by Marta Acosta
“There’s no such thing as feminine intuition.”
“Knowing things isn’t only in books. All I’m saying is, be careful.”
“Hey, Hellsdale girls are always careful.” I grinned to show her that we were cool.
Students are expected to behave in a manner that honors Birch Grove’s standards: to treat their peers with respect, kindness, and understanding. Students should support one another academically and socially.
Birch Grove Academy Student Handbook
Chapter 7
On Monday, I was so nervous that I couldn’t eat breakfast. After years of wearing oversized hand-me-downs, my uniform felt uncomfortably snug. At 8:15, I walked along the drive to the school and watched a stream of expensive cars dropping off students dressed exactly like me, in blue blazers and skirts. By the time I got close to the main entrance, I could hear high-pitched voices.
A herd of girls moved through the main entrance of the school. I didn’t see any extreme piercings, wild hairstyles, doorknocker earrings, or protruding bellies. The “discreet makeup” permitted in the handbook seemed to be mascara and lip gloss, although some girls wore more and some wore none at all. Most of the girls had their hair long and loose.
They struck me as exceptionally attractive, and I tried not to panic as I followed them into the building and to the gymnasium, which was set up for registration. I stood in line at the W-X-Y-Z table. When I got to the front, the woman at the table smiled. “You’re Jane Williams, right? Good morning, Jane!”
“How did you know my name?”
“We study all the new girls’ files and photos so we can make them feel welcome.” The woman shuffled through a file box and pulled out a navy folder with the school crest on the cover and a sticker with my name. “Williams, Jane, no middle name. These are your classes and here’s today’s schedule and a map. After you sign up for your extracurriculars, you need to have your photo taken for your student ID. The Refreshment Break is in the cafeteria, and the headmistress will give her welcome speech in the auditorium.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Certainly, dear. Next!”
I moved to a clear space by one wall and read the contents of the folder. My schedule listed Honors Chemistry, Trigonometry, Western Classical Literature, Latin IV, and Western Culture and Civilization. There was also something called Z Block that I could fill from a variety of courses. I decided to take Expository Writing as my elective so I could improve my essay writing. I wove through the crowd to the sign-up table. A poster board displayed the school newspaper, The Birch Grove Weekly, and cheesy photos of students busy in a classroom.
“Hello, Joan, right?” The teacher at the table was almost as small as me, dressed in navy slacks and a blue button-down shirt. She wore a daring slash of ruby-red lipstick and had a short, spiky haircut.
“Jane Williams, ma’am.”
“Nice to meet you, Jane. I’m Ms. Chu, the journalism teacher. Are you interested in our newspaper?”
“I thought this was expository writing.”
“Yes, that’s what journalism is: expository writing.” Ms. Chu handed me a pen and a clipboard with a sign-up sheet. “What are your career plans?”
“I’m thinking about going into forensic science.” I tapped the pen against the clipboard.
“Really?” Ms. Chu brightened. “Which field of forensic science? Are you interested in being a medical examiner?”
“No, I would like to be a crime lab analyst. It would all be lab work, but I’d have to write reports, too. I wanted a course that would help me write essays for college applications.”
“Then you’ve got to take this, because journalism can help train you to write lab reports. You’ll learn to be objective and accurate, and meet deadlines,” she said. “It’s exciting to put the paper to bed. That’s what we call it when we meet our deadline and go to press.”
Although I wasn’t completely convinced, Ms. Chu seemed nice enough, and I signed the sheet and then had my photo taken for my school ID. I went to the restroom and washed my hands for too long, then smoothed down the unruly waves of my hair. When I could no longer avoid the inevitable, I headed to the refreshment break.
The cafeteria was a long, open, bright room. At one end was a lounge with rugs, potted plants, and sofas. Between old black-and-white photos of the school were student-made posters extolling excellence, honor, and duty. Tables with food and drinks were set along a wall. Girls mingled in groups and I felt their eyes on me as I got a plate of fruit salad and a glass of juice.
