Reese stayed put on the worn wooden slats of the bench. He looked at the ground, noticing for the first time how sparkly the pavement was if you kept staring at it. He wasn’t sure whether he was going to cry or faint. He closed his eyes and saw stars.
Good thing he’s got a new friend with broad shoulders to cry on.
8
Baby opened the heavy oak door to Mrs. McLean’s office, glaring at the word HEADMISTRESS imprinted on the gold plaque that hung from it. It sounded so over the top, like Emma Willard was some sort of nineteenth-century finishing school. She slid onto one of the rigid wingback chairs in the waiting area, across from the secretary, who was pretending to be busy on the computer. She couldn’t stand the pretension that seemed to ooze out of every corner of Willard, from the French professor who looked like she had been sent from central casting to the dark-oak everything. Before they’d moved, Baby had begged her mother to be allowed to stay in Nantucket, but she’d said no. Edie had even been talking about moving permanently into their grandmother’s peach-colored townhouse once the lawyers were finished. Baby had never felt more desperate to be back in Nantucket and with Ace, who never demanded anything of her, who just let her be.
“Mrs. McLean is ready for you,” the skinny, stringy-haired, middle-aged secretary nodded at the walnut door that led into the headmistress’s office.
“Thanks,” Baby said fake sweetly, standing and walking through the door.
“I’m Mrs. McLean.” The intimidatingly large headmistress stood up and squeezed out from behind her enormous mahogany desk, casting a shadow over Baby. “And you must be Baby.”
Baby nodded and flopped onto a stiff blue love seat in a corner, tucking her legs underneath her. The whole room was decorated in shades of red, white, and blue. Baby wondered if maybe Mrs. McLean thought she was the president.
Mrs. McLean looked pointedly at Baby’s thin brown legs, motioning with her eyes for her to move them. Baby swung her feet back to the floor and sighed. For the past sixteen years, she’d only ever received praise from her teachers. She’d always gotten straight A’s in everything, without even having to try. But now, everything was just so different. Sure, she could spiritedly explain that she’d simply been demonstrating situationism—the 1960s European movement to restore authenticity in life. Back in Nantucket, she might have even gotten extra credit for her outburst. But sitting in Mrs. McLean’s rigid office, she felt the energy drain from her body, and she didn’t at all care to explain what she was feeling.
“Madame Rogers just called down and is quite distraught by your outburst,” Mrs. McLean began, taking Baby in with her muddy brown eyes. “I think we got off on an exceptionally bad note here, didn’t we?”
Baby grimaced. She hated when teachers used the pronoun we when they meant to say you, as in, You really fucked up, now didn’t you?
Which was exactly the point.
“Before we get to that, though, you do have an unusual name,” Mrs. McLean said, shuffling through Baby’s file. “Is there anything more appropriate you would be comfortable using?”
Baby narrowed her eyes. “That’s my name,” she said slowly, enunciating each word. This school was all about conformity. It was one thing to be forced to wear a uniform, but they wanted her to change her name?
“Okay, then. I just wanted to let you know it was an option if you wanted something more academic.” Mrs. McLean coughed, and Baby glanced at a wooden-framed photograph of a farm that stood out amid the red and blue cups of pencils. “But of course, it’s your choice. And now, on to the matter at hand. I know it’s your first day and things may be overwhelming for you and your sister. Nevertheless, we expect students to adapt to our way, the way of Emma Willard.”
Mrs. McLean smiled at Baby in an almost motherly fashion, and for a fleeting moment Baby felt a flicker of affection. Mrs. McLean looked a bit like Doreen, the lady who ran the pie shop back in Nantucket. Doreen would always give Baby a slice of cherry pie on the house when she forgot her wallet.
“I know you and your sister have had a rather untraditional upbringing. Is there anything you want to tell me about?” She folded her hands expectantly, as if waiting for some tear-filled confession.
“Nope.” Baby shook her head. Except for the fact that I hate everything about New York.
“All right, then. I’m willing to overlook this incident if you are willing to participate in a week of community service. This will be after school, and it’s not a punishment. I’m going to design a schedule that will help you become familiar with Emma Willard traditions. I want you to feel like Willard is your home.”
