The Unseemly Education of Anne Merchant

by Joanna Wiebe

  “Why not? What changed?” I shoot a glare at Teddy, hoping it stings him at least a little. I know what changed. I just can’t believe Teddy has the authority to make it change.

  “Don’t worry about that. And, hey, about the dorm rooms. Forget what I said. If it’s meant to be, you’ll get a dorm room. It’s in God’s hands.”

  “In God’s hands?”

  “Sure, sweetie.”

  People talk about something being in God’s hands when they’re trying to get into med school or watching their beloved wife’s mental soundness degrade before their eyes. Not when they’re talking about dorm assignments. Doesn’t God have bigger things to worry about than getting me into student housing?

  “Whatever,” I mutter. “That’s not important. Just give me a sec. I have an, um, question about a movie.”

  “A movie?”

  No, not a movie. I want to know why you shipped me out to some high-priced juvie. And what you gave up. What did I do wrong? Was it just because I was sad about Mom?

  A timer goes off on my dad’s end of the line.

  “Sorry, hun. I’d love to talk about movies and everything—you can’t even imagine—but it’s been fifteen minutes.”

  “I think it’s been fourteen.”

  “Sorry,” he repeats, “but it’ll have to wait until I see you next weekend, okay? Don’t want to break the rules.”

  And, with that, Teddy pulls the receiver away from me and unplugs it. Pursing his skinny lips, he turns to me. “Your father is wise to obey the rules. You should follow his lead.”

  The last thing I want to do is listen to Teddy yammer on about what I should be doing, how I should be behaving. Taking the stairs three at a time, I bound up to my room and slam the door.

  Desperate to distract myself, I root through my closet to plan my dance outfit, throwing clothes over my bed, wondering exactly how formal formal is. My pathetic wardrobe makes me want to jump off a cliff. Nothing; I have nothing. And the girls in the dorms? The Model UN from Hell? They probably have it all. Hervé Léger and Bottega Veneta party dresses. Emilio Pucci scarves. Marchesa clutches. Stella McCartney lingerie underneath it all. Swarovski crystal masks.

  I’ll be glad not to have loose threads hanging from my skirt hem.

  Hours later, when I turn off the attic light and crawl into bed, I can’t hide from my thoughts any longer. So I stare up at the beams, dreading the nightmares waiting on the other side and wincing to think of Dr. Zin’s face when I flung open the door and saw him sitting there. Ugh. Squeezing my eyes shut doesn’t drive the memory away. It’s clear that I’ve compromised my future at Cania Christy just because I got jealous of some girl—some chick who is definitely not from off-island and who, for all I know, may be Ben’s study partner. Restless, I get out of bed and pace my room. The floorboards creak, threatening to rouse the house, but Gigi hasn’t come home yet, and I don’t care if Teddy wakes up—it’s not like his beauty sleep is helping him.

  It’s nearly midnight, but the sky is orange with light reflecting off the crescent of the coming harvest moon. As I draw the shade, I glance, as always, at the Zin mansion.

  My breath catches.

  Ben is standing directly across from me, a dark shadow in the same dimly lit window where he stood just days ago with that girl. But he’s alone. His luminescent eyes are the only hint of color, the only indication that the silhouette is Ben, not some wandering spirit and not Dr. Zin. A shiver runs down my spine and up again, like hundreds of tiny angels are fluttering their wings under my skin, under my hair.

  Undeniably, Ben is watching me.

  How long has he been looking? The whole time I was pacing?

  Instead of backing away, I return his gaze. I lift my window, letting in the chilly night air, hoping to apologize to him if he’s figured out that I broke into his house today. But he shakes his head and points at the bottom of his window, telling me it won’t open. I nod and reluctantly shimmy the old window down again.

  In this moment, the isolation of this island feels greater than ever, and I imagine Wormwood Island lost in an ocean, invisible from space, hidden below an omnipresent cloud. Perhaps Ben is feeling something similar. But he turns away suddenly, and just as I worry he won’t return, he does; he raises a sketch so I can see it—but, in the darkness and at this distance, I can barely see it. Seems to be a face, but I can’t tell. Did he draw me? Or is this another one of Ben’s valiant attempts to shed light on the murky mysteries of a world he knows better than I? I shake my head at him. I don’t know what the image is, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to take away from it.

