Devilish

by Maureen Johnson

  “Oh … a while,” I lied, looking at the work I had done while watching TV.

  At least Cassie wasn’t asking me about Allison. I wasn’t sure she was asking me anything. She produced a pen from her wildly sproingy hair and hurriedly scribbled something in her Filofax while she was talking. Whether I was there or not was probably irrelevant.

  “They do this at the worst time. I mean, I’m doing SATs again on Saturday. Fourth time. God! Are you doing them again? I seriously have no time to spend with this girl. I’m just going to get her a teddy bear or something and that’s it. Do you like yours?”

  And then, Cassie screamed, a particularly high-pitched, nerve-jangling scream. Which made me scream. Screams are catchy. I followed Cassie’s gaze to a tiny black-veiled head in the doorway.

  “I see PANTIES!” it shrieked. “I see blue panties!”

  Cassie clapped her legs tightly together. The head snapped out of sight.

  “God,” she wheezed. “Why does she do that?”

  Sister Rose Marie would pop her head into classrooms at random, examine the horizon, and look for people sitting in a manner that exposed underwear. This shock attack was supposed to make us more ladylike. It just made us paranoid. For one moment that day, I was glad to be wearing my shorts.

  Brother Frank, our teacher, came in. I liked Brother Frank the most out of all my teachers. He was brilliant, for a start, and Irish (though his accent flitted in and out like bad radio reception), and he had a shock of gray hair that stuck up straight from his head, the way really good mathematicians should.

  Something was wrong today, though—his huge salt-and-pepper eyebrows were knitting themselves together and unwinding again. He dropped himself down in his chair heavily.

  “Cassie,” he said. “Sister Charles needs some help this period. She isn’t feeling well because of all the heat. She needs someone to watch over her freshman English class for a period while they workshop their papers. Would you mind giving her a hand? It’s just for this period. Downstairs, room 3A.”

  Cassie looked shocked. There was something decidedly odd about this—but being asked to help teach another class was a temptation that Cassie couldn’t possibly pass up. When she was gone, Brother Frank shut the door.

  “New uniform?” he asked.

  “I just think this is more flattering,” I said.

  He didn’t laugh. This was troubling.

  “Your friend Allison,” he said. “How is she?”

  “She’ll be okay,” I said. “Someday.”

  He nodded.

  “That was very unfortunate. I’m sure she’s upset. I’ve never taught her. I take it math isn’t her strong suit?”

  “She doesn’t really have a strong suit,” I said honestly. “She’s kind of, you know.”

  “A normal student,” he said. “Unlike you.”

  It had never been said so bluntly.

  “Let’s not dance around the subject, Jane,” he said. “You’re not a normal student. You don’t have a normal mind. You have an exceptional one. This class, for instance. I’ve had to pace it for Cassie, and I think I might kill her as it is. We’re about to enter some topics in abstract algebra, which, to be perfectly honest, are never, ever attempted on a high school level. This is what I teach my second years at MIT.”

  I felt my cheeks glow a little. Praise from Brother Frank actually meant something. It was nice to be having this cozy little moment together on this otherwise tragic day. Maybe he knew I needed a pick-me-up.

  “We need to talk, Jane,” he said. “That’s why I asked Cassie to leave.”

  “About what?”

  “About what it means to be here, at St. Teresa’s,” he said. “It would be unfortunate if the only developments you made here were academic. We need to talk about how you’re going to apply your talents to this world. I know that you don’t believe in everything this school stands for and teaches….”

  “Are you talking about religion class?” I asked. “Okay. I debate with Mr. Jenkle every once in a while.”

  “According to the guidance report, you called him a crypto-fascist during a discussion on reproductive rights in class yesterday.”

  “Well,” I said, looking up at the ceiling. “Yeah, I kind of did that.”

  “Look, Jane,” he said. “I happen to agree with you on many of those issues, but that isn’t the point. The point is, Jane …”

  He started turning his coffee cup slowly. This was not a good sign.

  “… The point is, Jane …”

  A repeat. Really not a good sign.

  “… I’m not the only person who keeps track of your behavior.”

  “You’re saying I’m getting a reputation?”

  “You almost have your own file drawer in the guidance office. I don’t want to dredge up the past, but it’s starting to catch up with you. Your application to a men’s seminary school to become a priest. Passing out condoms on Valentine’s Day. And look at yourself now.”

  I looked down at my very white, very untanned thighs, well exposed by my shorts.

  “These are the things people just might remember when you ask them to write your college recommendations in the next few weeks, if you don’t do something to repair your image.”

  “What are they going to do?” I asked. “Kick me out? My grades are perfect.”

  “But your attitude is not. And there are people who would like to make an example of you. They could kick you out—or they could try to keep you another year. And believe me, though I love you dearly and can barely stand the thought of parting from you, I do not want to see that happen.”

  This was sobering news.

  “They wouldn’t,” I said. “It’s senior year! And I raised the SAT average for the whole school by about sixty points!”

  He leaned back and adjusted his stack of Modern Mathematics magazines until it was just so.