Baby imagined herself polishing the trophy case in the lobby as girls trampled over her to get to a sample sale or to Barneys or to wherever they went after school.
“So, what do you think?” Mrs. McLean pressed. “Do your community service and give us a month of good behavior, and we’ll put this incident behind us.”
“That sounds fucking awesome.” Baby yawned. A thrilling tingle shot up her spine as Mrs. McLean’s small mouth formed an O of surprise.
“Excuse me?” Mrs. McLean’s tenor voice turned into a growl, but Baby didn’t stop staring straight into the headmistress’s eyes.
“Give me manual labor.” Baby yawned again. “That sounds exactly like the type of out-of-the-box thinking that makes Emma Willard exceptional.” She almost giggled at the last sentence. “Can I go now?” she asked.
“No.” Mrs. McLean pursed her lips. “I’ve seen your grades, and you’re smart, but here, that’s not enough. Last year a girl who’d succumbed to bad influence had to find a more appropriate educational situation—at boarding school.”
Sounds familiar.
Mrs. McLean plucked a slim blue booklet from a file cabinet and handed it to Baby. Emma Willard Code of Conduct was printed on its cover.
Baby stood up and smoothed out her skirt. It was so stiff it felt like it could stand up by itself.
“One last thing.” Mrs. McLean leaned back in her chair and locked eyes with Baby. “At Willard, we have a tradition of excellence, which includes a three-strikes rule—no exceptions.”
A smile played on Baby’s lips. This was going to be even easier than she’d thought. If she got kicked out of Willard, Edie would have to admit that she didn’t fit in here and would have no choice but to send her back to Nantucket. A few more days of mumbling French curse words and she’d soon be on the ferry, the ocean breeze ruffling her hair.
“Did I say something amusing?” Mrs. McLean looked her sharply up and down.
“No.” Baby moved toward the door.
“Okay then.” Mrs. McLean didn’t look entirely convinced. “Read the booklet. And remember, Baby, this counts as your first strike.”
Baby strode out of the office smiling triumphantly. She’d never really been into baseball, but now she had a new appreciation for it.
For it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out at the old ball game!
9
India was relieved when the bell rang after AP English, meaning it was time for the all-school assembly. She followed the mass of girls making their way to the lobby, their shiny ponytails bouncing and their flats clicking against the polished floors. Nervously she patted her hair in place and followed two of Vanity Laurent’s bitches-in-waiting into the crowded auditorium.
“I heard she was kicked out. Apparently she’s, like, a total Winona-style klepto and was banned from the supermarket in Nantucket for stealing, like, Triscuits,” Brittany Bennett told a small girl as she tossed her 22-inch Malaysian weave over her shoulder. Brittany was dark-skinned, with severe, blunt-cut bangs that framed her round face, and the other girl was carrying around a newspaper and wore black Prada glasses, as if she’d just stepped out of an editorial meeting at Vogue.
“Really? I didn’t hear about her. I heard about the one who never washes her hair. Like, she believes her natural scent is an aphrodisiac. Can you imagine taking gym class with her?” the other girl remarked
loudly, pushing her glasses up further on her button nose.
“Well, you know they’re triplets, right? My mother went to school with their mother, and I heard from her that the brother is gorgeous! He was supposed to be a Valentino runway model, but he decided to stay in the United States. Also, he’s supposed to go to the Olympics, and he wears a lucky Speedo under his clothes all the time. The same one, apparently,” Brittany finished importantly.
India felt her heart stop—they were definitely talking about her family. No one but Trey wore Speedos instead of boxers.
Brittany glanced in India’s direction, a wave of recognition flashing across her dark eyes. India turned abruptly away and walked quickly to the back of the auditorium, ignoring the butterflies in her stomach and wishing she could be anywhere but here.
“Is anyone sitting there?” India motioned to one of the only seats that hadn’t been taken, next to a tall, brown-skinned girl with shaggy, chin-length hair pulled back in bobby-pinned twists.
