by Joanna Wiebe
Pilot has an intriguing twinkle in his eye that makes me think he probably wasn’t listening very intently to Augusto’s tale of forbidden love. “Can I go next?”
“If you’d like, Pilot. Now, tell us, is your father the California senator Dave Stone?” Garnet asks.
“Until the DNA results come back,” Pilot groans. “Yeah, he’s my dad. Real shining star, that guy. Anyway, let’s see, before I came here, I was at a prep school in sunny C-A, and I got caught up in some stuff my dad didn’t want me doing. It wouldn’t be good for his political career, see. So, long story short, I ended up here last November. Shipped away like so much riff-raff.”
Next is Lotus Featherly, the smiling girl and the personification of the word saccharine. As she talks about her life before Cania, I begin to look around the table. To really look. And I notice this: all of the students are flawless. I’m not exaggerating. These kids are perfecto-mundo.
Not gorgeous, per se. Not models.
Just unblemished. And pristine.
Lotus is so free of acne, she’d put those ProActiv spokespeople to shame; her skin shines. Augusto’s hair is almost too shiny. Pilot’s teeth are so perfectly straight and white. Harper’s figure is so Scarlett Johansson–voluptuous. They look like the untouched manifestation of perfect DNA. Flawless…and here I am. Swelling out of my little uniform. And with a crooked tooth and wild hair that’s starting to frizz up thanks to the rain.
“What brought you to Cania Christy?” Garnet asks Lotus, snapping me back into reality.
Like a waterline has erupted, tears spring to the girl’s eyes. Oh, no! There is no faster way to get on the Loser List than to cry publicly in school; that’s what bathroom stalls are for. “There was a situation,” Lotus whimpers, “and my dad was presented with an ultimatum concerning me. But he didn’t take it seriously. And so my parents ended up sending me here.” She drops her gaze and folds her hands. “It’s for the best, but I desperately miss home sometimes.”
Unspoken details hang in the air, details that would require a stealthy hand to grasp them without further upsetting poor Lotus. My hand has always been prone to shaking, so I don’t press. Not with Lotus sobbing like she is. No one else seems to care much, anyway. Maybe Lotus is known for emotional overreactions or maybe they’re as self-involved as all the richies I grew up with back in Atherton.
When it’s my turn to talk, I keep the details to a minimum and close off every emotion I have about the death of my mother. My story may have arrived on this island long before I did, but that doesn’t mean I have to confirm every suspicion these people have about me.
I begin, “I went to a regular school—”
“A public school,” Harper clarifies under her breath.
“Yes, a public school in California. It was good.” I pause as my brain skips past all the other stuff. “My dad thought it would be a good idea for me to come here because it’s sure to look great on my transcripts.”
Garnet half-smiles, but no one else reacts. The stories the rest of the kids tell are at least as vague as mine, but, unlike me, everyone seems to regard Cania as an undesirable last resort. Like Siberia for teens—somewhere they’ve been exiled to. Could it be that Cania isn’t the ultimate prep school, isn’t the sure way into the Ivy League? As if to solidify my suspicion, a guy with emo eyeliner tells his ill-fated story.
“My mom and the pool boy were vacationing in the French Riviera for the millionth time,” Emo Boy says with a forced lisp. He strokes his long bangs away from his face. “So, I mean, what would you do if your parents were always leaving you with the maids?”
“Easy. Go clubbing,” Pilot says.
“I know, right?” Emo Boy tugs his sweater cuffs over his thumbs and hunches into himself. “So I was at a rave, this madass club, and, yeah, I’d taken some E—hello, it’s a rave. And there was this bitchin’ dancer in a cage, just slathered in glow paint, right?” His voice becomes muffled as, endlessly fidgeting, he shifts his fists over his mouth. “So I climbed up on some speakers. And I leapt out onto her cage. And it, like, dropped from the ceiling. And my mom had to come home early because I was in the hospital. And she was so pissed. So, yeah, here I am.”
Harper’s Thai chum, Plum, goes next. She was a child actor-turned-singer in Thailand before Cania.