  “Jane,” he said slowly. “I need ask you something. What do you believe in?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what matters to you? I know you have problems with some of the rules of the Catholic faith, but you must believe in something. What’s important to you? What’s true? What would you fight for?”

  “I fight about a lot of things,” I answered honestly.

  “True. But some battles are more important than others.”

  I had come into class expecting to answer calculus questions, not explain the state of my eternal soul.

  “I guess knowledge,” I said. “Knowledge matters. I get annoyed when people get things wrong.”

  “There are limits to knowledge, Jane. There are greater things in this world.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as love,” he said.

  “Not so interested,” I said.

  “Jane,” he said. “This is going to be hard for you to understand, but this is going to be a difficult year. It will not be like the other years.”

  “I know. Senior year. Adulthood, responsibility, the fate of the world on our young shoulders …”

  “This is no joke, Jane.” He sounded more grave than I’d ever heard him. “You have to realize something. You have gifts. You are exceedingly blessed with intelligence. But you lack willpower. You are often lazy and combative.”

  I looked down modestly. Such flattery.

  “I don’t say that to be critical,” he went on. “The academic world is littered with smart people who are lazy and combative. They are lazy because they have never had to make a lot of effort to keep themselves employed. Just ask your father about those people. And they’re naturally arrogant because they think they’re better than other people. Trust me. They are not. The best thinkers—the smartest people—are the ones who really value other people, value ideas, and work from their hearts. This is something I really think you need to know. And now that I have given what amounts to an Oscar speech …”

  He paused and rubbed his bushy brows.

  “Jane,” he said. “Be a good girl th
is year. For my sake, if not your own.”

  I wasn’t sure how my friend throwing up somehow became a reason to lecture me on my behavior. If it had been anyone else but Brother Frank, I would have said something back. But I let him get away with things that others couldn’t.

  “Okay,” I said. “For you.”

  “Thank you, Jane. It means more to me than you can imagine. And now, do me a favor and go put your uniform back on. You look ridiculous.”

  six

  I’d noticed a long time ago that A3 seemed to have entirely different biological needs. They were all really dry and doing things that seemed like things you do to your exotic lizard, not to your human self. They were huge on lotions, balms, glosses, Vaseline … you name it.

  Elsie always carried a small aerosol can of French spring water with her to spray on the undersides of her wrists. I once spotted her in the second-floor bathroom between classes rubbing her knees with vitamin E oil. Lai was always putting drops in her eyes, the theory being that she needed to after clubbing in Boston all night. Maybe the weirdest—and boldest—was Tracey Pils, who was seen on numerous occasions putting Preparation H under her eyes. I have heard that professional models and pageant contestants do this because PH is the best antiinflammatory on the market. And I think Tracey was a pageant person once. But still. It takes a certain amount of confidence to be seen doing that.

  Being lizard-like, they were perfectly suited to this lung-deflating heat. I passed them on the way out the door after school, sitting all in a row on a concrete bench, passing around a tube of shea butter.

  “Hey, Jane,” Tracey said as I passed. “Come here a second.”

  I don’t like being ordered around, but I also didn’t feel like causing a scene by ignoring them and walking past. I compromised by stopping and moving a step or two closer so that I was within earshot but hadn’t actually gone all the way over to where they were sitting.

  “How’s Allison?” she asked. “We heard she was sick earlier.”

  It was said innocently. There was barely a trace of malice in that stone-white, heart-shaped face of hers. But just that they were asking was enough. The temptation to say something to her that would send her groveling back to the sinkhole she had obviously crawled out of was strong, but I remembered my lecture from earlier in the day. I needed to be moderate. My attacking Tracey wouldn’t help Ally.

  “Recovering,” I said, as breezily as I could.

  “Guess she didn’t manage to get a little, then?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  That wasn’t me who said that. The voice came from behind me. The lanky sophomore from the bathroom trailed up, thin and long as a shadow. Lanalee hooked around in front of me and squared off in front of the A3. Her rust-colored hair was hanging long and free now, all the way down her back. She reminded me of one of those Renaissance women who got locked up in towers and had to let guys climb up their hair to rescue them.

  “I’m her little,” she said. As she spoke, she was casually unwrapping a Twinkie. She consumed this in three easy bites, snapping the golden crumbs off her fingers.

  “Who are you?” Elise said, taking in Lanalee in a long and totally undisguised up-and-down glance.

  “Lanalee Tremone. I just transferred here from Bobbin.”

  All three of them looked surprised at that one. Bobbin was the best school in the area. It had the highest population of celebrities’ kids anywhere outside of New York or LA, and it was famous for its “make your own curriculum” policy. Bobbin students started their own businesses or went to live on goat farm communes in France or staged massive art installations where they all got naked and painted each other’s bodies with condiments. It was about as different from St. Teresa’s Preparatory School for Girls as it was possible to get. Going to Bobbin instantly made you interesting.

  “Why are you here if you went to Bobbin?” Tracey asked.

  “I got into a little trouble there. My great-grandparents thought I needed a more structured environment, and they were paying the bill.”

