I Am Her Revenge

by Meredith Moore

  “It’s worse when you don’t get any sleep, huh?” I ask.

  “True,” Claire says, smiling ruefully at me. “I usually don’t join the sneak-out, to be honest, but this is the last year. No time like the present, yeah? And, actually, it was a lot more fun than I remember it being.” Her eyes light up as she remembers the night before, when I saw her smiling, laughing, drinking long sips from the communal bottle of rum.

  I shrug. “It was kind of boring.”

  She settles into her desk chair and pulls out her laptop. “I guess.”

  I decide to pry further. Claire is probably the best source I’m going to get, and my questions will seem like nothing more than the queries of a curious new student. “Arabella seems like the queen bee around here.”

  Claire nods, not looking up from her computer. “She is. And she gave you the sign of her oh-so-glorious approval last night, if you want to join that group.” I learned a lot about sarcasm in my year at public school, and Claire’s tone seems to match it.

  “You’re not a part of her group?”

  “I like to think I do my own thing. I have plenty of friends, but I don’t limit myself to one clique, you know?”

  I suspected as much. She and Arabella seemed friendly enough last night, but I didn’t see them talking much by themselves. And every time I saw Claire in the halls, she was chatting with someone new.

  “Emily, my old roommate, was best friends with Arabella,” Claire offers, looking up from her computer. I try not to look too interested.

  “What happened to her?” I ask. Mother never gave me details.

  “She was expelled. Someone called the administration and said she was having an affair with her chemistry teacher in exchange for As.” She sets her jaw.

  “Was she?”

  “No,” Claire says, shaking her head vehemently. “I don’t know who would lie like that. Emily was the smartest person at this school. She didn’t need to cheat. And she definitely wasn’t the kind to sleep with a teacher. I mean, she went to a lot of tutorials, yeah, but it was because she really liked chemistry, not because she liked Mr. Park! And they were always chatting and joking or whatever, but he was friendly with tons of other students, too.” I nod, though it seems like Mother picked the right teacher to accuse. Helper must have done his homework well. “They had this ‘official investigation,’” she says with sarcastic air quotes. “Emily said someone had planted these notes, like love letters, supposedly between her and Mr. Park, and one of them, one from her, said she would do whatever he wanted as long as he gave her an A. So he was fired, and she was expelled. It was so disgusting. There was nothing going on,” Claire continues, “no matter what Arabella says.”

  “Arabella accused her?” I ask, surprised.

  Claire shrugs. “I don’t know if she was the anonymous caller or the one who planted the letters, but she definitely believed the rumor. She stopped speaking to Emily and started spreading lies about how much of a slag she was, which I think hurt Emily more than being expelled, because she’d been friends with Arabella since primary school.”

  “Arabella’s really concerned about her reputation, huh?”

  Claire shuts her laptop and crosses her hands over it. “Emily told me once that Arabella’s parents were a lot like mine, like super disapproving? Her older sister got pregnant while she was here at Madigan and had to drop out. The father was some tosser who was way less popular than she was and refused to help with the baby. Arabella has to prove to her parents that she won’t turn out like that, that she’s got the perfect reputation, so she only dates, you know, socially acceptable boys, ones her parents approve of? Sleeping with a teacher to get a good grade is basically the opposite of that, and so Arabella decided she couldn’t be friends with someone who was accused of that. She totally ditched Emily.” Claire rolls her eyes. “Just be careful around her.”

  “Got it,” I say, trying not to let my satisfaction show. “So what are the other cliques at this school?”

  Claire looks at me closely. “What kind of group did you belong to at your old school?”

  I keep my voice casual. “No group, really. I was pretty much on my own.”

  She narrows her eyes, considering that. “Why?”

  Because I had no other choice, I think. “Didn’t really find any friends,” I answer instead.

  “I’d like to be your friend,” she says brightly.

  Of course she would.

  I give her a thin smile and nod. “That’d be nice.”

