Moby Clique

by Cara Lockwood

  This can’t be good.

  “Uh, Dad, this is like totally Miranda’s fault,” Lindsay sputters, pointing to me. “She’s a bad influence!”

  Two

  “So what is Bard like?” Lindsay asks me for the hundredth time since we started the trip to Bard Academy.

  This was Dad’s idea of punishing her—sending her along with me to Bard Academy. Only it’s far more a punishment for me, because Lindsay simply will not be quiet. She’s literally not shut up since we got to the airport, and since then we’ve been on a bus and we’re now on a boat taking us to Shipwreck Island, home to Bard Academy. Of course, Dad knew it would suck for me. That’s why he did it. Lindsay did blame me for her little car stunt, and Dad, as usual, believed her. This is because Lindsay is the “nice” daughter and I’m the one with the “bad attitude.”

  “I asthed you a quethyon,” Lindsay lisps. The lisp is from her retainer, which she wears twenty-four/seven. She’s the only person I know who actually follows her orthodontist’s instructions. She’s convinced that having perfect teeth is the ticket to being popular. She didn’t even really need the retainer, but insisted on one because one of the popular kids once hinted she had a bit of an overbite. Naturally, trying to explain that this kid was probably just trying to get under Lindsay’s skin didn’t fly.

  “Hello—earff to Miranda!” she trills.

  A bit of her spittle falls on my arm.

  “You’re spitting on me!” I cry, wiping it away.

  “Thorry,” she says. “Tho? What’th the deal?”

  “It’s a delinquent boarding school, so it’s got a lot of delinquents,” I say for the hundredth time. How else do you explain Bard? First off, I can’t exactly tell her what the school is really like. I can’t spill the big secret, which is that it’s actually a kind of literary purgatory.

  “But what kind of delinquents?”

  Lindsay is taking far too great an interest in the wayward brethren of the school. I’m going to have to tell Mom about this. Of course, I can’t believe Mom let her favorite child go in the first place, but she put up a minimal fuss. She’s been too distracted lately by her blazing love affair with Mr. Perkins, Lindsay’s math teacher.

  “You’ll see when we get there. It’s Gothic and boring and strict, okay?”

  “Like Gothic how? Like Picture of Dorian Gray Gothic?”

  I glance at her. “You read Picture of Dorian Gray?”

  “Duh—last year. I got MacKenzie an A on her paper.” MacKenzie is the queen bee at Lindsay’s school and Lindsay literally worships her.

  “You shouldn’t write papers for her,” I scold. “You ought to let her do that herself.”

  “She’s my friend,” Lindsay says, crossing her arms and jutting out her chin.

  “She’s not your friend,” I snap. “She’s just using you.”

  “Whatever,” Lindsay says, sticking her lower lip out in a pout. She’s mad at me, but on the bright side, maybe she’ll be quiet.

  “Do you think we’ll be roommates?” she asks after a second. There goes quiet.

  “No,” I say. “You’re a freshman. I’m a junior.”

  “So are there gangs at the school? And drugs? And fights?” Lindsay seems to really dig the idea of going to school with a thug element. I’m not sure where this is coming from. For most of her life she’s been safely tucked into her honors classes.

  “Why are you so obsessed with delinquents?”

  “Well, I don’t know any, except for you. I just think it would be cool to know some.”

  I think about Parker Rodham, one of the richest girls at the school, who is also accused of poisoning her mother. There is nothing cool about her, unless you think ruthless evil is cool.

  “Are you serious?” I ask her.

  “Duh,” she says, rolling her eyes. “My old school was boring. I’m glad I’m going with you.”

  I can’t believe this. My wannabe prom queen sister is actually stoked about being sent away to delinquent boarding school. Unbelievable. My dad thought this would be such a punishment for her, but she actually likes the idea of being a tough girl.

  I look at her and I can’t believe we’re sisters. For one thing, we only share a passing resemblance. We have the same pale complexion, and nearly the same height, but beyond that, I’m skinnier and Lindsay has all the curves. The girl developed at thirteen, whereas I’m basically still waiting. And while I’m wearing clothes of the punk chick-meets-Sienna Miller variety, she looks like a car wreck between two warring prep gangs. Basically, Martha’s Vineyard meets Orange County, which is trademark MacKenzie style.

