Finny was about to ask what she heard her dad and his girlfriend doing, but then she realized. “Oh,” she said. “That’s awful. What does your mom do?”
“She gets on boards.”
“What do you mean?” Finny pictured the woman on table-tops, swatting at her husband with a broom.
“I mean, like at Thorndon. Or different museums. Pretty much anything she can throw a lot of money at. I don’t even think she knows all the boards she’s on.”
“Well at least she’s being generous.”
“Tell me about your brother,” Judith said, and Finny understood she was trying to change the subject. “Actually,” Judith went on, “I don’t even recall his name.”
In Judith’s company, Finny felt as if she moved behind a protective shield. Even Mrs. Barksdale mostly left her alone, though Finny heard her yelling at other girls numerous times. Giving it to them, Finny and Judith called it. Old Yeller is giving it to someone. Mrs. Barksdale would start at a medium volume in her rasping, discordant voice, and as she gave it to some student—who’d shown up late for morning meeting, or swiped some fruit from the dining hall—her voice gradually rose to an almost frenzied pitch, a feverish screech. She couldn’t help herself, and Finny always felt sorry for the girls who were singled out. By the end the student would be holding her ears as Mrs. Barksdale shrieked and squealed. It was such a harrowing, bewildering display that students often began to cry, they were so traumatized by the effect they’d had on this woman.
Students were allowed to eat outside of the dining hall for lunch, and Finny and Judith began sitting in the hall in front of the library. Soon Brooke and Mariana and the others joined them. One time, during lunch, Chayla brought a cupcake out of her lunchbox with a candle in it, and Judith took out her lighter and lit it. She kept her hand cupped around the flame. It was Finny’s birthday, and they sang to her.
“How did you know?” Finny asked when they were done singing. They’d never told each other their birthdays.
“I have my ways,” Judith said. “But blow it out before Old Yeller sees.”
That night a present arrived from Earl: a box of instant coffee. Not the same, he wrote, but maybe it’s enough to hold you over until I see you.
In February, there was a parents’ weekend, when Stanley came to visit. Laura stayed at home with Sylvan; Finny suspected it was because her mother was still angry at her over Earl. Stanley attended a few of Finny’s classes on Friday, ate lunch with her in the dining hall, took Finny and Judith to dinner in Boston. (Judith’s parents hadn’t come.) By the end of the weekend, he seemed satisfied with the school he’d placed Finny in, though he left her with an oddly solemn quote: “‘A useless life is an early death,’” he told her as he was getting into his cab. Then yelled, “Goethe!” just before slamming the door.
At night, after Stanley’s visit, Finny and Judith kept going with the dares. Run naked all the way from our door to Claycie’s and back. Put a love letter on Amanda’s welcome mat. Shout the word “boner” so I can hear it with the door closed. And on and on. They spurred each other with their laughter and pleased looks. Later, Finny would recognize that it was a kind of flirting, not necessarily sexual, but a testing of boundaries, of how far each would go for the other, how much they would risk. To go out in the hall, to shout something disgusting, to wait—it was all a way of saying, See, look what I’ll do. To keep the game going, to avoid piercing this lovely dream. And what Finny hated to admit—but had to, when she thought back on those nights with Judith—was that there was a desperation in it, in her. She was clinging to what she saw as her new life. Far from being that beautiful lonely birch in her parents’ yard, Finny’s branches were entangled with Judith’s, and she wasn’t sure she would ever be set free.
One night Judith asked her to do something Finny had to think twice about. It wasn’t that the act was particularly dangerous, in the sense that she was likely to get caught. It wasn’t so much more daring than the dozen other stunts they’d pulled in the last couple weeks—sliding condoms that Judith had bought under the door of a sallow-looking girl named Pam, whom they called the Ice Chest; singing a full chorus of “My Girl” after Poplan had gone downstairs. But this time there was a question in Judith’s dare: Would you go this far for me? Judith knew that Finny liked Poplan. She knew this would raise issues.
