The Daring Game

by Kit Pearson

  They had turned the den into a bedroom for Eliza. She would never forget the first night she had shut the door and recaptured the peace of being utterly alone. The burden of four other people’s personalities continually rubbing against hers had dropped away instantly. What was surprising was how little she had missed privacy until she got it back.

  Still, all through the two weeks she had thought about returning to Ashdown with happy anticipation and talked eagerly about the school to her parents. She knew they were comfortable now about her being there.

  “You’ve grown up a lot,” said her mother one day. “I think boarding school has made you more confident.”

  Everything had been fine until the moment of saying goodbye in the airport, when this overwhelming yearning had flooded her without warning. When the plane rose from the ground she wanted it to turn around and go back. The stewardess had treated her like a small child, telling her when to undo her seat-belt and bringing her special drinks. Eliza felt young and, for the whole of the five-hour flight, very alone. As she passed over the snow-bound country, she tried not to think of the family she was leaving behind her. In the fall this had been easy, for she hadn’t been able to visualize them anywhere. Their apartment, and Toronto, had been hazy in her mind. But now she could imagine exactly what they would be doing at any moment.

  The other four were sleeping quietly. Clasping her hands tightly over John, Eliza pressed him to her chest but wished he were Jessie, something warm and alive. John’s button eyes, which she had often imagined full of life, glinted blankly in the dark, offering no help.

  She wiped her eyes on John’s ears. What should she do? Phone her parents and say she wanted to come back to Toronto? They would be sympathetic, but puzzled. She hated to worry them or to admit she was wrong. There was a horrible certainty inside her that, even if she did return, nothing would ever be the same. She could never be a little girl living at home again—she’d left home. It was too late to undo that. Why did they let me come? she thought angrily. I am too young for boarding school.

  By Toronto time it was very late, but she couldn’t sleep, and it was getting more and more difficult to stifle her sobs. She heard Miss Bixley going into her room … the bed!

  Eliza got down and padded to the door, startling the matron. “Heavens, Eliza, you gave me a fright! Is something wrong? Here, come into my room so we don’t wake the others.”

  “Oh, Miss B-Bixley …” As the door closed Eliza finally let her wild sobs loose. She tried to talk, but her lips were trembling too much.

  “Goodness me, child! Come and sit down.” Miss Bixley sat Eliza on the bed, wrapped her afghan around her, handed her a tissue and took one herself. They both blew their noses.

  “We-we apple-pied your bed—and I’m so s-sorry—and I miss my parents—and I don’t like being back here …” Eliza sobbed for a few more minutes while the matron made cocoa on her hot-plate.

  “Dear me, Eliza, you’ve certainly taken a long time to get homesick, haven’t you?” she said in her matter-of-fact way. “You’d think this was the first term, not the second!”

  Eliza snuffled and gasped for air. “Everything was ex-exciting the first term. Now it just seems the same. And I didn’t know how much I m-missed them until I saw them.”

  “You’ll get over it. And you don’t know what will happen this term—why it’s barely begun! Now you wouldn’t want your parents to worry about you, would you?” Miss Bixley handed her a steaming cup of cocoa. Eliza curled her cold fingers around it.

  She felt disjointed. One part of her was still sobbing, but she was frightened of how much crying was left inside her and forced herself to stop. Another part, strangely detached from her shuddering body, was watching herself sniff and gazing at Miss Bixley’s room. It was crowded with small luxuries: fat cushions, shirred pink lampshades and a sheepskin rug.

  “I shouldn’t tell you this, I suppose,” said the matron, settling down in her wicker rocking chair, “but you’re lucky you have a family you feel homesick for. I’ve never met your parents, Eliza, but from the way you talk about them they sound like very nice people. Some girls who come here haven’t got such happy home lives.”

  “Like Helen,” murmured Eliza. She felt numbed and embarrassed now and was glad to talk about someone other than herself.

  “Yes, that poor child has been on her own since she was nine. And Pam isn’t so fortunate either.”

  “Pam?” Eliza was surprised; Pam’s parents seemed to give her anything she wanted.

