Moby Clique

by Cara Lockwood

  “There’s no problem,” I say, releasing Lindsay’s arm. She rubs it and gives me a rueful look as if I gave her a serious injury.

  “There ith a problem,” Lindsay says, glaring at me.

  “Tsk tsk,” Ms. P says, shaking her head. “That means another week of detention for you, then,” she tells me.

  “But aren’t you even going to listen to my side?” I can’t believe this.

  “No,” Ms. P says, shaking her head. “Now, Lindsay, why don’t you come with me to my office? I have some extra credit I was going to offer Miranda, but I think you could make better use out of it.”

  “But, Ms. P…”

  “Let’s go, Lindsay,” Ms. P says, gently putting her arm through Lindsay’s. She turns to me, a half smile on her face, “And don’t forget bathroom duty tomorrow.”

  As if I could.

  Five

  There is, honestly, only so much toilet scrubbing a girl can take without starting to serious lose it. Not to mention that I think I’m starting to smell like bleach even when I’m not scrubbing sinks.

  “Phew, what is that?” cries Blade, waving her hand in front of her face when I sit down next to her in English class, my first period of the day.

  “Don’t ask,” I say. “I don’t suppose you have a spell that could send my little sister into another dimension?”

  “No, but I might be able to make her hair fall out,” Blade says.

  I consider a bald Lindsay. This makes me smile.

  The bell tolls outside, signaling the start of class, and Ms. P sweeps into the room, dumping papers on her desk and focusing straight on me.

  “So, Miranda,” Ms. P says. “Tell me about the central theme of Moby-Dick.”

  Ms. P has a look on her face that suggests she thinks I haven’t read it. Well, ha, I did.

  “It’s about a whale,” I say, which causes the whole class to laugh. “But more than that, it’s about revenge and obsession.”

  Ms. P seems momentarily taken aback. “Care to elaborate?”

  “Ahab, the captain of the ship, lost his leg to Moby Dick and he’s obsessed with finding and killing that whale. He keeps on his mission even when it’s clear that he’s endangering his whole crew.”

  “Suck-up!” someone in the back of the class snickers. Ms. P silences him with a look.

  “Is that all, Miranda?” she asks me, a look of mild annoyance on her face. It’s like she was hoping to catch me off guard, but didn’t, and now she’s ticked off about it.

  “Um, yeah, I mean, that’s basically it.”

  “Well, since you know the book so well, I’m going to assign you and the rest of the class a ten-page essay on obsession,” Ms. P says. The entire class groans, and someone throws a paper airplane at the back of my head. Great. I’ve just become the class’s worst enemy, and all because I read the book. “Oh, and Miranda, since you’re already so much ahead of the class, I expect your paper on my desk by Thursday.”

  “Ms. P is not as adjusted as some of us are,” Ms. W tells me during our counseling session. “Some of us are resigned to our fates, but others are overcome with regret.”

  “But why does she want to take it out on me? You don’t take things out on the students.”

  Ms. W puts down her pen and looks at me over her notepad. “Ms P left children behind, and she’s never forgiven herself for it,” Ms. W says. “I didn’t have children, and all I left behind was madness, so I’ve adjusted to life after death.”

  I nod. I guess that makes sense. I realize that there’s a lot about my teachers I don’t know, even though they are famous ghosts.

  “But why are some of you here, and some aren’t?” I ask. “I haven’t met Jane Austen yet.”

  “We died before we were supposed to die, remember?” Ms. W prompts. “Most of us, like Ms. P and myself, are suicides, but some are accidental deaths. In any case, we’ve got unfinished business here on Earth.”

  Ms. W gets a far-off look on her face. She seems sad.

  “Aren’t you supposed to help me learn to write? Then you can break the cycle and leave?” Last year, Ms. W said she thought her unfinished business on this plane was helping young authors.

  “I honestly don’t know if it’s that simple,” Ms. W says. “I don’t know what exactly I’m supposed to do. It’s just a guess.”

  “Well, I want to help.” I hate to think of Ms. W stuck here for eternity. She and Coach H are two of the few teachers here who are actually nice to me.

