by Joanna Wiebe
Five minutes later, Pilot and I are on the beach, sitting side by side on a huge fallen tree that’s turned white and smooth with age and wind and countless waves crashing over it. Deadwood scraps litter the sand. The sun is out for the first time all week, and a family of sea lions takes in the rays on the rocks. Foamy water inches slowly up the shoreline, lapping at the shapeless feet of the lions. Amazing how mammoth they are, I think, and how little attention they pay to us. As if they haven’t even noticed us, yammering as we are.
“Is it just me,” I begin, “or are things weird around here?”
“Ha! Just follow my lead, and you’ll be fine.”
Pilot then proceeds to bring me up to speed on all things Cania Christy—from the teachers to avoid to the secretaries to kiss up to.
“Dr. Tina Naysi, the chem prof, looks senile but is actually, like, a genius. Trey Sedmoney—well, you already know him. He’s caught groping at least one student every month, so watch your ass.” He grins. It’s the perfect invitation for me to tell him what I saw Harper doing last night, but I’d rather pretend it didn’t happen. “There’s no one in the front office worth trusting.”
“The secretaries are insanely creepy. And immature.”
“Yeah, just don’t get in a fistfight with one of those fuglies.” He cracks his knuckles and tugs a branch out from a tangle of mushy seaweed. “They’ve got nothing pretty to protect.”
“Except their brooches. Those are stunning.”
“Brooches?”
“Yeah. They all wear the same one. An emerald one. The cafeteria ladies wear it, too.”
“Really?”
“And the teachers, but theirs have rubies. Except Garnet.”
“They do?”
I stare at him. He’s pulling bark off the branch. “You hadn’t noticed?”
“Guess I’m not that perceptive.” Then an idea hits him, brightening his face. “Hey! Maybe they all have to wear it. Like, their heads’ll fall off if they take off the magical jeweled pin. Like that story about the woman with the yellow scarf or whatever, and her head fell off.”
It’s hard not to smile, watching Pilot pretend he’s trying to keep his head on straight, watching him stagger off the tree to blindly chase an invisible head down the beach. When he finally collapses on the sand at my feet, he begins rehashing all these crazy stories from last year, chuckling as he impersonates teachers. I laugh along with him, but I’m surprised to find myself watching him more than listening. I notice the way his lips move softly as he speaks. His dark eyes glisten brightly, and his animated face is lovely and expressive. He’s not as tall as Ben is, but that puts him right at my height, which could work—as long as I never wear heels, which I don’t. Like everyone else at Cania, he’s flawless, with skin that a magazine ad might call radiant or glowing but what I’d venture to call candescent, lit from within.
Hold on. I stop myself. What am I doing? Why am I pondering Pilot?
I guess I can’t help it. He’s nice, he’s cute, and he’s the only friend I’ve got now that Mr. Watso has made it abundantly clear I’m not allowed within a thousand-foot radius of Molly. But could Pilot Stone, son of a senator (albeit a sex addict), see beyond my crooked tooth and wild hair? Something in the way his eyes sparkle when he laughs with me makes me believe he could.
I feel a blush coming on—but it’s quickly halted by an image my brain cooks up. Ben standing behind my bench last night. Warning me to get out of the village, which is considerate, I guess. But calling me dumb at the same time, which is anything but considerate. And he’s got a girlfriend. And, who am I kidding, there’s just no way Ben and I could ever happen.
“Unless you care about being graded,” Pilot says.
I flinch. What’s he talking about? I stopped paying any attention long ago.
“Do you?” he urges.
“Do I what?”
“Care about being graded.”
“For what? Like, in general?”
“Did you just faint again?” he laughs.
I sigh. “I was thinking about—” I rack my brain for a lie. I can’t very well tell him I’ve been mentally comparing him to Ben Zin. “I’ve been thinking about hearing things.”
“Hearing things?” He looks intrigued. “Like, hearing voices in your head? Or are you tapped into guicy jossip already?”
I smile. “No. I’ve been literally hearing things. Like gunshots my first night here. And screams the other morning.”
