Outrun the Moon

by Stacey Lee

  Francesca glances up when she hears her name, and her eyelashes flicker. “Marcus attends Wilkes, yes, so I imagine he will be there. But I am not his keeper.”

  Elodie’s face becomes sly. “You two didn’t have a lovers’ quarrel, did you?”

  Francesca says nothing, but her stitching accelerates. At her rate, she’ll have a whole bed of sunflowers on there before the class is done.

  “Well, you do spend quite a bit of time in the chapel,” Elodie continues, “playing the organ . . .”

  “Father Goodwin is a priest!” Francesca hisses. “And for you to make assumptions about something so—”

  “Oh, come off your high horse, sister. We all know he has a cocotte.”

  “A what?” I ask.

  Francesca and Elodie lock gazes while Ruby looks on, mouth ajar. All embroidery has been forgotten. Mrs. Mitchell is helping Harry untangle a spool of thread and doesn’t notice the knots developing on our side of the room.

  Elodie drops her voice to a whisper. “His own special and very elusive ladybird. One wonders why he is always calling you to the chapel for extra ‘practice.’”

  That mean old French pastry. Francesca would never do something so heinous.

  Francesca has gone white. “That is a lie, and you know it!”

  “There is only one way to be sure,” I say, trying to defuse the situation. The three girls turn their stares to me, and I open my right hand. “The palm. Fortune-tellers are revered in China—akin to your scholars—and they are experts in arranging marriages.”

  Francesca frowns while Elodie’s eyes narrow to chips of ice.

  Ruby nervously coils a thread around her finger, causing the tip to swell like a grape. “Isn’t it unchristian to tell fortunes?”

  “Probably. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t work. No one—at least no one in China—wants to be married to a bore, a lout, or worse, a scoundrel.”

  Elodie snorts. “Sounds like a heap of bunkum to me.”

  I ignore her, and address Francesca. “Let me see your dominant hand.”

  Reluctantly, she extends her right hand to me. I squeeze to let her know it’s okay, then spread her hand open on the table. Her fingers are long and tapered but not weak, like a pair of gloves. They’re the kind of hands that know how to kill a chicken, with clipped nails and muscular thumbs.

  “This is the heaven line, governing matters of the heart.” I point to a crease that curves from the pinkie toward the index finger. “A chained pattern indicates a series of complicated and often tumultuous relationships. Yours is perfectly unblemished, meaning a steadfast relationship is in your future. Congratulations, you’ll also have two squeakers.” I’ve watched enough of Ma’s readings to know my way around the palm.

  Elodie emits an unbecoming sound, but Francesca’s eyes light up. “Boys, or girls?”

  “Can’t tell. But they’ll be healthy.” I don’t know that for certain, but it makes her smile widen.

  “Oh!” Ruby sticks her hand out. “Could you do mine?”

  I take her homely hand with its short fingers and wide palm, though I worry what I’ll find there. I check her marriage lines—dashes between the base of the pinkie and the heart line—and, to my surprise, find a single perfectly inscribed mark. “You will find true love, though it might take longer because of your exacting standards.”

  Ruby brings her other hand to her mouth, covering a smile so big, it pulls at her ears. Before letting go, I notice that her jade column, the central line of fate that governs her relationship with the world, seems shorter than normal. It could mean a lot of things.

  “What is it?” she asks. Our eyes meet, and the hanging blade disappears.

  I want to tell her that worry leads to chronic disease and accidents. That people with round faces and wide-set eyes are beloved because they are solid and trustworthy. But Ma would be tearing at her hair if she heard me making such statements when real fortune-telling is a complicated endeavor that involves so many factors, like star alignment, facial features, maybe even the last time you moved your bowels.

  “Nothing.” I release her hand with a reassuring smile.

  Elodie makes a face that looks like she hasn’t moved her bowels in days. She pops up from her seat. “Mrs. Mitchell,” she calls loudly. “I would like to switch seats. The conversation in this circle is rather scandalous.”

