Honor Code

by Kiersi Burkhart

  “Just in time,” says the registrar. “Tryouts start in a couple days.”

  Yikes. That doesn’t leave me much time to enjoy my freedom.

  I walk back to Isabel House with my heart somewhere under my tongue. I hope Hayden is working check-in so I don’t have to go looking for her.

  Thankfully, she’s the one sitting behind the counter, reading from a textbook.

  “I put my name on the list for tennis,” I say proudly. “So I’ve got a sport and a club now, like you said.”

  I can’t dare hope.

  “Oh, right,” Hayden says, glancing up. “I’m glad you’ve finally decided to deal with that muffin-top issue.” I grit my teeth at the reminder. “I guess you’ve earned hearing about this great match-up I have planned for you. Your match-up is . . .” she trails off dramatically, like we’re in a game show. “With Scully! Scully Chapman. You’ve met him, right? He’s a Fourth Year.”

  Scully Chapman.

  I’ve been matched up with the hottest guy in the history of Earth for a dance. And he’s an upperclassman, to boot.

  “I’ve met him,” I squeak out.

  “Great. I hope you’ll take this as an opportunity to work on yourself.” Hayden tilts her head. “Are you excited?”

  I must look like a ghost who’s seen another ghost.

  “Oh, yeah. Definitely. I’m also totally stunned!”

  This is the answer she wanted.

  “Awesome. Good.” She looks victorious, like my Needs Improvement score was instantly bumped to a Somewhat Improved. “Since you’re just a First Year, there are probably some things I should tell you.”

  -----------------------

  I’m buzzing with secrets as Gracie and I head across campus for dinner. A brilliant sunset slathers the mossy brick buildings, trees, and paved paths in fiery orange light. It feels like Edwards Academy is throwing a party for me. Like I was chosen.

  When we get to Hamilton Hall, the chefs surprise us with ravioli, one of the few things the kitchen does well. The cheese-filled dough squares drizzled with steaming hot red sauce put us both in a fantastic mood. The bread they serve is warm and buttery, even though it tastes like cardboard. I know Hayden would frown on me eating it, but god, it tastes good. And the wilted spinach in the salad bar is so depressing.

  Ravioli night is as good a time as any to give her the news. Hey, you know that guy we’re both drooling over? Yeah, that’s my date.

  “I found out my match-up today,” I say, just as she shoves a bite of food in her mouth.

  “What? Who?” Gracie leans forward. I hope she doesn’t get mad. I nod at where Scully sits two tables behind us, laughing with his friends.

  “Him.”

  Her mouth forms a perfect O. “No way! Scully Chapman?”

  I nod, trying not to look too amped up about it. “Yep. Him.”

  “And he had Hayden ask you out for him?” She stabs one of her ravioli. “Couldn’t he have talked to you in Drawing Club like a normal person and asked you out himself?”

  “It’s not a real date,” I say, trying to head off any romance fantasy she might be imagining. I repeat to her what Hayden was careful to explain to me—that the Mixer doesn’t mean anything. It’s a get-to-know-you kind of event. He’s not asking me out.

  Clearly, other girls had made this assumption. Hayden didn’t want me to make the same mistake.

  “I still don’t understand why it’s necessary,” Gracie says. “Or normal, for that matter. This whole match-up stuff is actually kind of creepy.”

  “Like this place is normal in any conceivable way,” I say, and Gracie laughs. “Anyway, I could try to find you a cool guy, too. Scully has a really hot friend.”

  “The tall one with black hair?” asks Gracie.

  “Yeah. He seems nice.” Maybe.

  She shrugs. “He also has a girlfriend.”

  Oops. But as we resume our dinner, it seems that everything is still okay between us.

  Still, I sneak looks at Scully whenever Gracie might not notice. But she’s sneaking looks at him, too.

  The movie that started running in my head yesterday during Art History plays again: Scully and I, dressed to the nines, waltzing in Hamilton Hall on each other’s arms. The whole school looking at me. Admiring me.

  Envying me.

  Except Gracie is there, too, looking on with her arms crossed and her lips twisted up like she’s swallowed a lemon.

  The fantasy ends as soon as it started.

  -----------------------

  All day the next day, I’m anticipating my first day of tennis. It feels like the school is unwinding, opening up to me as a flower blooms. I’m going to the Mixer with Scully Chapman—easily the most popular guy on this entire campus.

  Me. Me.

  As I approach the enormous green shell of the tennis dome, lingering on the edge of campus like some giant turtle, I’m ready to make magic with my fingers and hit those tennis balls.

  The first person to greet me inside is the junior varsity captain. Her name is Bex, which I think is short for Rebecca. She’s a Second Year, maybe a Third Year. Right away she invites me to free play.

