by Joanna Wiebe
“Anne Merchant.” I take it and shake. A speedboat starts down at the dock. “So, what did you mean, I’m the weird one?”
“This is a small island, which is even worse than a small town.” Rolling toward me, Molly chuckles. “I’d heard there was a new girl who was supposed to be different from the others. But don’t worry. You’re the least weird one up at that place, trust me.”
“What makes them weird? That they’re all flawless? Or that they’re the evil offspring of, like, Rockefellers?”
“Both!” Molly laughs again. “So you go into the village when you’re not supposed to. And you live with Gigi. What’s your deal? Just a sucker for punishment?”
I get to my feet, dusting my hand-me-down jeans. Molly follows and hops on her bike.
“It gets worse,” I confess easily. There’s something calming and, well, normal about Molly Watso. “We’ve got these Guardians assigned to us. And mine—Teddy—is actually living with me at Gigi’s. It’s pretty close quarters. I had to get out for some air.”
“Damn. I figured maybe Gigi would be your Guardian, but she’s from the village, so that wouldn’t work. Not really cut out for critiquing you twenty-four-seven.” She arches her eyebrow. “But looks like your Teddy Bear isn’t doing a very good job with that either.”
We fall into a stroll through the woods. I’m heading back to the main road, and I imagine she’s going to one of those enormous homes on the hillside.
“Hey, you know what the punishment is for us even talking, right?” she asks.
“Is it bad?”
“I’ll take that as a no,” she says, grinning. “You could be expelled.”
“And what’d happen to you?”
“The worst.”
“The worst?” I repeat. “The only thing worse than getting expelled from Cania might be having to go there in the first place.” I expect her to laugh, but she doesn’t.
“Exactly.”
“I’m kidding,” I say. “So, what would your punishment be?”
“Exactly what you said.” She stops walking as we near the road. “I’d be forced to attend Cania.”
“Attending Cania is a punishment? So, what? Is this place some sort of reform school?” I guess. Then another thought pops into my head. “Or, like, a mental institution for rich kids? Everyone there seems slightly off.”
I don’t add my concern: that my dad, after I fell into my depression over my mom’s death, might have tricked me into coming here under the guise of starting fresh.
Suddenly, a gunshot—at least, I think that’s what it is—tears through the air, bolting from the marina, ricocheting its echo, and sending me and Molly jumping out of our skin.
Molly nearly falls off her bike.
Another gunshot.
“Holy jeez,” she stammers, balancing herself again. “This island is getting crazier every second.” She skids away and calls back over her shoulder. “You okay getting home?”
Stunned, I think I mumble a yes. In a flash, Molly races to the hillside, shaking her head and shouting that she’ll see me later. I can’t believe she has the capacity to move. I’m frozen in place. By the time I’m able to move again, I stumble out of the woods and duck just as a Harley holding Dr. Zin and Villicus zooms by on the road below. It’s not until they pass and I regain my composure that the sound Molly and I heard makes better sense.
“Not a gunshot,” I assure myself. “It was the bike backfiring. Had to be.”
That has to be it. Because the alternative is not something I can let enter my mind. Not if I’m going to keep my sanity here, in a place that, the more I think of it, could very well be a high-end asylum.
Back at Gigi’s, under the dim glow of candles on my bedside table, my heart has stopped racing and I’m flipping through my student handbook, looking for clubs to join. It’s occurred to me that the dreariness outside, the oddness of the day, my jet lag, and my strange encounter with Molly might have made me a little jumpier than usual. Those shots we heard? I’ve dreamt up a million more explanations. Could have been barking sea lions. Or wailing loons. Or someone scattering gulls. Or a starting gun.
“Yeah, a starting gun,” I tell myself. “Starting gun for a running club.”
Doesn’t matter that, if the list of clubs in this handbook is exhaustive, there’s no running club here. There is, however, every other club known to man. A Model UN. Something called the Pil-At-Ease Club. Economics Club. Glee Club. The Social Committee. Swimming. Tennis. Mathletes. Everything.
What will I sign up for?