  Saturday for me is spent worrying the phone will ring and Dr. Zin or Villicus will be on the other end of the line, telling Gigi and Teddy all about my B&E. When I’m not worrying, I’m studying, sketching, flipping through art books. Anything to take my mind off the four-hours-away, three-hours-away, two-hours-away dance. By the time the sun sets, I’ve sketched so much my hand hurts; when I look down at what I’ve produced, I know none of it can be used to help me at school. Because I’ve created a stack of sketches that are, without a doubt, Ben look-alikes.

  Ben standing at the window.

  Ben on his Ducati.

  Ben leaning against an oak in the quad as I saw him do once.

  “Obsess much?” I ask myself.

  When I hear a rapping on my door, I flip the sketches upside down, looking for any trace of my fascination with Ben, anything to give me away.

  “Come in,” I call.

  But Teddy is already halfway up the stairs, as if knocking is a formality and privacy an illusion. He pauses, peering around; I can see only his skinny head poking up like a groundhog. His rat eyes look at me, leer around my room, and return to me. Bracing the desk, I wait for the bad news: I’m out. And Molly’s in.

  “It’s almost dinner time, Anne.”

  I sigh, relieved. “I’ll be right down.”

  Rather than leaving, he comes to the top of the stairs and invites himself in. I suck on the inside of my cheek to keep from growling, amazed at how imperceptive he is. Is he lost? Does he actually believe his role as my Guardian entitles him to walk around my room as he pleases?

  “So,” he drones. “I’ve been noting your behavior all week.”

  I put my pencil down. He wants to have a conversation. And I suppose I should give him what he wants, considering the power he wields.

  “And have you been satisfied?” I ask. “You’ve been watching from behind the two-way mirrors, I believe.”

  He drags his hand along the footboard of my bed, wanders to a far wall, returns to my bed and rubs a bed knob between his palms. Mental note: Bleach bed knobs. Wanders more. Stops just feet away from me.

  “Your academic performance means very little to me. We need to talk about your PT,” he says coldly. “I’d like to propose to Villicus that we change it. Several of the other Guardians agree. Trey Sedmoney in particular has encouraged me to have this discussion with you.”

  “Change my PT now? I’ve spent the whole week trying to live by it.”

  “As I suspected, it is not coming easily. But it ought to. It should be built into your nature.”

  I lean back in my chair and glare at him, surely failing to mask my intense irritation. “If you’re suggesting I go with the one you first proposed…”

  “Let me tell you,” he prattles on, waving his finger, “there are girls in your class who have exceedingly better PTs than you.”

  “The Model UN from Hell?” He’s been hanging around me enough, he knows I’m referring to Harper’s crowd.

  “I could rate you very favorably,” he says, his soft voice sending shivers up my spine, “if you could be so obliging.” Then he lowers his hands to his pants and undoes the top button.

  My mouth drops open, but not in the way he wants it to. “You’re disgusting.”

  “I’m your meal ticket.”

  “There is no way on God’s green earth that I would ever do that. Get out.�
��

  A simper morphs his mouth as he zips his pants again. A part of me thinks I see relief wash his face, as if he was just playing the part of a revolting pervert. Which can’t be true.

  “If only we were on God’s green earth, Miss Merchant.” And he leaves.

  eleven

  CUPID AND DEATH

  JUST A MINUTE AGO, IT WAS 7:15, AND I WAS EATING oregano-heavy spaghetti while avoiding Gigi’s curious gaze—the tension between Teddy and me thicker than the gray haze beyond the kitchen windows.

  “How is it possible that it’s eight already?” I ask my reflection now, sweeping pieces of my hair up loosely in my mom’s barrettes, trying not to let myself fall into a depression as I silently beg for her to be here. Just for a moment. Just for my first dance. The list of challenges I’d kill for her guidance on is growing longer by the second. The memories of our afternoon dance-offs, of the tap and hip-hop sessions she adored guiding me through each summer, are a numbing sort of torture. “Don’t do that, Anne. Don’t ruin your mascara.”

  Rubbing a spot of cream blush into my cheeks, I try to feel as joyful as I’m starting to look. Smudge eye shadow on. Darken my lashes. Tend to all the odds and ends of being a girl as expertly as possible given my untrained hand and poorly stocked makeup case. All in an attempt to camouflage a flaw more noticeable than my crooked tooth.

