The Tenth Girl

by Sara Faring

  With every second that passes, her distaste toward me solidifies. So I must speak up.

  “Madame De Vaccaro,” I say, hovering the plate low, “I never connected with your secretary, but I would love to review my sample curriculum with you when you have a moment—”

  “It’s not our moment now, I’m afraid.” Her smile seems like less an expression of mirth than an accessory she was gifted by a relative and is forced to occasionally wear. “But it has been a pleasure to meet you. A true pleasure. We need fresh blood here.”

  The smile melts away. She watches me for a moment, evaluating, and I swear I can hear the gears whirring behind her eyes. It’s the look someone at a meat-processing plant might give a cow about to be killed. As if I’m less than human, but also pitiable for it. I’m afraid she’ll mention that she knows about my mother, about my sad predicament. I’m afraid she’ll expose me and run me out before class has even begun. I can feel my desperate mind scrabbling for simple explanations, for denials, for control. Domenico sips at his coffee, watching the silent exchange with cold amusement.

  But she nods to release me from the awkwardness. He half winks at me—fast enough to deny it later. And together, they float off, feet practically no longer touching the ground, as only those with aristocratic ancestors can.

  I’m frantically reorganizing my plate with my eyes, wishing to disappear into the thick, custardy scrambled eggs on my plate, when Yesi reappears, still carrying her bowl of blueberries. Blessed Yesi.

  “Where’d you go?” she asks.

  “Nowhere. Just making conversation.” I drop the croissant on top of the eggs. To hell with it. I will eat it all.

  “Come, now, let’s eat on the balcony, overlooking the ice. It’s my spot.” She pops the last blueberry into her mouth. It’s unclear what she eats to sustain her body, but that’s a mystery better solved another day, when I’m not about to sweat through my shirt. “I see you’ve met Domenico,” she adds. “Resident dilettante and half-formed Lothario.”

  “So he doesn’t teach anything?” Why am I not surprised?

  She chuckles as she guides me toward the oversize and windowed double doors to the patio. “The girls don’t need any instruction in that kind of thing.”

  I look around the room, locking eyes with Morency, who stands watching us stock-still by a swinging door in a floor-length black canvas sack. My face falls. Perhaps she’s keeping tabs on the kitchen staff humming in and out as they replenish supplies. Perhaps she’s putting a hex on us. I hustle out the door with Yesi.

  The cold outside rushes us, bracing but welcome. And the ice field! The ice stretches out before us like scenery from another world entirely—uninhabitable and severe. Why would anyone choose to live beside this sort of view? To me, it’s a reminder of unwelcome solitude, of how very small and insignificant we are, of the sheer luck that places like Buenos Aires were made habitable and developable by nature. I suppose if I had been the one to construct this mansion on a rock, I would have felt mightier.

  “Isn’t this sublime?” Yesi says, settling onto a chair.

  I nod and munch on my croissant, glad to be paces away from a heated mansion.

  “This might be one of the last days we can do this,” she adds. “The weather turns so quickly up here.”

  I’ve a chance to scope out the other teachers as we sit. A handful of them, all older, all shuffling along with peaceable, flat grins. I feel a bit as if we’ve entered an old-age home. At least Domenico and Carmela have, gratefully, disappeared.

  I meet Mrs. Hawk—Yesi’s Hawk, teaching literature—an old woman with a beak of a nose who nods amenably and melts into a nearby chair in silence. And Mr. Dello Russo—Yesi’s Arma-dello, the history teacher—who looks truly armored, his neck as thick as a tree trunk, who grunts and continues reading his oversize tome. I think I might have passed him on the stairs yesterday, but he makes no mention of it. And Dr. Molina—Mole, in Yesi’s book—the science teacher–cum-nurse of the cat-eye glasses and oatmeal, whose face unlocks upon spotting Yesi; she sits by us and announces that two of the kitchen staff are fooling around. “But we don’t know which,” she says with the same intensity as her stride. “They always look at everything and everyone with such disdain. I haven’t squeezed a word out of them.”

  I smile and load my mouth with more dulce de leche crepes hiding at the soggy bottom of my plate.