“Screams?”
“Yeah. On campus. You didn’t hear them?”
He shrugs. “Maybe it was a bird. There’s some crazy wildlife around here. Same for the gunshots.”
“You think? Really?”
“Well, sure. I mean, the only other explanation is that you’re on an island of screaming, gun-wielding murderers.” Baring his teeth and making his eyes crazy-wide, he pretends to lunge for my neck. Shrieking, I push him back. “Anyway, I was talking about the dance this weekend, Miss Anne. The Cupid and Death Dance. Well, it’s technically a masquerade, but whatevs.”
“A masquerade?”
“It’s not that serious. But, yeah, you get dressed up and wear a mask. And the theme is Cupid and Death, which is some sort of famous old masque from, like, Jane Austen times. That’s all.”
“Did you say we’re being graded on it?”
“Yupper. Like everything here.”
“Graded on a dance?”
“Everything that can be assessed is assessed,” Pilot recites. “But if you, like moi, aren’t hung up on the Big V, then, you know, it could be fun.” Suddenly, he jumps down from the log. “Crap, I forgot I have to set up for my jazz class. I’ve gotta run. But, um.” He shifts on his feet, fidgeting. “You didn’t really say.”
“Say what?”
“I mean, I guess I’m assuming you’re not going with anyone else. When you could be. I dunno. Are you?”
I hold my breath. Is he asking what I think he’s asking? If he is, that should be good, right? I mean, I’ve just been sitting here having this mini-fantasy about him. So I should want to say yes, shouldn’t I?
“But,” he sighs. “Well, I can’t dance. Can you?”
If there’s one thing I can do, it’s dance. I have my mom to thank for that. But, recognizing Pilot’s insecurity on the matter, I shrug. “I can’t do the sort of dances they might have at an old-school masque, if that’s what you mean.”
“Cool. Well, if you’re not worried about your grade or being embarrassed on the dance floor with me—because that’s a given—then, will you go to the dance with me?”
A brisk walk away from the waterside is the impossibly ornate Valedictorian Hall. After some wandering, during which time I repeatedly try to remind myself that I’m happy to be going to the dance with Pilot, I find myself standing outside the front doors of that hall. Staring at it. I’d read about it in my student handbook and know already that it opens just once a year, just at the end of June, just for the graduation ceremony when the valedictorian is named. Yet I try the handle for the double doors anyway.
“Locked. Of course,” I mutter, stuffing my hands in my blazer pockets.
I spy a bronze plaque behind thick vines of ivy traveling up the wall. Pushing aside the vines, I read the rhyme embossed on the plaque, which is a challenge because some of its letters are rubbed away:
-aled-ctori-n, you shine, you exce-,
Now to each of your peer-, bid a blessed f—well
From this isle of -ope to success, do proce-d,
Eve- active, ever after, with endl-ss Godspeed.
Honestly, the indoctrination machine here has been working overtime. For a moment, the geek in me thinks that perhaps the missing letters are part of some word game, and I start trying to piece them together—VIA L SAR—but give up when I glimpse someone I recognize walking by oh so silently. It’s the girl with the bobbed hair; I saw her on the road on my first day. Our eyes meet briefly.
I watch her until she disappears around
the corner of the building’s stone walls and, not much later, come out on the other side, her gaze still fixed on me.
As she moves toward Goethe Hall, I look away from her, step back, and take in this underused, much revered building. Standing one extremely tall story high, Valedictorian Hall hints on its exterior of the magnificence of its interior. The surrounding gardens rise majestically and spread to the clean edges of beds with soil as dark as steeped tea; inside, I imagine a double aisle of darkly stained pews that gleam. A highly wrought chimney graces skyward; inside, I imagine an immaculate fifteen-foot marble fireplace. I stand on my tiptoes to peer through the stained-glass windows near the door, wondering why they keep such a building locked when it alone could attract tourists to the island, and hoping to catch a glimpse of something that might help me unravel the mysteries not only of this overelaborate building but also of the importance of the valedictorian race. A title so important they dedicate the most magnificent building on campus to it. A title so important they grade you at dances to see if you qualify for it.
