by Ryan Schow
“Thank you,” I say. The silence of nature is a foreign sound. A gentle breeze washes over me, its touch silken, soft as pooled water on my cheek. The flittering of birdsong comes from the trees ahead, settling something restless inside of me. The keypad makes an elongated beep, startling me. The restlessness returns. The gates open, drawing me into the school’s opulent grounds.
I cruise around the first couple of bends, anxious to see the school, yet marveling at the acres of trees standing green against the pale yellow rolling hills and the cloudless, late morning sky. Something inside me wants to weep it’s that serene. The road drops down into a small ravine and the entire school finally comes into view. My breath catches in my throat. The school buildings and manicured grounds have me staring in wonder for a long, reverent moment.
The welcome packet my father gave me describes Astor Academy as a breathtaking Romanesque style building inspired by the Allegheny County Courthouse in Pennsylvania, which I looked up online yesterday. The courthouse is perhaps one of the most striking buildings I have ever seen. The similarities are remarkable. The real treasure, though, is the four story bell tower, complete with a large single bell. According to the literature, the school is designed like a three sided square with a lovely interior courtyard. Inside the courtyard is a central fountain resembling Rome’s famed Trevi Fountain, but on a far smaller scale. The pictures alone had me aching to get here early. To the left of the main building is the boys’ dormitory, a tight five story structure. The girls’ dorms are across campus, to the right, also five stories. Closer to the rising hillside at the far end of the grounds is the cafeteria and the gymnasium, both large square buildings with all the architectural trimmings. The way these structures are designed with rough-cut grey sandstone blocks, you can’t help feeling swallowed in its old-world charm. Looking at the school, you could easily mistake its age for decades old, or possibly more, but you would be wrong. Astor Academy is barely four years old. How it manages to boast an ivy league look without the accompanying pretentiousness seems significant in its overall charm.
Guest Parking is twelve clean parking spaces tucked into a series of rose gardens. I park Rover close to the entrance and step out into the rich scent of roses and fresh, lower-mountain air. Along the horizon are endless pockets of trees and distant views of the Sierra mountain range, its peaks capped white and sharp against the cobalt blue skyline. The beauty of this place washes through me with such grace I don’t know what to make of it. I can only think one thing: I’m home.
The woman who spoke to me through the keypad greets me and though I expect her to be overly friendly to the point of making me feel welcome, she has a presence that seems genuine despite my poor looks. I like her right away. Janine Battenberg is an attractive woman who looks younger than Margaret by a few years. Her voice is confident without being overbearing. She leaves me with the impression that if I asked her to coffee, she might actually say yes without feeling obligated. She hands me some forms to fill out, my class schedule and a map of the grounds.
“Are you ready to see your room?”
Nodding yes, I push my giddiness down, so as not to betray my inner excitement. No one likes overly excited fat girls. Margaret says it comes off looking obnoxious.
The campus is breathtaking, almost too beautiful to be real. The way it both coincides with and complements the natural surroundings has me thinking those overpriced landscape architects in Palo Alto aren’t even qualified to hold the coffee of the people who designed this place. More than the grounds, however, are the students.
Everywhere are model-perfect boys and girls, which turns the wonder and awe within me into an ache deep within my not-insubstantial stomach. Looking around, it’s clear I’m going to be the ugliest girl in school. After a short walk from the Administration office to the girls’ dorms, I see so many attractive people I become certain of it. At least in Palo Alto there were some ugly people like me, but here? Suddenly I’m blinking back tears. Right about now I’d take a tranquilizer to be calm, to not feel like I’m going to lose my breakfast in front of everyone.
Janine walks me into the dorms and by this time I’m looking only at my feet and the backs of Janine’s heels in front of me. I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until I get to my room and nearly pass out from oxygen deprivation. Swallowing hard, I follow Janine into my room. She’s talking to me. Then she turns and sees my watery eyes and what I believe to be concern passes through her features.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?”
That’s when the tears spill over and everything inside me that’s been trying to stay together comes apart. She circles her arms around me, pulling me close.
“What’s wrong, Savannah?”
“I’m so ugly,” I say in a choked whisper, “and all these people are perfect. I’ll never fit in.”