“You are, aren’t you?”
India wasn’t sure if it was a question or an order. She hovered awkwardly over the empty seat as the girl stared up at her. Her blazer was unbuttoned and she was wearing a sheer white tank top and ridiculously tall, six-inch stripper-style platform boots. India wasn’t sure, but it sort of looked like her nipples were pierced. She averted her eyes before the girl caught her staring at her chest.
“Go for it.” Nipples patted the seat impatiently and turned back to her book.
As soon as India sat down, she heard the girls in the row behind her giggle and exchange whispers. She shifted uncomfortably and glanced at the book the girl was reading. Look Both Ways: Bisexual Politics. India scanned the room to see if she could move somewhere else without seeming rude, but there were no more empty seats. She sighed and sat back, hoping the assembly would start quickly so she wouldn’t be roped into a conversation about the politics of nipple piercing or something equally gross.
“Are you new?” the girl asked, closing her book. India didn’t look over. “I’m Sydney Miller.” She held out her hand.
“India,” she mumbled, shaking the offered hand.
The girl nodded knowingly. “That’s a great name. My parents named me Sydney because it was where I was conceived. Then, of course, they got divorced three years later. I’m the only reminder of their stupid Australian sexfest.” She cocked her head in anticipation, like she was waiting for India’s own conception tale.
India tried not to stare in disbelief. She wasn’t about to share the fact that her mom had gone to some hippie sexfest at a gross outdoor concert in New Hampshire and ended up with triplets. She forced her eyes back to the elegant calligraphy on one of the hymnals in front of her.
“Just as an FYI, this place sucks,” Sydney confided. “I can’t wait to get out of here. Seriously, two years until graduation.” She sighed tragically, and then coughed a raspy smoker’s cough. “I was hoping my parents would send me somewhere downtown so I could at least hang out with NYU kids. Here, it’s like Bitch City, don’t you think?”
“Not really,” India whispered, self-conscious about how loudly Sydney was talking. Maybe she’d had a bad first day, but India still intended to get to know people here and fit in. So far she loved everything about Willard, from the buttoned-up headmistress to the elegant views of the 93rd Street townhouses out the large, arching windows of the auditorium.
India pulled out her MAC compact from her purse and looked critically at her smooth, almond skin and the side-swept bangs that complemented her high forehead. What was it about her that was alienating all the girls except this overfriendly bisexual with the pierced nipples? As she leaned down to put her compact back into her bag, she noticed a large, misshapen black star on Sydney’s forearm.
You can’t be alternative unless you have a tattoo that looks like it was drawn with a Sharpie.
Sydney followed her gaze. “Yeah, I got that tat back in Spain this summer. My stupid parents got together again and wanted to have a middle-age rediscovery-of-sex fest, so they sent me to Europe. Some guy I met on the beach in Barcelona did it, so of course it came out fucked up. Are you into body art?”
Does a reverse French manicure count?
“No.” India shook her head and smiled slightly, trying to be polite.
“Oh.” Sydney looked disappointed. “Sometimes it’s the really buttoned-up girls who are totally the kinkiest on the inside.”
Just then, Mrs. McLean marched in, with Baby shuffling behind her, looking comically tiny behind Mrs. M’s bulk. Whispers flitted up and down the aisles as she was escorted to a seat in the first row. India felt the familiar burning sensation rising in her chest again. What had Baby done this time?
“So, I heard that they’re now, like, doing full body searches at Barneys because the chick who moved into the Sinclaires’ old apartment has some type of major shoplifting scam going on," a sopohmore whispered to her friend in the row directly behind India. "Apparently, she was, like, totally trying to set Vanity up. Do you know what happened?”
“Well, we all know girls can get a little sticky-fingered and sneaky at Barneys. But would a newbie really be bold enough to try to steal something and get on Vanity's bad side?” her friend whispered back.
“I was hanging out in Central Park yesterday and I saw this totally fine guy swimming through the duck pond," another girl piped up. "I want to hook up with him, but do you think there are any weird diseases in the water?”