  She brings her face close to mine, eyes enormous behind the lenses. “When is your birthday, dear?”

  I swallow and tell her.

  She scratches the numbers onto the pad beside her bowl, mumbling to herself, before peering at me. “You’re a seven. Yes, a seven. That makes complete sense.” She sets down her pad with a conclusive tap.

  “Sorry?” I look at Yesi.

  Yesi smiles gently. “Mole is a numerologist,” she explains.

  “Amateur,” Mole adds.

  “Undoubtedly amateur,” Yesi notes, folding her arms. “What does seven mean, then? Conventional and domestic? Or was that just me?”

  Mole looks back at me. “Yesi is upset that she’s a six, you see. The caretaker.” She takes a bite of oatmeal and swallows it whole. “Sevens are contemplative and spiritual. Aloof and distant at their worst.”

  “Aloof and distant?” Yesi laughs. “That’s not Swamp Thing at all.”

  “I’m glad the name has stuck,” I say. I like that Yesi feels she knows me enough to form an opinion of me, but I can’t say she’s right. It’s a moment that slides the narrowest of wedges between her and me; I don’t like to feel incorrectly solved, and I wonder what purpose this supposedly friendly and open personality of mine will serve in the context of Yesi’s world. At least this incorrect label will help me keep my private affairs private, all with a cheery smile on my face.

  “Seeker of knowledge, number seven,” says Mole, reexamining her notes.

  The older man with friendly, open features and curly white hair—positively lamblike—sidles up to us. “Dr. Molina, Miss Yesi, and dear Miss Yesi’s friend,” he says conspiratorially, “did you hear the sad news about the parallel lines?” His face is serious, earnest.

  Mole snorts without lifting her eyes from her pad.

  “No…?” I look around to see what he means. “Parallel lines?”

  Yesi bites her lip next to me.

  “They have so much in common,” he says, dropping to a whisper. “It’s a shame they’ll never meet.” He pauses, grinning wide and slow. “But I’m so pleased that we get to!”

  Yesi claps her hands. “Bravo, Lamb,” she says, and I try my best to smile. Yesi is far quicker than I am. He chuckles, bowing stiffly, and runs a hand over his scalp.

  “As the youngest teachers here, I expect you both to keep my sense of humor in … line.”

  “Punny,” I say, shifting the fork I have in hand. He’s a fool but an endearing one, I suppose.

  “I’m Edwin Lamm,” he says, extending a chilly hand to me that does not match his warm smile. “That’s L-A-M-M, lest you jump to any unfair conclusions based on my unfortunate God-given mane.” I choke on an apple slice. This nearly sets me off. He can’t possibly be named Lamm. “Mathematics.”

  I elbow Yesi hard, and she elbows me back as I introduce myself. I can’t tell what came first: Yesi’s names for them, their own given names, or their unfortunate resemblances …

  “Why did you come to Vaccaro School?” I ask. “Sorry if that’s too blunt.”

  “Not at all, not at all, my dear. Your directness is refreshing. I was about to be forced into early retirement when Carmela found me,” he admits, scratching his lamby pate.

  “Early retirement?” He doesn’t look too old to teach. He looks about as old as my Tío Adolfo.

  “I’m afraid so.” He lifts a hand. “I have the shakes, you see.”

  I can’t tell whether he means Parkinson’s or another disease. His hand, though dotted with age spots, doesn’t appear to move. It sounds like a cover story. “I’m sorry to hear that
.”

  “My gran has the shakes,” adds Yesi. “Awful business.”

  * * *

  After breakfast, Morency distributes handwritten schedules and directions to our teaching cottages, and Carmela waves us all off. She—or her anonymous pod of assistants—scheduled my class relatively early in the day, so I weave down the same winding path I climbed up yesterday to find my cottage, nearly a quarter of the way back down the hill.

  This school looks like one of those charming villages snipped from a brochure, but the cobblestones are devoid of tourists—devoid of the neon splash of signs. No, CAFÉ HERE! No, PUBLIC RESTROOM, its walls of tiles begging to be defiled by an angsty teen. No empanada stands touting peso meat pockets. No gift shops full of miniaturized, seizure-inducing junk. I peek through the shuttered window of an unused cottage and find the interior dark, its contents impossible to see. But the glass itself is spotless. This mountain seems to exist inside some sort of time-exempt vacuum, in which dirt and dust and droppings and dew cannot accrue.