“You’re not ugly,” she says.
“I am. And it’s so obvious,” I say, pulling back, wiping my eyes. My complaints sound like blubbering. “I just thought there would be more people like me.”
“There are. There are at least five ugly people I can name off the top of my head.” I look at her through wide, wet eyes. Most people try pacifying me with lies. She continues. “Then, when I think about how rotten some of these kids are on the inside, there are a hell of a lot more ugly people here than you think.”
Relieved, I shake my head, but not enthusiastically. I like Janine even more because she isn’t trying to change my feelings about myself. She’s giving me perspective. “You’re not going to try to tell me beauty is only skin deep are you?”
“Oh, hell no,” she says. “I was married for four years to a gorgeous man who was the biggest…well I can’t say that word around students—”
“A-hole?”
She laughs out loud, then: “Exactly. He was that and more. When we separated, I swore I married the ugliest, most beautiful man ever and I couldn’t stand him a minute more. By the time we finalized our divorce, he was never beautiful to me again.”
I want to say something reassuring; instead I hug her tight, like a lifeline to truth, wisdom and compassion. “Thank you for being nice to me.”
“You’re welcome.” When I let go, she says, “Are you ready for the tour?” That’s when it hits me: my room. Imagine the nicest Four Seasons you’ve ever seen and this is where I live. Think plush queen sized bed with down comforter, oversized pillows, a pair of nightstands with inlaid wood, a large desk with a new laptop computer. There is even a flat panel TV that looks bigger than the one in my bedroom at home.
She says, “The color palette was chosen by this genius out of L.A., a color architect who says this specific palette promotes learning and tranquility.”
“Is that true?” I ask. I don’t know anything about color design.
She shrugs her shoulders and I look around. The soft, sage green walls contrast nicely with the thick white baseboards and crown moldings. Beneath my feet are hand-scraped hardwood floors, dark walnut in color and rich looking. In the bathroom are eighteen-inch tiled floors laid diagonally. The word hyper-elegant comes to mind. The bathroom is nicer than my bathroom at home and for some reason this strikes me as nearly impossible. With cabinets a shade darker than the hardwood floor, a luscious countertop that makes granite seem cheap, and a porous stone backsplash, I’m suddenly relaxing for the first time in maybe forever. Think jetted Roman bathtub, salon-style lighting, sink-to-ceiling mirror framed in decorative, six inch moldings. The shower is separate from the tub, all clear glass blocks. Inside is an eight inch circular shower head, tiled floors and walls boasting a stylish tile mosaic. Warm sunlight filters in through a small window dusting the enclosure with just the right amount of natural light.
“Is this place for real?”
Janine laughs and it is a gentle sound, a nurturing sound. “I would’ve thought with your Palo Alto home, this might not be enough.”
“Trust me, it’s enough,” I say, mesmerized. “It’s plenty.”
>
Janine hands me a set of keys and her business card. On the back she writes down her cell phone number. “If you need anything, or you just want to talk, you should definitely call.”
“You’re sure? People say ‘call me’ all the time and they don’t really mean it.”
Her smile returns, sweet, genuine. “I’m not just saying this to be polite.”
I hug her again and she leaves me to my surroundings. I flop down on the bed, grinning, letting myself drown in comfort when a knock on the door startles me. I roll off the bed, thinking it’s Janine and I nearly collapse when I open the door and it’s not. Standing before me are the two most beautiful girls these little piggy eyes of mine have ever seen. The two white girls—are they twins?—make even Margaret look average. Hell, they make her look ugly.
What in the world are they doing knocking at my door?
Friends or Frenemies?
1
“You must be Savannah,” the one on the left says, a straight-haired blonde wearing makeup so subtle she might as well be wearing none at all. She extends a hand and says, “I’m Georgia Quick.” We shake hands, my mouth not quite shut. Is this a mistake? A joke in the making?
Her twin has black hair streaked in deep maroons, and she wears her makeup really dark, her lipstick so red it could be black. If she weren’t so delicious looking, if she dressed more provocative and had piercings and tattoos, I would say she was Goth. But she isn’t. Her look is classy, sumptuous, even a bit suggestive. She could be sixteen, or twenty-five. Just looking at her, I’m wondering if right now, in this moment, I’m turning into a lesbian.