“What would Mr. Ben Zin be likely to take?” I ask myself and just as quickly fling the handbook down. “Why am I even thinking about the snobby son of some gun-firing power tripper?”
Just before I blow out the candles, I hear a motorbike in the Zins’ driveway, and I jump out of bed, flying to the window in time to see not a Harley but a yellow Ducati disappear under the Zins’ porte cochere. For what feels like hours, I stand in the shadows, looking out my window, watching their house, watching lights fill and disappear from one window after the other.
In reality, I know guys like Ben don’t associate with girls like me. He’s a gorgeous senior; I’m a lowly junior. And I saw his reaction to my crooked smile. There’s no denying that. If his grades were poor, at least I could console myself that he might one day deign to discuss persistence in stochastic environments with me—but he’s set to get the Big V this year.
“Nothing could possibly interest Ben Zin in me.”
I turn to the small mirror on my dresser. And I rub my eyes.
It must be the candlelight. Or maybe there’s something in the water here that makes people look better than we otherwise would. Sure, I’m nowhere near as flawless as the other kids I encountered today, but I can’t help but notice that I don’t look quite as unfortunate as I normally do. Flattering light—that must be it.
Sweeping my hair away from my face and holding it high in a ponytail, I turn side to side to see my profile in the reflection. I look…hmm, not all that bad. It’s sort of like being introduced to myself, like my brain is temporarily allowing me a second chance to make a first impression. I definitely look more like my mom than I used to (a good thing). I can see similarities with her bone structure, her eyes, and her lips. Sure, I’ve got a blemish near my jawline, but I’m sixteen! I’m supposed to.
Gradually, I let my eyes fall below my neck, but it’s like this chore to get them there—to get them to my actual body, not just my face and hair, knowing that I’m about to check myself out. One part pathetic; one part intriguing.
Like a lot of girls, I guess, I’ve built an uncertain existence in the shadows of my most prominent flaws, which are the very qualities that make me different, which is only good on good days. But here I am now. Standing in my pajama shirt and undies. Tracing my fingertips over my collarbone in the dark. Dropping my arms to my side and letting my hand hover at the hem of my pajama shirt. Holding my breath, I lift it slowly. Take it off. And blush at my reflection. Because my body is so unrecognizable to me, it’s almost pornographic.
“Not bad,” I whisper, looking at myself as I never really have before. Something inside me stirs—not because I’m attracted to myself. It’s something else. It’s realizing, for the first time ever, that I may possess a teensy tiny bit of sexual power. It’s realizing, in spite of my will to succeed based on intelligence alone, that Teddy might not have been entirely crazy to suggest my body could be a strong asset for me.
There’s a knock at the door. I clasp my shirt to my chest and pray that Teddy doesn’t come marching up the stairs to find me like this.
“Annie? You awake?” Gigi loud-whispers. “My feet are killing me. Would you massage them?”
I don’t make a peep, and she finally pads back to her room. I slip my shirt back on and decide to force myself to sleep (because I’ll be joining Ornithology Club, which starts at 7:00 A.M., which is 4:00 A.M. back home, which will feel terrible tomorrow). I reach to
draw my shade. And at that exact moment, just as I let my eyes fall on the Zin mansion for what I thought would be a nanosecond, I glimpse someone standing at a window there.
No, not someone. Two people.
I can see only their silhouettes, but it’s clear one is a man and the other a woman, and something tells me the man is not Dr. Zin. Too lean. Which means it’s Ben. With a girl. A girl who is reaching for him…not in a motherly way.
The air empties out of my room. Everything deflates at the unmistakable sight of Ben with some girl.
“Of course he has a girlfriend,” I sigh, drawing the shade. He was out with her tonight, and he brought her back to his place on that Ducati. “Of course.”
