A Gorgeous Villain

by Saffron A Kent

  They even tell you when you can or can’t leave campus.

  You need a special little pink permission slip signed by a teacher – sometimes they can be white, but I always cheer up when I get the pink ones.

  Oh, and in order to receive those signed permission slips, you need to have enough good girl points, more commonly referred to – by teachers – as privileges.

  And who keeps track of your privileges? The guidance counselor assigned to you, whom you meet with every week and who has a thick file of all your sins and occasional good deeds.

  There’s a girl here who hasn’t gotten a permission slip to go out in a year now, not even for Thanksgiving or Christmas. Because she keeps showing up late to her classes and rumor has it that she’s failing math and chemistry, hence her privileges have been revoked.

  See? How wonderfully strict and suffocating.

  On top of that, I absolutely adore the stern-faced teachers who hardly ever smile. But that’s okay because they only want good things for you.

  I adore the cinderblock buildings and cement pathways and iron bars on the windows.

  Oh, and the big tall gates in the front that are made of iron and are painted black? They are to die for.

  Not only are they architecturally sound and capable of keeping all of us inside, they also boast the motto of St. Mary’s School at the top in large, wrought iron letters: Tradition. Education. Discipline. Rehabilitation.

  Such a prison-like feel.

  Who wouldn’t love that?

  Who wouldn’t love the bench that I’m sitting on, all hard and of course made of concrete, out in the courtyard, which is also made of concrete I might add.

  From here I can see the whole school: the buildings, the pathways and the iron gates keeping us caged and safe. The soccer fields. The woods in the back, just beyond the brick fence.

  It’s a perfect spot to sit in, on a dreary, gray fall afternoon, to remind me this is my life now.

  My life that I love.

  Love.

  Love, love, love.

  So. Much. Love.

  This is not working, Callie.

  This is so totally not working.

  Okay, no. Wait. This can work. This can totally work.

  Um, what else do I love about this place? What else, what else?

  What…

  “Oh my God, are you listening?”

  A high voice pierces my fog and I blink.

  A face comes into focus. It’s pale and pretty with blue eyes and thick bangs. And glasses.

  Poe Austen Blyton, or just Poe, my friend. One of my best friends at St. Mary’s, who makes living here, at this stupid reform school, bearable.

  See?

  Here’s a thing I love!

  “I love you,” I tell her.

  She draws back. “What?”

  I grin. “I do, Poe. I love you. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

  Then I turn to another girl who’s sitting right to opposite me, Bronwyn Littleton, my roommate and also one of my best friends.

  I motion with my chin and declare, “And you. I love you, Wyn. You’re my favorite.”

  Wyn is an artist so she usually — by that I mean all the time — carries a sketchpad. She is the calmest person I’ve ever encountered in my life. Looking at her, her light-colored eyes, her long, brown braid and perfectly innocent face, you’d be so surprised that she is at a reform school.

  Her sketchpad is the reason she’s here, actually, or rather the fact that she loves to draw.

  Her parents are rich, high-class types who don’t want their daughter to waste her life on something like art and have always been on her case to give it up. So one day she’d had enough and in retaliation, she painted graffiti on her dad’s car. And well, her dad sent her here as a punishment.

  She looks up from her sketchpad and stares at me. “Uh, thank you. I appreciate that. I think.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say before turning to the third and final member of our group, Salem Salinger.

  She’s new at the school; she just started when we all came back from the summer for our senior year. She has huge curls and golden-brown eyes and she’s here because she stole some money and was running away but got caught.

  By whom, you might ask?

  By her guardian, who also happens to be the very scary principal of this reform school.

  Yeah, poor Salem.

  She chose to mess with the wrong person and well, now she’s here and I think I love her too. Even though I only met her for the first time when school started a week ago.

  So I tell her, “And you. Don’t think I forgot you, Salem. I love you too.”

  Her nose scrunches slightly. “I wasn’t thinking that. Although I was thinking that this is a little weird.”

  Poe throws her arms at her. “Thank you. Yes. This is weird.” She turns to me. “What’s going on with you?”

  “Nothing.” I smile and sigh, trying to ignore the fact that this is our lunch hour and we specifically finished our very dismal-tasting lunch early so we could come out here and catch the sun, which was all bright and shining when we were inside.

  The sun that suddenly disappeared the moment we stepped out of the cafeteria building, and by the time we got to this very hard and uncomfortable bench — as uncomfortable as our classroom desks — it was like there was never any sunshine whatsoever.

  Wyn leans forward slightly. “Is it the First Week Blues?”

  Okay, so we all have a term: First Week Blues.

  It’s a term coined by Poe back in our sophomore year, when it was just the two of us. Wyn came later, in our junior year, and as I said, Salem was sent here for her senior year.

  Anyway, it basically means that we all go through a short period of feeling low and blue when we’ve just come back from our summer vacation.

  Because we go from months of being free to being caged and restricted.

  “No, these aren’t First Week Blues,” I reply to Wyn. “Because A, this isn’t the first week anymore. This is the second. And B, why would I be sad when there’s so much to be happy about?”