  “You’ve done enough for us—and the school—already,” Ms. W says. “You need to focus on living your own life. You shouldn’t really be thinking about us, or about death in general. You have a life yet to lead. Speaking of, how’s your sister adjusting to life at Bard?”

  I pause. I hate it when Ms. W turns the tables on me. She does it so well, that just when I think I’m getting somewhere, she flips the question back to me.

  I shrug.

  “That well?”

  “I dunno,” I say, and shrug again. My sister is just one topic of conversation I’m happy to avoid.

  “Well, you should keep an eye on her,” Ms. W says. “For one thing, she has powers that she doesn’t know about.”

  Lindsay, not being in on the big secret, doesn’t know our great-great-great—you get the idea—was a fictional character and that means we’ve got special powers here in literary purgatory.

  “Just make sure she doesn’t fall in with the wrong people,” Ms. W is saying.

  “Who are the right people around here?”

  Ms. W gives me a sly smile. “You know what I mean,” she says. “I’ve seen her with Parker.”

  “Yeah, I have, too.” I sigh. “It’s a problem, no doubt.”

  I can’t believe Parker really likes Lindsay, so I can only assume it’s part of a greater plan to make my life miserable. It’s not good enough for her that Ryan broke up with me and just wants to be friends now. Parker’s like Ahab. She’s obsessed with revenge.

  “You’d better be careful, both of you, this semester,” Ms. W says. “Your father gave the entire faculty strict instructions. If either one of you gets into any serious trouble while you’re here, then you’re both headed to juvenile detention.”

  “He’s always threatening to do that,” I say.

  “I think he’s serious this time,” Ms. W says. “And anyway, it’s probably a good idea to keep an eye on your sister. If she’s anything like you, she’s a magnet for trouble.”

  “Uh, thanks,” I say sarcastically.

  “I’m just being honest with you,” Ms. W says, her eyes flashing with humor. There’s a lot she thinks but doesn’t say. “Speaking of honesty, how are you and Heathcliff getting along?”

  “Fine,” I say. Absently, I fidget with the locket around my neck. His locket.

  “You know you can’t get too close to him,” Ms. W warns me. Then again, Ms. W never took a liking to Heathcliff. She’s been trying to warn me to stay away from him since he first appeared on campus.

  “I know,” I say.

  “And we’re serious about the no romantic contact rule,” she adds.

  I nod. “I know already.”

  “Well, just as long as you also know there’s a difference between knowledge and action. Just watch yourself. Because there are worse things out there than juvenile detention.”

  “You’re saying Heathcliff is worse than jail?”

  “I’m saying be careful, that’s all,” Ms. W says.

  After our counseling session, I step out onto the commons, and see Heathcliff sitting under a tree. He’s trying to read Moby-Dick and doesn’t seem to be having much luck. His brow is furrowed in frustration, and while I watch, he gives up, throwing the book on the grass and crossing his arms across his chest. This reminds me that Heathcliff only recently learned to read, and that last year I promised to help tutor him, but never managed to find time.

  I pause, hesitant to approach him since Lindsay told him God-knows-what embarrassing details
about me. But then he catches me looking at him, and he gives me a half smile. My heart speeds up a little, and I decide to just pretend the Lindsay incident never happened.

  “That’s a tough book to read,” I say, walking up to him and taking a seat beside him in the grass. I pick up the wayward copy of Moby-Dick and absently flip through the pages. “I barely finished it myself.”

  Heathcliff glances over at me, but doesn’t say anything. His dark, curly hair is unruly as usual, and he’s wearing his trademark scowl. The Bard Academy uniform for boys—a white shirt, Bard blazer, and navy pants—does nothing to soften his rough edges. He’s also got a bit of stubble, which never seems to go away no matter what time of day it is.

  “Reading seems like a waste of time,” he tells me, speaking at last.

  I nod. “It can be, I guess, but not always,” I say. “Besides, what are you going to do if you flunk out? The teachers would probably use it as an excuse to send you back to Wuthering Heights.”

  “What if I can’t go back? There’s only a bit of the book left. We don’t even know if it still works.”