  “Lindsay, there’s a seriously bad element at the school, you know,” I warn her. “You have to be careful.”

  “I will,” Lindsay promises. “But you’re there to protect me, so I’m not too scared. Besides, don’t you have that boyfriend of yours? What’s his name? Heathcliff?”

  “How do you know about Heathcliff?” I ask her sharply.

  She shrugs. “I’ve only been reading your mail. And your password-protected blog.”

  “Why, you little…” I can’t believe she hacked into my computer! I’d been keeping an offline blog of sorts, just to try to sort out my feelings. Besides, Ms. W said I should keep a diary or journal, to help me deal with life in general.

  “But what happened to that Ryan guy? I thought you were gaga over him.”

  “None of your business.”

  Even I don’t know quite how I feel about my ex these days. Or about Heathcliff, for that matter.

  “I thought you weren’t even allowed to date,” Lindsay says, referring to the fact that my parents forbade me to date at the end of freshman year when I snuck out of the house to meet a boy who tried to get me drunk.

  The ferry horn blows, signaling the fact that we’re closing in on Shipwreck Island and Bard Academy. Lindsay grabs her massive backpack and pulls out a folder with printouts she’s made of her research of Shipwreck Island. She’s always well organized. It’s how she keeps all the papers she’s doing for other people straight.

  “You know it was supposed to be a place where pirates hung out,” Lindsay says, showing me the fruits of her Google search. “It’s rumored there’s even an old pirate ship there. In a place called Whale Cove.”

  “Is not,” I say, whipping the printout from her hand.

  Lindsay shrugs. “Tho don’t believe me. What do I care? Anyway, how deep do you think that water ith?” she asks, looking over the side of the boat where the dark, cold water sloshes against the side of the hull. For some reason, it’s always foggy and overcast every time I make this trip, so the water between Maine and Shipwreck Island always looks inky black.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I think it’s creepy, though.”

  “I think it’s cool,” Lindsay says, leaning nearly as far over the railing as she can so she can get a look down below. I grab her by the belt loops and pull her back down.

  “Close your mouth or your retainer is going to fall out,” I warn. “And you’ll fall in after it.”

  “Whatever,” Lindsay lisps, spitting a little as she talks. She glances up and points to a single figure standing on the shore. “Who’th that?”

  I know even before I get close enough to see his face that those big, broad shoulders belong to Heathcliff. He’s not allowed to leave the island, so he’s been stuck there all summer. My heart speeds up a little bit. I wonder how long he’s been waiting there for me. He runs a hand through his thick, jet-black hair and then holds his hand there as if to shade it from the overcast sky. He’s as dark and magnetic as ever. I throw up my arm to wave at him and he does the same. I didn’t realize until this moment just how much I missed him.

  “Is that him? Is that Heathcliff?” Lindsay chirps beside me, jumping up and down and making a spectacle of herself. “You didn’t tell me he was so hot!”

  Other people are starting to stare at Lindsay’s theatrics, probably because they’ve never seen anyone as hyper as
my sister before. As we move in closer, Heathcliff gives my sister a quizzical glance, but nothing more than a glance. His eyes are fixed directly on me. I don’t think they leave me at all. I can feel them on me as I grab my bags and head down the gangplank to shore.

  A slow smile spreads across my face as I get nearer to Heathcliff, who is standing very still on the beach, his hands stuffed in his pockets. I can’t read his expression exactly, but I think he’s glad to see me. When I’m face-to-face with him, though, I feel a sudden awkwardness.

  “Hi,” I manage shyly. Heathcliff has that effect on me. I lose my ability to speak clearly. Behind me, I hear Lindsay struggling with one of her four bags. I’m determined to let her struggle. I told her not to bring too much luggage, but the girl insisted on bringing half the Nordstrom juniors’ department.

  “Hey,” he says back, and then grabs my bag.

  “So how long have you been waiting for me?” I ask, teasing.