“And I’m Victoria Galloway,” she says, extending a jeweled hand as well. Where her sister’s hand was pale and delicate, Victoria’s hand bears a dull silver thumb ring, a skull and crossbones ring on her forefinger of the same finish, and a loose bracelet made of what looks like tiny silver bones. Okay, so maybe she’s transitioning to Goth…
I shake Victoria’s hand, then look at Georgia, unable to take my eyes off her face and the perfection of it. Her creamy skin, her brilliant green eyes, her flawless features—she seems unreal, as if neither time nor hardship has ever sighed an unkind breath upon her. A closer look and it’s apparent they’re identical.
With their breathtaking smiles (perfect teeth and lips) and their enchanting faces (not a single open pore or zit in sight), I try—perhaps out of habit—to find deceit in them. Girls like this don’t like girls like me. I see none and this scares me. After having been the butt of so many jokes for so long, I trust almost no one.
“Wait a minute,” I say, having heard different last names. “Why do you have different last names?”
They laugh, a melodious sound. Smiling with her eyes, Georgia says, “We just do.”
Victoria says, “We’re having lunch and we’re taking you with us.”
“I, uh…”
“C’mon,” Georgia says. Blonde hair, green eyes, perfect skin and now friendship? Okay, this whole thing is stinking to all hell!
Victoria takes my hand and says, “Lock up, we’ve got to get to the cafeteria before all that’s left is the burned bottom of…whatever’s on the menu today.”
I quickly lock the door and before I can open my mouth in protest, or even ask how they know my name, Victoria and I are walking hand in hand down the hallway and then outside. Next to her, I must look like I weigh three hundred pounds. She doesn’t let go of my hand, and I’m feeling uncomfortable, like I’m being led into a trap, and that’s when something in me breaks. I shake my hand out of Victoria’s and pull to a dead stop.
“You two aren’t sisters? How can that be when you look exactly alike?”
The girls exchange a glance, then: “We’re just not,” Georgia says.
“But, you’re twins.”
“We’re the not-twins,” Victoria says playfully. “We look alike, but we’re not related.”
“You have to be.”
Georgia says, “Think of us as an unexplained fact. Like how there aren’t any poisonous snakes in Maine, or how North Dakota has never had an earthquake.”
Victoria says, “Or how Elvis Pressley and Oprah Winfrey are distant cousins.”
“Maybe you were separated at birth,” I suggest, “and you just don’t know it yet.”
“The jury’s still out on that one,” Victoria jokes.
I can’t help thinking about how nice the girls were to Carrie in Stephen King’s first novel, and how later they dumped gallons of pig blood on her at the prom. Beautiful girls don’t talk to me, they poke fun at me. They sneer at me.
Victoria says, “C’mon, you can meet Bridget. She’s the third musketeer in our band of look-alikes.”
“You mean, there’s another one of you?”
“Yep,” Georgia says, her tone a little less perky. “There’s another one of us.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That sounded rude. It’s just that you’re so beautiful it actually hurts to look at you, and I’m so…not like you at all. Plus everyone’s staring at us and I can’t help thinking you two looking like you do only makes me look fatter and more heinous than ever.”
“You’ll have to get over that,” Georgia says, her face brightening again, “because friends like each other for who they are not what they look like.”
“I don’t know,” I say, red flags everywhere. Something feels very wrong here. “Maybe I’m not that hungry. Maybe I should unpack first.” Georgia takes my arm, stopping me. Already more stupid tears are welling in my eyes, and it’s embarrassing, my uncontrolled emotions. God, I’m so sick of crying!
That’s when I see another girl who looks exactly like Georgia and Victoria. She joins the three of us, flashing that brilliant smile that looks exactly like her non-twin non-sisters. Georgia lets go of my arm. “You must be Savannah,” the girl says. “I’m Bridget Montgomery.”
The blonde in ripped shorts and a nearly sheer white halter top has a sassy look about her. The shorts are too short, the halter top too small, the blonde hair (with impossibly loose curls) and makeup done up like she’s about to hit the club. Any club. She offers her hand; I just stare at it and say, “Will you please stop messing with me? I don’t like it.”