  “Like what?” Poe asks.

  “Like…” I look around.

  After a deluge of them pouring out of the cafeteria, only a few girls remain outside. They all went back once they saw there was no sun to be had.

  But then, inside is even more depressing, with beige lockers and walls.

  So here we are, and on my sweep through the area, my eyes land on another thing that I love and had forgotten about.

  Flowers.

  Gardenias, to be exact. Tons of them, mixed in with daisies and roses and hemlock.

  “Aha.” I perk up because I like flowers. “Like flowers. Look! And the fact that we get to work on them this weekend.”

  Every Saturday, as a part of reformation and teamwork, all girls do a little bit of gardening. We mainly grow gardenias, the school symbol, because it represents purity and innocence.

  It also represents secret love, which I’m pretty sure no teachers know about and it’s sort of like a running joke between all the girls here.

  Poe sticks her tongue out. “Ugh. I hate flowers.”

  I give her a look. “Everyone likes flowers, Poe.”

  “I like roses,” Wyn adds.

  “I think gardenias are cool,” Salem pitches in. “What about you, Callie?”

  Daisies.

  I love daisies. I have dresses with daisies printed on them.

  Or I had dresses with daisies printed on them.

  I left them all in Bardstown the day I came here because I hate them now.

  I hate daisies. I hate those dresses. I hate…

  No, Callie. Now is not the time.

  “I, uh —”

  Poe saves me from answering — thank God — when she shakes her head and bursts out, “Can we get back to me, please? I was talking about something before Callie decided to go all crazy on
us and declare her undying devotion.”

  I sit up straight, thankful for the distraction. “Right. Okay. I was totally listening though.”

  “Really? What was I saying then?”

  “Uh…” I drum my fingers on the table. “You were saying that –”

  “I’ll save you the trouble. She was saying what she’s always saying,” Wyn says.

  Poe turns to her. “What am I always saying?”

  “How much you hate your guardian,” she answers. “Because he sent you here. Because you wouldn’t stop setting his clothes on fire and poisoning his food.”

  “I never poisoned his food.” Poe points a finger at Wyn. “Never.”

  “So how did he end up in the hospital then?” Wyn asks.

  “One time. That happened one time,” Poe clarifies. “And it wasn’t because I had poisoned his food. It was because I made him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Completely innocent. I did him a kindness. I was kind, people.”

  “He’s allergic to peanuts, Poe.”

  “Yes! And I found that out later. When his tongue was swelling up.” Poe throws her hands in the air, exasperated. “Why won’t anyone believe me?”

  Wyn looks at me then and winks, a small smile playing at her lips.

  Oh, she’s bad.

  And I’m bad too so I wink back and chirp, “Because you’re diabolical. And you’re always talking about how much you wanna kill him and that you wouldn’t mind if they sent you to prison for it either.”

  It’s true.

  Poe has vowed to kill her guardian and I’m pretty sure with her evil, troublemaking mind, she can do it and never get caught.

  Poe, however, glares at the both of us. “I wouldn’t. Just so you know. Even though I don’t think that orange is the new black and I don’t think I’m gonna look good in it, I’d still do it. I’d still stab his chest with my six-inch Prada heels – you know, the ones with suede that I really love – and I’d watch him bleed out and then when he’s all dead and buried, I’d dance on his grave. Mark my words.”

  I purse my lips so I don’t laugh out loud at her murderous expression, crazy eyes and flushed cheeks.

  Somehow I manage to say, all serious-like, “But you hate dancing, Poe.”

  Poe is about to snap at me when Wyn interjects again. “Yeah, Poe, you hate dancing. You say your boobs hit your face when you jump around too much.”

  I grin at Wyn and she grins back.

  Again Poe is about to snap but again, she gets waylaid. This time by Salem.

  “They’re excellent boobs though,” she says, raising her hand and jumping into the conversation while looking at Poe’s chest.

  I look at Poe’s boobs and Salem is right. Her boobs are excellent.

  Poe has a naturally curvy body, big boobs, slim waist and wide hips, sort of like those eighties pin-up girls, and yes, I’m definitely jealous of her.

  “Yeah, they’re excellent,” I agree, nodding and looking at my own tiny ones.

  “Right? I mean, I’d kill for boobs like that,” Salem says enviously.

  Salem and I, we’re the same body type, small and athletic. Courtesy of her being a soccer player.

  I have to say that even though I grew up around soccer, I’ve never really been friends with a female soccer player.

  “As much as I like you guys talking about my boobs, because let’s face it, they are excellent,” Poe says, pointing to them, “I have bigger problems right now.”

  Getting serious, Salem bites her lip. “Sorry.”

  I get serious too. “Yeah, sorry. Tell us what’s wrong.”

  Wyn puts down her sketchbook, meaning she’s paying attention, and all three of us lean toward Poe, eager to hear her story.

  She blows out a breath, making her thick dark bangs flutter. “I can’t go out this weekend. Miller took away my outing privileges. Again.”

  “What? Why?” I ask, outraged.