“If you want to hook up with him so badly, imagine how many other people want to hook up with him, too," the first girl scoffed. "I would be more worried about competition than about radioactive pond scum. ”
Vanity glanced back and saw India sitting next to Sydney Miller, a girl whom everyone had ignored since she came out as an “academic lesbian” in eighth grade and had insisted on spelling woman w-o-m-y-n. She smirked and pulled a pack of gum out of Draya’s red Fendi purse, wondering idly if Draya’s chest had gotten even larger. It looked bigger than it had last spring.
Not that she was about to measure it or anything.
Mrs. M strode onstage and stood in front of the girls in her all-purple pantsuit she only busted out on special occasions. She glared out at the crowd and Vanity rolled her eyes. Everyone knew Mrs. M was in a pissy mood on the first day of school because she hated to leave her Vermont farm and her domestic partner, Vonda. She would much rather be baking casseroles and riding a tractor. It was common knowledge that Mrs. M was hoping to retire early so she and Vonda could start an alpaca farm upstate and open a made-to-order-yarn business.
Anyone want to join their knitting circle?
“Now, ladies, it’s a pleasure to have you all back, despite some rough transitions.” Mrs. McLean glanced at Baby, and India’s heart thumped against her ribs. “We’re pleased to welcome all our new students to the Emma Willard family.” A smile spread across Mrs. M’s large, doughy face as she looked down upon the rows of well-scrubbed Upper East Side girls.
A few rows ahead, Vanity poked the skinny light-skinned girl with the large chest who had been in French class with them. Both giggled, then looked stageward in rapt attention when they saw Mrs. M glaring in their direction.
Mrs. M began to discuss policies for the upcoming school year. Extra-long hours at the guidance office for those seniors needing assistance with early-decision college apps, no smoking on school grounds. Blah, blah, blah. India zoned out and began thumbing through her pink planner. She refused to use a cell phone, because she loved the elegant simplicity of writing down dates and events. So far the whole school year loomed ahead in rows of empty pink boxes. What could she possibly do to make her mark here?
Hasn’t she already sort of made her mark?
“Now, ladies, I’m pleased to announce a new board position in addition to that of class president,” Mrs. McLean droned. India perked up. “The student liaison to the board of overseers. As you know, we have a very good relationship with our overseers, some o
f whom have been with Willard since its founding, and, as such, are very invested in its future. The elected student will represent the student body and will be involved in all decisions regarding the governing of our school.”
Vanity felt Brittany’s pointy index finger dip into her toned bicep. She shrugged her off. Who cared about a stupid school leadership position when she had so many more important things to think about? Like Marcelo with his shirt off, taking her shirt off, followed by his pants and her skirt...
“Can they please remove the mirrors in the cafeteria?” Elise Wells, a tall sophomore asked, her arm waving wildly in the air, her thick, bluntly cut hair bobbing. Two more girls whooped in affirmation, as if they had just heard about a surprise Prada sample sale, and suddenly, all sides of the room erupted in flurries of discussion. Everyone hated the mirrors, which not only made you feel fat while you were eating lunch but made it impossible to hide from anyone.
“Quiet down, ladies!” Mrs. McLean gestured for order. “This is not the time to discuss the design of the school. The student liaison to the board of overseers would have a say in any structural decisions, as well as a say on discipline and school-sponsored events. It’s a one-year commitment that I’m pleased to open up to the junior class. If you’re interested, please see me after the assembly for an information packet. The elections will be held at the annual mother-daughter Tavern on the Green brunch on Sunday.” Mrs. McLean clapped her hands together, and the room was filled again with excited whispering.
“What a fucking waste of time,” drawled Sydney lazily as she twirled a silver skull ring around and around her thumb.
But India was only dimly aware that Sydney was still at her side. She couldn’t believe her luck. Becoming the student liaison would be the perfect way to get noticed at Willard. She’d been on student council at NHS and had organized a fundraising benefit for the coast guard that had even been written up in Boston Common. This couldn’t be any harder, could it? She’d get involved, show her school spirit, meet people, and add a cool new extracurricular activity to her transcript, all in one swoop.
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