And just like that, everything I thought I saw in the mirror disappears like the candlelight I extinguish between my fingertips. As I get into bed, my new confidence, like a stream of smoke, floats away, rising to twist around the beams of the attic ceiling and, in the darkness, disappear. Just in time for my door to squeak open. Just in time for Teddy to tiptoe up the stairs, stand over me, and scribble something on his notepad.
five
THE SCREAM
THE ART OF THE STRIPTEASE. REMOVING LAYER UPON layer of clothing to expose the flesh in small, seductive increments. Tantalizing. Like Salome’s dance of the seven veils, Mata Hari’s gradual shedding of nearly every garment save one, the burlesque dancer’s beginning to end. Enticing…
…and clearly not something our nude model has even considered, given how rapidly he drops his robe. Blink and you’d have missed it.
Somehow I’ve made it through a night of tossing and turning, nightmares of finding my mom on the kitchen floor plaguing my mind. Somehow I’ve endured a broken coffee maker at Gigi’s. And a cold sprint to school, during which Ben zipped by me on his Ducati—without even pausing. And an hour spent craning my neck as I watched the sky during Ornithology Club.
Somehow I’ve survived the night to make it to my morning art workshop led by Garnet. This week’s lesson will be on the human form. Which is why a grown man now stands completely naked just beyond my reach—not that I’m about to reach.
Somehow I’ve made it here. To where a penis dangles in front of me.
As the swoosh of his robe leaving his body still reverberates, as we sit at our workstations with pencil in hand, twenty eyebrows go up and ten chins go down. Only yours truly and Garnet seem unfazed by this man’s very exposed, very chiseled self. (And I’m sure Garnet’s lack of surprise isn’t due to the fact that she’s helped her dad dress hundreds of naked cadavers.) To my surprise, even Harper is blushing. To no one’s surprise, Lotus looks like she might cry.
“Feast your eyes,” our model Trey exclaims, drawing his hand down his body. He’s a member of the faculty, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him. He’s nowhere near as hard on the eyes as most of the teachers here. “I am man. Hear me roar.”
Pilot, who sits across from me, snickers at the same time I do. But no one else makes a sound. Probably because they’re all shocked, some with jealousy, some with fear—others, dare I read into Plum’s pout, with lust.
Garnet simply sweeps the robe from the floor and tries to keep a straight face. “Thank you, Mr. Sedmoney,” she says. “We appreciate you taking the time out of your teaching schedule to help us this week.”
“I don’t have any classes first period, so no worries.” He swings his gaze around the room and settles on Harper, who is practically gyrating in her chair in an effort to get his attention.
“Well, then,” Garnet says, “if you could sit still like a…like a tableau vivant.”
“Tableau vivant?” he repeats. “Mmm, French. Sexy.” He rests his chin on his fist like The Thinker and gazes around the room from the corner of his eye.
Seeing Trey in his pose, Garnet seems at a loss for words, so she turns her attention on us, on the sea of crimson faces and wide eyes. “This is a refresher in gesture and proportion,” she explains. “Learn to break the body into manageable pieces as opposed to…to…to trying to swallow the form whole.” Immediately, she shakes her head; she seems relieved that none of us have the cojones to laugh at what she just said.
We have a little under an hour to try not to stare at this man who seems intent on getting a reaction from us. He crosses his legs. Uncrosses them. Opens them wide. Stretches them long. Does everything but hold an arrow-shaped sign to his crotch and shout, “Look at this!” I painstakingly work to replicate his form on eleven-by-seventeen sheets of grid paper as Garnet strolls between our workstations, looking over our shoulders and offering advice before, returning to her desk, losing herself in her own sketches.
As the minutes tick by, Harper and Plum fall into one of those our-conversation-is-so-awesome-you-should-all-hear-it chats that I do my best not to listen to. It’s about the dance this Saturday, which Harper’s Social Committee is organizing and which I don’t even want to think about. Unfortunately, those girls make it hard to ignore them—so hard that a few people, unable to endure another twang, squeal, or yip, demand they shut up.
“Ferme la bouche!” Augusto cries. “We do not care about your idiotic clothing for that idiotic dance.”
“Idiotic stripper clothing!” Emo Boy tacks on.
Lotus frowns. “Please, everyone. Let’s not argue.”
“We didn’t ask y’all to eavesdrop,” Harper snorts. “Can’t help if we’re so interesting you’ve gotta pay attention to us.”