“I was doing lines of coke with my dad’s friend after some red carpet event,” Plum says casually, pulling a compact out of her bag and swiping red lipstick on. “That man was more a dad to me than my real dad. Anyway, I passed out in the VIP lounge. The effing paparazzi took photos and plastered them everywhere. Bitches. So, yeah, now I’m here. No life. No shopping. Nothing but the Big V race and a dance every now and then.”
Finally, it’s Harper’s turn. She openly shifts her bra to boost her cleavage and gazes at everyone but me, which is fine because it’s taking every morsel of my brainpower to sort out what she’s wearing. These uniforms are head-turning without modifications, yet she’s replaced her white shirt with a superlow V-neck tank, “forgotten” her tights, and hiked her skirt up wicked high. (I should not know she wears a red thong, and yet I do.) Sure, she has sleek hair, a cool Balenciaga blazer, and accessories that would make Rachel Zoe look like a pauper, but nothing can mask the truth: she’s over-the-top sleazy.
“This is my second year at Cania, y’all. My daddy said I should come here after last Christmas,” Harper says. Stroking a thick lock of red hair with both hands, she stares into space. “We had what you might call a falling out. I wanted Santa to get me a pink Hummer, but my stepmonster said if I wanted to get around so bad I should try riding our expensive horses for a change. So I thought of this great plan, y’see, to get back at her for it. And, sure, I admit I overdid it and my plan sort of backfired. But I blame her for that. Whatevs. No one was really happy with what I done. I had to come here, and that’s that.”
As I’m imagining Harper’s unspoken revenge attempt gone awry, her tone shifts. Her eyes narrow intentionally, like she saw someone do that on a bad TV drama once.
“But, well,” she continues softly, “y’know how they say you can cut off a dog’s tail, but you can’t sew it back on?” Confused silence. “I think you can. And with my plans to get the Big V, I’m gonna fix my mistakes.” She flicks a stern gaze at me. “Everybody best remember not to get in my way.”
That single comment starts an uproar with everyone but me and Pilot. He catches my eye and, smiling, mouths, “Get used to this.”
I stagger out of class and attend the rest of my orientation sessions, like Using the Dewey Decimal System (no Internet here) and Living Your PT. I survive lunch by avoiding the cafeteria; instead, I head down to the waterside, where I’m surprised to find dozens of kids sitting on logs and boulders up and down the water. Yet again, no one is talking to anyone else. No one.
The rest of the afternoon I notice that strangely cold behavior more. Everyone’s totally separated by this insanely tense isolation. I’d been worried about cliques I’d have to wrestle my way into via demeaning rites of passage—sleeping in a frozen bra or making out with, like, a rock—but that couldn’t be further from reality. Everyone here interacts formally. Coldly. Shaking hands when instructed but rarely meeting eyes. Twice, fights break out between kids who look so straight-laced and suburban—geeky, even—I have to hold my breath to keep from laughing. The only moments of relief come from Lotus, who happily pairs with me at one point, and Pilot, who seems to be smirking with me—like we’re in on some private joke—every time I pass him on campus.
“What’s so funny?” I finally ask him. It’s the end of orientation day, and we’re both leaving a workshop called Help Your Guardian Help You. Teddy was sitting next to me in the workshop; thankfully, Villicus called him to his office, and I haven’t seen him since.
“Funny?” he asks, but he’s smiling like even that’s funny.
“Am I missing something?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Do you only answer questions with
questions?”
“Have you noticed that?”
Exchanging a smirk, we push through the doors. The air outside is like a wet slap.
“It’s like living in a raincloud here,” I say, buttoning my cardigan and longing for Gigi’s fish-stank coat. “Is it always like this?”
“You’ll get used to it.” Pilot halts in his tracks, forcing me to stop, too. “Listen, I’m not weird, if that’s what you think. I just wanted to talk to you more. Y’know, because it sort of feels like we know each other. Because of our dads and stuff.”
“Totally,” I say and watch my breath turn white before being absorbed into the misty air. “Your dad, like, got me in here.”