  Tryouts are in three parts: one day of orientation, a second day of practice, and then we compete for the available spots on varsity and junior varsity.

  With this and Drawing Club, I’ll have most of my activity blocks filled. There goes all that extra study time.

  I am, unfortunately, not a natural at tennis. Bex laughs at my feeble initial attempts to get to the ball. Though once I do manage to connect with it, I wallop it across the court. It bounces off the wall of the dome and hurtles back down to the tarmac, nearly taking off Bex’s head.

  “Nice power,” she says, hopping over the net. “Let’s work on your stance, though.”

  There’s one faculty member here overseeing us, but that’s all. For the most part, orientation is student-driven. All around me seasoned players are showing First Years proper technique.

  When we rotate partners, I spot Gracie at the other end of the dome, trying her hardest to hit a ball—and missing spectacularly.

  “Gracie!” I shout. “What are you doing here?”

  When she spots me, she gallops toward me, laughing. “You thought I wouldn’t go out for an actual sport, I bet!”

  “Yep. You caught me.”

  “Good! My surprise worked.” She slings her racket over one shoulder. “I figured that if joining the tennis team gets you a date with Scully Chapman, I ought to give it a try.”

  -----------------------

  Afterwards, Bex and some other members of the girls’ tennis team invite us to dinner with them. They’re chatty and goofy—and nothing like the rude girls on the quad.

  Bex’s best friend, Eliza, apparently holds some sort of tennis state record for our division. Lilian is quiet and stiff, until she gets something to eat in her—then she comes to life like a possessed marionette and has tons to say. They all love each other.

  I like them immediately.

  But soon I’m drifting away from the conversation and glancing around Hamilton—casually looking for Scully.

  I find him sitting one table over. We see each other at the same time, and he gives me a small wave. I smile back. Then I wave for good measure and Bex says, “You know Scully?”

  I whip around. “N-not really. I got matched up with him for the Mixer.”

  Bex’s eyes widen. “Whoa. How’d you score that?”

  “He models for our Drawing Club,” Gracie says. “Sam drew him like Batman and he got all goo-goo for it.”

  “Hey, you’re pretty goo-goo about him, too,” I say. But at the look on her face, I wish I hadn’t.

  “You guys get to see Scully Chapman topless?” asks Eliza.

  “Just for life drawing,” I say.

  “Hot and actually not a bad guy,” says Bex. “Unusual combo.”

  “Yeah, but his dad’s one of Edwards’s biggest donors,” says Lilian.

  “My
dad always said the Chapmans were okay,” Gracie says. “For Wall Street people.”

  “The point is that he’s rich enough to do whatever he wants,” says Bex. “It’s a bonus that he’s not a terrible person.”

  Lilian laughs. “Not like Waldo.”

  In unison, all the girls say, “Ugh, Waldo!”

  “Who’s Waldo?” I ask. Gracie just shakes her head.

  “Only the biggest tool at Edwards,” says Bex. “Did you hear he got a new car over the weekend?”

  Lilian snorts. “Yes! And then the school refused to give him a pass for it because he bombed finals last year. He tried to pay double the permit fee but they wouldn’t budge.”

  “Why would you bring a car if you had nowhere to put it?” I ask.

  “And who just, like, gets handed a car?” asks Eliza.

  “Waldo Wilson does, I guess.”

  “So what did he do with it?” Gracie asks. Stupid rich kids is one of her favorite topics. “With the car?”

  “I don’t know,” says Bex. “It was a big fuss the other night over at Thomas House. Waldo was trying to get his House Dad to park it in the faculty housing part of campus, where he wouldn’t need a permit. But it’s not like he’s allowed to drive it around.”

  Eliza bursts into laughter. “So it would just sit there in front of Barry’s house?”

  “How pointless,” Gracie says, shaking her head.

  When the conversation moves on, Lilian asks, “Where did you two come from? I’ve never seen you around before.”

  Gracie grins. “We’re ghosts. We only appear when somebody says our names three times.”

  Eliza cracks up. “Can we keep them?” she asks Bex, who seems to be more or less their leader.

  Bex waves her hands around. “Don’t ask me like I’m their mom. If you want a play-date, ask yourself.”

  I didn’t expect how good this would feel. To sit at a table with real Edwards students, to have the kinds of conversations I feel like I only ever overhear other kids having.

  I giggle, feeling giddy. “We’re only available for play-dates on Sundays.”

  -----------------------

  http://privateschoolnewb.tumblr.com

  Oct. 3, 2017

  Boarding school looks like:

  Seeing your crush everywhere.

  One lovely reader sent me a message, asking about whether I saw Him again.

  Well. I’ll tell you. We bumped into each other yesterday after dinner, stacking our plates on the dirty dish rack. Not the most romantic location ever, but it was the first time we’d exchanged a word since I found out we were going to be at the dance together.