  Mrs. Mitchell lifts her head from where she’s helping Harry. “Well, aren’t you the lucky one,” the teacher lilts. “The more scandalous the conversation, the more I want to hear it.”

  “But she’s nothing but a phony and a faker!” Elodie spits, glaring at me.

  Soon, everyone is looking at me. So this is it. Even the embroidery hoops with their half-finished pansies, roses, and bluebells seem to pan their disapproving faces at me.

  Mrs. Mitchell bears down on us, her bustle bouncing.

  From one table over, Katie gives me a hesitant smile. Today there are purple smudges under her eyes, all the more visible against her pale skin. She is not wearing her shawl, though the morning is cool.

  Maybe that snake Elodie needs a reminder that I bite, too. I pull out a brown spool of thread from the basket and pretend to match it to the tiger on my handkerchief. “If it’s scandal you wish to avoid, I suggest you sit down.” The look that I give her could bend an iron bar.

  Elodie’s skirts swish about as she shifts indecisively from side to side. Mrs. Mitchell grabs the backrest of Ruby’s chair. “What happened, Ruby?”

  “Mercy was just reading our fortunes.”

  The woman’s scraggly eyebrows lift, but then her softly wrinkled face grows thoughtful. “Well, my granny used to look for our fortunes in cracked eggs, she did. It’s called cultural differences, and that doesn’t mean she’s a phony, Miss Du Lac.”

  Elodie’s lips have turned white from clamping them so hard, and her blond curls have gone limp. Perhaps they’re playing dead after sensing her murderous mood. She glowers at Mrs. Mitchell, but her venom cannot penetrate the woman’s serene demeanor.

  A hundred black emotions gust through Elodie’s delicate features. I hope she’s thinking about her own future at St. Clare’s if it were found out that her father lied to the school board. I imitate Mrs. Mitchell, face serene, though my breath stalls in my throat.

  “Does it now, Miss Du Lac?” Mrs. Mitchell repeats, this time with more bite.

  Finally, Elodie shakes her head.

  “I suggest you keep your tatties in the oven and sit down.”

  Elodie falls back into her seat. I wonder if she will kill me in my sleep.

  The door opens and in strides Headmistress Crouch, holding a shawl. “Excuse me, Mrs. Mitchell. One of our students is missing her shawl. Miss Quinley?” She looks directly at Katie, who blanches and glances at the door, as if weighing whether she should make a run for it.

  “Our groundskeeper saw two girls exiting the garden late last night from his second-story window.”

  An uneasy feeling slips through me, quiet as a fin moving through water.

  “When he went to investigate, he found this shawl with your name on it. Did you or did you not leave the property?”

  No trace of Katie’s fire remains. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The footsteps behind me last night. She must have followed.

  “I thought we had learned our lesson after what happened last year.” Headmistress Crouch brings the shawl to Katie and drops it into her lap. “You are my charge, and I cannot have you cavorting about in the streets. It is unseemly, and a flagrant show of disrespect.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  In a stark tone to match her dress, the headmistress says, “Now, if you will tell me who your partner in crime was, you may split the punishment with her.”

  Katie’s fingers pull nervously at her shawl, and I swear her eyes stray to me for a spl
it second. She shakes her head.

  “Are you sure?”

  Katie nods.

  “Four lashes, then.”

  A whipping? Headmistress Crouch said she did not believe in sparing the rod. But, in front of everyone? Somewhere in the churning recesses of my being, I know that number is meant for me.

  Katie meekly rises from her chair and goes to stand behind it. She flips up the back of her skirt, exposing her pantaloons, then leans over the chair back. The guilt wraps me in a scratchy blanket.

  Harry, Ruby, and Minnie Mae are frozen in place, watching as Headmistress Crouch unsheathes her ruler. Francesca sits with her hands clasped under her chin, as if praying. Mary Stanford’s leg jiggles, making her skirts swish, and her neighbor is chewing on her lip. The only one who looks unruffled is Elodie, who continues to pull her embroidery thread without missing a beat.

