accidents as experienced by Miss Wincher.” I even believe it myself.

  Harry goes still again at the mention of her name.

  “Fascinating.” Mr. Waterstone hangs over me. “Please continue.”

  As the tea steeps, I pick up the brush, still wondering about its use. “We use this to brush away the spirits that linger like cobwebs everywhere tea is served.”

  Elodie snorts loudly, but Wood Face scans the room nervously, maybe for spirits. I sweep the brush all around me. To add more drama, I chant a simple Chinese nursery rhyme about a panda bear. How I wish Tom was here to see this. I know he would laugh, in spite of his recent moodiness.

  I end with a swipe of my brush in Wood Face’s direction. She dodges left, pushing Elodie off-balance.

  “Heaven’s sakes, Letty,” Elodie huffs, collecting herself.

  “Swearing, Miss Du Lac,” says Mr. Waterstone distractedly.

  “This is a load of heathen hooey.” Elodie crosses her arms. “There are no ghosts in this room, or anywhere, and it is unchristian to suggest it.” Wood Face doesn’t look convinced.

  Mr. Waterstone frowns but doesn’t contradict her, perhaps because to do so might be considered blasphemous in its own right.

  Katie pulls her auburn pigtails and looks at me. “What were you saying?”

  I pour a dollop of the tea into a cup. “I was giving thanks to the Heavenly Goddess of Purity, who set herself on fire to save the life of her sister.” That is also heathen hooey, but they accept it with drawn-in breaths, and I can’t help taking it further. “We believe the tea is the ashes of her remains, and by drinking her burned flesh, we purify ourselves.”

  Gasps erupt from all around. I stand and present the first cup to Elodie.

  She recoils, as if I was offering her poison. “Take it away!” she snarls.

  Someone laughs. No doubt Fancy Boots will soon be scheming new ways to torture me, but at least I’ve put her off tea for a while. With a small smile, I bring the cup to my own lips but stop short at a movement from the doorway. Headmistress Crouch regards me with eyebrows raised, like twin lightning bolts. Without a word, she turns on her heel and disappears like smoke.

  10

  AFTER A SNACK, THE CHINESE HEIRESS re-enters the drawing room for embroidery with her plumage less plumped. Rattled from seeing the headmistress’s black expression, I prick myself at least a dozen times. I’m relieved when we’re dismissed to French, not just because there are no needles, but because half the class takes Latin, including Elodie, who already knows the language of the Frogs. That class alone will make St. Clare’s worth all my troubles. Where else would someone like me get French lessons?

  At dinner, it’s back to sitting under the heavy gaze of Headmistress Crouch. Mindful of every movement, I pull out my chair without scratching the wood floor and arrange myself beside Francesca. She acknowledges me with a nod.

  Father Goodwin, who sits at a teacher’s table with Headmistress Crouch, leads a heartfelt grace.

  A maid sets a plate in front of me containing a clear slice of jelly with bits of meat trapped inside. “Aspic, miss.”

  “Thank you.” The jelly resists the prongs of my fork. Why chop up all those bits of nice meat only to entomb them in a coffin? Francesca uses her knife to cut the aspic into portions and eats it, coffin and all.

  I sigh in relief when a rich rabbit stew arrives, and I have to force myself to eat slowly. Chinese heiresses do not act like hungry tigers when food is set before them, especially with Headmistress Crouch watching, her jaw flexing in even chews. When a whole trout arrives, I copy Francesca in the use of a strange silver knife with an arced end. With tiny motions, she neatly peels away the fish skin, then flakes the meat. She holds the bite in her mouth with a look of pure bliss. I figured eating rich food must lose its appeal in the way all things do when done with regularity, but she does not seem the least bit jaded.

  Before she opens the book in her lap, I ask, “What are you reading?”

  “Shakespeare.”

  She’s not much of a talker, but sometimes people just need the right subject. “What’s it about?”

  “Henry the eighth and his wives.”

  “How many did he have?”