  “So you’ve got Arabella’s crew,” Claire says, ticking off her fingers. “There are the hard-core jocks, who kind of belong to that crew, too. And then the super smart people, who pretty much live in the library. They’re harder to befriend, since you have to be quiet around them. And the slackers. And then just—everyone. I mean, I guess everyone can’t be defined by one thing? That’s what I like to think, anyway.”

  In public school I learned that even if you don’t feel like you can be defined by one thing, in high school, that’s all anybody will do to you. Everyone wants to pigeonhole everyone else in one neat little category, because that makes them easier to dominate and destroy.

  Still, I nod and smile at Claire now. “I like that idea.”

  I guess I’ll have to discover the true social secrets of this school on my own.

  After classes the next day, I put on a tight black sweater and a short black skirt, along with my ripped tights and poetic ballet flats, and head for the student lounge for the weekly Thursday meeting of Open Doors, Madigan’s literary magazine, just as I told Headmaster Harriford I would. But the main reason I mentioned my great passion for writing was not to win Harriford’s support; it was because Ben is the editor-in-chief.

  Ms. Prisby, the faculty advisor, is waiting alone outside the door of the lounge, greeting everyone as they come in. Perfect opportunity.

  When she sees me, her smile fades a bit but doesn’t disappear. “Vivian,” she chirps, “it’s so good to see you here.”

  “Headmaster Harriford suggested I join the literary magazine,” I say, as if the entire prospect bores me.

  Mother instructed me carefully on how to earn Ms. Prisby’s hatred, while hiding my provocation of her from Ben. “She’s his favorite teacher,” she told me. “You have to make her seem petty and mean.”

  I didn’t understand how that would help me seduce Ben, but I knew better than to ask Mother any questions.

  I watch Ms. Prisby struggle to decide how to respond. Finally, she nods, her smile dropping off her face completely. “We’re going over some submissions we received in the summer, if you would like to come in.”

  I push past her and don’t take off my sneer until I’m past the threshold.

  Ben is sitting at a round table in the middle of the lounge, and I feel his eyes on me. He, like everyone else at the table, has an impressively high stack of papers in front of him. As I take a seat across from Ben, Ms. Prisby enters the room and clears her throat. I meet her eyes, but she doesn’t meet mine.

  “Well, okay, then,” she says, clapping her hands together as she settles into the seat farthest from me. “Let’s get started.”

  Ben shoves a pile of papers toward me, and I look up at him. “Thank you,” I say softly. My eye contact catches him off guard, and he stares at me for a second. I hold his gaze, then drop my eyes like I’m confused. Like I don’t know exactly what’s going on.

  We spend the first hour of the meeting debating themes for the next issue. Or rather, Ms. Prisby and the other students debate themes while I watch Ben as closely as I can without being obvious. I do catch his grimace when Ms. Prisby suggests, “What about Avas? You know, best friends from childhood, what’s digital versus what’s real, something along those lines?” Everyone glances at Ben to gauge his reaction, and he erases the grimace from his face, replacing it with a neutral expression
that’s almost as good as mine. “I know my Ava was my best friend for years, and I’m sure other students have plenty of stories about theirs,” Ms. Prisby continues, oblivious.

  Someone finally offers a hesitant “That sounds good,” and the theme is set.

  After another hour of reading angsty poetry and simplistic stories, when it’s time for dinner, Ms. Prisby asks me to stay behind for a moment. “How did you like the meeting?” she asks. Her voice is not as bright, but she still tries to smile at me.

  I shrug. “Fine.”

  She nods slowly, watching me. “Well, I think this next issue will be great, and it will be wonderful to have you be a part of it.”

  “I don’t know how much help I’ll be,” I say. I look right at her, my smile dripping with derision. “I was never so pathetic that I needed a digital doll to be my best friend.”

  I stroll out of the room before she can respond.

  I follow Ben and the others to dinner, my head high and my eyes carefully bored. I’ve mostly avoided the dining hall so far, only going in to grab a piece of fruit or a cup of cereal before everyone else arrives. Outsiders don’t eat with anyone in the dining hall, and I want to seem mysterious, so I usually hide in the lounge or my room with my stolen food. Now, though, I need to orient myself and study everyone when they are gathered in one place.

