Pearl

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  I think back to all the limos and cabs early on, then later bus and subway rides, the hitchhiking, and the squalid places my mother dragged me, all within the relative twenty-three square miles that make up Manhattan. We rarely left the city. Then the memory of the last ride together, courtesy of Pauline, screams back into my mind, leaving me nervous all over again.

  The sullen girl inside, loyal to JJ and prone to recklessness, campaigns against me going to boarding school. She said she won’t make it without me. She needs me. I won’t fit in. I won’t keep up. I won’t have friends. The walls won’t be able to contain me.

  When the car pulls off the main road and onto a quaint tree-lined street, gratitude hushes the doubt. Relief flicks away the alternatives, such as a center for homeless teens or worse, a foster home.

  A painted wooden sign surrounded by flowers—whose names I don’t know—welcomes me to the Laurel Hill Preparatory School campus. The sedan comes to a stop. I recall my impromptu interview, just days ago, with one of Aunt Beverly’s former classmates, also on the board of alumni and a generous benefactor.

  I’d put on my most convincing smile. I knew how to charm the matronly woman into believing the boarding school would be lucky to have me. I’ve learned to wear the mask that convinces people that despite my circumstances I’m well adapted and deserving of their help. I think it might be a primal survival technique. Ask Darwin. Acing the interview, along with the purse strings my aunt and uncle pulled, got me a seat in the junior-year class at Laurel Hill, a boarding school for promising young men and women.

  The driver graciously opens the sedan’s door and helps me gather my things. He nods at me before driving away, and now, truly, I’m on my own. I take a deep breath of the fresh, rural air and wonder if I’ve come home.

  As I stare at an ivy-clad brick building, golden in the late-afternoon summer sunlight, there’s a shift inside as though beliefs are rearranging themselves, making room for possibilities, for deeper breaths and wider views. My life could be different. But it rivals a sharp sense of betrayal, leaving behind all that Manhattan represents, namely my mother. I tuck these thoughts away and glance down at the letter of welcome guiding me toward my dorm assignment.

  I clumsily carry my box in one arm and the suitcase in the other hand. For once in my life, the knots in my stomach have nothing to do with JJ. Still, the shadows of the past linger like wisps of smoke. I cough.

  Etched in granite, the name Vivian Brookwood spans the top of the threshold as I enter the girls’ dormitory. A woman with graying hair greets me. Her name tag says Connie, Head of Dorm. Seated next to her, Terran, Senior Dorm Assistant scans me from head to toe, her eyes narrowing.

  “Welcome, welcome,” Connie says, passing me a pink Sharpie and a name tag. “Please write your name and graduating year.”

  I glance over my shoulder one more time, just to be certain Janet isn’t sneaking up behind me, ready to tear me from this sanctuary and back into her life. Only a mousy girl stands in the doorway, waiting for her dad and a handful of luggage.

  “Welcome to Viv Brooks”—Terran pauses to read my name tag—“Pearl. You’re in room twenty-two. Just down that hall, up the stairs, and then take a right,” she says, pointing. “Do your parents need any help bringing your things in?”

  “Oh, no, this is everything.”

  Terran’s smile is the opposite of friendly and understanding.

  I may as well have entered the dream where I’m in a classroom naked and everyone turns to point. It’s the hush before the laughter. With those five words, it’s as if I sealed my reputation at Laurel Hill Prep—at least with the girls who matter. I had a chance to build a new identity, and I blew it before I could conjure a story that colored me favorably.

  “I see,” Terran says measuredly.

  Connie gives me a thin smile.

  They know. But they can’t know. No one can know. Uncle Gary put out the proverbial fire before it spread too far.

  “Well then, when you’re all settled in, students and”—Connie clears her throat—“parents are mingling in the common room, just that way.” She follows up with a bouncy-nervous laugh.

  I grab the Sharpie, scribble out Pearl, and replace it with PJ. More fitting. Yes, I’m the girl with no parents to hug her warmly as they wish her well. I lack anything that resembles a hug or a kiss. I just got a kick, all the way from New York, here.

