by Joanna Wiebe
If love and romance were a credited course in school, I would flunk out.
If the tally of notches on your bedpost was any indication of your likelihood of finding love in the future, I’d be doomed to a life of collecting cats, culminating in death-by-suffocation-under-a-hoard-of-creepy-china-dolls.
But just because I haven’t exactly allowed myself to become the human equivalent of a school bus—ridden regularly by everyone—doesn’t mean a) that I’m dead inside or b) that guys feel dead inside when they look at me. I mean, I don’t know what they feel. Probably nothing like what they feel when girls like Harper and her gang o’ skanks walk by. But there have been times—memorable moments—when I’ve caught dudes looking at me in class. And, in grade eight, I heard a guy tell his friends he’d had a sex dream about me, which, I eventually admitted to myself, felt sort of cool. If it came down to it, I’d rather be smart than pretty, but a part of me would like to believe that, down the road, I might turn out to be both.
“First day?” Pilot asks me, breaking the silence.
Ben darts a glare at Pilot then averts his bright mint-green gaze in a way that makes me think he might never look at me again.
“I’m Pilot. You must be the new junior, Anne Merchant.”
Great. Does everyone know my story? “Is it your first day, too?”
Pilot shakes his head and fixes his twinkling gaze on me. His irises are so black, they appear to merge with his pupils in an unsettling yet beguiling way. Everything about him is dark and masculine, from his ultra-short black hair to his rich skin tone to his wide, strong-looking shoulders.
“I came here last fall,” he says. “From California. My dad knows your dad.”
Before I can register my surprise at our connection, the door to Headmaster Villicus’s office swings open, and Dr. Z looks out sternly. “Mr. Stone. He’ll see you first.”
“I’ll catch up with you in class,” Pilot says, smiling at me as he gets up. “I’m a junior, too—and a double major, so we’ll have some classes together. I’ll help you find your way around, cool? See you, Annie!”
The door has barely closed behind him when I breathe a sigh of relief. It was only moments ago that I was fretting over the extremely high likelihood that I would live a friendless existence here. I can’t help but beam.
Which Ben catches me doing.
He scowls and looks away again. I close my lips to mask my crooked tooth, which my mom always said gave me character but which everyone else seems to be repulsed by, and refuse to let Ben get to me. I don’t need everyone to be my friend. Just one person—just Pilot—will do, thank you.
I strain to eavesdrop on Pilot’s conversation with the headmaster, but I’m unable to make out more than the low rumble of mumbles. So I distract myself by rifling through my orientation packet. In catering to the greatest minds among the world’s most privileged youth, Cania Christy holds itself to a standard of education that goes beyond the AP-level courses I had in public school. I used to take Bio; here, that’s The Ethical Dilemma of Euthanasia. Exploring the Science of Consciousness is what regular schools would call Physics. And A Critical Exploration of the Supernatural in Literature and Society is Cania’s version of English. Because I’m in the Fine Arts stream, I’ll also take Sculpting the Human Form every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon and Advanced Portfolio Development first thing every day.
“Stomping the Devil’s tattoo,” Ben says out of nowhere. His voice is buttery—slippery and rich, like it’s hard to hold onto, like it runs smoothly over everything it touches. Oh, God, I do not want him to have a sexy voice. In combination with his body, his eyes, and his sculpted face, it’s completely unfair. “That’s what it’s called. What you’re doing with your fingers.”
There’s no one else in the hall, so he’s obviously talking to me. I realize then that I’ve been absentmindedly drumming my fingertips on the arm of the bench. When I glance at Ben, I find that he’s closed his eyes and tipped his head to the ceiling. Napping.
That’s it? He just wanted me to stop drumming my fingers?
I tuck my hair behind my ears, take a deep breath, and very purposefully begin drumming again. Louder this time. And faster.
“I take it,” he says, deigning to speak to me again, “you’re not a music major.”
I shake my head, drumming on blissfully. “Art.”
And then I get his point: I can’t carry a beat. My drumming slows to a stop.