  My outfit.

  Resigned to never being the pretty one in the room, I clasp a long strand of costume jewelry around my neck, remind myself that I’ll need to be witty to keep attention on my face tonight, and step back to see my reflection. But this mirror’s too small, so I head to the bathroom downstairs. As I enter—and shudder to hear Teddy whistling while he dresses, because of course my Guardian has to attend tonight, too—the doorbell rings. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, I think it might be Ben. Well, I don’t really think it will be; I just hope, based on a small bit of residual happiness I have about that moment at the window last night. I lean toward the staircase to listen.

  “Delivery,” the woman at the door says.

  Sighing, I step back into the bathroom and almost drown in a wave of depression when I look in the mirror. Ugh. Forget it! I’m not going. I slump onto the side of the bathtub and rest my head in my hands. There’s no point going to a formal dance in this excuse for a skirt, which is almost as old as I am. And my blouse? I’ve seen the Model UN from Hell wear nicer shirts for Pil-At-Ease Club.

  “Annie! Come down here,” Gigi shouts.

  What now? I drag myself past the mirror again, refusing to look in it. Just stand Pilot up, I think as I stomp down the stairs. It’ll be better that way. Less embarrassing.

  “I had no idea you were running deliveries,” Gigi says to the delivery lady. “Here Anne is now.”

  I glance at Gigi and then over to the delivery lady, who’s standing behind her. But it isn’t a delivery lady. It’s Molly. Smiling Molly. Shaking-her-head Molly. Desperately-shhing-me Molly. Trying-to-hide-our-secret-friendship Molly.

  “Can I help you?” I ask her. I’m wearing my best poker face, but Molly’s exaggerated frown says it all over again: I have no future in poker.

  Gigi mumbles as she passes me up the stairs, “I’ll tell Teddy the delivery’s from your dad. But after tonight, you don’t speak to Molly again.”

  At the top of the stairs, she turns, shakes her head, and closes her bedroom door behind her. When I look at Molly, who’s holding a big white box, I nearly burst out laughing. Molly just grins and holds the box out. Far behind her, I think I spy that quiet girl with the short bangs standing on the road, but the shadows engulf that spot before I can be sure. So I turn quickly to Molly.

  “Sounds like Gigi knows we’ve been hanging out,” I say with a grimace and glance over my shoulder to ensure Teddy’s not watching. “Did you hear anything from Dr. Zin? Did he rat us out?”

  Molly simply says, “Delivery, Miss Merchant.”

  “What? Whatever. I’m totally glad to see you. I am in serious need of girl help.” As demonstration, I curtsy in my old skirt.

  “Package for Miss Annabelle Merchant.”

  I frown. “What’s going on? Who’s Annabelle? I’m Anne. Molly, what’s up?”

  “Sorry, do I have the wrong person?” Molly widens her eyes and runs them over the address on the box. “Maybe it’s Cinderella I’m looking for?”

  “You wouldn’t be far off.”

  “I’m serious, Anne,” she says, lowering her voice and nudging the box toward me.

  “What do you mean? You don’t know my name?”

  “Geez. I thought you Cania kids were supposed to be smart.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “Can you just play along with this whole delivery charade before Teddy comes out? Now you say ‘why, that’s me’ and I say, ‘please sign here.’ Look! I even have a clipboard.” Molly frowns. “Please sign my clipboard. And then march upstairs, get that hot body dressed, and have an amazing time.”

  “I am dressed,” I groan.

  “No. You’re not.”

  “Yes, I am. This is it. I’m not kidding.” Still holding the box, I sign the clipboard to play along. “My wardrobe is really this pathetic, and, yes, if you’re wondering, I do want to die.”

  Molly looks me up and down. “This was such a good idea,” she breathes, smiling. “I’m going straight to Heaven for this one.” And then she turns, jumps off the steps, and hops on her bicycle.

  I holler after her, “You forgot your box!”

  Smiling over her shoulder, Molly shushes me and calls out in her best loud-whisper, “Go steal Ben away from that chicky, you gorgeous thing. Then meet me tomorrow morning at ten, in the woods by the marina, and tell me everything. And don’t say I never did anything for you! I should be sainted for what I’m doing.”