  “I’ve met her parents, and a snooty pair they are. I don’t suppose Pam gets much real affection.”

  Eliza’s curiosity was aroused, and she hoped the matron would go on. Miss Bixley was gossiping as if Eliza were her own age.

  “Now Jean’s parents are cold fish—that’s the Scottish in them, I expect. My brother-in-law was the same way. They expect too much of Jean. They think this school is going to turn her into something she isn’t. She’d be far better off living at home. But Jean’s a solid person underneath. She’ll survive.”

  Eliza had no idea that Miss Bixley thought about them all so much. Even through her dazed misery she couldn’t help being fascinated. “What about Carrie?” she asked.

  “Carrie’s got very pleasant, warm parents—but you met them on Remembrance Day, didn’t you? She’s one that boarding school’s probably good for, being the youngest of such a large family and a touch spoiled. And she seems to like it here.”

  “Is it—is it good for me, do you think?”

  “Well, let’s see …” Miss Bixley looked at Eliza appraisingly. “You’re more sensitive, but you’re sensible too. A tricky combination.”

  She stopped rocking and became Eliza’s matron once more. “But goodness me, look at the time! Now, Eliza, the best thing you can do is to be your usual cheerful self. There’s nothing wrong with being homesick, but don’t you feel better after a good cry?”

  Not really, Eliza wanted to say; she hadn’t been able to cry long enough to feel better. Because Miss Bixley expected her to, however, she nodded.

  “Thank you, Miss Bixley,” she mumbled. “Should I make your bed again?”

  “You’re bad girls, you and Helen … oh, I know Helen must have helped you. No, I’ll make it. You get off to bed.”

  THE NEXT MORNING the familiar Sunday routine grated on Eliza in a way it never had before. It seemed ridiculous to stand in the Blue Sitting Room and hold up your hands, palms out, for nail inspection. If the Pouncer could see your nails over the tops of your fingers she sent you back upstairs to cut them.

  The bus going to the cathedral resounded with eager stories of the holidays, but Eliza barely heard Carrie’s account of Disneyland. From the bridge she stared out at the gloomy grey sea. And in church she could not help thinking that, by Toronto time, her parents would have finished lunch and the Demons would be napping.

  That afternoon Madeline came over to the Old Residence especially to see Eliza. She asked her to be in charge of collecting the house cards for Cedar this term and smiled as she inquired about Eliza’s holidays, but she seemed distracted, as if she were thinking about something else. For the first time, Eliza felt unimportant to Madeline. She’s not really interested in me, she thought.

  Miss Tavistock stopped Eliza on the stairs after rest with a strong handshake and her usual cheerful greeting: “Welcome back, Elizabeth. How was your holiday? All ready to start a brand-new term?” Eliza had meant to show the headmistress the stamp album she had received for Christmas. But now she was afraid to be too friendly, in case she cried again. There was no point in telling either Madeline or Miss Tavistock about her homesickness. There was nothing they could do about it.

  Miss Tavistock was in a very different mood that evening. After supper she made all the Old Residence boarders assemble in the Blue Sitting Room. “I am sorry to have to begin the term with a lecture,” she said stonily, “but something very upsetting has been brought to my attention. Mrs. Renfrew has info
rmed me that someone has been stealing money from the Pound Box. Since it is kept in your laundry room, it must have been a member of this residence who did it. This is a very serious matter, girls. I want everyone to sit here and think about it while I speak to you individually. If the person responsible has the courage and honesty to confess, I will not divulge her name.”

  Eliza had never seen the headmistress like this. Miss Tavistock’s eyes were fiery, and her voice was deadly calm. There was truth, then, in the warnings she had heard about her last term.

  They had to go one at a time into her study to be questioned. When it was her turn Eliza was irritated that the headmistress made her feel guilty when she had never stolen anything in her life. It was just one more thing to add to her increasing misery. Miss Tavistock was not so perfect after all.

  “Are you certain you have not been near the money, Elizabeth?”

  “No, Miss Tavistock!”