  Katie covers her face with her hands as the ruler is pulled back, and—

  “Wait!” I cry. “It was me. I needed a walk to clear my head. Katie was just trying to stop me.”

  Headmistress Crouch’s mouth twitches. “Is there something wrong with your head?”

  “No. I mean, not usually, ma’am.”

  “Good. I would hate to think we have allowed a rabble-rouser into our institution. Assume the position.”

  “The . . . position?” I croak.

  “Miss Quinley has already demonstrated. In light of the circumstances, you shall take the full four lashes yourself, Miss Wong.”

  Katie scurries back to her seat.

  “But, such things are not done in China—”

  Headmistress Crouch’s face goes absolutely still, and she seethes, “You will assume the position and let me do my Christian duty before I have you thrown out!”

  Whack! The ruler cuts across my backside, so sharp it feels like it reaches bone. I cry out and tears prick my eyes. Jesus, Mary, and whoever else is listening!

  Whack! Put your tongue to the roof of your mouth, girl, and don’t cry, whatever you do.

  Whack! This one is so hard, I feel the ruler break on impact, and a piece of wood goes clattering to the ground.

  The headmistress stares at the jagged tip of her ruler, then her eyes sharpen. “If you cannot behave like a St. Clare’s girl, you shall not be given the privileges of one. As I am unable to carry out the full sentence, you will sleep in the attic for the next week. Judging by last night, you and Miss Du Lac could use a respite from each other.” Elodie’s lips flex into a beatific smile.

  A chorus of gasps erupt from all around.

  The hairs on my arms lift. “The attic?”

  I push myself up, head spinning and hull as topsy-turvy as a ship in a storm. My humiliation robs me of all poise, and I cannot bear to look at the others. Maybe Ba was right, and I should have stayed in Chinatown.

  “Now, Father Goodwin awaits your confession in the chapel. Carry on, Mrs. Mitchell.”

  Headmistress Crouch steers me by the elbow toward the door, and I am thankful for the small mercy of not having to sit through the rest of class with a fire burning on my face.

  16

  WE MARCH IN SILENCE TO THE CHAPEL through the garden.

  Headmistress Crouch stops at the stone entryway. “I was told that you would not be difficult, that you are desirous of advancing yourself in American society. Yet, already you have given me much opportunity to question you.” She points her broken ruler at me. “First, that farce of a tea ceremony. I have seen how the Chinese take their tea, and it is not by brushing away ghosts, or drinking charred skin.”

  My chest begins to cave like a catcher’s mitt. I was reckless, and she smells a rat.

  “And now this. Posture, Miss Wong.”

  I snap to attention.

  “I do not know what game you are playing, but I am watching you very carefully. I have sent correspondence to verify your attendance at this Gwok Jai Hok Haau American School, and I cannot wait to hear back from them.”

  My heart grinds to a halt at the revelation. She remembered the false name I gave her? Her pronunciation wasn’t bad, either. What will happen when she receives the letter back as undeliverable? It will take a few months, but when the ax falls, my neck will be under it. I might have satisfied my end of the bargain with Monsieur Du Lac, but it seems my education here will never be secure.

  “You will not make a mockery of my school, do you understand?”

  “Yes, Headmistress,” I croak.

  With that, she sweeps imperiously away.

  The coolness of the chapel soothes my burning face, though not my pride, which longs for a hole to climb into. I hobble to the confession box, which is as near to a hole that I am going to find, and nearly collapse onto the kneeler.

  Father Goodwin’s well-drawn profile shows through the wood screen. Why bother with the divider? I am certain he’s heard every word of Headmistress Crouch’s tongue-lashing.

  I cross myself. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “How long has it been since your last confession?” he asks in his soothing voice.

  “About a year . . . or two.” I decide not to compound the sins with more lies.

  “And how do you wish to unburden yourself?”