  Alone, I find my way to room twenty-two.

  My roommate arranges shiny things on top of her bureau, while her mother, in a cream, gold, and indigo salwar kameez, a modern version of traditional Indian dress, makes the bed. Her father, hands clasped behind his back, paces, appraising his surroundings. The mother turns as I plop my things on the vacant bed.

  “Hello, you must be Pearl Jaeger. It’s very nice to meet you.” She sweeps her hand across the room. “This is Mr. Rajasekhara. I’m Mrs. Rajasekhara, and this is our daughter, Charmindy.” Her tongue dances over the letters in a way that makes me want to listen to her tell a story and have her tuck me in.

  Silver clips pull Charmindy’s hair back on either side of her head. She wears straight-leg pants and a lavender cardigan. Her eyebrows twitch as she looks me over.

  My cutoffs, boots, and flannel shirt tied in the front scream outsider. Thankfully, my aunt took me to get my hair trimmed, so at least from the neck up I fit in. Apparently, as far as my aunt and uncle are concerned, that was enough. Vogue fashion spreads prepared me for this, but I don’t have Vogue money, and Uncle Gary didn’t include a clothing expense account in the boarding school bundle.

  “We weren’t expecting Charmindy to have a roommate, but we’re so glad to know she won’t be on her own.”

  I nod and smile politely, not sure what else to say, so I unzip my suitcase upon the bare mattress. I slowly unpack. After the Rajasekharas leave, I unroll the Shrapnels poster and pause, looking carefully at my mother, before sticking it above my bed. I tack Frida up by my bureau.

  I wander out to the hallway, wondering where to find sheets and a blanket. Charmindy has a brand-new set, in pale yellow gingham, with a matching comforter and sham.

  On my way to the common room, I pass scores of girls unpacking their coordinating linens and chatting with their parents and friends. I don’t feel free anymore. Lack of preparation and family cloisters me into a little box labeled loser.

  My heart yearns for a “normal” family, the kind with a house, a dog, and a couple of stable parents who remember to send bedsheets to boarding school. I’d even settle for divorce, with visitation on the weekends. Instead, I have a mother who seeks drugs before her kid, an absent father who, according to Janet, was a deadbeat, and a great big chasm in my chest that fissures deeper with every tinkle of laughter, every word of encouragement, and every smile exchanged between the families in the common room.

  I haven’t eaten since this morning and swipe a finger sandwich from a platter on a folding table before escaping outside. I lean against a maple tree and nibble at the tuna and cheese. I don’t belong in the dorm with its formidable brick and stately trim, the elbow patches and cardigans, or the laughter and ease.

  In the distance, two guys and a girl, dressed mostly in black, parade across the sweeping lawn toward the woods. I know the movements of creatures like them. They’re going to smoke or do something forbidden on campus. One by one, they disappear into the cover of the leaves. Ballsy—the place still crawls with parents. I root myself to the tree. I have no plans of going back inside, no plans of moving, ever. Nor do I want to stay where I don’t belong. Or worse, get kicked out. I’m stuck, feeling the tug and pull of the familiar and the extraordinary.

  Chapter 5

  As the sun lowers, the shadowy stamps of leaves dapple my bare legs. Groups of students and parents make their way to the dining hall. Dinner. A bed and food. Uncle Gary gave me a free pass. He sternly told me all I need to do is go to class
, get good grades, not cause any trouble, and he’ll handle the tuition.

  Going to school has never been a problem. It offered a break from the crazy that inhabits my mother. I learned that as long as I pay attention in school, the work comes easily. I’m no stranger to trouble, but I don’t seek it—it finds me. I’ve learned when to rock the boat and when to hold steady. So if one plus one equals food and shelter, at least for the next two years until I graduate, I’ll do the math, the science, and the English lit. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it together.

  With an aching growl from my stomach, I follow the stream of students and their parents to the dining hall. I imagine for a moment I belong to a mother and father walking arm in arm, sister to their son wearing pleated trousers.

