A Tale of Two Proms (Bard Academy)

by Lockwood, Cara

  “I don’t know what Kool-Aid you’ve been drinking, but snap out of it.” I glared at him. I didn’t like this new Heathcliff.

  “Kool-Aid?” he asked, perplexed.

  “Never mind. Just give me a boost, please.” He shrugged and came to me. He cupped his fingers together. I put my right foot in step he’d made for me and he launched me up into the grate. I scooted in and turned around.

  “Your turn,” I said, holding out my hand. He gave me a doubtful look, but then he grabbed my hand and put one foot on the top of the toilet before throwing his leg over the top of the stall. Heathcliff was normally quick on his feet. But today he tumbled awkwardly into the air conditioning grate and knocked me backward. I wouldn’t have minded, except that the closer he got, the more he smelled like a six pack of cheap beer that had been spilled on a bar room floor and been left there to dry for three days. It was becoming a serious turn off.

  “Have you been drinking again?” I hissed at Heathcliff.

  “Depends on what you mean,” Heathcliff said and then hiccupped. I saw now that his eyes were a bit glassy and red. I felt anger surge through me. He’d just asked me this morning if I trusted him. And he told me he had everything covered.

  “Is this your big plan to make sure no one tries to kill me? To go get drunk?”

  “Well, a little drink always brightens a plan, I find.”

  “So this is what the ‘trust me – I’ll take care of it’ was all about? Trust you to go get wasted and then get yourself captured by Guardians? This was the big secret? THIS is what you wouldn’t tell me?” I tried to keep my voice low, but was having trouble. I was seriously ticked off.

  Heathcliff hiccupped again. “You are quite pretty when you’re angry,” he told me and grinned.

  And then I heard the sound of urgent voices outside the bathroom door.

  I leaned over him to reach the grate. I stuck it back in the vent to cover our tracks just as the bathroom door slammed open and the trash can knocked over spilling crumpled up paper towels all over the floor. The first Guardian tripped over the can, but the second deftly walked around it. Heathcliff opened his mouth to say something else, but that’s when I covered his lips with my hand. Drunk or not, we were in this together. And I had no intention of getting caught by the Guardians today. I had enough trouble without adding a detention to it.

  Sure, there was a chance we’d be in trouble anyway. Even if we managed to get away now, the faculty would hear about it, but by then maybe Heathcliff would be sober, which greatly improved his chances of being able to stay at Bard.

  As the two of us sat still in our hiding place, I listened as the Guardian below slammed open the doors to every stall. Heathcliff didn’t seem to mind my hand on his mouth. He laid his head on my shoulder and let out a little contented-sounded sigh. At least one of us was happy.

  The Guardian gave up his search sooner than I expected. He passed under the grate without looking up once, and he exited the bathroom, taking his friend with him. Before the door had even closed, Heathcliff had whipped my hand away from him. Before I could even react, he pressed his lips to mine.

  I tasted alcohol and sweat and he moved in a way Heathcliff never moved. I couldn’t explain it, but I knew Heathcliff, and this was not the way he kissed. Even drunkenness couldn’t explain it.

  I pulled away.

  “Stop it,” I told him, even as I tried to process what had just happened.

  He held up his hands and hiccupped. “Sorry, m’love,” he said. “Sorry if I give offense. I’m afraid I always do that. It’s just, you were so willing the other night…”

  It hit me then that this was the Heathcliff that I’d seen outside my dorm. And I knew now what was bothering me so much about him. His forehead was just a little bit different than I remembered and his nose slightly flatter than I remembered from the Heathcliff who’d saved me from the plunging gargoyle.

  And that’s when it hit me: the boy I was looking at wasn’t Heathcliff at all.

  He’d never been Heathcliff.

  “Who are you?” I asked him, growing surer by the second.

  “Sydney Carton, miss. At your service.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Sydney Carton?” My mind went racing back to Coach H’s English class. Sydney Carton was a character from A Tale of Two Cities. “You’re sure?”

  “I believe so,” he said, touching his Bard jacket. “But if you prefer Heathcliff, I’ll gladly answer to that for so pretty a lady as you, miss.”

