Outrun the Moon

by Stacey Lee

  She runs her fingers through an overly pruned rosemary plant. “Looks like Ruby needs to cut back on her clippings.”

  So this is where Ruby harvests her corsages. “Did someone close to her die?”

  “I’m not sure. Girls sometimes wear rosemary to attract suitors.”

  “But there are no suitors here.”

  She shrugs. “We get customers at the restaurant who say they smell our cooking from Rincon Hill two miles away. Rosemary has a long reach. It’s the secret ingredient in Luciana’s minestrone.”

  I remember well the eatery with the checked tablecloths and snowball candles but feign surprise. “Your family has a restaurant?”

  “Yes.” She sips her tea. “In North Beach. But of course, you know that.”

  “How would I know that?”

  A smile spans her face as she watches my eyes expand. “I’m sorry about my brother vexing you. He owns the restaurant, but you would never know it by the way he conducts himself. He’s a fannullone, a lazy bum. He was drunk that day, so I came in to help out.”

  I don’t know what astonishes me more. That the hooligan who tried to take my chuen pooi bulb is her brother, or that she knew I was from Chinatown all along. “You never said anything.”

  “There was nothing to say.”

  I fall back onto my haunches, gaping like an open jar. She always treated me as an equal. My gratitude of her kindness warms me from deep inside my belly. “Did no one ever tell you that, as a general rule, Italians and Chinese don’t get along?”

  “For every rule, there is a rule breaker.”

  “Or a ruler breaker,” I mutter, and she nearly smiles again.

  “Once, I helped Mrs. Tingle make minestrone, the good kind with oxtail and lentils. When she found out, Headmistress Crouch banned me from the kitchen. She said it’s unseemly to mingle with the staff. But she is well-intentioned, even with all her prickles.”

  “She didn’t whip you, did she?”

  “No. I think she enjoyed her minestrone too much.” She smiles, coaxing one from me. Then she gets to her feet and holds her hand out.

  I think about the tarragon again, which narrowly escaped an untimely demise. To give up now would be premature, and as Ma always says, when men worry about the future, the gods laugh.

  Maybe Headmistress Crouch’s letter will get lost.

  I take Francesca’s hand.

  17

  AT BEDTIME, I CLIMB THE NARROW STAIRCASE to the attic with grim determination. My heart hammers in my chest as I stand before the door.

  I don’t believe in hungry ghosts. I don’t believe in hungry ghosts.

  I cautiously enter, holding my nightgown. The enormous space is mostly empty. A wooden chair faces one of the peek-through windows, and a simple mattress of horsehair occupies one of the corners. Were they set here for me, or was there a previous occupant—someone who might create late-night creaking?

  I work my way around the rafters that extend to the shallow ceiling and switch on the lantern above the bed. A yellow parasol hangs on one of the posts. The bright fabric cheers me. Ghosts do not need parasols.

  The attic is several degrees warmer than the rest of the house. I drape my shawl over the chair, then push open a window to feel the breeze fan my face. Maybe it’ll be cozy here. At least I won’t have to hear that insufferable Fancy Boots snore.

  The sky is a brilliant peacock-blue that slips into orange at the horizon. It greets me like an old friend, the kind you don’t realize you miss until you run into him again.

  I wish you could feast your eyes on this, Black Jack. The view is fair from the top of this mast, softly lit houses strewn out like pearls, seagulls chasing around the clouds.

  My mind wanders to Tom. Maybe he’s a regular sea dog now. Maybe he’ll join Jack and me on our voyages one day, and forget about gliders.

  And maybe I’ll grow antennae and start chirping.

  “Mercy?”

  I startle, surprised to see Katie standing on the narrow staircase, peering in.

  She peers nervously around. “Is it . . . safe?”

  “Very. Come in.”

  She glances down the stairs, then tentatively steps forward. There’s a bulge under her shawl. “Are you sure there aren’t any, you know—?”

  I shake my head. “I think your ghost was someone who came to enjoy the view.” I project more confidence than I feel. “Would you like to sit?” I nod toward the chair.