“I’m an artist, too. A sculptor,” he says. He must be a senior. There’s a maturity about him that can only come with age. “Tell me, do you sign your work with your full name?”
Odd question. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was being friendly. But he’s probably just talking to me because he’s bored. Rich guys are always bored so quickly. That’s what happens when you’ve had everything handed to you and have perfectly easy access to more of it at any time.
“I use my initials.”
The corners of his lips turn up ever so slightly. “A.M.”
“Yep. I guess you already know I’m a junior. Evidently, it’s headline news, though I can’t imagine why.”
At the far end of the hall, a secretary appears in the darkness. For no apparent reason, she starts pacing, darting furtive glances our way every now and then like some strangely dressed, paranoid bird. Ben turns his gaze on her and waits until her back is to us to continue speaking, now in a hush I have to lean to make out.
“Because you’re different from the rest of us,” he says.
“Yeah, well, I was different from everyone back home, too, but.”
“There are different ways to be different, Anne.”
As the secretary darts another look our way, I internally smile at the sound of my name rolling off Ben’s tongue. If I were to let myself entertain the idea of Ben being semi-decent, I would probably be lost in love with him in the time it takes to outline a pink heart on a canvas. There’s an alluring formality about him, as if he’s been raised to sit quietly at the dinner table while the chef serves him, as if he’s been wearing a tie since he was a toddler. He sits extra-straight, he holds his jaw in a tight clench, his every move seems deliberate—not robotic. Deliberate. Elegant. At least, I’d think that if I let myself think that. Which I refuse to do. Because this guy showed me his true colors when he grimaced at my crooked tooth; if I am going to think of him at all, it will be casually and with indifference.
Yes, I command myself, that’s the way it will be.
“I don’t suppose you know all that much about being different, Ben,” I say, careful to sound as indifferent as I wish to be. He arches an eyebrow, and I realize my tone may have been a little too cold.
“I’d say I know a lot about a lot, including being different,” he replies. “Are you familiar with the Big V race?”
“Outside of the fact that it’s being passionately protested?”
“It’s only being protested by Pilot Stone.” We sit in inhospitable silence for longer than I’d like—me trying not to feel consumed by the depth of his gaze, him quite likely wondering how he got saddled with my company—until Ben says, “I saw you running to school today. I passed you on my bike. You’re fast. Long legs.”
When my surprise shows on my face, he grins. His nose wrinkles charmingly. It’s far cuter a smile than I’d have expected from someone like Ben, someone who’s more of a starched-shirt guy than a funny T-shirt guy. Not that I care about his smile. Not that his extremely adorable crinkle-nosed grin really affects me, per se.
All at once, I realize who Ben is. The only way he could watch me run to school is if he was off-campus, too. Pilot had said something to Dr. Z about “his kid” shoving him.
“You’re the Zin boy next door,” I say in a breath. “And Dr. Z—that’s Dr. Zin. Your dad.”
“I assumed you’d pieced that together already.”
I shake my head. He looks disappointed.
“I’ve been living in that monstrosity of a house for years
,” he explains. “No one’s lived with Gigi in all that time. I would have thought she’d have mentioned me.” Before I can continue with the small talk, Ben glances up the hall and lowers his voice. “Look, A.M., I assume Villicus is going to assign your Guardian to you and get you to declare your PT.”
Unsure why there’s this sudden air of secrecy, I reply with a shrug, “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“It’s no guess. Most kids get assigned this stuff the second they arrive on the island—”
“The second?” I smirk at the exaggeration.
“—but yours is a special case.”
“Special. Right.” Of course, I know he’s referring to my ghetto background.
“You’re going to get assigned a Guardian right away. We all have one—well, everyone that’s going for the Big V, at least.”
“What’s the Big V?”
“The valedictorian race. Listen,” his mint gaze darts to the secretary again, and when she finally turns away, the pace of his speech quickens, “Villicus will explain all that stuff soon. Don’t tell him I was talking to you.”
“Um, are you okay?”