  “Charles Dickens,” I said. “He’s your creator.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve never heard that gentleman’s name before. He’s not my father, if that’s what you mean.”

  Of course, Sydney wouldn’t understand. He would only know the story set forth in the pages of A Tale of Two Cities. I remembered him from the book. He was the drunken lawyer in the novel, the one who looked exactly like Charles Darnay. He was the one who fell in love with Lucie, Charles’ fiancée.

  Sydney Carton. And now here he was in another time and place, looking like Heathcliff. If Sydney were a superhero, his power would be to cause mistaken identity.

  “First Charles Darnay and now Heathcliff. Do you always look exactly like other people? Or is this just a massive coincidence?”

  “Excuse me?” Sydney wasn’t following. I didn’t expect he would.

  “You look exactly like my boyfriend Heathcliff.”

  “But I’m not Heathcliff.” Sydney burped and I got another whiff of stale Budweiser.

  “That is for sure,” I said.

  “So… your boyfriend. You thought…” The wheels in Sydney’s head were turning. “I was him? That’s why you were so, uh, friendly, last night.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Why did you think I was so friendly?”

  “Well, I thought you couldn’t resist my obvious charms,” Sydney said, and gave a little bow. Inside the air condition grate, the tilt of his head and the flourish of his hand were ridiculous. We were both scrunched into uncomfortable positions.

  “Obvious charms, huh?” I didn’t bother keeping the skepticism out of my voice.

  “Well, I don’t have many charms,” Sydney agreed. “But the few I do have are obvious.”

  “Like?”

  “Like I have a tendency to look like the suitors of very pretty girls.”

  I gave Sydney a shove. Now that I knew the truth, I could see that while he looked an awful lot like Heathcliff, there were some differences. He was a little bit older, for one. His nose was a tad bit wider and flatter, his forehead a little shorter. His hair was nearly the same, except a little bit longer, its black waves in unruly bunches on his head, as if he hadn’t combed it in some time. He had Heathcliff’s stubble, and Heathcliff’s broad frame, and he had Heathcliff’s eyes. The color was the same—a dark brown, nearly black, but there was something a bit cooler about them. Something more detached.

  “How long have you been here Sydney? Do you know when you came to Bard?”

  “I really don’t know. Two days ago, maybe? I was sitting having a beer at the pub and then I look up and I’m in a library.”

  “Did anyone talk to you? Have you heard anything?”

  “A nice woman told me to go and mingle and so I did.” Sydney shrugged.

  “Do you remember what she looked like?”

  Sydney scrunched up his face, trying to remember. “’fraid not, m’luv. I was a little bit toppers by then, I’m afraid. That whole night was a blur. She was a nice woman. Pretty. Polite.”

  “Did she look like me?”

  Sydney studied me a moment. “No. Not really. Fairer than you, I think. Lighter hair, for certain. And a bit older, I’d say. She had her hair back. Very neatly put together.”

  So it wasn’t Catherine who’d brought him here, I decided.

  “Short? Tall?”

  “Average.”

  I tried to think about whom he could mean, but his description was too vague.

  “What was
she wearing? A uniform like me?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Just a plain skirt and shirt. Nothing remarkable.”

  Sydney might have been talking about Emily Bronte—except for the being polite part. Emily was rarely polite. She was bitter and surly, not that she couldn’t pretend to be nice, I suppose. In the end, the description was just too general. It fit probably a dozen people at Bard. But what I did know was that whoever had let him loose had done so hoping to cause trouble. Someone as reckless as Sydney Carton running around Bard would cause Heathcliff a great deal of trouble. Just like Catherine was causing me.

  Someone really wanted to make things hard for Heathcliff and me.

  I needed to find Heathcliff. If he didn’t know he had a drunk twin roaming the campus already, he needed to know sooner rather than later.

  I heard the bell ring outside, marking the end of the period, and realized that now was a good time to escape because there would be lots of students on the grounds. I didn’t want to spend any more time in the air conditioning shaft with Sydney, and so we climbed through the grate about a hundred feet to where I thought it would lead to an exit on the far side of the library. It took a good kick to get the grate off, but then we were free. When we turned the corner to the library, the grounds were covered in students wearing Bard Academy jackets and with a few quick steps we’d blended in.