  The English as a Second Language classroom, a petite cottage with no grand view, contains a large round table with eleven chairs and a blackboard. Morning light filters in through the ivy-cloaked windows. I smell freshly sharpened pencils. Someone’s been in to stock the cottage with supplies for me. It’s humble, yet perfect—the setting could’ve been plucked straight out of one of my dreams, if not the hypermodern brochure. Perhaps I am meant to be here, I tell myself. Perhaps everything will be all right. But I cannot shake the feeling, returning from yesterday, that something is wrong. I step around the room self-consciously, carefully distributing sheets of paper and pencils.

  I hear a knock on my door in the moments before my class begins. I struggle to open it, an alarmingly heavy thing that has swollen in place, but when I manage, Carmela De Vaccaro smiles down at me, all white-blond hair and corporate teeth. You’d think she was fashioned in a lab somewhere: Her eyelashes are individually coated in a jet-black gloss, and a perfect red lacquers her respectably full lips. Even her eyeliner appears to have been applied by machine.

  “Miss Quercia.” She pushes past me into the room, a burst of frigid air trailing her.

  “Is this our moment?” I ask. I want to clear the awkwardness; I want her to like me, so that she might protect me if it comes to that. The words of Tío Adolfo resound in my head.

  But the joke falls flat to the stone floor.

  She offers a sad little smile most closely related to a wince and perches herself on the edge of the round table. “I see you’ve managed to settle in.” Head curiously still, she shoots looks at the stack of papers I’ve spread across the table as if they might crimp and crawl across the wood and infect her with more of that bland whiteness from which she already suffers.

  “I—”

  “We have a highly unusual setup here. But it’s one I’m proud of,” she says, swiveling a massive ring on her finger a couple of crucial millimeters. “And I’m so pleased you’re willing to join this adventure with us. My family built this village over a century ago.”

  Or their serfs did. I smile.

  “I feel privileged to be building on their legacy. And I’m glad we took a chance on you.”

  Just as you take a chance on us.

  She speaks as if she can’t deviate from the script of the promotional brochure. I’m glad to hear the words, as empty as they might be, because now, more than ever, would be the moment to express her private hesitation about me. Glassy-eyed, she waits for me to say my part.

  “Madame De Vaccaro,” I say. “Thank you for taking me in. I’m not sure how much you know about me, but it—”

  She stops me. “Your past hardly matters here. You have a degree, don’t you?”

  A faked degree.

  “You should be equipped to handle our girls. There will be only ten, after all.” Ten. She lets that number sit for a moment, eyes drifting, but quickly collects herself. “You’ll manage, if you keep their attention, that is. The success of your lesson plan will soon be determined.” She checks her golden watch quite obviously. “They are late. You should not allow such behavior going forward. They won’t be inclined to treat a young teacher with respect—especially not one with such a different upbringing. You shall have to earn it from them.”

  My hands curl into fists at my sides as she appraises me.

  “Now, the rules of Vaccaro School. No smoking, no drinking, no foul language. No wandering alone, especially at night. The house is old, and delicate, and you put yourself at risk by going where you shouldn’t. And of course, no fraternizing with my son.”

  My cheeks flush, seeing as I’ve almost broken them all—these rules I swore I’d uphold.

  “If you break these rules, you will be promptly removed from the premises, all pay withheld. It goes without saying that I will not provide a positive reference in that case, either. I have no tolerance for rule breakers.” She folds her hands before her. “Now. Anything else?”

  She’s more cutting than Morency. Or perhaps more efficient in her takedowns.

  I shake my head, speechless, and she rises.

  “Do let Ms. Morency know if you have any problems. I expect you won’t. At least, not from this moment forward, correct?”

  Her smile is as beautiful and flat as before, but there’s a tinge of maliciousness there, a hint of a threat, as if I could still become a bother worth crushing. She extends a hand to shake, and the flesh is cold and dead in my grip. She brushes off her pantsuit—or perhaps any trace of me from her hand—and leaves me to clutch my materials, praying I’ll do well here and continue to be safe.