Bridget looks at me, frowns, drops her hand and turns to her non-twins and says, “What, does she not like us?”
Victoria loops her arm in mine and says, “We’re having lunch together because we want to welcome you to the school. We have no ulterior motives.”
“If you’re not triplets then I’m on the wrong planet,” I hear myself say.
“Hello, Savannah, welcome to planet Earth, we’re not triplets,” Georgia says. “But we are hungry and you need showing around, so just come with us and quit worrying so much. Everything will be just fine.”
Victoria starts walking so I walk with her, brushing my hair out of my face with my free hand. If they mean to make fun of me at some point, maybe in the cafeteria in front of everyone, they are hiding it really well. Whatever they have planned for me, I’m half terrified to death.
The cafeteria is a dining area like I’ve never seen before. If there were linoleum floors, white walls, lots of plastic scoop-seating and bright, fluorescent lighting, I wouldn’t have thought twice. With cafeterias, the white noise of hundreds of students echoing off all the hard surfaces bears a certain anonymity I’ve come to rely upon. And the smell of greasy food and sweat? Totally normal. But not here. The ambiance cannot be more different. With rich hardwood floors similar to the ones in my dorm room, a dozen wood planked tables fit for twenty or thirty students each and soft, warm lighting, this place looks more like five-star dining than a school cafeteria. Even the noise seems tempered, more civilized. Like grown ups in a restaurant rather than boisterous kids with no manners chomping and talking and gesturing out loud.
Looking around, the entire student body has to be here, eating, chatting, whispering, and of course, staring at me. Staring at the three girls who aren’t sisters. The already polit
e hum of conversation sinks into silence the minute we arrive. Someone says my name, then SocioSphere, and then I am nearly crushed when I hear one boy say, “She’s uglier in person,” followed by barely restrained giggling.
Panicked, searching franticly for a bathroom door or even a garbage can, my stomach gurgles and lurches. Wet things inside me begin to boil; my abdomen contracts. The room is closing in on me, my skin feeling hot. Hot and clammy. I slink out of Victoria’s arm, trying not to freeze up as my stomach flushes into my throat. Eyes darting everywhere, like a crazy person, I spot a tall grey garbage can next to the long buffet table and make a run for it. I’m not even close to it when the first evidence of breakfast comes blasting out my mouth. A chorus of “ews!” and “grosses!” fill my ears. My own symphony of misery and shame. I slip in my own puke and almost fall trying to make it to the garbage can. Hunching over, my stomach purging itself, I wrap my hands and arms around the rim for support and convulse until there’s nothing left to hork up but toxic breath and shame.
A pair of a hands gather my hair out of my face; another pair rubs gentle circles into my back. Tears bleed from my eyes and I can’t tell if they’re from the pain or the embarrassment. Then a voice, angelic and reassuring, soothes me. “It’s okay, Savannah, you’re alright.”
Another voice: “Don’t worry, you’ll be okay.”
The two voices sound exactly the same, even though different mouths are speaking them. The cafeteria is suddenly alive with laughter and jeers and once I hear them, they’re all I hear. Bridget leans in, looks into my eyes and says, “Don’t listen to them, honey. It happens to the best of us.”
The nausea settles, leaving me to confront a new horror. I don’t want to, but I have to pull my head out of the garbage can and face everyone, which I’m sure will be the most difficult thing I’ll ever do. With not a scrap of dignity, but complete resignation to the task, I leave the trashcan and look at my new soon-to-be ex-friends. To my utter surprise, their eyes are full of sympathy. I don’t understand. When they dumped blood on Carrie at the prom, everyone laughed and pointed and made her feel deceived, so violently alone. My mind won’t let me look beyond Georgia, Bridget and Victoria. One of my therapists (who knows which one when there have been so many!) said me narrowing my field of view like this is a protective measure that keeps me from getting hurt. Upon hearing this, my sarcastic inner-child was like, “Yeah, doc. Brilliant.” What I need right now is protection from the laughter of others. Protection from the indignity of being me.