  I’d taken a few steps and then felt a hand on my shoulder. I had to fight the urge to run. I turned, expecting to see an army of Guardians. Instead, I saw Blade.

  “There you are,” she declared. “I need help!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Emergency!” she declared. She tugged me away from Sydney.

  “I’ll let you go, m’love!” Sydney called to me, giving me a slight bow from the waist before he turned away. He looked like he was in a hurry to be somewhere else.

  “Wait !” I cried, but Blade was already pulling me in another direction and Sydney was swallowed by the crowd. I had a bad feeling about that. But Blade’s grip was like steel.

  “We have to go now!”

  “What is it? Emily Bronte? Catherine?”

  Blade gave me a worried glance. “Oh, no. Way worse,” she said.

  And then she led me to the girls’ senior dorm. We rushed up the stairs and in the lobby there were free standing racks of used prom dresses.

  “What is it?” I asked her. “What am I looking for?”

  “A dress, duh,” Blade said. “A dress for me.”

  The reality of what was going on sank in. “Your emergency is a dress for prom?”

  “Well, yeah. This is my only free period, and the best dresses will be gone by dinner time.” Blade went to pick through the dresses on the racks.

  “Blade, now is no time to be shopping. I have way more pressing problems, you have no idea.”

  “Please!” Blade pleaded with me, putting her palms together. “Please, Miranda! You know about this girly stuff. I really have no idea what I’m doing in here. It’s like I’m in a foreign country, okay? Samir said I should wear something special, and I don’t think he means my skull tights.”

  “But prom isn’t for weeks.” And I really needed to go find my boyfriend’s double.

  “But these dresses will be gone by the end of day. Look at how many skanks are here already,” Blade glared at another girl who grabbed a purple satin dress off the rack. The girl turned pale, dumped the purple dress back on the rack and scampered off.

  “Since when do you need help dressing? I thought you went with your own style.” I eyed the safety-pin necklace Blade was wearing around her neck.

  “I do punk. I don’t do prom. I’m out of my depth here.”

  “Any dress will be fine,” I said and turned to go. Blade grabbed my arm and held on with a vice-like grip.

  “No, you don’t understand, I have never been to a dance. Not once. Not ever.” Blade was really starting to sound desperate. “I’ve never even owned formal wear.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. I realized that Blade—who was overconfident in nearly all things—had a little bit of insecurity when it came to dressing up. “Five minutes, please? Just five minutes?”

  I sighed. A couple of minutes probably wouldn’t make a difference.

  “Okay, I’ll help,” I said.

  “Great,” Blade said and sounded relieved. I started picking out dresses, which Blade quickly nixed. “Nothing pink!” she exclaimed, when I grabbed a rose taffeta floor-length gown.

  We finally settled on the row of black and deep purple dresses. Black or purple seemed like good Blade colors. There was a makeshift dressing room in the corner, where the faculty had set up a curtained area. We took an armful of dresses and Blade went to try them on.

  It was an interesting fashion show. Blade nixed one dress after another (too tight, too lose, too short). I managed to even get her to try on other colors, even one pink dress. I wished I had a camera. Seeing Blade in a pink lace was a once in a lifetime sight.

  “I’m going to kill you,” she said, pouting.

  “What? It looks good on you.”

  “I look like a cupcake,” she said and frowned. Then she turned back to try on another one. She went through a blue one, two more black dresses, and a red one.

  At some point, I realized that Blade was doing this because she really wanted to make Samir’s prom night special. If it were up to Blade, she’d wear combat boots and ripped jeans. Samir was the one who wanted to see her in a dress. I couldn’t help but think this was sweet. If only Hana could see Blade now, trying on dress after dress, she’d see how much Blade cared about making Samir happy.

  Blade emerged from the dressing room wearing a pale yellow shift dress. It looked surprisingly good.

  “That one is pretty,” I said.

  “I look like Tweety Bird,” she protested.

  “You don’t! You look…sweet.”

  “I hate sweet,” Blade grumbled.

  “Samir will like that one,” I said, pretty positive. Blade looked delicate and pretty in the A-line yellow satin.

  “You think?” Blade looked uncertain.

  “I do,” I nodded. “That’s the one.”