“Hi, Jane.”
I turned to see the pretty auburn-haired girl I’d met in the drugstore. Her shining hair was in a sleek ponytail and she wore small gold earrings with pearls. Her hazel eyes were framed with long, thick lashes. She was several inches taller than me and slim, but with curves.
“Hello. We met in town, right?”
“Yes, I’m Hattie, Harriet Tyler.” She smiled with even white teeth. “I’m a junior, too, and Mrs. Radcliffe asked me to show you around. Come meet my friends.”
She wasn’t the type of person who was usually friendly to me, so I was wary as I followed her to the lounge area, where older girls were hanging out. She introduced me to a dozen girls and we exchanged bland hellos.
A beautiful, plump girl named Mary Violet asked, “Are you living in the groundskeeper’s cottage?” Her hair was a cloud of silver-blond curls and she had a golden tan. She was wearing shiny pink lip gloss and thin gold chains around her neck and wrists. She leaned toward me eagerly.
“Yes, I moved in last week.”
“It must be fabulous to live in your own place!” She raised her cornflower-blue eyes toward the ceiling. “If I lived alone, I would have many passionate affairs with debonair men!”
The other girls giggled, and someone said, “You’d have a short commute.”
“Yes! I would rise from my silk sheets late after a night of untamed sexual coitus, bid my lover adieu—he would beg me to stay—and then I would dash breathlessly to class as the last bell rang. My hair would be romantically tousled.” Mary Violet waved her arm, sloshing juice over the rim of her glass.
“You mean you’d be a disaster and wouldn’t have the common courtesy to shower,” said Constance, a thin girl with dark brown skin, braids, and huge glasses that magnified her almond-shaped eyes. She had introduced herself with a handshake, saying, “I’m Constance Applewhaite. Pleased to meet you.” Her voice had an attractive lilt, and I wondered where she was from.
“Let me have my fantasy!” Mary Violet said. “Bebe got up only ten minutes before class. She was hardly ever a mess. Well, there was that time—”
The group became quiet, and Hattie said quickly, “We don’t need to gossip.”
Mary Violet pouted. “Why can’t I mention Bebe? She’s the one who dumped us after promising we’d go to the Ivies together and stay BFFs.”
“MV, we don’t want Jane to feel that she’s a replacement.” Hattie looked at me. “Bebe was here on full scholarship, too. She moved overseas at the end of last year.”
“And she’s never written to one of us, not even me!” Mary Violet said. “That is utterly heartless. All our slumber parties and cram sessions meant nothing, nothing, nothing to her. She was all talk-to-you-never-biatch!”
“Stop being so self-centered, MV,” Hattie said. “Bebe’s too busy. Mrs. Radcliffe’s heard from her twice this summer and she really does miss us.”
“Huh!” Mary Violet twirled a silvery gold curl around her finger. “Where did her mysterious uncle come from anyway? I thought she didn’t have any relatives.”
Constance said, “Everyone has relatives, Mary Violet. We don’t appear out of thin air. You might know that if you paid attention during biology.”
This was enough to divert the girls onto Mary Violet’s study habits.
Hattie remembered that I was there. “Jane, how’s your class schedule?”
“It’s okay, except that I was supposed to be
in AP Chem, but it says Honors Chem on my schedule.”
“It counts as the same as AP Chem, but Birch Grove doesn’t offer courses that ‘teach to the test,’” Hattie answered. “Honors Chem is more in-depth and ex—”
“Exceptional classes for exceptional girls!” the others said together, and cracked up.
Mary Violet told me, “The joke is that we pretend we don’t believe it, but we totally believe it.”
“Well, you are exceptional, MV,” Constance said. “Exceptionally absurd.”
“You’re exceptionally no-fun,” Mary Violet retorted, and stuck out her tongue.
I tried to step away as the girls teased one another, but Hattie kept me in the conversation by addressing comments to me. I was herded into her group as they left the cafeteria and went to the auditorium for the welcome speech.