  My class begins at 11:30 A.M. sharp; the clock reads 11:35. After straightening handouts set at each of the other ten places, I sit in a chair and wait for the girls to arrive, crossing and uncrossing my legs.

  And I wait.

  Rearranging the paper into neat fan shapes.

  And I wait.

  I hover by the window and peek out the clearest pane: no one.

  By 11:50, I believe Carmela’s embittered rant about the girls’ lack of respect—to be fair, I would have blown off a young teacher myself as a thirteen-year-old, had my school not been run by two head nuns who patrolled the halls like rabid wolves eager for a sweet-fleshed meal of girl rump.

  This gives me some inspiration.

  I storm outside, making it about five paces with clawed hands before two girls dart around the corner and bump into me, falling back with wide eyes.

  “Who are you two?” I ask.

  There’s Sara, quiet and pale, a bit conniving-looking, her hands neatly folded.

  And blushing ferociously beside her, there’s Michelle.

  “We’re so sorry, Miss Quercia,” she whispers with no other explanation.

  I smell charred flesh and singed metal, sharp in my nose.

  I shuffle back a step as the sight of her sinks in.

  Michelle. She is the spitting image of someone I knew as a child. Someone whose face will never leave me: a classmate, the daughter of a government worker named Falcone. An empty-headed bureaucrat ignorant of the evil he spreads with every scratch of his pencil, my mother had said. Her first name was … well, it doesn’t matter now.

  But Michelle: She has the same pale green eyes fringed by thin lashes, the same natural stripe of blond through her mousy-brown hair, the same round face, mysteriously free of cheeks to pinch. Michelle, who has gem stickers on her earlobes and avoids my eyes. I want to ask where she’s from, what kind of trick this is, why she looks like her. But I can’t, and I don’t. I’ll seem mad.

  “Well, Sara and Michelle, you’re late,” I say, leading the two of them into the cottage.

  I watch Michelle unpack her notebook and wonder how this could happen.

  Perhaps she survived, somehow.

  Perhaps …

  It’s Vaccaro School, come to frazzle me.

  I zip those compartments in my mind shut.

  “Where are the others?” I ask, once they’re
seated.

  Michelle bites her lip and bores two holes in her handout. Sara stares back at me mutely.

  I’m going to sweat through my shirt again.

  Blessedly, as I’m about to explain their first assignment, the door swings open. Seven more girls stream inside: chatty and hungry after a morning of study, eager for lunch, behaving as if they’ve arrived on time—no, behaving as if they’ve arrived early for a salon appointment.

  They do not even give me a glance. The popular girls lead, if they exist in a school of ten pupils: There is Mariella, a cherubic girl with pink cheeks and the blackest hair I’ve ever seen, braided into two thick ropes. Another girl links arms with her—the lankier Gisella, an intimidatingly gorgeous girl, if such a compliment can be made about a thirteen-year-old. Her own hair in a dark blond braid, Gisella purses her lips at me when she enters and whispers into Mariella’s ear, both of them laughing. They choose their seats while the others wait, evaluating the room.

  “Take your seats, ladies,” I say in the nunniest voice I can muster. “You are late.” If only I had a ruler to menacingly tap.

  I notice the Vaccaro School uniform. A white button-down shirt with a Peter Pan collar, so sheer you can glimpse their undershirts, and plaid skirts rolled up far above the knee, unsanctioned by Morency. Knee-high socks. Loafers, some with coins slipped between the lips. They’ve been pulled from a teen movie—all at or around what I would call their Lolita phase; coquettish, not yet fully blossomed but coltish and aware. Still clutching or feigning to possess a waning innocence.

  Rich girls, too, of course.

  Silver bracelets, diamond earrings, pearly pink lip gloss from shiny tubes, oversize sunglasses perched on one head even though it’s now overcast.

  As they introduce themselves, I look around. Most of the girls whisper in groups or pairs as the others speak.

  Diana, with greasy skin and an explosive mane of brown hair, spreading her many multicolored notebooks out. Christina, snorting when she laughs and slamming the table with her hands, nails bitten to nubs and speckled red.