Plum glares at Emo Boy, clutches her boobs, pushes them up, and adds, “Don’t even play like you don’t want this. You’d kill for this.”
“If you mean kill myself to avoid going near it.”
With a high-pitched huff, Plum leaps to her feet. She opens her mouth wide like she’s about to shout something terrible, but she stops herself unexpectedly. And, to my surprise, sneers my way. “Oh, whatever!”
Shoving his hair out of his eyes, Emo Boy stands, marches up to Plum, and shoves her in the chest. Hard.
“No one wants that, you fugly has-been. And that’s exactly why your PT’s gonna totally crash.”
“Crash?” She shoves him back with enough force that he loses his footing.
With that, Augusto’s on his feet, too. I can’t believe it. They’re actually going to fight.
“Crash? Just like you did—” Plum lashes at him “—on that stupid dance floor—” another strike, but she just misses him “—with that cage dancer?”
Seriously. A fistfight.
It’s insanely stupid to fight in the middle of class—especially with two teachers looking on, teachers who are grading us at every turn. But Augusto, Emo Boy, and Plum don’t seem to care. They make one of those circles you see boxers make, sidestepping and holding each other’s glowers as they lift their fists.
Finally, Lotus scurries to her feet and pulls Plum back. Reluctantly, Emo Boy and Augusto lower their fists. Garnet and Trey just watch—and I quickly realize that they’re making notes. Are they grading the quality of the fight? Or could it be that at least one of those three has declared a PT to battle their way to success?
Stunned, I find myself locking eyes with Pilot. His expression is blank, as if he’s given up on this school and the ubercompetitive people in it. Confused and wondering what’s going on in his mind, I focus again on my sketch.
The room is tensely silent for the next twenty minutes. I run through sheet after sheet of paper, feeling like I’m getting closer to capturing something interesting beyond the lines of Trey’s body, feeling myself fall into the groove. As I work up a frenzy, a cold sweat rushes over me.
“Five minutes, everyone,” Garnet calls.
Shivers run through my arms. I glance up to see if someone opened a window, but as soon as I do, my head spins. Shaking it off, I see that, in fact, the windows are all closed—and almost everyone else has stripped off their cardigans and blazers. Perhaps I’m coming down with something because it feels like the cold is coming from my body itself, from my wrists; I pull my card
igan all the way up and over my fingertips, hoping to lock in some heat, but the shivering won’t stop.
My breath is coming short and fast. Tiny, quick breaths that make my head woozy.
“You don’t have time for the flu,” I whisper to myself between chattering teeth and, trying to keep my pencil from shaking, look purposefully at Trey, demanding my body stop shivering.
But when I look Trey’s way, there are three of him.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I look down at my paper. Bad idea. The lines are blurring together, duplicating themselves. Overlapping. Straight lines are wavy; everything is spinning. What I hear next, what I remember, is the thud of my body hitting the ground after some sort of freefall from my stool. I see a burst of light; I hear gasps all around. In the flashes behind my eyes, I see my dad leaning over me, petting my hair the way he used to when I would wake from feverish dreams. The cold sensation on my wrists, it’s even stronger, like someone’s rubbing ice cubes on my skin. My dad—he seems so real, almost touchable, and if he were to lean down and kiss my head now, I might even feel it. I wrestle to lift my three-hundred-ton head to his face.
“Anne?” A man’s voice. A loud clap.
“I don’t think that did it.” A woman’s voice.
Searing pain. Shooting in my skull. I try to lift my hand to my forehead and open my eyes, but I feel pinned down. Slowly, the ceiling of the classroom comes into view. And I find a naked man bending over me.
“Trey?”
He smiles and puts on the robe Garnet hands to him. “Dreaming of me, sweetheart?”
I just blink, trying to register where I am, who he is, what’s going on. “What happened?”
“You fainted, Anne.” Garnet’s voice. I jerk my head toward her, but it hurts.
“We have you lying on the floor,” Trey adds.
I wince as I realize all of my classmates’ shadows are falling over me.