  She chews her lip, then shrugs, but instead of taking the chair, she settles onto the mattress. “I brought something from the kitchen.” She produces a paper-wrapped bundle.

  “That was kind of you.” Ma says a thoughtful person makes a better friend than a person full of thoughts.

  The tangy smell of cheese rises from her packet. Chinese people don’t really eat cheese, but I feign delight. We pluck orange cubes from the pile. “I wanted to say thank you, and . . . I’m sorry.”

  “I only did what was right. But why did you follow me?”

  “Harry thought—” She chews her lip. “She thought you were a spy.”

  I almost laugh. If I were a spy, surely I’d find something more interesting to spy on than a bunch of girls perfecting their comportment. “So you decided to investigate.”

  She nods, shame-faced. “Only to show her she was wrong. I never thought you were a spy.”

  “You could make a good living as a mortician; you’re quiet as fog. Did you follow me into the cemetery?”

  “No way. I was too scared. Were you . . . visiting someone?”

  I smile, deciding not to tell her about Tom. “I love the views from the top of the hill. There’s something about looking down at the world that makes everything less . . . scary.”

  “You don’t seem to be scared by much. Not Elodie, not ghosts.”

  “I’m scared of a lot of things. I worry about my brother all the time. He’s only six, and he has weak lungs.”

  “At least he’s got you. If you’ve got someone worrying over you, you’ll be okay. I have my gran.” Hugging her knees to her chest, she squints into a shadowy corner. “Harry doesn’t have anyone but me. Her daddy never liked her because he wanted a son. When she was four, he made her mama leave her with the nuns.”

  I wonder if Harry has trouble with fours as well. Being left by one’s parents is a million times worse than the four stitches I got on my fourth birthday, or dropping Ma’s four dollars down the sewer. “That’s dreadful. Family’s not supposed to give you up.”

  “They weren’t much of a family.” She steals a glance at me. “Harry wanted to say she’s sorry herself, but she’s afraid of the ghost.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “For thinking you were an upside-down six.”

  “A what?” Maybe that’s worse than a four.

  “Someone who’s pretending they’re something they’re not.”

  I stare through my half-eaten cube of cheese as the guilt makes my throat constrict. How will they feel when they find out Harry was right all along?

  Katie sucks one of her twiggy fingers. “Headmistress Crouch almost whipped me last year for brawling with a girl who called Harry snipper-witted. Harry ain’t—isn’t—she just gets nervous sometimes. But instead of whipping me, Headmistress Crouch bumped me up a level to be with the sophomores.”

  No wonder Katie looks young for our class.

  “I think she knew I would be happier in Harry’s level. I think she did me a favor.”

  The warning bell rings faintly from one floor down. With a sigh, Katie rocks forward onto her feet. “I better go. If the ghost visits, come down to our room.”

  Her kindness warms me. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

  If a ghost visits, I hope it likes cheese.

  I sleep better in the attic than I’ve slept the entire week I
’ve been at St. Clare’s, with no creaking ceiling above me and no snoring locomotive. The hungry ghost stays away, too. Maybe it was tired like me. I pray it will not return.

  The solid night’s sleep fills me with renewed purpose, a determination to suck out the marrow from every bone chucked my way. And if I’m discovered, I will walk out with my head held high. All I wanted was a fair shot. Is that so wrong?

  As the maids bring in the trays at breakfast, Headmistress Crouch arrives bearing a new walking cane with a shiny brass knob. I hope it’s not a replacement for the ruler, one that can help her walk as well as whack.

  She marches to the front of the room and stamps it on the wooden floor to snuff out any chatter. “Good morning, ladies. Auditions for the lead vocalist in our Spring Concert will be at noon. I hope some of you will use this opportunity to showcase your talents.” She looks at Harry, who seems to shrink into her uniform. “In addition, tomorrow the sophomores will host breakfast for the men from Wilkes College. All others will dine in the parlor.”

  As a chorus of disappointed awws is heard from everyone but the sophomores, a maid holding a uniform glides to the headmistress’s side and whispers something to her.

