by Eden Crowne
The girl gave me a smile that reached right up to her eyes. “C'est vrai! She is very pretty, just as you predicted.” She nodded towards Isobel, “My dear friend is psychic, she has been predicting your arrival every day for more than a week now.”
“This is true. I am clairvoyant. My eyes are not like those of other people! This one, she has a good heart, we will all be friends. I know this for a fact, I have seen it.” Isobel held my eyes with a twinkly blue, but serious stare. “Is gut, ya?” She suddenly switched to German, then added in French, “Bon?”
Laughing, and utterly charmed, I agreed. “Good. Ya, is gut, bon!”
And that was that.
A week ago we were all together.
Now they were gone. Like all good things in my life.
I did not think the girl with the Dior bag and I were going to become best friends. No. Today was not going to be like Paris. The anger simmering since being dragged out of France by my dad reached its boiling point.
“Are you blind? How could you not see me here?” I may have actually pushed her, she seemed to rock back and forth on her high open-toed heels. And again, in that momentary clarity, I thought, 'What ridiculous shoes to be wearing in this weather.' Brushing at the bits of purple cabbage and lettuce clinging to my hoodie, I tossed a slice of red onion at her. “If my Tod's are ruined, you're paying for them.”
Suddenly, two girls materialized at her side. Dressed very similarly, though just a few degrees less lovely. Satellites to her sun. One took the tray. The girl with the red-gold hair opened the Dior bag to pull out a wad of Japanese ten thousand yen bills, each worth more than a hundred dollars on the current exchange rate. That's the kind of stuff you know when your dad works in finance.
“How much?”
The tone of her voice, her eyes looking somewhere over my shoulder, already bored with the exchange...well, that did it for me and I said something I came to regret again and again.
“If you have so much money, I'd think you could afford to go to a doctor and get your bladder infection treated properly instead of drinking cranberry juice.” There, that was it. That's what I said. One catty sentence that set so many things in motion.
Bad things.
It was as if something about this girl messed with my mind, causing all the sensible signals my brain was trying to send me to go haywire. I never yelled at people. Look up the word “passive aggressive” in the dictionary and you'll find my picture.
Her face flushed nearly as pink as my shoes.
Turning on my soggy heel, I squelched out of the cafeteria.
Of course, as the double-wide doors swung shut behind me, I was already regretting my words. What caused me to act like that? Making someone else feel as awful as I felt? Me and my wet, cranberry-infused Tod's would go back in and apologize immediately. In public. I'd actually turned around to do so when I came face-to-face with the girl and her attendants. The word “angry” did not do justice to her expression.
Before I could open my mouth, she hissed, actually hissed, like a cat. “You're going to regret that Tod! You're going to regret that very much.” And she stalked away, stiff-legged, with her pretty girls circling in a concerned orbit.
A straggler burst through the doors a few steps behind. She had an enormous blond afro and cornflower-blue eyes. Seeing me, she stopped and said very coldly, “It's not a bladder infection. She has a urinary tract inflammation and it is very painful.” And with a sniff in my general direction, turned and ran after the others.
Oh spit!
Chapter 2
Just Peachy
The next day I was sent to the Principal's Office. I hadn't even sat down in homeroom when the teacher handed me the summons written on stationery with a letterhead, “From Principal McCarthy's Desk” and the International Academy cougar snarling beneath. Only twenty-four hours and I was in trouble. I wasn't alone. Another girl sat on a nubby wool couch between the Registrar's and Principal's Offices, legs crossed, swinging one black-suede booted foot impatiently and playing with a long silver necklace full of charms. She smelled like patchouli and had colorful strings of beads woven in her short, curly, chocolate-colored hair.
She scooted over to make room.
“Thanks.” I sat down, shifting my binder and books. “I'm Lexie.”
“Gemma.” She gave me a frank stare. “You're the one who yelled at Amber Lynne in the cafeteria yesterday.”
I cringed. That probably summed me up right now as far as the student body was concerned. “Is that her name? Amber?”
“Amber Lynne.”
“It was a mistake, I tried to apologize but, well....”