  Blade looked down at the dress. “I guess it’s not so terrible.” She shrugged. That’s probably the only good thing she would be able to say about it.

  Just then, I turned to see Lindsay running toward me. Her face was wet with tears like she’d been crying and when she got close enough she flung herself at me in a hug.

  “It’s Dad,” she choked out. “I just heard from Mom. She said we have to go home. Dad’s in the hospital.” And then she buried her face in my shoulder and broke into sobs.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Everything happened so fast after that I hardly had time to grab my backpack, throw a change of clothes in it and go. Headmaster B had been waiting for us near my dorm room. It was almost as if she really wanted to make sure I actually left. Then again, maybe that was just me being paranoid and she was just following protocol. She did, after all, return my cell phone to me as she ushered me into the waiting shuttle bus that would take my Lindsay and me to the docks. Cell phones were kept locked away in the Dean’s office, returnable only when students left school grounds.

  “For your trip,” Headmaster B said, nodding solemnly. Even though she came of age in the early nineteenth century, I guess even she was up to speed on the modern dangers of girls traveling alone without the help of a cell phone tower.

  I glanced at the bars on the front of the phone and noticed Headmaster B had charged it for me. I wondered if she had plugged it in the old-fashioned way or if she’d just snapped her fingers and juiced the battery. Either scenario was possible. For a dead woman, she had many talents.

  We boarded the shuttle bus driven by H.S. Thompson. Normally, he was always in a friendly mood, but today his expression was somber.

  “Sorry about your dad,” he said, nodding at me. He twirled the unlit cigarette that was in its long plastic holder. He had
on aviator sunglasses and a white canvas hat. Mr. Thompson looked like Cruella de Vil, if she’d somehow been stranded on Gilligan’s Island.

  “Thanks,” I said and nodded back at him.

  “You need anything, you just let me know.” I wasn’t sure what he was offering. Might have been cigarettes. You never knew with Mr. Thompson, so I just let it go. Still, it was nice of him. In the last year, he’d softened to me a little. Two years ago, he led a disciplinary hearing against me after I was accused of breaking into the vault. The upshot was a shunning punishment where everyone on campus had to ignore me. It was all very Scarlet Letter.

  But, he’d done a one-eighty over the last year. Maybe he felt bad because it turned out I was completely innocent. Anyway, we were buddies now, or sort of. And it was nice to have a kind word. Even if it was from Mr. Thompson.

  “Hold on,” he instructed, and then he hit the gas.

  He drove like he was deliberately trying to break all the rules of the road. This was his style. We careened back and forth down the narrow pathway, the branches slapping our windows. The road to Bard was only one lane. They never expected too much traffic, I guess. On the bus, there were only a couple of other kids. I didn’t know them, and by mutual consent, we all stayed quiet. Except for Lindsay who sat by the window sniffling. The rest of us stared out the window at the thick brush lining either side of the unpaved road.

  Before I knew it, we’d arrived at the docks, where a ferry was waiting to take us back to the mainland. We boarded wordlessly. Even counting the Bard kids there were only maybe a dozen passengers and the boat held a hundred, so we easily spread out into largely empty rows. I sat next to Lindsay, watching the fog roll over the hull of the ship. It felt like it kept on moving right into my head. My brain didn’t seem to want to focus on anything for too long. It just kept jumping from one unfinished thought to the next.

  I guess this was me coping with the fact that our dad had had a heart attack and the doctors said he might die.

  Lindsay’s way of dealing was to keep bursting into tears – first on the ferry, then in the cab to the airport, and even in line at airport security. I was the one who picked up our plane tickets, made sure our bags made it through security and got us dinner while we were waiting for the flight. Lindsay didn’t care who stared at her in the airport terminal. I tried to keep myself busy doing things, anything at all. Maybe if I kept moving, the emotions wouldn’t catch up to me. But somewhere over the eastern seaboard, as I listened to Lindsay sniffle, I started to wonder if there was something wrong with me because my eyes were still dry. Maybe I was in shock. Or maybe it was the simple fact that Dad and I hadn’t gotten along for the last twelve years or so. Or maybe I was too worried about Bard. And Heathcliff. And Sydney Carton. And Catherine.