  “All summer,” he says, completely serious. He reaches up and gently tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear. His touch makes me shiver. And there’s something about him that makes all the words in my head simply dry up and disappear. But Heathcliff doesn’t seem to mind the lack of conversation. He is, after all, the strong and silent type.

  Lindsay interrupts the Hallmark moment, though, as she finally catches up to me, huffing and puffing with her bags, and being her usual annoying self.

  “Thankth for the help,” she says sarcastically, dropping her bags around her and accidentally landing one on Heathcliff’s foot. Heathcliff doesn’t even flinch, he just glances at the bag and then at Lindsay, a curious look on his face.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I say, quickly tugging Lindsay’s heavy bag off his foot. “This is my—”

  Before I can finish, Lindsay has prattled on, spitting as she talks. “Tho, you’re Heathcliff? I’ve heard all about you,” she says. “You’re like totally a tough guy, right? I mean, what did you do to get thent here? Did you kill thomeone? You can tell me if you did, because I will totally not tell anyone. I mean, Miranda thays I can’t keep a thecret, that’s thuch a lie. I totally can. I mean, you had to do thomething really bad, right? Miranda said you can fight and stuff, and she is like, totally, into you, which ith crazy because it’th not like Dad would let her ever date a delinquent. I mean, no offense or anything, but you do look at least twenty-four, and how old did you thay you were again?”

  I worry how Heathcliff might react. He’s not known for his patience. But he doesn’t look angry, just puzzled. My sister has that effect on a lot of people.

  “And I’ve read all about you because Miranda won’t thop…” She’s literally spraying Heathcliff with spit.

  I step on Lindsay’s foot, hard. “OW!” she cries. “What’d you do that for?”

  “You’re spitting,” I say.

  “What! It’s not my fault,” she says. And then she does the unthinkable. She takes out her retainer and actually holds it up for Heathcliff to see. He looks at it like she just threw up an alien. She wipes it on her jeans and then she actually puts it back in her mouth.

  “This,” I say and sigh, “is my little sister, Lindsay.”

  Heathcliff nods slowly.

  “I don’t know why you did that,” Lindsay is saying, rubbing her foot. “I mean, it’th not like violence ever tholves anything. Of courth, Heathcliff might disagree, and, I mean, like no offenth or anything, but brute force ith just not where it’th at. Besides, it’th not even like I told him anything really embarrathing, like how you scribbled hith name a million times in your journal and you—”

  “Lindsay!” I shout, exasperated.

  “What? I’m just thaying you thouldn’t keep your feelingth in all the time. Maybe if you let them out once in a while you wouldn’t be thuch a basket case. Ooh! Ith that the buth? Are we going on that buth to the thcool? It’th kind of thmall for all of us. I wonder if they have room for my bagth.”

  Lindsay runs up ahead to the bus that’s parked near the dock, leaving us alone with her four giant bags.

  “Does she always talk this much?” Heathcliff asks me, looking a little bewildered.

  “I’m afraid so,” I say, and sigh.

  Three

  In the campus chapel during orientation, Lindsay is the only one actually taking notes as Headmaster B runs through the usual list of Bard no-no’s (no cell phones, computers, games, or anything else that runs on batteries and/or would possibly distract or entertain you). Heathcliff keeps sneaking glances at my sister, as if he can’t believe the two of us are related. I can’t either, actually. For her part, she shows absolutely no fear when it comes to Heathcliff (actually telling him to sit up straight, asking him why he never speaks more than one-word answers to questions, and the endless pestering about what he did to be sent to Bard in the first place). Honestly, I don’t think Heathcliff has ever run into somebody who feared him less. Most people in the school give Heathcliff a wide berth. He is the one, after all, who took out three school Guardians by himself, not to mention the things I’ve seen him do (wrestle with Dracula, for starters). But Lindsay shows no fear. At this rate, she’s going to last two days at Bard.

  “There you are!” Blade cries, finding the three of us in the crowd after orientation, while the church empties out to the lines of boys and girls where our bags will be searched. Blade is my former roomie and also a self-professed Wiccan witch. On a Goth scale of one to ten, she’s an eleven. Since I’ve last seen her, she’s dyed her hair black with red streaks, and over the summer has gotten a new set of eyebrow piercings. She’s also wearing a chain that connects her left eyebrow to her nose ring. You’d think she had done something really bad to be sent here. Come to find out, it’s mainly because she likes putting up pictures of Satan on her walls to get under the skin of her father, who happens to be a pastor.