“From what I understand, your dad did that all by himself.”
“From what I understand, your dad is my benefactor.”
“Ha!” he scoffs. Pilot and I start to stroll again. We meander across the quad, heading toward the dorms and passing grumpy kids accompanied, at times, by stone-faced Guardians. “That’s the first and last time my dad will ever be called bene anything. I should’ve recorded it for posterity.”
“Well, it was awesome of him. I can’t say that I’d pay some random kid’s tuition to a place like this, even if I had the money and thought her art was half-decent.”
“Pay your tuition? Is that what you think my dad did for you?”
We stop again. Standing outside in this weather isn’t doing my hair any favors; I can feel it growing like a Chia pet on my head.
“Isn’t that what he did?” I ask.
“He supported your application, Annie. That’s what makes him your benefactor. And, besides, people don’t just pay tuition here.”
“Well, Cania surely can’t be the world’s first free private school.”
“That’s not what I mean. Tuition here is beyond cold, hard cash.” Nonchalantly, as if it’d be odd to be perplexed by such details, he lays it on me. “Your dad had to come up with your tuition. My dad wouldn’t be allowed to pay your way if he wanted to.”
But my dad doesn’t have any money. Even a couple grand is a huge stretch for him. Of course, I don’t tell Pilot that.
“Look, my dad told your dad about this place, which is a serious no-no. Secrecy is key—that’s the only way to keep this place from turning into a slum.” Grinning to take the edge off, Pilot explains that Villicus invites every student to Cania, which is why Villicus was stunned when my dad called him out of the blue and demanded he let me in. “When my dad told your dad about Cania, he broke the school’s code of secrecy.”
“There’s a code of secrecy?”
“When you’re dealing with rich screwballs, there are always codes for everything. You’ve gotta know the secret handshake, wear the club jacket, or flash the ring to get in anywhere worth getting into. Things have to be impossible to attain and insanely private for guys like my dad even to consider them. Even the people in that fishing village aren’t allowed to cross the line to come on the school grounds. It’s that exclusive here.”
I recall the red line I hopped over this morning. “Yeah, my Guardian mentioned something about not ‘fraternizing with the villagers.’ That seems extreme and sort of mean.”
“I think a marketer would call it exclusive.”
“I think a villager would call it mean.”
“You’ll never know. Because you’re not allowed to fraternize with them, remember?” His white teeth flash. “Anyway, there’s only one person our age in that whole village, so it’s not exactly like you’re missing out on a bunch of hot dudes drinking the town dry every weekend.”
Just ahead, some guy with his face painted white and his lips painted black—totally Goth—leans against the guys’ dorm building and waves at us.
“Speaking of hot dudes, there’s my roommate, Jack,” Pilot says, taking my hand and yanking me toward him. “He’s a senior, so don’t worry, he’ll be nice. You’re not a Big V competitor for him.”
Beaming through black lips, Jack turns to us as we approach. His dark gaze skips over my body and lands oh-so-obviously on my enormous ’fro. “Wow, either your PT is to raise rats in your hair or you lost a bet.”
“Annie, meet Jack,” Pilot says.
“It’s just Anne, actually.” I give Jack a slight wave. “Nice makeup. Does Halloween come early in Maine?”
Jack smirks and wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Okay, Afro Girl, you can stay.”
“Lucky me,” I mutter with a small smile as he releases me.
“I was trying to explain tuition to Annie.”
“Ah, yes,” Jack says, pulling out a cigarette and peering at me as he lights it. “Tuition. Not your usual twenty grand a semester.”
I almost choke on my own saliva. The idea that my dad could pay anything close to that sort of fee is—it nauseates me.
“How much is it?” I ask, hiding a grimace.
A thin curl of smoke escapes Jack’s lips as he chooses his next words with what seems to be great care. “Let’s just say that if you want your kid to get in here, you pay. Big time.”