“A big mistake,” she nodded.
“Really?”
“Totally,” she said it very firmly. “Someone, well, several someones actually, took pictures of you in the cafeteria with their phones and recorded your comments on Amber Lynne's, um, bladder difficulties. They emailed them to everyone on their list and they emailed them to everyone else. Posts on Facebook, Tweets, you get the idea. Oh, and Cougar Snarls, which is our anonymous gossip site. Plus there are a couple of great remixes of the stuff you said set to a hip-hop tune, bla-bla-bladder infection, Tod's, Tod's, bla-bla-bla-bladder.” She sang the last part and my heart sank into my shoes. “Lots more of course. So hilarious. There's a cut-out of Amber Lynne with the mouth moving so it looks like she's singing it. I think I watched it, like, ten times.”
Tearing a piece of paper from her notebook, she jotted down a URL “This is for Cougar Snarls. You look really mad in the photos. Amber Lynne has already untagged a bunch of ones that make her thighs look fat. She is so, so pissed off about those.”
“Oh.” My heart sank. I was doomed. Death by Social Networks. “Why are you here?”
“Skirt too short. Second warning in a week. Mandatory dressing down by the Principal. Not a biggie. Besides, Dad and his company are big donors.”
She didn't have to explain. I had attended private schools since the fourth grade. Corporate and private donations were vital. Only half the business of private schools had anything to do with education.
I decided to take a gamble on sent-to-the-Principal's Office solidarity. “Do you,” I asked hesitantly, never very good at first steps. “I don't really know anybody here. Do you want to have lunch later? I could really use some advice on who is who and what is what in Cougar Country.”
Going back to playing with her chain, she didn't meet my eyes. “Sorry, can't. Despite the slightly counter culture look you see before you,” she waved one hand over her outfit of retro-fringe vest, skull-head white t-shirt, and tight black skirt. “I'm in a good place here socially right now. You, on the other hand, have got a target tacked squarely to your back. Amber Lynne of the cranberry juice and bladder infection is Amber Lynne McCarthy.” She pointed with her chin towards the door next to me. “The woman you are about to meet is her mom. The money Amber Lynne flashes comes from her dad. He's CTO Asia of some glam brand. The bitchiness is entirely through the maternal side. My parents say Mrs. McCarthy was hired for her fund-raising skills rather than any ability to counsel and support teens through their difficult formative years. Mom's exact words.”
Great.
Turns out, according to Gemma, the Principal was a crucial cog in the money-making machine that drove the Academy. Her daughter threw the weight of her mother's position around like a Sumo wrestler. Nepotism was alive and well here and what Amber Lynne wanted, Amber Lynne got. Right now, she wanted my head on a plate.
So did her mom.
Mrs. McCarthy had plump white skin, small eyes, a hard little mouth, and the beginnings of a double chin which wiggled a little as she drawled out her words. The family was apparently Southern, which explained the drawl and the large, framed embroidered panel on the wall. It was of a peach inside the outline of a state – that had to be Georgia – with the words: “Wisdom, Justice, Moderation.” Probably hand-stitched by a long dead Daughter of the Glorious South. Unfortunately, it
became clear pretty quickly that was the State's motto rather than Mrs. McCarthy's personal creed. She wore her carefully styled and artfully highlighted blond hair like a helmet and she kept me standing during her entire lecture.
I'd been labeled a bully. Me. It was humiliating. I'd had detention before, but a label? Mrs. McCarthy ordered me to meet with the school guidance counselor, Mrs. Gonzales, twice a week until further notice.
“Ms. Carpenter, the Academy is a place where all our students can feel accepted.” Standing in front of me like a drill sergeant, hands clasped behind her, she rocked back and forth on the heels of her gold-tipped navy blue pumps. The hem of her bright paisley wrap dress swayed along in time. The shoes seemed a little too small, her skin bulging up around the edges. “We will not tolerate bullying, name-calling, or any sort of ostracism. We pride ourselves on being mercifully free of the cliques that plague other schools of our stature.”