  “I do have to ask everyone, Elizabeth, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t answer as if you were insulted.” The headmistress’s voice was strained and her face was white. Eliza whispered an apology, wishing she could just go to bed and cry again.

  But she had to return to sit with the rest of the silent boarders. Carrie rolled her eyes, but Eliza wouldn’t respond and pretended not to notice her friend’s hurt look. The ticking of the hall clock seemed to fill the whole room.

  Finally Miss Tavistock confronted them again. “I am extremely disappointed. Since no one seems willing to confess now, I only hope that whoever took the money will come to me later. You will certainly not get the ice cream Mrs. Renfrew was going to buy for you with it. This is a very poor beginning to the term, a poor beginning indeed.” She marched out.

  After Lights Out, Helen couldn’t stop talking about it. “It’s so unfair. How does she know it’s one of us? It could be a senior, or a day-girl—even a matron! I bet the Pouncer took it herself so she wouldn’t have to spend it on us.”

  But the others were too subdued by the incident to comment. When a message arrived on the Slipper Express—“What a drag! Charlie’s a pain to take up all our TV time”—no one even bothered to answer.

  10

  Being Bad

  E liza wasn’t used to being unhappy. She turned to her daily classroom activities with dull relief and tried to ignore the feeling of wretchedness inside her. Miss Bixley had said she’d get over it. She waited for the heaviness to lighten and wondered how long it would take. The first weeks of the year seemed to have a cloud over them, like the cloud that hovered endlessly over the city, pouring down rain.

  “It’s the worst term,” complained Miss Bixley, wringing out Helen’s socks after their walk. “So dark and wet and you all in bad moods from being cooped up so much. I’d rather have snow than this incessant downpour.”

  Eliza agreed fervently. At least you could go out and play in the snow. For ten days they’d had their breaks indoors, boxed up in the school basement like restless animals.

  The only times she liked now were the Saturdays when the school took them skiing on Seymour Mountain. Skiing was the only sport she’d ever been good at; her father had first taken her to the Rockies when she was six. Zooming down the hill was like flying, and the wind rushing in her face blew away her homesickness for a while. But even high up on the mountain they were often rained out.

  “We need a dare,” said Helen one Sunday evening when the Yellow Dorm were cleaning their oxfords.

  “I’m game,” said Eliza at once. She had to do something to relieve the tedium of this term.

  “I’m not,” said Pam predictably. “Helen, you’re not supposed to use that bottled stuff. It cracks when it’s dry.”

  “It’s much easier than all that rubbing,” said Helen calmly. She continued to ooze black liquid out of a sponge-tipped bottle onto her shoes and the floor as well.

  Carrie spat on the leather of her second shoe, then polished it glossy. “Do I have to put my name in again, since I’ve already done one?”

  “No—just Eliza and Jean and me.”

  I hope it’s my name, thought Eliza as Helen shook the beret containing the three slips of paper.

  It was. A welcome eagerness stirred inside her; it seemed a long time since she had felt this kind of excitement.

  Helen didn’t consider very long. “Okay, Eliza Doolittle. I dare you … to lose a house point.”

  “Oh no!” gasped Jean, who, like Eliza, had never lost a house point. “That’s too much.”

  Carrie agreed. “I don’t think the dares should be things to do with the school. Just the dorm.”

  “She wouldn’t do it, anyway,” said Pam. “Would you, Eliza?”

  “How about it, Eliza?” Helen grinned at her confidently. “I’ve lost six so far this year. It’s not that drastic.”

  “I’ve never lost a house point,” stated Pam firmly. “And I never will. If you want to let down your house for a silly game, Eliza, all I can say is I’m glad you’re not in Hemlock.”

  “Don’t do it, Eliza,” pleaded Carrie. “When I lost one for talking in the hall it was terrible, confessing it in front of everyone.”

  Eliza listened to them silently, observing the circle of their waiting faces. A strange recklessness surged up in her. Why not try to lose a house point? She was tired of being good all the time. The biggest problem was disappointing Madeline, but she put that out of her mind. And besides, Madeline was distant this term. She went around with a dreamy look on her face and barely seemed to notice Eliza.