Shooting a sharp look Jack’s way, Pilot adds, “Traditional tuition wouldn’t set Cania apart enough. Ivy League schools want the best, and Cania Christy does what it takes to prove it’s producing the best—from the ridiculously motivated valedictorians it churns out to its code of secrecy to the slightly inflated tuition it charges.”
“So how much is it?” I repeat. Just as I do, Harper and her posse stroll by, flicking their hair over their shoulders in perfectly timed unison. Is it wrong to want them to topple over in their six-inch Louboutins?
With equally tight grins, Pilot and Jack both shrug.
“If you have to ask, Annie, you can’t afford it,” Pilot says, chuckling.
By the time I head to Gigi’s, crossing that red line again and trying hard not to look at the house the beautiful Ben Zin calls home, I’m exhausted. If the tiny, wobbly little cottage felt at all like home to me, I’d collapse on my bed and nap until dinner.
But it doesn’t.
And the fact that Teddy’s standing in the doorway, with his notepad in one hand and my abandoned coat in the other, watching my every move as I walk up the gravel path, doesn’t help.
four
PROSPERITAS THEMA
EVEN AS NIGHT FALLS, THICK FOG STILL DRAPES THE island like the whole world’s sadness has been sucked into this one spot and manifested as a permanent damp mist, which is turning light pink with the fading light of dusk.
I’m about to spend the school year in this dreary place, but it’s not the weather I mind. I’m already getting used to it, almost as if I should have been born on the East Coast. I’ve always made my fun among the shadows, lived my life under a heavy cloud of mourning. This fog? This isolated island? This is nothing.
It’s the people that’ll take some getting used to.
Like Villicus, who, I can’t help noticing, acts like he’s running a reform school, not a prestigious prep school. And Teddy, who has spent the evening knocking on my bedroom door, sticking his pimply face in, assessing my activities, and reminding me that we’ll determine my PT before bed. During the World’s Most Uncomfortable Dinner—just Teddy, Gigi, me, and yippy Skippy—Teddy asks how my parents met, how we responded when my mom was first diagnosed bipolar, how much my dad knows about his clients at the funeral home. Pushing away his plate after just two bites, he schedules my first bi-weekly call with my dad for this Friday. All the while, Gigi just looks on uncomfortably, as if she is reconsidering her decision to let me and my Guardian stay. (Can’t say I blame her.) And Skippy—I thought that dog hated me! But Skippy barks at Teddy with such force and for so long, he actually loses his voice. It’s only when Gigi turns in early, a shaking Skippy under her arm, that I feel calm for the first time in hours.
Until Teddy comes knocking on my bedroom door.
“We must get to the matter of your prosperitas thema,” he says as he enters my room and looks slowly around. His voice squeaks often,
like he’s still going through puberty. “We shall declare and document it right now.”
“Right now? Do you think you know me well enough to make a call like this already?”
“It specifically says in my Apprentice Guide that the subject’s PT must be declared within twenty-four hours of arrival on the island.”
“You’re an apprentice?” My sucky, creepy Guardian doesn’t even have any experience?
“Never mind that. Stand and face me.”
I’ve barely risen from my chair when Teddy scoops my hands into his clammy mitts. “Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“So I may proceed with the reading.”
“The reading?”
Teddy’s reply is a cold glare. “Would you like to see these steps outlined in my guide?”
Reluctantly, I close my eyes. The problem with closing my eyes, though, is that it heightens my other senses—so, all at once, I can hear Teddy breathing loudly through his mouth, and I can feel the damp milkiness of his too-warm hands. He starts humming, and I open one eye a little to find him concentrating with his eyes closed. Like he’s meditating.
“Close your eyes,” he commands without opening his.
His fingers squeeze mine. I watch his thick, overgrown fingernails press deep into my palms, making me wince. As Teddy repeats his command, I glance at the Zin mansion lit by twilight beyond my window and allow myself to think not of Teddy but of Ben. Pretending Teddy is someone else—someone who I already recognize as the secret crush of my junior year—is the only way to get through this. I snap my eyelids shut and visualize Ben’s thick hair, piercing eyes, and crinkle-nosed grin.