The dare was that Finny had to slip a note that Judith had written under Poplan’s door. Not such a difficult thing. Finny would be the last person Poplan would suspect. They’d become friendly, to the point where Poplan had let Finny sample the cache of Asian food products she kept in her dresser: shrimp chips, salted plums, cans of fruit with names like longan and rambutan. Poplan didn’t even watch Finny when Finny washed her hands at night; she trusted her that much.
What bothered Finny was the message Judith had written: I want your pussy. Nothing else. No signature, no instructions. Just those four words. At the time Finny couldn’t say exactly what she felt was wrong with this, why this was a different sort of joke. She didn’t have the words to explain what Judith was asking her to do, what loyalties she was testing.
“She’ll think she has an admirer,” Judith said.
“Or a stalker.” Finny wondered if there was a way she could play this, if she could make just the right jokes, put it in just the right light to force Judith to see how foolish the request was.
But Judith didn’t budge. “Are you worried the Pussy Popper’s gonna come after yours?”
Finny laughed. “Not gonna pop mine,” she said. She wasn’t going to let Judith faze her.
“Then you’re in?”
“Where’s the note?”
Chapter 8
A Trip to the Principal’s Office
Two notes for Finny the next day.
The first was in her mailbox in the morning:
Dear Finny, the letter began:
I am writing to express what a wonderful and happy time I enjoyed with you and your new friend, Judith. I am extremely pleased that you are finding such a satisfying life in your new environment, and such a worthwhile group of friends. I would have trouble explaining all my feelings in a letter, but I want you to understand that I am proud of you, and think very highly of the young woman you are becoming.
Also, with regards to your question about Judith visiting over spring vacation: that is fine by us. We will be pleased to introduce her to the modest intellectual bastion we have maintained here at 2026 Geist.
This is the bulk of what I wished to tell you, but I feel that it may be appropriate to conclude the letter with a quotation, if you will permit the indulgence. (I will modernize spelling for your convenience.)
“Continual success in obtaining those things which a man from time to time desires, that is to say, continual prospering, is that which men call FELICITY.” (Hobbes)
With tenderest feelings,
Stanley et al.
Finny read the letter twice. In spite of the stilted language and awkward sentiments, in spite of even the fact that the quote used the word man to mean people, Finny was touched. It wasn’t so much the words as the feelings she recognized behind them. She felt a rush of love for this man she’d always been wary of.
In her letter back to her father Finny wrote: I love you, Dad. Thanks for saying those things. I had a wonderful time with you, too. Can’t wait for the vacation.
The second note of the day was stuck on Finny’s door when she returned from classes. At first she thought it was a letter from Earl, and wondered why Judith would put it up where everyone could see. Then she saw the handwriting. In very neat script, the envelope read, Delphine Short. No address. Inside, in the same tight script, there was a brief note: Mrs. Barksdale requests that you report to her office immediately upon returning from classes.
Her faithful secretary,
Miss Filomena Simpkin
Finny walked into Mrs. Barksdale’s outer office at three-fifteen. Her secretary, Miss Simpkin, was seated at the desk, typing
out a letter. She had a dainty way of pecking at the keys, odd for such a large woman. Miss Simpkin was entirely shapeless, her body like a tower of mashed potatoes or a bowl of pudding, and she seemed to flow over and around the chair she sat in. She wore a matching sweat suit every day—today’s was olive-colored—and her only attention to fashion seemed to be in the small white flower she kept tucked behind her ear.
“I got a note to see Mrs. Barksdale,” Finny said.
“I wrote that note,” Miss Simpkin said. Her voice was deep and husky.
“Then, does she want to see me?”
“I don’t know what she wants. I only know what she tells me. She told me to write that note. I can buzz her and see, if that’s what you’re asking me to do.” Miss Simpkin had a way of making everything you said sound like an impertinent request.
“I’m just coming because you told me to,” Finny said.
“Mrs. Barksdale told you,” Miss Simpkin corrected. “I am just the messenger. She is the voice.”
“Okay. But is this the right time?”
“Would you like me to buzz?”