  The room, with its three walls of dark carved wood and its one wall of windows, is a hotbed of student harmony and discord. The air is filled with bangs and shouts and laughter and the scents of rich sauces and spices. Everywhere, portraits of disgruntled men with white hair glower down at the people below. Over a dozen long rectangular tables cut up the space, and they’re filled with students gossiping and eating and strategizing. I spot Arabella at the farthest table, seated in the middle with her male and female admirers clustered around her. If the most popular kids sit at that table back by the windows, then the least popular must sit at the one closest to the entrance.

  I grab a tray and covertly study the unpopular table from the food line. There are people sitting at its edges, not speaking to one another. Dark lipstick, ill-fitting clothes, and unwashed hair seem to confirm their exiled status. I let the serving lady fill my plate with fresh Greek salad and grilled chicken with rosemary—much more enticing than the slop at public school—and head for my target.

  Claire intercepts me before I can get far at all. “Where are you going?” she asks. “I saved you a seat in case you showed today.”

  She gestures at the table next to Arabella’s. The table of the not-quite-popular-but-upwardly-mobile students, I assume. A group I can’t belong to.

  “Thanks, but actually I’m just going to eat quickly and head for the library,” I tell her, stepping around her. “This table’s fine.” I sink into a free seat before she can stop me.

  Claire opens her mouth and then closes it. A girl next to me says “hey” to her, and she smiles back, still confused. “I’ll see you later, then.”

  I nod and turn to my food.

  “I’m Tory,” the girl, the Claire-friend, says, holding out a hand tipped with dark purple nails. Her light brown hair frizzes out of her round head, and I almost long to take a brush to it.

  “I’m busy,” I say, turning back to my food. My goal is to be friendless, but not one of the unpopular masses. I can feel her recoil, and then she pointedly scoots her chair away from me. Good.

  I pick at my salad quickly, glancing up only to find Ben. At Arabella’s table, of course. He doesn’t seem to have noticed me. Or, if he has, he’s not preoccupied with my strange table selection. Instead, he’s laughing at something the overgrown boy next to him has said. I can see his white teeth. He leans back in his chair and pounds the table, making all of the girls around him giggle.

  A group of giant guys, probably athletes, huddle a few feet from the tray disposal, right near the popular table. I grab my tray and stand, trying to time it perfectly as I stride across the dining room. When one turns to leave, I walk right into him, balancing my tray against my hip so nothing spills.

  I brace myself by placing an open palm on the chest of the boy, who looks down at it in bewilderment, then up at me. “Sorry,” I say, keeping my hand there for just a touch too long before pulling it away.

  “It’s fine,” the boy says quickly, but I’m already leaving. I feel his eyes on my back as I go. I don’t spare Ben another glance. I know he watches me, too.

  CHAPTER 6

  I try to pay more attention in classes on Friday. But not to the teachers. Instead I’m focusing on the students around me, the boys and girls of British privilege who dream and struggle to define themselves and everyone else, all in one small space.

  Something buzzes within me all morning, though. Something that threatens to break out of my skin. I don’t know what it is until lunch period hits, and I can’t bring myself to follow the crowd into the dining hall.

  I have to escape.

  I head out into the slanting rain before I can think twice about it, hurrying to get away from campus. I feel as if the school itself is watching me. I break into a run, clambering over the wall and dropping down onto the sovereign ground below. I will show up late to class, drenched and remorseful, and my legend will only grow. I’ll say I got lost. Maybe I really am lost already.

  But before I can get far, I nearly run into something. No, someone. Someone tall. I have to swerve out of his way and stop.

  Arthur holds his hands out, inches from my shoulders, as if to brace me. But he drops them quickly enough. “What are you doing?” he growls.

  I shouldn’t do what I do next, but I can’t help it. With the tip of my thumb on the tip of my middle finger, I hold out my left hand. Our old gesture that meant one of us wanted to escape. It meant I would cover for Arthur while he snuck up to my attic room, and then I would follow him. And we could be alone. Free.