  “I don’t know, something I did last year. Maybe because I put a rat in her office.”

  Yeah, that.

  Poe snuck a rat into her guidance counselor Miss Miller’s office last year.

  I have no idea where she got the rat from — probably on one of her rare outings — and how she managed to hide it from all of us. Until Miller screamed in the middle of a very peaceful school day and ran out of her room.

  “Well, that was last year though. Can’t she let it go?” Wyn asks.

  “No.” Poe mimics Miller’s nasally voice, “‘Because as you know the school policy is that all grievances get carried over to the next semester. So I’m going to have to revoke your outing privileges until midterms.’ Fucking bitch.”

  “Ugh, I hate her.” I shake my head.

  “I can’t believe I have the same guidance counselor,” Salem laments.

  I totally feel her pain.

  Poe and Salem share the same guidance counselor and I swear Miller is Satan. My guidance counselor is pretty mellow on the other hand — another thing that I can admit that I like.

  Poe bangs her fist on the table. “See? That’s why I hate him.”

  None of us need her to elaborate who he is. Her guardian.

  “This is why,” she continues. “All of this is happening because of him. Everything wrong in my life is because of him. Everything. That stupid, tweed-coat-with-elbow-patches-wearing, unfashionable, old… man.”

  Wyn, Salem and me, we look at each other and press our lips to stop from laughing out loud.

  “Old man.” I nod.

  “Unfashionable too,” Wyn says.

  “Yeah, let’s not forget unfashionable,” Salem instructs us. “And elbow patches.”

  I nod for emphasis before saying, “How dare he? Tweed coats, oh my God! The man should die.”

  Poe narrows her eyes before throwing her empty water bottle at me. “You guys are the worst.”

  And we burst out laughing.

  Which somehow turns into the highlight of my day so far.

  Sitting on these hard benches, under the gray sky, laughing with the friends I’ve made at this reform school, I forget why I’m here in the first place.

  I forget that I don’t have any freedom now.

  That I’m caged inside these brick fences and iron gates.

  That I’ve been caged here for two years now.

  Because one night when I was sixteen, my heart broke.

  It broke so badly that I died.

  I died from the pain, and when I came back to life, I went from being good girl Callie to a heartbroken girl.

  A girl who, in the throes of her pain and her hurt, did something that she never could’ve imagined doing.

  A girl who did it all in the name of love.

  I became a girl who was supposed to land in jail for it — for the thing I did, the crime I committed — but somehow was sent here.

  As a mercy.

  Away from everything that I’ve ever known: my town, my home, my four older and overprotective brothers.

  I forget all of that and just laugh.

  Which makes Poe growl. “Fine, whatever. Laugh it up. The only choice I have now is to live my best life. Tomorrow night.” She lowers her voice then. “When we sneak out.”

  Tomorrow.

  Tomorrow is Friday.

  Fridays are special.

  On Fridays, we sneak out, all four of us.

  And if tomorrow is Friday, then today is Thursday.

  And Thursdays are special too.

  For me.

  It’s a little before midnight and everyone has gone to sleep.

  Especially my roommate, Wyn.

  Which works out great for me.

  Because as I said, Thursdays are pretty special and I have somewhere to be.

  So slowly, I climb out of my bed and go to my dresser. I open it and grab my pre-packed bag and creep out of my room.

  Out in the darkened hallway now, I close the door behind me and look
from left to right. The coast seems to be clear so I walk down the narrow hallway, which is flanked by beige doors and walls that have bulletin boards and motivational posters hung on them.

  My feet are quick but quiet, matching the silence this time of night.

  Well, except for the low drone of the television up front in the reception area.

  There’s a twenty-four-hour warden – they change shifts – to keep an eye on things and I’ve chosen Thursday in particular to sneak out because I know Miss Alvarez likes her late-night shows way more than she likes watching over the bad girls, and after two years of sneaking out, I’m an expert.

  I know all the twists and turns of this hallway. I know how long it will take me to reach my destination if I walk at a certain speed. Twenty-five seconds.

  It’ll take me twenty-five seconds to go where I want to go.

  I’ve timed it.

  And sure enough, twenty-five seconds later I’m there.

  At the exit.

  Which is located in the back of the building.

  It’s a metal door with a trick handle. You have to jiggle it and push at it just so to spring it open; it’s something that none other than Poe discovered the first year she was here with me.

  The metal door thuds open and I step out into the September night, which is slightly chilly but nothing I can’t handle.

  I wedge a rock between the door and the jamb before I take off running through the concrete pathways and cut through the grass clearing toward the campus brick fence. Propping my feet on the gaps, I climb and cross over to the other side.

  When I get down, I start running again.

  From here I have about ten minutes to make it to the St. Mary’s bus stop, which will take me where I want to go. I run through the woods that line the back of our campus and reach the bus stop just as the bus is pulling in.

  The inside is empty except for a woman who’s sleeping in the fourth row. It’s slightly scary, traveling in an empty bus at midnight, but I have no other choice, do I?

  I show the driver my bus pass — I bought it over the summer with my own money, thank you very much — and then I’m off again.