The Cupid and Death Dance. This Saturday.
Admittedly, it felt somewhat cool when Pilot asked me to go with him. There was an embarrassing but flattering formality about it. But now the rush of that moment is wearing off, and my mind (my heart?) is starting to ask all these questions. As it asks, it drums up images of a certain green-eyed senior with whom I am not going. No, if Ben is going at all, he’s going with his mysterious girlfriend.
“Anne Merchant, you are going with Pilot, plain and simple,” I remind myself. “And that’s good.”
Pilot and I are going to have a nice, peaceful little night; he’ll walk me home, ask to hold my hand, and we’ll probably kiss on Gigi’s doorstep. Nice. Peaceful. And as we have that sweet little kiss? In the mansion next door, Ben and his girlfriend will be in a sweaty, fiery tangle of passion.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Don’t torture yourself.” I groan, reluctantly opening my eyes again and stepping around the side of the hall.
Where I find myself standing face-to-face with Ben.
We both jump at the sight of the other. But I’m not just startled; I’m freaked out. Did I say anything incriminating that he might’ve overheard? Did I accidentally mutter his name while I was thinking about him? Oh, damn, I hope not. I really must stop talking to myself.
“I thought you were someone else,” he says, clutching his chest. I guess he’s waiting for his girlfriend. “What are you doing, sneaking up like that?”
“I wasn’t sneaking up. And you snuck up on me last night, so.”
“That’s different,” he says. “That was to protect you.”
“Protect me?”
“From yourself. You seem destined to self-destruct.”
“Why? Because I questioned you in class?” Somehow, I’ve gone from pining over Ben to wanting to attack him, all in a matter of seconds. “Do you always lurk around like this?”
“I’m not lurking. I’m standing. Remembering something.” For the first time, I notice that he looks disoriented. “The last time I was in this building.”
“I thought they only let graduates in.”
He brushes his hair back. “Someone I once admired graduated here. I was a guest.”
Surprised by the intimacy of his revelation, I don’t know what to say. “Well, sorry to interrupt.”
And, with that, I walk by him, hoping I didn’t come off as idiotic as I feel. But, out of nowhere, he grabs my shoulder, stopping me. In slow motion, I turn my head, lips parted, to glance down at the luckiest shoulder that ever existed, the one on which his hand now rests.
“I liked that you questioned me in class.” He notices me watching his hand and quickly pulls it away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—to touch you.”
Soundlessly, I just shake my head.
“Your observations were good. For all the interest in the Big V here, there’s much less emphasis on academics than on the PT. That you challenged me was…unexpected.”
Stepping back, I look him in the eyes. “Because I’m dumb,” I state coldly. “Is that what you mean? It was a good observation for a girl too stupid to stay out of the village.”
“That’s not what I mean. You should keep questioning things. It’s a great survival strategy here.”
“Thanks for the tip.” It’s my PT, after all.
“Just trust me. If you keep questioning things, you might find yourself walking out the doors of this very hall one smiling valedictorian,” he adds, patting the exterior of Valedictorian Hall.
“Who said I wanted to be valedictorian?”
His eyes narrow. “You’ve been hanging out with Pilot Stone too much.”
“Yeah, it’s really terrible to hang out with nice people. I’m crazy that way.”
“You don’t think I’m a nice person?”
What does that mean? We don’t hang out. Does he want to be friends?
“I am nice,” he adds, part defensively, part in jest. “And full of great info about this place. For example, did you know that this is the only building on campus that isn’t part of the original naval base?”
I glance at it. “It’s a hallenkirche.”
“Sixteenth century. Flown in brick by brick from Berlin and plated in copper.” Looking intrigued, he takes a step closer to me. “So, when you’re not reading Hegel you’re studying German architecture?”
Cautiously, I shake my head. He thinks you’re a nerd. Quick, say something non-nerdy. “Sometimes I read science fiction.” Dammit! I’ve failed miserably, and now he thinks I’m a Trekkie.