  His eyes flick from my fingers to my face, and then he turns so that we’re shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the moors. He points, straight ahead and slightly to the north. “If you run in that direction about a mile, you’ll find a cottage. You can be alone there.”

  I stare at him, but he doesn’t look back at me. He just walks away.

  I watch him for a moment, lost in memories of our tangled, painful history. Then one memory in particular snaps abruptly to the surface.

  One day, when I was seven, I met a girl at the park. We played hide-and-seek among the trees, our giggles giving us away every time. Mother and the girl’s mother watched over us, and when we’d worn ourselves out, the girl’s mother invited me over for a playdate. I turned to Mother, my eyes filled with hope. She shook her head firmly and insisted we were busy, pulling me by the arm back to the car. I looked back to find the girl watching me, confusion and hurt stamped on her face.

  When we got home, Mother pulled me inside and slapped me hard. “Friendship is a weakness!” she yelled. She let me go, and I scrambled to the wall, out of reach. “You cannot be friends with anyone. You cannot trust anyone. You make people believe they are your friends, and then you use them for your own purpose.” I nodded furiously, but she still wasn’t satisfied. So she called for Boy and Helper.

  She pointed one long, narrow finger at me when they came into the den. “She has disobeyed me. She has to learn.”

  Everything about that moment is imprinted on my mind. The curtains were drawn, as they always were, so that only a few cracks of sunlight lit the room. The portrait of Mother’s mother, a stern, haughty-looking woman wearing a diamond necklace that Mother had to sell off years ago, sneered down at us from above the fireplace. The rough, chipped-paint wall bore into my back, but still I pressed against it, trying to melt into it. Helper blocked the doorway with his sturdy frame, his face impassive. Mostly, I remember Arthur’s expression as he stared at Mother: confused, angry, scared for me. But it wasn’t me he should’ve been scared for, and I bega
n to realize this just as Mother gestured at Helper’s cane, the ornamental item he carried with him with the round black ball on top of it.

  Without a word, Helper lifted the cane and swung it, hard. Right onto Arthur’s back.

  I screamed. Maybe I begged for her to stop. I don’t know. I don’t know if what I said was even coherent.

  Mother grasped my chin in her hand, jerking my neck up. “Yes,” she said, peering into my eyes with a satisfied smile. “It seems that will work. If you disobey me again, he will suffer the consequences.”

  I looked into Arthur’s tear-filled eyes, and I knew that I would do whatever I could to make sure he never had to serve as my whipping boy again.

  It didn’t work. Every few months, at the slightest provocation, Mother would order Helper to beat his son while I watched. I close my eyes now and take a deep, shuddering breath as I remember the scars that cross Arthur’s back, the scars that exist because of me.

  Arthur is out of my sight now, and I look back out at the moors, hesitating. But only for a moment.

  I break into a sprint, running in the direction he pointed to, breathing in the clean scent of the rain as the heather tries to cling to my bare legs. The land is one of hills and valleys and mud that threatens to pull me down. The sky is a dark mass of clouds, gray and swirling. The rain grows harder, pelting into me. I can’t see. All I can hear is the deep roar of the rain and the growl of thunder. The day has turned dark, and everything is in confusion.

  I run until I feel like something is stabbing my lungs, until my clothes feel ten pounds heavier, until I feel like I’m free from the school and everyone in it. I’m alone. I bend down, trying to catch my breath as the rain pours over me.

  I look up to see something solid in front of me. I run to it and find a small, broken-down building of soaked wood, with one lopsided chimney stretching out of it. When I open the door and step inside, the rain can’t find me.

  It’s something from another century, this one-room cottage. Someone’s humble home, perhaps. There isn’t any furniture, but there is a hearthside. The roof has caved in at the center, and the rain pours through to form a deep puddle underneath the gaping hole, so I step around the edges to reach the hearth. I sit before its slate stones and pretend there is a fire there to warm me. My shivering stops.