“Juniors get balcony privileges,” Hattie told me, and we went upstairs and into the first row of the balcony.
“You can see everything from up here.” Mary Violet peered over the railing. “I’m so glad I’m not a lowly underclassman. It’s tragic we can’t haze them and make them grovel like the miserable worms they are.”
“Mary Violet Holiday, you’re the most appalling girl I’ve ever known.” Constance shook her head, which caused her glasses to slide down her elegant long nose. I could see she was trying not to laugh.
“Can’t I ever say anything?” Mary Violet huffed. “What about freedom of speech?”
Hattie stared at her friend. “Mrs. Radcliffe always says, ‘Freedom of speech does not excuse freedom from thought.’”
A bell chimed and Mrs. Radcliffe walked in front of the blue velvet curtains to the podium. “Good morning, ladies.”
As one, the students answered, “Good morning, headmistress.”
“Let us rise for the Pledge of Allegiance.”
After we recited the pledge, an elderly woman in a boxy blue suit came from the wings and stood center stage. She blew a little round whistle and then began leading the students in the school song about the birch trees that ended:
Let us bend in the storm, yet never break
Let us offer others more than we take
Let us live for the truth and act for the good
Hail, Birch Grove, hail!
Mrs. Radcliffe returned to the podium. “Students, I am honored to be the headmistress of this exceptional school and all of you exceptional girls. I know you have come back to Birch Grove refreshed and ready to meet the challenges of this year. It will be intellectually stimulating and often emotionally demanding. The faculty, counselors, and I always have our doors open to you.”
She talked for several minutes about campus news and then said, “I am so happy to have you all back for the new academic year. I hope you will arrive every day eager to become the very best you can be.”
She waited for several seconds and a feeling of anticipation grew in the room. Then she began speaking in a quiet voice that grew stronger with each phrase: “Because I believe in your intelligence, talent, and goodness. I believe you are exceptional. I believe in you. I hope that you will learn to trust in yourselves. Trust in goodness. Trust in Birch Grove.”
She nodded and there was a moment of silence. Then the students began clapping and I was clapping, too, and when they stood and clapped louder, I clapped harder, too.
When we were dismissed, the atmosphere seemed energized as students streamed out of the building.
“She’s inspiring,” I said to Hattie.
“I know. She always makes me feel as if I can do anything.”
“She has that je ne sais quoi.” Mary Violet tugged my sleeve. “That’s French for ‘I’m totally clueless.’ French is the language of amore, and amore is Italian for love. What language are you taking?”
“Latin IV. It helps with scientific terms.”
“Do you want to be a doctor?” Hattie asked.
“I’m interested in forensic science.”
“Since all Romance languages come from Latin, it must be terribly romantic,” Mary Violet said. “I can come to you when I need details for my mysteries. Maybe I’ll write one about a Latin scholar who exhumes mummies and solves ancient murders.”
Constance said, “Mary Violet claims she’s going to be a novelist.”
“Why do you find that so difficult to believe?” Mary Violet demanded.
“Because you are the sissiest female in existence and I can’t see how you plan to write gory scary stories.”
“That’s why it’s called creative writing, because you make it all up. Let’s do lunch.”
They began walking toward the parking lot and I turned to go back to my cottage. Hattie came back and hooked her arm through mine. “You have to come with us. Our treat, as a welcome to Birch Grove.”
Hattie stood in the shadow of a tree, so I couldn’t read her expression. “It’s okay, Hattie. You don’t need to babysit me.”
“It’s not babysitting. It’s…” She shrugged. “It’s hard changing schools and figuring things out. I’d want someone to give me the dish.”
“Okay.” But I thought that she was being overly friendly.
As I walked with them to Hattie’s gleaming red BMW, a stunning tall girl with long, wavy tawny hair crossed the parking lot in front of us. She saw our group and sneered. “Hi, sad little juniors.”
“Hi, Catalina,” Hattie’s group responded.