  “Doesn’t that hurt when you raise your eyebrow?” I ask her, pointing to her latest face piercing.

  “Nah, not anymore,” Blade says. “Hey, who’s this?”

  My sister, Lindsay, for once, has shut up, and she’s just staring at Blade, her mouth open. It may be the eyebrow ring, or the black lipstick, or the fact that Blade’s sporting a red pentagram on her cheek in lipstick.

  “Wow—you are tho cool” is all Lindsay can say, mouth open in awe.

  “Hardly,” says Hana, who joins us. Hana was the first person I met at Bard and the closest thing to a best friend I have here. I throw my arms around her and give her a squeeze. “Whoa, let me breathe, girl,” she says, backing up a bit. She’s also the one I’ve been IMing all summer, and I feel like we’ve never been apart. Her summer was filled with family drama—as in, a lack thereof. Her parents spent the summer in Switzerland, leaving her alone in their New York penthouse suite. Hana was sent to Bard mainly because she got kicked out of other boarding schools and her parents can’t be bothered to deal. I don’t have time to ask Hana about her little brother (the one she’d been babysitting for the better part of the summer), before Samir joins us. He’s our group’s resident goofball.

  “My man H!” Samir cries, putting up a fist for Heathcliff to meet. Only Heathcliff just leaves Samir hanging, giving him a dirty look. Like I said before, Heathcliff is the original brooding bad boy. “Er, right, well, maybe they didn’t have that in 1847.”

  “What?” asks Lindsay, confused.

  “He’s joking,” I say quickly. The last thing I want to do is get into the big secret with Lindsay.

  “Guys, this is my kid sister, Lindsay. Lindsay—that’s Hana and Samir and Blade.”

  “Like, ohmigod, real delinquents,” Lindsay says, rubbing her hands together in glee. “Tho, like, tell me, what did you guyth do to get thent here?”

  “Are you sure you two are related?” Hana asks me as the two of us unpack our suitcases in the senior girls’ dorm. She’s my roommate this year, because Blade went off to room with one of her Goth friends, who’s a witch-in-training. Blade said she felt bad about aba
ndoning me, but at the same time felt the need to stay true to her Wiccan roots. Honestly, I don’t mind. Blade’s idea of room décor is pictures of skulls and Satan. Plus, most of her “spells” smell like old gym socks.

  “I think she was switched with my real sister at birth,” I say, shaking my head.

  “You think she’s going to be okay?” Hana asks me.

  The last time we saw her was when we dropped her off at her dorm, which is next door to ours.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I just hope she doesn’t get in trouble, which she’s prone to do, especially if she goes around asking everybody why they’re delinquents.”

  “Yeah, that’s not the sort of thing to win you friends among the criminal set,” Hana says. “And there are plenty of those types at Bard.”

  She’s right. The school mostly falls into six basic cliques: druggies, freaks, Goths, kleptos, jocks/date rapists, and white-collar criminals (the extremely rich kids). The lst group doesn’t need Bard Academy scholarships (offered up to thirty percent of the student body), and everybody knows they are the absolute worst offenders. Ironically, they also seem like the most clean cut.

  Hana, Samir, and I stay out of the cliques for the most part. Blade has her Goth friends, but we don’t usually hang with them. I wonder how Lindsay is going to fit in.

  “Miranda Tate, are you sure you’ve got the right room?” purrs the unmistakably evil voice of Parker Rodham, interrupting my thoughts. Parker is standing in our doorway looking her usual viper self, her sleek blond hair pulled up tight in a ponytail, her makeup flawless, and she’s clad from head to toe in Burberry.

  Parker, a.k.a. queen of the white-collar kids, is rumored to have poisoned her mother and nearly killed her, as well as murdered two of her ex-boyfriends in convenient “accidents.” She also happens to hate my guts for dating Ryan Kent last semester, because she’s been pining over him since he transferred to Bard.

  “Parker, what are you doing here?” I ask.