“Just do this one thing for me, will you, Anne?”
“I just—I don’t even know you.”
He flinches when I say that. The brass knob on Villicus’s door squeals.
“Just make your Guardian happy,” Ben whispers to me hurriedly through his teeth, like a ventriloquist, as the door starts to swing open, “and you’ll be valedictorian next year. You have to.”
Then, abruptly, he leans back against the bench and closes his eyes, as if he’s been napping all this time. Pilot and Dr. Zin appear in the doorway. Pilot’s eyes are wet and red, and he looks furious as he’s ushered out. I’m hardly able to take in what’s happening—with Ben’s warning so fresh in my mind—as Pilot turns back and speaks boldly to our unseen headmaster. Ben slowly opens his eyes to join me in watching what follows.
“It’s called free will,” Pilot bellows, his voice deep but quaking. “I have every right to exercise it. And that means I get to make my own choices.”
“Come along, Mr. Stone,” Dr. Zin advises, taking Pilot by the arm.
Pilot shrugs his arm free and glowers at everyone but me.
“And I choose,” Pilot continues boldly, “not to declare a PT, not to take a Guardian, and not to enter this BS race to become valedictorian. Let the rest of the students here try to impress their pathetic, uninvolved parents with some stupid title, but that’s not how I’m going to live my life. And you can’t force me. I will not declare a PT!”
In a flash, Pilot runs down the hall and, blankly, Dr. Zin turns his attention to Ben. He hands him a piece of paper.
“The headmaster was kind to you,” Dr. Zin says stiffly to his son. I can easily see the resemblance now—it’s not just their height, their hair, or their eyes but the formal way they speak. “He has not declined your application to assist Mr. Weinchler, in spite of your outburst. Take this form to the front desk for processing.”
Then Dr. Zin turns to me and extends his arm toward the door, welcoming me to a room I’m pretty sure I don’t want to go into. Not that I’ve ever had a reason to fear the principal. But because I just saw a rather tough-looking dude reduced to tears by the man on the other side of the door.
I expect Ben to half-smile or at least nod at me as I go in, but he’s halfway down the hall even before I stand—confirming my worry that, in spite of what appeared to be a brief glimpse of the soft side of Ben Zin, he’s as indifferent toward me as I need to be toward him.
Even before I spy Headmaster Villicus hobbling like the old man he is toward his desk, I am assaulted by the unbearable heat of his office. An enormous orange fire roars in the largest stone fireplace I’ve ever seen, belching smoke into the chimney but letting a small trickle escape from either side of the fire enclosure and rise to create a haze near the ceiling.
“Miss Merchant,” Villicus greets. “Take a seat. Dr. Zin was just leaving.”
My gaze follows Dr. Zin as, with a nod in Villicus’s direction and none in mine, he retreats. The door closes with a faint click behind him.
“Sit,” Villicus commands me.
He turns to me, crossing his arms over the back of his high-back chair, and smiles. If you can call that a smile. His nearly brown teeth are crooked—much more crooked than mine—and his left eyebrow is permanently arched, with a large mole bursting out of it. It’s taking everything in me not to stare at it as I approach. Not to stare at his bristly hair either or the hunch in his shoulders or the potbelly that he tries to hide under a brown suit that fits like a paper bag. It’s as wrinkled as the cloak of a dead Franciscan friar, and I can smell the BO that clings to it. As the heat and odor make my head swoon, as I grip the wooden arm of my instantly uncomfortable chair, I flick my gaze toward the little window and inhale deeply through my mouth—like I’m breathing in the cool air.
He draws the shade.
In the dimness, he runs his stare over me again and again. Just as it seems he might be done looking me over, he drags his gaze up from my toes to my bare knees, all the way up, pausing where he likes and ultimately settling restlessly on the top of my head. Then his gaze drifts downward. For the first time, it occurs to me that these ultra-small uniforms are designed to give old men like Villicus something to feast their pervy eyes on.