The girl’s amber eyes settled on me. Her full lips curved downward sullenly. “You’re new. Who are you?”
“I’m Jane Williams. I transferred in,” I said with a sharp edge in my voice. I almost preferred her direct hostility to the other girls’ unnatural friendliness.
“She’s living in the groundskeeper’s cottage,” Mary Violet said.
Catalina frowned. “What happened to Mrs. Radcliffe’s charity project?”
“If you mean Bebe, she went to Europe.” Hattie opened the car door. “See you later, Cat.”
“TTF Never.” The tall girl walked off with a swing of her hips.
Mary Violet said, “I call shotgun.”
We got in the car, and I asked, “Who was that?”
Hattie started the engine while Mary Violet fiddled with the music. “I’m feeling Pink today,” she said, and “Trouble” began playing. “That was Catalina Sachs-Montes, the Argentine princess. Not that she’s really a princess. She just acts like one. She speaks five languages, including Russian, so she thinks she’s special.”
“I speak four languages,” Constance said.
“Five is the tipping point,” Mary Violet answered. “Cat’s little sister, Adriana, is starting this year. She’s much nicer. She had class after me at Miss Harlot’s School of Croquet.”
“Mary Violet means Miss Charlotte’s School of Ballet,” Constance said. “That’s where we met when I was six and moved to Greenwood from Barbados. All the other girls wore leotards, but MV was a roly-poly thing flouncing in a pink tutu.”
“I was as graceful as a swan and I had a fabulous sense of style even then.” Mary Violet adjusted the rearview mirror so she could see me.
“Why are we always talking about you, Mary Violet?” Hattie moved the mirror back as she maneuvered around students to the street. “Jane, Catalina’s a senior and she’s very … very Catalina. Don’t let her get to you.”
Mary Violet twisted to face me. “She’s one of those foreigners who thinks Americans are gauche, which is French for oh-my-gawd-how-tacky. Unlike Constance, who thinks Americans are frivolous.”
“Not all Americans, only you,” Constance said.
I automatically scoped for cops as Hattie drove us off campus, but no one else seemed concerned. “I thought you had to be eighteen to drive other teens.”
“Oh, no one pays attention to that here,” Hattie said. “It’s fine as long as you live in Greenwood.”
Mary Violet said, “My grandparents let my mother drive when she was fourteen. She was an excellent driver and hardly ever got in accidents. S
he did run over a possum once and we can make her cry about it if we pour her a second tipple of Dubonnet and ask her about its darling furry paws and adorable whiskered snout.”
I tried to remember dubonnay and tipple so I could find out what they meant later.
“You don’t,” Constance said.
“We absolutely do! My father is the worst. He always talks about the heartbroken possum husband searching for his dead possum wife. Sometimes I recite my poem ‘Requiem for a Marsupial.’”
Mary Violet switched off the music, and then threw out her arms as far as she could in the confines of the car.
“Oh, once you gamboled happily in a wood
Living, loving, gathering food…”
Constance said, “Food doesn’t rhyme with wood,” but we were all laughing, and Mary Violet continued:
“You cross the road exploring afar,
When you are crushed by a speeding car!
Alas, poor possum, you draw a last breath,
A Birch Grove girl has crushed you to death!”
She bowed her head.
“Brilliant as always, MV,” Hattie said. “Jane, as long as you’re wearing your uniform or you let people know that you go to Birch Grove, they’re okay. If bigger problems come up, Mrs. Radcliffe can take care of them. It’s easiest for everyone that way.”
Hattie parked in front of a small café called the Tea Stop, but the girls called it the Free Pop and explained that Birch Grove students always got a free soda with meals.
When I opened one of the laminated menus, Hattie said, “They don’t actually serve anything that’s on the menu. You have to order from the chalkboard. Our favorite is crab sandwiches on toasted white bread and Caesar salad.”
“I always get the cup of soup,” Mary Violet said. “Salad gets stuck in your teeth.”
Constance said, “Soup gets dropped on your boobs.”