  At an otherwise empty table in the corner, I twirl pasta around my fork, savor slices of garlic bread, string beans, and some kind of exotic Italian salad. I added a scoop of mashed potatoes because I could. I smile, thinking about a time I snuck into Oliver! on Broadway. I’d joined an unsuspecting field trip group from a far-flung New England town, maybe this very one.

  For an hour, I belonged to the assembly in the springy, red-cushioned chairs, watching the play. Just after the scene where Oliver stuffed himself with gruel, an usher discovered me and threw me out onto the snowy street. As much now as then, I know I don’t belong.

  The thought that the whole charade will come apart any second churns my insides even as I fill my stomach, washing it all down with chocolate milk.

  A tray clatters beside me on the wooden table. A girl, with jet-black braids twisted on either side of her head and burgundy lips, and two boys form a semicircle around me. One has a faux-hawk and a pair of earrings, the other, dark blond hair that falls below his ears. He wears distressed denim and a flannel shirt like mine. They settle into the remaining chairs.

  “Hey,” the girl says. “New here?” The tone of her voice is as intimidating as her scrutiny.

  “Yup,” I say after swallowing a mouthful.

  “I’m Sorel and this is Pepper and Grant,” she says, pointing at the faux-hawked guy and the one with long hair.

  “What’s up?” asks Pepper boldly by way of greeting.

  Grant just nods in my direction.

  “I’m P—PJ,” I say. If I were going to have the right kinds of friends, I would’ve had to arrive at Laurel Hill with more than a suitcase and a grubby box of sad memories. If I’m going to have any friends at all, my name can’t be Pearl.

  Pepper stares at my chest. I look down, notice the scribbled name tag, and tear it off like a Band-Aid.

  “Cool. What dorm are you in?” Sorel asks.

  “Viv Brooks,” I say, using Terran’s abbreviated version.

  “Sweet. Me too. Ground floor. Senior. You?”

  “Uh, second floor. Junior.”

  “Nice,” Pepper says. “Sorel’s been here since freshman year, but me and Grant are juniors too. I came as a sophomore. I got kicked out of the day school I went to, so my parents cracked down and sent me here. It’s not so bad. You smoke?” he asks, pushing his half-uneaten food away.

  “Yeah, sure,” I lie, licking a spoonful of pudding. I’ve smoked, but it isn’t a regular thing. I’m more of a cigarette tourist.

  Sorel and Pepper take up conversation about some people I don’t know. It’s as if they’ve already forgotten about me. I sense Grant eyeing me curiously, but when I look at him, he intently studies the green beans on his plate.

  “Boys, PJ and I are going to go have an after-dinner mint,” Sorel says, winking at me. “Wanna join?”

  In the fading evening light, we make our way across the lawn to the woods where I saw the three of them disappear earlier.

  Tromping through wild tangles of underbrush, likely grown up over the path during the summer, we emerge into a small clearing encircled by a couple of overturned logs, with a huge boulder in the center. Sorel lights up first and passes her Bic to Pepper. After she exhales, Pepper has his lips on hers, and soon they’re making out.

  Grant leans on the boulder and takes out a pack of American Spirits, flips the lid, and offers one to me. His eyes match the color of the twilight sky, a deep blue.

  “So where are you from?” I ask.

  “Scotland,” he answers. His voice is slightly deep, sleepy, and strangely soothing.

  I tilt my head. “You don’t have an accent,” I say hesitantly. He hasn’t said much, but I would have noticed one.

  “No, and you don’t have a New York accent,” he counters.

  “How’d you know I came from New York?”

  “My car was behind your car. Plates. I saw you getting out. Lucky guess,” he says carelessly.

  “Oh.” His sweet shyness and mystery, divided by a measure of recklessness, draw me out of the JJ-and-Pearl fog I’ve been in all day. I want to hear more about Scotland and luck.

  He takes my unlit cigarette from between my fingers, brushing my hand. He lights it off the end of his. Ignoring the moaning coming from the shadowy edge of the woods, I try to think of something interesting to say, but my attention is on the two fingers that grazed mine. There’s an unusual bubbling and fizzing in the space between my chest and head.