  “Six. One died, one survived, two divorced, and two beheaded.”

  “Guess he wasn’t much of a marriage prospect.” She cocks an eyebrow, and I add, “Headmistress Crouch said one of the girls here is betrothed to a prince. If that’s what comes from hitching your wagon to royalty, I would rather be a spinster.”

  Her nose crinkles charmingly. “You have a point.” Her smile disappears like a passing shadow. “But, back then, being married to royalty was the highest station a girl could hope for.”

  Seems things haven’t changed much since then. “Have you got any prospects?”

  Her face darkens. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “Forgive me. I find it an effective way to get to know someone.”

  She rubs at the condensation on her glass. “I have already been ‘prospected’ out.” She says the word as if referring to the panning of minerals. “Marcus is handsome, wealthy, and has senatorial aspirations.”

  “Sounds like a catch. Headmistress Crouch must consider you a success.”

  The face she makes tells me otherwise. “I haven’t accepted yet.” She busies herself buttering a roll. “Have you come here for prospects?”

  “No,” I say, thinking of Tom again. “In China, we use matchmakers. You just have to show up for the wedding.” The matchmaker always consults the fortune-teller on whether the pair’s birth dates are harmonious. Are Ling-Ling’s and Tom’s birth dates? I wonder. My insides congeal into aspic, but I pin an even expression on my face. “I have only come for an American education. I had no idea I would be learning such useful things as how to serve tea to ladies without coming to blows.”

  Francesca grimaces. “Comportment is not always such a blood sport. And it won’t last forever. At the end of the quarter, we will switch to household economics. Mary Stanford’s father is coming to teach it.”

  I follow Francesca’s gaze to a blond sitting at Elodie’s court—Mary Stanford, descendant of the famous railroad tycoon. Headmistress Crouch did not mention that a Stanford would be teaching, even after I expressed an interest in economics. She probably doesn’t expect me to survive here.

  My annoyance saps the flavor from my fish. I will sell that chocolate, and show her that I have the staying power of a wine stain. Of course, first I must convince the Benevolent Associa
tion.

  Father Goodwin stands, and with head bowed and slightly tilted, as if always on alert for a word from the Man Upstairs, he proceeds down the rows of tables murmuring encouragements. He cuts an oddly dashing figure, with his black cassock and slicked hair. I never knew clergy were allowed to be handsome. Maybe St. Mary’s would get more converts if they appointed more comely faces to the pulpit.

  When the good father arrives at our table, a quiet spreads through the room, and my skin tingles. He nods at me. “Miss Wong. I am pleased the Lord led you to us. I hope you will be very happy here.”

  “Thank you, Father,” I say cautiously, hoping I don’t have stew on my chin.

  He extends a hand to Francesca. “The organ’s been fixed. Shall we?”

  Only now do I notice that Francesca has turned as red as the pepper jam. “Yes, Father.” She places her napkin beside her plate. “Excuse me, Mercy.”

  Only after they have left the dining room does the talk start again, though at a strangely reduced volume, with furtive looks toward the doorway.

  “They sure spend a lot of time together.”

  “—must be making beautiful music.”

  It strikes me that I could be back in my tenement courtyard listening to the women gossip over the community soup. Same pot, different stirrers.

  After two days, my embroidery begins to improve, and I learn enough Froggy to buy myself deluxe passage at the billetterie to Nice, France. I’ve never heard of Nice, but it’s obviously not where Elodie’s from.

  At least she’s consistent in her meanness. If I open the window, she will close it. She’ll pretend to hold the door for me, then let it go in my face. I’ve started keeping Jack’s penny in my pocket because I bet she’d pinch it just to be spiteful. She hates me good and through and lets me know at every opportunity.

  Just another pan of sand on the way to the nugget, I hear Ba say. Keep shaking.

  With the exception of Francesca and Mr. Waterstone—whose curiosity over my customs tests the limits of my imagination—everyone else keeps their distance. But I hardly have time for confidences, anyway.