I stared at her. Free of cliques? She must be blind. I'd only been here since yesterday and already identified at least three vicious social rankings in my grade alone, with her daughter heading up the nastiest.
“A letter has been dispatched from this office to your father informing him of our actions. If you are sent to me again, you will find yourself on probation. Once more, and there will be a permanent mark on your school records. Do I make myself clear?”
The girl, Gemma, didn't meet my eyes as I left the Principal's Office. The bell rang and I stood in the middle of the corridor, a small hard stone in a sea of students rushing around me to laughing groups of friends. I was sure somewhere there were nice girls waiting to welcome me, if only I knew where to look.
Chapter 3
Suckfest
The next few days were somewhat surreal. Not in an LA art-house movie surreal way with lots of slow, lingering close-ups urging you to check your watch every three minutes, praying for it to be over. No. More like a Dali painting: melting clocks and skewed landscapes. From nine a.m. to three p.m., I seemed to have fallen Alice-in-Wonderland-style into a director's cut of a high school film about competition, cliques and adolescent cruelties.
So pretty much every American high school film ever made.
The social scene was so stratified it was in danger of becoming metamorphic, like limestone turning into marble, only not nearly so beautiful. It was ugly. I felt ugly these days as well, so it was odd I couldn't fit in better.
Amber Lynne and the Awesome Posse, yes, that is what they called themselves I soon learned, were the top predators of the Academy social sea. The royals consisted of Karen of the long brown hair and dangling earrings; Michi with short black hair and shorter skirts; Annabella and her high up-do and higher push-up bra; pale, but very tall, Melissa; and slender little Abbey, carefully balanced beneath her blond afro. There were a number of lesser beings, but these girls formed the inner court. There was never any doubt as to who stood as the pack's alpha leader. Amber Lynne McCarthy was always just a little bit prettier, a little better dressed than the rest. The girls clicked along the corridors in their designer heels wreathed in the scent of exclusivity – which smelled a lot like Marc Jacob's perfume.
The royal procession paraded between classes carrying only their handbags. Several ninth or tenth grade boys followed them around like pages, the official bearers of Awesome Posse books, binders, bottles of designer water and/or Starbuck's double-shot, skinny lattes. The pages took a step back when the real men appeared. The boyfriends. Amber's boyfriend, Tony Le Blanc, was a senior, an ace on the basketball team, blond, all-American gorgeous and dumb as a bag of hammers. I had two classes with him and could attest to that fact. Since his role was much like Amber Lynne's designer handbags, that of an accessory, he was just supposed to stand around and look hot. This he accomplished exceedingly well.
And now Amber Lynne and the Awesome Posse were gunning for me and there was no way I could get the hell out of town. In every class I had, a bottle of cranberry juice turned up on my desk at some point during the hour. Not when I sat down. No. During class. I would look up and there it was. Every single class, every day that first week. It was uncanny and unnerving and served to let as many students as possible know I was a social outcast.
The one time during the day I could let down my guard just a little was in a mandatory “Introduction to Japan” class, combining beginning Japanese language lessons with Japanese culture in a two-hour block. A blend of students from ninth through twelfth grades; full of other newbies not quite indoctrinated yet into the rigid school caste system. Despite showing up mid-semester, it wasn't a struggle to catch up. I wanted to learn about Japan. It wasn't new countries I disliked, just new schools.
The Academy sat on the outskirts of Tokyo meaning a long bus or train ride there and back five days a week. They both took about the same amount of time. I knew this because if I saw Amber Lynne headed for the bus – ironically we both rode the Number Eight in the school's fleet of buses – I usually took the train and vice versa. Okay, I was being a coward. Honestly, though, I didn't know how to cope.
Blame it on the time of the month, the terrible cramps I'd woken up with, or sheer cowardice. I found myself at the end of that first week hiding in the furthest stall of the girls' bathroom, waiting for the Midol to kick in and shedding silent tears. I was desperate for some time away from the stares and whispers. The little cruelties were the worst part of being a teen. Maybe the same things went on in the adult world and I just didn't know. Right now though, this was my only world and it sucked. It sucked so badly.