  “Have you been here since your freshman year too?” Apparently, that’s the best I can do.

  Grant nods. “That, and two years of boarding school for the middle grades, effectively erased my accent. My dad shipped me off, out of sight, out of mind. I see him once a year at Christmas.”

  Maybe I’m not the only almost-orphan at Laurel Hill Prep. “What about the summer?” I ask.

  “Summer school,” he says bleakly. “But not next summer.” Grant takes a long drag. His eyes smile, but not his lips.

  “What’s your story?” he asks.

  Where to start? What do I want him to know? My secrets are mostly safe, buried deep under the streets of Manhattan. I could make up anything or leave out select bits of information, but the truth, the one I’m trying so hard to keep, swishes and froths. I swallow.

  “My mom was uh . . . Things got messed up. And my dad took off, so she raised me. Sorta. That’s her story. I don’t know what my story is.”

  I don’t need to impress Grant, but I’ve been a passenger on my mother’s train wreck for so long I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know how to answer the question honestly. The summation of my life this far is a jigsaw puzzle of misguided and haphazard living. I’ve mostly avoided having a life, opinions, or emotions. It was enough just to get through the days and long nights.

  Grant stamps out his cigarette. “By the looks of you, you were raised by wolves.”

  My laugh surprises me when it comes out like a howl.

  He bites his lower lip. His gaze holds steady with mine, as if the descending night gives us courage.

  Leaves crunch, and Sorel appears, rosy cheeked.

  “We better get back,” she orders.

  I put my cigarette out—JJ would flip if she saw me waste one.

  After we cross the lawn, Pepper gives Sorel one last wet kiss. “See you later,” Sorel says coyly.

  Grant’s eyes twinkle in the low lantern light that illuminates the path, and then, with a small smile, he strides away.

  Before Sorel and I enter the dorm, she pulls me into an alcove. She spritzes perfume on us and gives me a stick of gum.

  “Smoking: prohibited; boys in your room: a big no-no; drinking—” She shakes her head. “Stay below the radar and you’ll graduate. Get into trouble and, depending on the crime, it’s either suspension or the old boot out the door. I’ve survived three years here and plan to complete my fourth, so don’t do anything stupid. Got it?”

  I check in for the night and creep upstairs to my room and am surprised to find it empty. Charmindy has a couple of framed photo collages of friends and family already hung on the wall. A thick
coffee-table book sits on her desk. The Life and Work of Amrita Sher-Gil. I flip a few pages; the self-portraits of the artist look uncannily like Frida Kahlo. I run my finger over the polished edge of Charmindy’s wooden jewelry box and the equestrian trophies on her bureau.

  All her clothing hangs, pressed and color coded, on her side of the closet. On my side, some shirts and a faded gray sweatshirt hang limply next to my mother’s salvaged Grammy gown. Not that I have an occasion to wear it, but I lament how over the years, she sold garments gifted to her by the collections of Calvin Klein, John Galliano, and Jean Paul Gaultier, just to name a few. It was all hawked for a fix, rarely for rent, and even less commonly for food.

  At the foot of my bed, three large boxes form a pyramid, with my name penned on them in marker. The return address reads New York. I tear the packing tape off the first one and pull out a couple of pillows, a warm, sage-colored blanket, and a set of crisp, white sheets. The second box contains two pairs of pajamas, though the legs look a little on the short side, and a bag of socks and underwear, granny panties, but I don’t care—they’re clean—along with toothpaste and a toothbrush, face wash, a package of soap, some hair elastics, and ChapStick.

  On top of the third box a short note, written in my cousin Erica’s looping handwriting, says, From Uncle Gary, Aunt Beverly, Logan, and Erica. Beneath, there are a couple of bags of clothing. The shirts, slacks, and skirts spell preppy and aren’t my first choice, but with a few adjustments, I’ll make do. Awash with gratitude, I tuck the card away, ignoring the likelihood that, despite the names printed on the card, it was all Erica’s doing.

  While I make my bed, Charmindy comes in and slumps into the chair in front of her desk, opening the book of paintings and photos. She rests her head in her hands, sniffling.