  Headmistress Crouch’s face grows severe. “Well, it appears that despite my warning about turning your uniforms inside out, one of you still has not gotten the message. Whose is it, Beatrice?”

  The room goes very still. I sure would hate to be the poor soul who gets to break in Headmistress Crouch’s new cane.

  Beatrice says in a clear voice: “M. W.”

  I gasp as all heads turn to my corner of the room. My mind tumbles back to last night. I distinctly recall turning my dress inside out before placing it in the basket.

  “Miss Wong, please stand,” says Headmistress Crouch, sounding not at all surprised.

  I grimace as I get to my feet, already anticipating the sting of the cane. “Someone has played a prank on me,” I say, hating the quaver in my voice.

  “Posture,” Headmistress Crouch barks. I pull back my shoulders and lift my head. She continues. “And who do you think has done that?”

  “I can only guess.” I glare at Elodie, or at least her profile as she gazes serenely at a silver teapot in front of her. She has easy access to my basket, though anyone could’ve come in since our doors do not lock. Wood Face, Mary Stanford, and two of Elodie’s other cronies also paste on neutral expressions.

  Headmistress Crouch’s hawk eyes swoop to Elodie. “Miss Du Lac?”

  “Yes, Headmistress?”

  “Do you know anything about this?”

  “I cannot imagine any of my classmates pulling something so petty. I think Miss Wong was simply careless and now seeks to pin the blame elsewhere.”

  Headmistress Crouch grasps the knob of her cane with two hands. Is that conflict I see in her expression? Perhaps thrashing the same girl twice in less than twenty-four hours tests even her iron conscience. Or maybe she knows that Elodie is a snake and can’t be trusted.

  Beside me, Francesca’s mouth is a tight line. For the first time, I notice she is not holding a book.

  Finally, Headmistress Crouch breaks the silence. “Since we cannot agree on how this dress came delivered, the girls of the sophomore class will join Miss Wong tomorrow morning in laundering their soiled uniforms, and the maids can sleep in—”

  “But we’re hosting the Wilksies!” protests one of Elodie’s cronies.

  The headmistress glares at her interrupter. “If the laundry is not done before prayers at seven thirty, then I shall invite the members of the junior class to host the men of Wilkes College.” She knocks her cane twice on the ground like a gavel.

  After a moment of shocked silence, the whispers start again.

  “I’ve never had to do laundry in my life!” cries Elodie.

  “What time does laundry start?” someone asks.

  Headmistress Crouch looks to Beatrice, who responds, “Elma and I always start at four, but for greenhorns, maybe three.”

  “In the morning?” several voices gasp.

  Beatrice flashes a smug grin. “We’ve got to make the most of the day.”

  18

  I CAN THINK OF A HUNDRED WORSE THINGS than early morning laundry, but you’d think Headmistress Crouch was sending these girls to the military prison at Alcatraz by the way they bellyache. The only other girl who doesn’t seem fazed by the extra work is Francesca.

  We trudge through the garden at three a.m. carrying lanterns. Unlike the others, I am not in uniform, preferring to do laundry in the more comfortable getup of my quilted pants and jacket.

  Nobody speaks. Katie marches with grim determination, as if we were headed off to war. Harry is on her heels, and Ruby shepherds a sleepy Minnie Mae, who can barely stand straight. She has wrapped her yellow ribbon around her head to keep her hair out of her eyes. No one has bothered to wear a hat.

  We crowd into the laundry room. A stove stands on the far end next to a door that must lead to the courtyard I saw the other night. Someone has lit the fire. A mountain of navy blue dresses hogs most of the concrete floor, which features a drain in the center like Ba’s shop. The solitary window is doing its best to carry away the sour reek of soiled laundry, though it’s a losing battle. The stench must have soaked into the walls, and it cannot be blown away.

  Wood Face looks like she’s coming undone. Her fingers paw at her neck, and her tiny feet carry her around the four washtubs, each containing a washboard. That pesky number won’t leave me alone. “I need breakfast before I do anything or I’ll faint.” She peers inside one tub as if she might find something to eat at the bottom.