  “I snuck off the school’s premises last night,” I say in a wobbly voice. “I knew I shouldn’t have done it, but back in Chinatown—I mean China . . . we often refer to China as Chinatown—I used to go wherever I pleased. I am used to my independence.”

  “I understand. It cannot be easy coming here.”

  “Yes.” I rest my head against the screen, thankful to find someone who understands.

  “Do you know your Ten Commandments? Those are God’s rules for keeping us safe and on the path. See the parallel?”

  “Yes, but—” I bite my tongue. I should leave well enough alone. One cannot go offending a priest. He has friends in high places.

  “But?” he urges me on.

  But if I never ventured off the path, I would not be here today. “I don’t wish to be impertinent, but sometimes I believe that staying on the path is easier for some than others.” I fear the tears coming again, and I dig my fingernails into my knees.

  “How do you mean, child?”

  “Sometimes, when someone tells me I can’t do something, it makes me want to do it more. My ma blames it on my bossy cheeks.” Not even being bitten by a lingcod could teach me. Ma told me to hold it by the tail, but I had no idea they could bite through a canvas sack.

  “Well, it is good to be aware of our weaknesses.”

  I sniff loudly and wipe my nose with the only thing I have—my sleeve. “Sometimes I don’t see it as a weakness. Sometimes I see it as one of my finer qualities.”

  When I applied for a job at the cemetery, Mr. Mortimer told me people did not want to see a yellow face while mourning, but I proved him wrong. Most found another human face comforting, and it didn’t matter what color—yellow, brown, white, or indigo—only that someone cared.

  Father makes a noise that sounds like a chuckle. “An American poet, Ralph Waldo Emerson, wrote, ‘Do not go where the path may lead; go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.’”

  “I like that one.”

  “Yes, but I don’t believe Emerson was talking about delinquency. Rules are meant to keep us safe. You must think of Headmistress Crouch as your protector. Am I correct in assuming you are repentant for your behavior?”

  I slump to rest my backside on my heels. “Yes, Father.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Is there anything else you wish to confess?”

  “No.”

  “All right, then. For your penance, I invite you to weed the herb garden adjacent to the chapel. While you weed, I would like you to think about uprooting the sins from your own life.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

 
I could be weeding for a long time.

  The late morning sun washes the herb garden with thin light. I am thankful to be spared returning to class, but my back is now drenched in sweat. My knees creak as I unfold myself from where I’m squatting by the parsley and move to the shade of a vast orange tree.

  Girls have gathered around the goldfish fountain with plates of sandwiches and pitchers of tea. They are too busy, or hungry, to notice me. Except for one.

  I see Francesca watching me. She looks as if she’s about to come over, but then disappears into the group of uniforms huddled under the umbrellas.

  Who knew it was possible for me to become even more unpopular than when I got here?

  I kneel on the ground and poke my spade at a stalk with thin leaves. Is it a weed, or something more valuable? But what is a weed, other than a plant that’s out of place through no fault of its own? Just like those buildings on Market Street, weeds are survivors. Long after all the other plants die, weeds live on.

  But not this one. I dig out the stalk and jam it into a canvas sack with its brethren.

  “Oh dear, I think you just pulled up the tarragon.” Francesca stands above me, holding two glasses of iced tea.

  I rub my forehead with my apron. “Will it land me in the talk box again?”

  “Hold these. This one’s for you.” She hands me the glasses and kneels beside me.

  “Thanks.” I take a sip. Ma says cold things sap energy from the spleen, weakening the constitution. But this tea, both lemony and sweet, feels so good on my throat that I down the whole glass in one draw.

  “I might be able to replant it if the root structure is intact.” She locates the wronged plant in the sack and, using my spade, carefully replants the thing. “The French love this herb. They put it in béarnaise sauce.”

  “Who’s Bernie?”

  She wipes her hands on my apron and takes back her glass. “Not Bernie. Béarn is a region in France. Here, smell.” She picks off an injured leaf and holds it to my nose. It smells like grass to me, but she’s beaming as if we just told each other our deepest secrets.