I glance uneasily away, to an old framed map of Germany. Next to it, a cabinet holds what look like war medals, hundreds of them. Villicus’s broad desk is bare except for a pen with a huge black plume, a jumbo hourglass that counts away the days, and a complex-looking case encrusted with flame-shaped sapphires.
“Thanks for inviting me to meet you,” I begin, my voice cracking the excruciating quiet like a hammer on glass. “I have a few questions I’d love to get cleared up. For starters, I’ve been hearing a lot about Guardians and PTs, but I have no idea what those are.”
My implied question hangs in the air.
“Mizz Merchant,” he coos at last, “did you ask me to come to your office?”
He slinks around his desk and sits on it, just opposite me. Our knees are close enough to touch. I adjust my leg away.
“No.”
“Then allow me to direct this conversation, dear.”
I fold my hands on my lap.
“You do realize that, at Cania Christy, we accept only the best of the best.”
“Okay,” I say cautiously.
“Okay? Hmm.”
Unsatisfied, he pushes off his desk and wanders behind my chair. There he stands, breathing heavily. With a short shudder, I stiffen as I feel his hands—his long, thick nails—brace my shoulders.
“Do you believe you are the best of the best?” he asks, still holding my shoulders.
I am frozen in his grip. “I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Of course you have. Certainly your first art show must have given you a distinct amount of confidence in your abilities.”
My pieces showed in an LA gallery when I was ten. “We didn’t sell much.”
“Not at that one, no,” he whispers. His breath catches in my hair. “But at others.”
I have no idea what he’s referring to—I haven’t had more than one art show. It occurs to me that my dad may have played up my successes to get me in here, so I say nothing and hope not to shatter Villicus’s illusion. Besides, right now, I’m not thinking about art. All I’m thinking about is the unseemly presence of this man’s hands on my shoulders. I try to slink out from under his hands, but his grip is unyielding. It’s not that his touch is some creepy sex thing. It’s worse. It’s the energy he emits, something oppressive that’s intensified the moment he nears me; it strikes something uncomfortable buried deep inside, an unplaceable but overpowering sensation, like a feverish nightmare exhumed.
At last, his hands slip from my shoulders, stripping away the sense of dread. He lurches toward his war medal case and stares through it while I try to shake off
the memory of his touch.
“Let me be clear.” He turns back to me. “Our admissions criteria are intentionally exclusionary, designed to keep out people like you. It is only by the kindness of those better than you that you are here today.”
Don’t react to his insult, I tell myself. After all, my housemother isn’t exactly raving about me. And I’m sure my reaction to Harper this morning didn’t put me in a great social position. Freaking out on the headmaster now could put a quick, ugly stop to this “fresh start.”
“How do you feel when I say such things?” he asks, looking at me as if he knows me.
Sarcasm is my best defense. “What things?”
He smirks. “Very well. We might have had a rather enlightening conversation, but you insist on being a child. I am compelled to tell you that you are here today because you have a benefactor.”
“A benefactor?”
“Senator Dave Stone—a friend of your father’s—has made it possible for you to be here.”
Villicus sits at his desk again and pensively temples his fingers under his chin while I put two and two together. Dave Stone is Pilot’s dad. A cold wave of embarrassment rolls over me as I think of Pilot’s dad telling him about the charity case he has to sponsor for this rich-bitch boarding school. To say nothing of how odd it is to learn that my dad, who spends all of his time in a dark funeral home, is connected to a senator. I know Atherton is filled with the country’s wealthiest and most powerful people, but I didn’t know my dad knew any of them.
“I’m sure you know that you ought to thank him.” He waits for me to nod, and I comply. “He put himself out there for you. Cania Christy accepts only people of a certain net worth and only on invitation. You meet neither criterion.”
Stiffly, I utter, “I’ll be sure to thank him.”
“And I’m sure I know how you’ll thank him.” Like perched black crows taking flight, Villicus’s eyes narrow in the cloud-like gray of his face. “You’ll thank him as all girls with your background thank men, especially men of affluence. And I do believe such appreciation will suit his tastes fine, nubile fraulein like you.”