A small grin plays on his lips. “Me, too.”
“You do?”
“I’m in the library all the time. So, sci-fi. What else do you read?”
“Whatever there is,” I say. “I was reading Lord of the Flies before I came here. It reminds me of Wormwood Island. You know, the way the kids are all stuck?” Not to mention that it wouldn’t be all bad if a giant rock fell on Harper and crushed her like it did Piggy.
Something odd flickers in his eyes as he observes me. “Stuck? I hadn’t realized you felt stuck.”
“Don’t you?”
“Ha! More than I can say.” His eyes search mine, and I feel heat rising under my skin. “But, unlike those British school boys, we have strict supervision here and very strict rules to follow. So it’s not quite the same. But close.” After pausing like he’s not sure if he should finish his thought, he finally says, “Try again.”
Try again? “I read 1984 before that.”
“And?”
“What do you mean, and?”
“Does it remind you of Wormwood Island, too?”
“Should it? You’re the one who knows all about this school. You tell me.”
“I’m not allowed to.”
“You’re not allowed to? Says who?”
“And something tells me I might not need to.”
He pauses, glancing around as if someone might overhear. Or maybe he’s just watching for his girlfriend. Then he takes another step toward me, closing the gap between us in one pace; I stop breathing. He’s so close to me now, I can smell the sweetness of his breath and see tiny flecks of blue in his irises. The bell rings, but neither Ben nor I flinch. The subtext of this perplexing conversation has absorbed me completely, and I think it may even have drawn him in.
“1984 was about Big Brother, mind control, relentless war. Is there any of that sort of thing going on here?” I ask.
After giving my assessment some consideration, he shakes his head. “Try again.”
I wrack my brain. “The Prince by Machiavelli.”
His smile falters; his bright eyes darken. “Rulers who create their own morals and sense of order? People who lie and cheat to get ahead? Yeah, you’ll definitely want to study that one here.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Any others?”
“Why?”
But just when things are getting interesting, Villicus steps out from behind the
other side of Valedictorian Hall and stands directly behind Ben. Surely my expression tells Ben that we have unexpected company. He turns to face Villicus who, for such an old man, seems unusually large and powerful.
“Mr. Zin. Miss Merchant. Classes are about to begin.”
Swallowing, I nod and glance at Ben. His face is blank.
“Mr. Zin,” Villicus continues, “perhaps you might join me in my office to continue your literary discussion. Miss Merchant, off to class.”
For the rest of the day, I replay my conversation with Ben—the good part, the pre-Villicus part—in my head. I replay it as I sit with Pilot at lunch. As I avoid Teddy’s glare while walking through campus. As I run home after Meteorology Club, darting through the woods, over tree stumps, branches, ferns, to keep from being pelted by the rainstorm that’s blown in with a muffled but ground-quaking growl. Darkness looms overhead as I run, and I welcome it, adoring each tiny black cloud (which I’ve just learned are called cumulonimbus mammatus) that stacks up next to its brother like coal briquettes, willing them to block out the sun for the rest of time, if they want to. I don’t need the sunshine to feel good. I already feel good. No, I feel great out here, running at full tilt with the most unbelievable black sky dousing the earth. With a vast rainbow of crunching leaves in purple and orange hues under my boots. With the memory of Ben standing so close to me, smiling that charming smile, feeding me with tantalizing hints as if he knows how confused I feel right now.
Just as the rain begins to really pour down, I see the Zin mansion through a break in the trees ahead. My neighbor. My gorgeous neighbor who was actually nice to me today. I can almost hear the uncool, geeky girls around the world cheering. Victory! A small win, but a win!
I hurtle three felled trees in a row like a track superstar and say to myself, “He implied—he wanted—to be friends.” There’s no hiding my smile.
When I reach the impeccably manicured Zin lawn, I come to a short stop and, still shielded by the cover of trees, do a little dance. Then I glance at Ben’s house, and my breath catches.