  “Do you really want to take that chance?” I ask him.

  Heathcliff frowns. “I guess not.”

  “But I could help you,” I say. “Tutor you, if you want. I mean, you can do this. If you put your mind to it.”

  Heathcliff glances up at me and gives me a long, deliberate look. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, as usual. Still, there’s something so magnetic about his dark brown eyes. I don’t know what it is, but they suck me in every time, and I just can’t look away. It’s like he sees straight through me.

  “I’d like that,” he says, and he gives me a little smile.

  “Great,” I say, and smile back.

  I move closer to Heathcliff and open the book so that we can both read it. Our arms are touching, and I can feel the warmth of him through my sleeve. I glance around the commons to see if there is any faculty about, but I don’t see any. And besides, we aren’t making out. We’re studying, and that’s not against the rules.

  Sitting so close to him, it’s hard to believe he’s a fictional character and not real. That he could disappear back to another place at any time. I’m hyperaware of his every move, from when he shifts his arm next to mine to the slight bend of his head.

  I start by reading some of the book aloud, but when I glance up, I notice that Heathcliff isn’t reading along with me, he’s just staring at me.

  “Your hair is different,” he says to me, pushing a bit of it out of my face with his finger. “It’s longer.”

  I’d been letting it grow over the summer, but I only really think I managed to get an inch and a half or so. I’m surprised he noticed. Boys usually don’t see small details.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yeah,” he says, and nods. “It reminds me of…” Abruptly, he trails off. We both know he’s talking about Catherine Earnshaw, my great-great-great-great-grandmother, and Heathcliff’s true love. When we first met, he thought I looked so much like Catherine that he called me Cathy.

  “Do you miss her?” I ask him, wanting him to say no. After all, it’s hard to compete with somebody’s soul mate.

  Heathcliff just stares off across campus and doesn’t respond. I guess I’ve gotten too personal. I glance up and see Ryan walking with Parker across the commons toward the library. Parker catches me looking, and tucks her arm in his. They’re framed by the old limestone buildings on campus and they look like the picture-perfect couple posing for some kind of boarding school catalog.

  They have a shared history—Parker was once best friends with Ryan’s ex-girlfriend, Rebecca, the one that died in the car crash two years ago. That’s what got Ryan sent to Bard in the first place. He was the one driving, and it was rumored he had been drinking, even though he passed a Breathalyzer.

  I don’t know the whole story because Rebecca is just a subject Ryan never talks about. To me, at least. Apparently, he talks about it with Parker a lot, according to her. I don’t know why he never felt comfortable confiding in me. Parker once told me it was because Ryan was still in love with Rebecca. I wonder if I’ll ever know.

  My stomach tightens. I wish I didn’t care about him at all. I wonder if I can stand watching Parker put her moves on him.

  Heathcliff sees me staring at Ryan and frowns.

  “Do you miss him?” he asks me.

  Touché. “I…” I pause. I guess I don’t know the answer to that question.

  “Forget it,” Heathcliff says, peeved, gathering up his books and standing.

  “But, wait…I just started the reading lesson,” I stammer stupidly.

  “The lesson’s over for today,” Heathcliff says, storm clouds again darkening his features, his tone leaving no room for argument. Before I can say more, he’s turned and left me alone on the lawn.

  Six

  “So you’ve got boy troubles? What else is new?” Blade asks me, shrugging. She, Hana, and I are all sitting together at dinner, pushing around unrecognizable mush on our plates. The cafeteria is dark and gloomy as usual, just like most of the rooms on campus. The lights above are dimly lit chandeliers with flickering bulbs. They give off about as much light as candles, and the ancient electrical wiring, always patchy at best, gives off little surges now and again.

  The walls are all dark-paneled wood and the room is filled with long, wooden tables paired with benches that are bolted to the floor. All the furniture at Bard is bolted down, to prevent kids from stealing or throwing it.

  “I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up about Heathcliff, anyway,” Blade says. “You know he’s only going to be here for another two years.”

  Blade’s referring to the fact that Heathcliff has a three-year absence from Wuthering Heights and he’s already spent a year of it here. The faculty said he has to return after that period to keep the fictional world stable.