  The girls shift their gazes between the mountains of laundry and the small tubs, and I’m tempted to laugh out loud. They think those tubs are for washing, even though they are hardly big enough to hold a single dress. They don’t know about the courtyard.

  Elodie turns to me, eyes full of reproach. She opens her mouth, an accusation lodged like a sesame seed between her teeth. I meet her gaze, daring her to throw the first stone. Her prank got us in this stinky hovel to begin with.

  “Let’s not stand here like a bunch of stupid cows,” she says at last. “We have four dresses apiece. We should all do our own rather than have someone else mess them up.” She gives me a pointed look, then sweeps her hands at the mountain. “Allez, pfft.”

  We sort the dresses, and Elodie tosses one of her own into each of the four small tubs. “Letty, you’re in charge of this tub. India, Violet, and Mary, you take these others. I shall direct.”

  It’s amusing to watch Elodie get her friends to do her share of the work, especially knowing these aren’t the tubs we’re supposed to use. I decide to watch how things play out. Mrs. Lowry says silence is wisdom’s best reply.

  Wood Face wipes her nose on her sleeve. “Mother will pull me out of this school when she hears about this. I’ll never have the chance to give my handkerchief to a Wilksie.”

  “Pull yourself together,” Elodie says crossly. “Your mother won’t find out unless you tell her.”

  A pair of kettles begins to whistle. Mary Stanford chews the end of her braid. “At least we can make tea.”

  “Don’t be daft,” snaps Elodie. “That boiling water is for washing. Minnie Mae, Ruby, pour the water into the tubs. The rest of you will have to wait until we finish.”

  Ruby frowns at her sister, but they do as Elodie asks, using thick pads to move the kettles off the stove plates.

  What was Headmistress Crouch thinking? She may as well have asked these girls to shoe a horse rather than wash their own dresses.

  Katie puts her fists on her hips. “That’s not fair. We’ll never finish in time.”

  “Well, the fact is, there are only four tubs, and eleven of us,” says Elodie. “It makes sense that the most eligible should do their laundry first.”

  Francesca
clicks her tongue disapprovingly and looks toward the back door. I wonder if she knows about the courtyard.

  Minnie Mae crosses her doll-like arms. “Ruby’s eligible.”

  Elodie and her cronies laugh, and the hanging blade on Ruby’s forehead unsheathes.

  “My mother always says, ‘You can shine up a rock and call it a gemstone, but it’s still a rock.’” Elodie twirls a finger around a curl. “It’s going to take more than those dried weeds to get you a husband.”

  Ruby’s hand flies to her rosemary sprig, and her wounded expression makes me want to swab the smugness off Elodie’s deck. The bow on Minnie Mae’s head starts to quiver as she faces off with Fancy Boots, with fists clenched. I have never seen the babyish Minnie Mae look so fierce, but a dust-up is on the brew.

  I clear my throat. “The sooner we let Elodie and her friends finish, the sooner we may finish. Let’s take our laundry out to the courtyard to air while we wait.”

  Francesca catches my eye and nods. “I agree. As Shakespeare wrote, ‘In a false quarrel, there is no true valor.’” She takes her wicker basket, and I do the same.

  Elodie releases a prim smile. “I’m so glad that you see reason. We’ll make sure to save some of the Wilksies for you.”

  I’m pleased to see Katie, Harry, and the twins follow us to the exit. Once outside, Francesca and I switch on the lanterns.

  The girls blink in surprise at all the equipment.

  “What’s this?” asks Katie.

  “This is where the laundry is done,” I say quietly.

  A surprised laugh bubbles from Minnie Mae’s mouth, but Katie drops her basket. “Well, grasshoppers! I thought this was where they played croquet or something.”

  “What are those tubs inside for?” Ruby glances back toward the laundry room.

  “Probably for hand-washing the underthings.” Father always did the delicates separately.

  “You know how to work these contraptions?” Minnie Mae peers into one of the copper boilers.