“Get involved, Alexandra,” Mrs. Gonzales, the guidance counselor, advised me at yesterday's meeting. We'd been sitting in the two easy chairs that took up one corner of her office, set around a little table with a fresh bunch of fresh daisies in a crystal vase. She was not much bigger than me, with shiny black hair that fell just past her shoulders. Strong brow, cheekbones and jaw that were softened by a wide, smiling mouth and kind eyes. Today she had her feet curled under her, the soft pleats of her gray plaid Burberry kilt falling over the side of the chair. She sipped at a cup of tea, trying to reassure me someone was on my side.
Very different from the first time I was in the office, plonked in the straight-backed chair across the broad wooden desk while she stared sternly over its expanse. Prejudice, bullying: those were labels I knew for sure did not belong to me. I think she knew it too after just a few minutes of me sitting there, dazed and confused by the progress of events. Her attitude changed from slightly frosty to warm and concerned. Honestly though, what could she do? The adult control only skated over the surface of student life. It was your classmates who had the power to break your spirit or your heart.
“Pick a club, meet other students on slightly more neutral ground. This will blow over, you'll see. Someone else will do something stupid to become the new flavor of the week.”
“You're right, I know. Join.”
She looked at me carefully over the rim of her cup, saying after some consideration. “That's the right thing to do, but you won't. Is that what you're not saying so loudly?”
I shifted, uncomfortable under her scrutiny, under anyone's scrutiny really. “I've never been much of a joiner.” Slumping down in the chair, I sighed. “It all seems like so much effort. I just want it to go away, I want to go away.”
She tried to give me the familiar ex-pat – that's what they called us, people posted to foreign countries, 'expatriate' – talk about adjusting to new places. How all this traveling made me a smarter, more interesting person. She could see pretty quickly I wasn't buying it. Half of those pep talks were B.S. anyway. Moving overseas might make a person smarter; it didn't always make them happier. Neither of us needed a Masters' in psychology to tell I was suffering from the classic symptoms of depression. Please, I read Teen Cosmo and Elle. Poor Mrs. Gonzales; she would probably try to schedule an appointment to talk with my dad. Good luck with that. In Bangkok, he once sent his personal assistant to my parent/teacher conference because of schedu
ling conflicts. This was actually better than when he dispatched our Polish housekeeper in Rome – who spoke no English – to a similar school event. Twice.
Outside my compartment of misery in the bathroom there was an ebb and flow of high-pitched conversation in front of the mirrors, punctuated by choruses of “No way!” and “Oh my God! He didn't really?”
The familiar staccato beat of sharp heels on the hard linoleum plus the smell of expensive perfume signaled the arrival of what could only be the Awesome Posse. They always moved in a group, like a wolf pack. Slightly different, yet ultimately the same: the clothes, the hair, the bags each costing over a thousand dollars. I knew the price because I coveted them. I am weak, I admit it. We had money, all my father thought about anymore was making it. He just didn't seem to remember I would like to spend some once in a while.
Here in the bathroom, they seemed to be in the midst of a discussion about a forthcoming party. The outing necessitated a bait-and-switch plan to fool Amber's mom into believing she was at a sleepover at Missy's and vice versa. I sat in the stall, knowing I dare not come out. It would look like I was eavesdropping. Which I was. Though not on purpose. I was perched on top of the toilet with the lid down, hugging my knees so the stall looked empty.
A voice I didn't know asked, “How go plans for the St. Valentine's Day massacre?”
There was a ripple of laughter from between, I was sure, the perfectly-glossed, Dior Addict lips of Amber Lynne. “Right on schedule.” She had a slightly softer Southern accent than her mother's nasal twang.
“Give her a break, Amber. She's new, she's nothing.”
My shoulders drooped as the girl summarized my character here in a few short words: she's new, she's nothing.
“Don't be so naïve, Missy. This is my school. Mine! I've worked hard since eighth grade to get to this position.”
“Yes, but to go public. Seems a little harsh, even for you.” It was the same voice. Yay for Missy, the voice of compassion!