  “Thanks for reminding me,” I say, fingering the locket around my neck. “And I can’t help it. There’s just something about him.”

  “Are you girls pining over me again?” Samir asks, appearing with his tray and scooting in next to Hana. “You know, I’m always available for a quickie.”

  “Shut up, Samir,” Hana says, giving him a nudge.

  “Well, I’ve got something that will interest you,” he says, tossing a copy of the school paper down on the table. “It’s fresh from the presses.”

  I look down at the headline, and see a story on the front page claiming that Robert Louis Stevenson based part of his book Treasure Island on Bard Academy’s Shipwreck Island. Apparently he visited it briefly during a trip to the United States. He found the legends about pirate treasure hidden at Whale Cove so fascinating that he decided to write about it.

  “It says here that there might be ‘real buried treasure’ on this island,” Samir says. “If we found it, we could be rich.”

  “You’re already rich,” Hana reminds him. Samir does come from a wealthy family, although his traditional Indian mother has arranged marriage in mind for him when he turns nineteen. His refusing to even consider marriage is what got him sent to Bard in the first place.

  “Yeah, but I’m going to be written out of the will after what I pulled,” Samir says. “I should just run away now and save myself a lot of grief later.”

  “I’d say pirates and buried treasure are definitely something the LITs should investigate,” Blade adds. The LITs—Literary Investigation Team—is something Blade invented last semester for our little circle. She even had T-shirts made, although none of us wear them.

  “Why should the LITs, er, I mean, we, investigate pirates?” I ask. “They’re not literary.”

  “Sure they are,” Samir says. “What about Treasure Island? That’s literary.”

  I’m only half listening to the discussion about pirates and buried treasure. I’m scanning the cafeteria for any sign of Heathcliff. I want to apologize, or something, I don’t know. I see him hanging at the edge of the cafeteri
a line, grabbing a mystery dinner. I’m plotting how to get his attention when loud peals of laughter from the other side of the room grab my attention. It’s Parker Rodham’s table. The table is full of rich kids and her clones—girls who follow her around and worship her. Normally, I try to avoid that area of the cafeteria altogether, especially since Ryan has been known to sit there on occasion. But now they’re being so loud that it’s impossible not to look.

  Ryan is, as I guessed, sitting next to Parker. Parker, in turn, has ordered one of her clones to get up on the table.

  The clone scrambles up, standing tall, wearing her Bard Academy uniform just like Parker Rodham’s (skirt cut three inches shorter, white leggings that go down to midcalf, and blouse unbuttoned low enough to reveal cleavage). She’s got her hair dyed exactly the same color as Parker’s, and wearing the same high pony-tail and the same too-dark eye shadow and glossy lips. But there’s something about this clone, though, that looks strangely familiar. Too familiar.

  With sinking horror, it dawns on me that the clone is not just any Parker clone, that girl is my sister.

  “Oh my God,” I manage to squeak, even as it feels like someone has kicked me in the stomach. My sister has gotten a Parker Rodham makeover! My sister is now officially a Parker clone, slave to the girl I call my mortal enemy.

  “Hey, isn’t that…?” Blade says.

  “It sure looks like…” Hana says.

  “Your sister!” Samir finishes.

  “Do it! Do it! Do it!” the table starts chanting to Lindsay, banging their fists on the top so loudly that they bounce plates and silverware. Ryan, I notice, is the only one not chanting. He’s got a worried look on his face.

  Just then, my sister starts belting out “Yankee Doodle Dandy” while doing high kicks on the table. Food and dishes fly everywhere, even as Parker and her cronies start laughing hysterically. Lindsay, only encouraged by their attention, acts even more outrageous, and starts doing her own version of the cancan, not caring that Parker is laughing at her and not with her. Or that she is showing half the school her underwear. I glance over at Heathcliff, who is watching the whole scene with a disapproving scowl. Heathcliff is no fan of Parker, and he’s no fan of anyone who’d make a fool of themselves to try to impress her. After a minute, he turns, disgusted, and leaves the cafeteria.