“Only if I’m supposed to be here.”
“Nothing can be discovered until I buzz.”
“All right, then, buzz,” Finny said. “Please.”
“Then I will buzz,” Miss Simpkin said.
She made an elaborate show of buzzing, pointing her index finger upward, then steering it down onto the button like a crashing spaceship. Finny could hear the phone buzz loudly in Mrs. Barksdale’s office, which was hardly five feet from where Finny was standing. The office windows were covered by blinds, but Finny could see Mrs. Barksdale’s wiry shape behind them.
“Yes?” Mrs. Barksdale’s voice crackled on the speaker-phone. Finny could also hear her through the wall.
“Miss Short is here to see you,” Miss Simpkin said. Then she looked at Finny and added, “She seems impatient.”
Finny frowned.
“You can send her in,” Mrs. Barksdale responded.
Finny muttered, “Thanks,” and walked into Mrs. Barksdale’s office.
Mrs. Barksdale’s office was a small room with the same gray-brown carpeting Finny had in her dorm room. The walls were an off-white color, and if not for all the clutter, it would have been a cheerful little space. The principal had a pencil clutched in her teeth when Finny entered, and she was writing something with another pencil. Finny looked around as she waited for the principal to acknowledge her. On the wall hung Mrs. Barksdale’s degree from Oberlin, and two pictures. The first was of the principal with her husband, a diminutive man who looked a decade older than Mrs. Barksdale and who was completely bald. In the picture Mrs. Barksdale had seized her husband in what she obviously considered an affectionate embrace, only her husband’s expression appeared more one of terror than fondness. The expression seemed to betray the belief that his wife was trying to kill him.
The second photo on the wall was a family portrait, featuring the husband again, and also a young girl whom Finny took to be the principal’s daughter. The girl sat between her two parents, in a neat white dress, a look of distress on her face, as if she still couldn’t accept the fact that, of all the couples in the world, God had chosen to place her with this one.
Finny wondered why the principal had chosen to hang these particular photos on the wall. She noticed that Mrs. Barksdale’s desk—a large wooden desk that took up most of the room—was strewn with pencils. The pencils had teeth marks on them from eraser to point, as if a dog had chewed on them, and some were broken in half. Behind Mrs. Barksdale the window let in shafts of dusty sunlight. It was hot in the room, and there was a sour smell, like spoiled milk.
Suddenly, Mrs. Barksdale ejected the pencil from her mouth. She stopped writing and looked at Finny. “What’s this I hear about you writing notes?” she said.
“What?” Finny said. For a moment she was stunned. She wondered how Mrs. Barksdale could have found the notes to Earl, whether the principal had in fact gone through Judith’s mailbox.
“You’ve got a lot of boldness, young lady.”
“Boldness?”
“But you’ve crossed lines here.”
“Lines?”
“Yes, I would certainly say so,” Mrs. Barksdale said. “But then again, you deserve a fair hearing. Let me buzz Miss Simpkin for her response.”
Mrs. Barksdale made the same show of pressing the button that Miss Simpkin had made a moment before.
“Yes?” Miss Simpkin responded. Finny could hear her voice through the door as well as the telephone line.
“Miss Simpkin,” Mrs. Barksdale said, “you know the details of Miss Short’s case. Now, would you go as far as to say that she ‘crossed a line’?”
“Certainly,” Miss Simpkin said.
“I thank you,” Mrs. Barksdale said, and hung up. “It’s settled, then. Miss Simpkin has made everything clear, as usual. She believes you’ve crossed a line. And Miss Simpkin has impeccable moral judgment.”
“Oh,” said Finny.
“I’ll give you one chance to speak for yourself,” Mrs. Barksdale said, “because I know that is the fair thing to do.”
While Mrs. Barksdale’s words remained calm, Finny could hear that this was a struggle for her. The woman’s nervousness seemed to be suppressed by the greatest effort, the way you might throw all your weight on an overstuffed suitcase to contain the clothing inside. Finny could tell that Mrs. Barksdale was heading toward a screech. This was how it always began before she lost it, before she gave it to someone. Finny shuddered at the thought of the Old Yeller letting loose in this tiny room.