  This caused a bit of visible doubt in their eyes.

  “What house did you live in at Bobbin?” Lai asked.

  “Walker.”

  “Walker? I partied at Walker!” Lai leaned forward. “Do you know Paul Weller?”

  “Tall Paul? Yeah. He lived in the room on the corner.”

  “You know Alex Rye?” Lai asked, her eyebrow arching.

  “Rye? He ended up blowing the door off of his room last year doing a science experiment of a very illegal nature.”

  “Allesandra Fuller?”

  “Look, do you want to borrow my face book so you can look these people up?” Lanalee said. “I’m not sure you actually know them. And no one parties at Walker anyway. We went to Hepp House for that. I don’t know what you were doing, but I doubt it was very interesting.”

  A cool silence now. It was time for the A3 to reload and fire, and they clearly had nothing.

  “Let’s go,” Lanalee said to me. “I’m getting bored. I need more sugar.”

  It was a beautiful performance—I had to give that to her completely.

  “How irritating were they?” Lanalee asked when we had turned the corner of the building. “I hate people who always have to ask if you know people. Who cares if I knew them?”

  “Well, they still sound cool,” I said. “It sounds like those are people to know. There’s no one to know here. This school is not a magnet for the to-know people.”

  “Trust me, Bobbin’s just full of rich freaks. It’s not that exciting.”

  “Still,” I said, “it’s kind of an accomplishment to get kicked out.”

  “I know,” Lanalee said with a long smile. She had very thin lips, but they went on forever. “That’s why I made it up.”

  “You were lying?”

  “The part about my double Gs was true,” she said. “They thought this place would be better for me. The school didn’t want me because I applied too late, but the GGs are buying the school a new driveway if I can stay.”

  We were standing in the driveway by this point. It did kind of look like a testing ground for land mines. Lanalee looked out beyond the soccer fields and over to the golden brick mansion opposite us. It was like looking out to Oz. The grass was, quite literally, greener there—because they had grass in the places that we had asphalt. Some guys were stretched out on this grass. Other guys were lounging on the long marble steps that led up to the front door or were squatting on the veranda and the various urns and bits of statuary, bouncing soccer balls off each other’s heads and snorting.

  “That’s the guys’ school over there, right?” she asked.

  “That’s St. Sebastian’s.”

  “It’s so much nicer than our school.”

  “Trust me,” I said. “I know. I’ve been talking about this for three years. It’s some old mansion that the church bought. It came with all of this ground, so they built our school over on this side.”

  “But why do the guys get that gorgeous place and we get this thing that looks like a bunker?”

  “Parking lot,” I corrected her. “Our school was designed by a guy who was famous for making multi-story parking lots. He just made rooms where the parking spaces used to be and made staircases instead of ramps. I’m not kidding.”

  I wasn’t either. My dad knew the guy. He taught architecture at Brown, until they realized how awful all of his buildings were.

  “This place is just confused,” she said. “They put guys in the nice building. Why? Guys ruin stuff. And then they separate us with this …”

  She lost her words and waved at the eight-foot cyclone fence that separated our soccer fields.

  “It gives the place that prison-camp feel,” I said. “It’s nice. I heard they were actually going to put razor wire on top, but it was against some kind of law.”

  “I’m not going to be able to handle this,” Lanalee said, her long face drooping.

  “Well,” I said, “if you went to
Bobbin, it might be hard to get used to. But it’s survivable.”

  She bit her lip for a moment.

  “Hey,” she said, yanking a rose-stone school ring off her long, pale hand, “before I forget, can you give this to Allison? I haven’t been able to find her.”

  I put it on my thumb. For a moment, I wished this girl could have been my little. I wanted to steal her … but then I felt bad. No matter what, Ally had had a much worse day than I had. She deserved Lanalee.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said. “That story on the Junior Judges page about Allison. Something about the prom. What was that about?”

  “Ally just had a bad experience,” I said, twisting the ring down to try to keep it on my finger.

  “What happened?”

  “She met a guy,” I said. “It didn’t work out. She was really upset.”

  This was a really mild retelling—like saying that the sinking of the Titanic was a little problem with a boat on a cold night.

  “There’s more to it than that,” Lanalee said. “Isn’t there? You can tell me. I like her. I just don’t want to say the wrong thing, you know?”

  She cocked her head in a curious manner. I hesitated. I hated this story, but Lanalee had proven herself, both by signing on with Ally and by taking on the A3. She had earned the right to know.

  “Okay,” I said, lowering my voice. “It’s not a secret, but she doesn’t like talking about it, so don’t bring it up, okay?”

  “Understood,” she said.

  “Ally really wanted to go to the prom last year,” I said. “School events mean a lot to her. But she had no one to ask.”

  “But there’s a school full of guys right there,” Lanalee said, pointing.

  “They don’t let us mix much here at the gulag,” I explained. “And Ally sometimes finds it hard to meet people in person. So, she went online, to some Boston teen dating site.”

  “Ah,” she said knowingly. “E-love.”

  “She met this guy who called himself Hawkster….”

  “Hawkster?”