  Tossing her head, Eliza said, “All right. I’ll do it. How long do I have?”

  “A week,” said Helen gleefully. “I could lose one in half an hour, but you’ll have to try harder—they aren’t used to watching you.”

  HELEN WAS RIGHT. Eliza began on Monday morning with the most common offence: talking in prayers. She whispered to her neighbour, who refused to answer. The prefect standing beside 7A, looking distinguished in her special light blue blazer, seemed lost in a day-dream and didn’t even notice. Eliza spoke again in the line back to the classroom, to the same girl, who hissed “Shhh!” in annoyance. But the tall prefect who was stationed outside only called out, “No talking, please.” What was the matter with them? Usually they were eager to pounce on the grade sevens, whom they said needed to be whipped into shape after being coddled in the Junior School.

  For the rest of the day she continued to talk in the wrong places—in the hall, in class and in the cloakroom. Either no one noticed, or they simply asked her to be quiet, with a surprised look at the usually well-behaved Eliza.

  She sat alone at tea after classes were over for the day, trying to think of all the crimes she could commit. It had to be something in school; the house-point system didn’t apply in the residence.

  Not doing your homework—Helen had lost several for that. But it was one area of her life Eliza knew she couldn’t fudge. Being good at her schoolwork was her only security these dreary days; she didn’t want to lose the soothing self-respect it gave her.

  Rudeness to teachers or prefects. That would be difficult to pretend too; she wasn’t a very good actor.

  Forgetting your books. Being late. Being untidy. Now those all had possibilities. She slurped her milky tea thoughtfully.

  “Read your tea leaves, Eliza?” Roberta, a plump grade nine boarder, sat down beside her. All the grade nines were reading tea leaves. It was their latest fad. Eliza didn’t believe in it, but she turned the thick white cup over onto its saucer and rotated it the required three times.

  “I see … I see …” murmured Roberta, gazing into the flecked pattern of the tea leaves meaningfully, “… that tomorrow you are going to do something unusual.”

  “You’re right—I am! Thanks, Roberta.” Eliza got up, leaving the girl staring into the teacup with surprise. Her predictions didn’t usually get such an enthusiastic response.

  TUESDAY WAS uniform inspection day. After lunch all the students had to line up in their classrooms wh
ile prefects checked for brushed blazers, crisp blouses, sharp pleats and shiny shoes. Two or more areas of sloppiness almost guaranteed a lost house point. Eliza was going to make sure there would be no wavering over her.

  It was easy to look messy, being difficult enough to look tidy at the best of times. Her oxfords were, unfortunately, already polished, but she scraped her toes along the pavement of the driveway on her way back from practising and shuffled through a pile of muddy leaves before she came in. For the rest she had to wait until fifteen minutes after breakfast when they were allowed back in the dorm to collect their things for school.

  Hidden in the bathroom away from the others, whom she could hear brushing their blazers, Eliza wet her skirt and stretched out the pleats in the damp patches. She had saved a bit of toast, loaded with marmalade, from breakfast. Dribbling it down the front of her blouse, she covered it up with her sweater. Then she pulled her cape around her and hurried over to school.

  Later in the day at the back of the classroom, after a lunch where she had managed to spill soup on her blazer without even trying, Eliza got ready for inspection. She took off her sweater, ripped open part of the hem of her skirt and threw away the elastic bands that held up her socks. Then she joined the line of waiting students.

  Just her luck to get Sarah, the nicest and most understanding of all the twelve prefects. “That’s an unusual way of wearing your sweater, Louise … Oh, I know you like a round-necked look better, but don’t you think the V at the back will look funny when you take your blazer off? … Carol, your blouse is rather rumpled … Ah, Pam, neat as a pin as usual. Oh! Eliza!”

  Everyone stared at Eliza as Sarah perused her in astonishment. Maybe I overdid it, she thought sheepishly, as she saw herself through their eyes: scuffed dusty shoes, socks slumped around her ankles, drooping puckered skirt, blouse smeared with a rusty stain and blazer splashed with congealing spots of green pea soup.