“I—I didn’t know that I couldn’t write my friends,” Finny sputtered.
“Friends?” Mrs. Barksdale said. “Do you treat all your friends in such a—perverted way?”
“Perverted?”
Here Mrs. Barksdale buzzed again. “Miss Simpkin, I have called to ask your advice on another matter of principle.”
“Shoot,” Miss Simpkin said.
“Would you go as far as to call Miss Short’s actions perverted?”
“Undoubtedly,” the gravelly voice answered.
“I thank you,” Mrs. Barksdale said, and hung up. “From the mouth of a woman who could have been a Supreme Court justice,” she informed Finny. “An unerring sense of fairness.”
“I’m sorry—” Finny said.
“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” Mrs. Barksdale cut in. “Do you know that Poplan was humiliated by your little note?”
Finny’s mouth dropped open. Her mind scurried for words. She never imagined it could have been the note to Poplan that Mrs. Barksdale was talking about. That silly prank. And it had happened only last night. She was sure she’d been alone in the hall. Who could have told on her? A horrible flash of an idea appeared in Finny’s mind.
“Let me cut the mystery short,” the principal said, and her voice was edging toward panic, like the needle on a record beginning to lose its grip, to skip and scratch. Finny glanced at the picture of the little man cowering in the Old Yeller’s grasp, the gnarled pencils on the table. “I can see that you’re astonished at my ingenuity. So let me just say that you were observed, that a student saw you sneak downstairs with that dirty note, and heard you giggling when you came back up. She told us you were up to something, and when Poplan showed us the note, we put two and two together. Or I should say, Miss Simpkin put two and two together. I owe everything to the unconventional genius of Miss Simpkin.”
“Thank you,” Miss Simpkin called from the outer room.
Mrs. Barksdale buzzed her.
“Yes?” Miss Simpkin said.
“You’re welcome. But may I kindly ask you to use the buzzer next time,” Mrs. Barksdale said.
“I’m sorry,” Miss Simpkin said.
“Quite all right,” Mrs. Barksdale said, and hung up.
Who was it? Finny thought. Who would have followed her all the way downstairs to the teachers’ rooms, then stood and watched
in the dark? Again, the horrible idea flashed in Finny’s mind, and she shook her head, like she had water in her ears.
“It was a stupid prank,” Finny said now. “We didn’t mean anything—”
But here Mrs. Barksdale cut in, unable to contain herself any longer. “And to think Judith Turngate offered to room with you! One of our brightest stars! And you go performing your filthy pranks!”
Finny couldn’t take it. It was like a radio with bad reception turned to the highest volume. Mrs. Barksdale’s voice slashed and stabbed. It bounced off the walls like a misfired bullet. Finny put her hands on her ears.
“Don’t you cover your ears in front of me!” Mrs. Barksdale screeched. When she screamed, the tendons in her neck tensed like the strings in a marionette. She reached across the desk and tore Finny’s hands from her ears. “You’re going to listen to me!”
“But—” Finny started.
“But nothing!” Here Mrs. Barksdale stopped to take a breath. She must have realized the scene she was making, because when she began again, it was in a slightly calmer voice. “Let me just make this clear. We considered calling your parents, Finny. What you did was that wrong. This is a much more serious offense than you think.”
Finny nodded. “Please—” she began again.
But Mrs. Barksdale made a sound—chuf—like a little bark. “I have no time for this. I’m going to explain our decision, and then send you off to deal with it. We’ve decided you’ll have one chance to get this right, Finny Short. You’re going to be housebound the next three weekends before break—no parties, no walks except to and from the dining hall.”
“Okay,” Finny said, having feared the punishment would be much worse.
“And of course you’ll have to apologize to Poplan. She’s very hurt. I’ll leave it to her discretion how to handle you. She’ll see you tonight after dinner. Now you can go.” Mrs. Barksdale made a shooing motion with her hand.
Finny Page 7