  The problem with sainting is that they don’t hand those titles out to people until years after they’ve died, until well after someone’s lived a totally virtuous life. So you don’t get to become a living saint for performing one-off miracles.

  But if there was a way to canonize a living, breathing teen girl or a competition for whom in the whole wide world should be sainted, I would stand on the tallest of mountains, the highest of hills, and proclaim that Miss Molly Watso of Wormwood Island must be a strong contender.

  But, I have to admit, it’d be hard to climb a mountain in the heels I’m wearing right now.

  “Come on!” Teddy bellows as he marches over the red line to campus, annoyed that I can’t keep up.

  I have questions—lots of them. I’ve had them since the moment I placed the long white box on my bed and opened the lid to reveal the most welcome gift I’ve ever received. Questions like how on earth Molly got her hands on strappy, gold-studded Jimmy Choo stilettos. Or how she had in her possession a Prussian blue Carolina Herrera trumpet-style gown that clings to every curve I’m still getting used to on my body. Or where on earth she found a thin golden mask with a dramatic plume of three feathers in three shades of blue. Or how she knew that I’d need all these things from her and delivered them just in the nick of time.

  But I don’t want answers to those questions. No, I don’t want to spoil the closest thing to a magical encounter with a fairy godmother—a sixteen-year-old, non fairy, non godmother—I’ve ever had. I’m going to take this blessing without question, make it up to Molly however I can, and, best of all, hold my head high at the dance.

  Even if I am walking into that dance with Teddy.

  “I’m not going to keep stopping to wait for you,” Teddy shouts at me as he marches along the road to campus.

  “Don’t let me keep you,” I call back, wobbling as I get used to these heels.

  “It is my job to stay by your side.” He stops, hands on his scrawny hips. “Des Chaos wunderlicher tochter!”

  When I look at him, boney in his tuxedo, I realize there’s a reason they call them penguin suits. He looks like a malnourished, angry penguin.

  “Why do you have to s
tay by my side?” I reply, stomping by him. “No other Guardians do that.”

  “They ought to!”

  His lips form an invisible, crooked line as his eyes slide over my body like black eels navigating seaweed. I try not to gag at the memory of this afternoon, of him in my room. Trust Teddy to ruin tonight for me. My first dance, and, thanks to Molly, I finally look like I’m supposed to be here. I’ve got a legit date and a mask and everything. But I’ll feel gross all night knowing Teddy’s watching me. Knowing what he’s thinking.

  “I should have been by your side when you received your delivery,” he spits.

  “Why? What does it matter?” I stare ahead, begging for my legs to move faster so I can escape what could easily turn into an inquisition. Molly and I are getting too casual with our interactions; we’d be smart to take Gigi’s advice or we’ll both be in trouble soon.

  “You know damn well why,” he says. I refuse to respond.

  The hypnotic beat of a drum machine set behind brittle, raucous tones and an echoing voice guides me and Teddy, marching in silence, through the campus gates. The music is coming from the other side of Goethe Hall where the dance is set up in the middle of campus, on the grassy quad. Over the course of the week, I’ve overheard Harper telling everyone within earshot all about the massive castle-like structure she was going to have her lackeys on the Social Committee build from scratch in the quad; the dance is inside the castle, and I’m certain Harper will find a way to have herself crowned queen before the end of the night. But I don’t care. Let her be queen. I’m here to enjoy myself—no matter what Teddy or Harper or anyone does.

  As we walk around the side of Goethe Hall, I spy the castle, and my irritation with everything immediately washes away.

  I’ve found myself in a pop-up book, in a fantasy world where the overwhelmingly massive ginger-and-rose moon watches from just steps off the inky shoreline, wisps of charcoal clouds drifting over it, their edges blood red in the moonlight. In front of the moon, the school buildings are jagged black cutouts, like the devil’s claws clutching at a fiery light. And here, just feet away, is the entrance to a perfectly imperfect castle—or the remains of one: tens of thousands of gray papier mâché blocks in various sizes, made to look like the stone of an old castle, encase a vast dance floor. Blocks are missing, ostensibly knocked down over the ages, leaving craggy gaps of all sizes through which crimson moonlight flows. Candlelight glows within. A colossal chandelier is suspended from the ceiling, which is itself comprised of whitewashed beams wrapped in silvery lights. I hate to admit it, but Harper’s outdone herself.