  It was a nothing conversation, but what a nothing. Everything-nothing. I wanted to keep every word locked up inside me forever.

  Then we were outside, and I really should have waited for my roommate the way she waits for me. But His dorm is right next to ours, so there was no reason not to walk with Him.

  I guess some guy in His group of friends was going on about how he was missing some big League of Legends tournament, because the school doesn’t allow online multiplayer games on their network.

  “Come to our water polo game instead!” He had said to the guy. “Come cheer for us. We’re here in person. We could really use your enthusiasm.”

  I didn’t know He played water polo. Not that I knew much else about Him, either.

  And then—as if He couldn’t get any more . . . well, hot?—it turned out He’s the captain of the team.

  It doesn’t surprise me, not after I was looking over the available tutors and saw His name there, too. He models for life drawing, captains the polo team, and still has time left over to tutor people who need extra help? He really is some kind of superhero.

  So I’m going to make a point of seeing one of His games. Cheer for Him, like He wants. Even if polo isn’t my thing, it doesn’t hurt to see a bunch of topless dudes wrestling in the water.

  The first game is after the Mixer. Since the Mixer is off the table, that’s the perfect opportunity to make my move.

  -----------------------

  Before we can really settle in to our new social group, Home Weekend is upon us.

  I’ve never been away from my parents for this long. And while I had desperately missed them for the first few weeks of school . . . now I’m not so sure that I’m ready to leave. I know my way around campus—finally. I have a group of friends. I feel like I’m finally fitting in, “getting it,” as Hayden would say.

  On my way out to meet my parents at the curb, I stop by Hayden’s room. Doesn’t look like she’s left for the weekend yet—her computer is still sitting out, her open bag on her chair. But she’s not here, either. It’s perfect.

  I write her a note saying what I need, then head down to the pick-up area out in front of Hamilton.

  My folks are thrilled to see me. I’ve grown so used to the unfamiliar, to the strange and new and different, that as I hop into the station wagon, the normal comes crashing down around me, the way a curtain drops after a play and all the lights come back on.

  I’m actually thrilled to see Mom and Dad, too. The familiar is like letting out a breath I’ve been holding since I got dropped off on the first day of school. Even though we’ve spoken on the phone every week, they still have tons of questions. What’s dorm life like? How are my classes? Do I like my teachers? What about my friends?

  “And that awful Morning Prayer thing?” asks Mom. It was a challenge to get her accustomed to the idea of me attending a school that used to be religious. “In the big cathedral?”

  “We don’t have to pray like you thought,” I tell Mom. “It’s just a musical assembly, and people make announcements.”

  “But in a cathedral? It’s so last century.”

  “Everything there is last century.”

  “I just can’t believe in this day and age this is acceptable.”

  “It’s nice, Mom. There’s a choir. And we have Sundays off unless we really want to attend a service.”

  Dad’s interest lies in my classes. I dish out everything I can—teachers I like, teachers I hate, the subject matter, the course load.

  “I didn’t realize you’d have so much homework,” he says, his pleasure obvious.

  “Yeah, it’s a real time suck,” I say.

  “But that’s why they schedule out a study time for you every day, right?”

  I actually find Twilight Study Hour and Sunday Study kind of humiliating—like I can’t be trusted to manage my own time.

  “Yep,” I say. “Right.”

  It’s a two-hour drive to get home, underscored by Dad’s terrible taste in soft rock and Mom’s nonstop questions.

  But it’s nice to see them. And by the end of the drive, I realize it’s just one weekend—I’ll be back at school in no time.

  Chapter Five

  The first thing I do when I get home is take a long, hot shower in my own bathroom. I pat my see-through shower curtain with the cute little neon fish, reminding myself of their squishy texture against my fingers.

  I get into my own bed, with its pillow-top mattress cover, and snuggle each one of my stuffed animals before falling asleep.

  My first obligation the next day: visit my middle school friends.

  We get together in my old best friend’s basement. Things are exactly how I remember them—the old TV propped up on crates, the sunken couches with broken springs. This place used to feel like a sanctuary—but now it feels like a dungeon.

  All they want to talk about are kids at their new high school, what they’re wearing, what dumb stuff they do in class to avoid paying attention. Maybe I’m just as much of a snob now as I used to imagine Edwards Academy students would be, but everything they say seems trivial and boring.

  Why can’t we talk about something more interesting, like my Women in Art History class? I mention the paper I’m doing, but they just want to gossip, so I conjure up an excuse to leave early and beat it before they can disappoint me more—
and before I disappoint them.

  Maybe Edwards has changed me more than I thought.

  Sunday I kick around the house with my parents instead of socializing. Mom throws on an episode of Project Runway and asks me about the big dance. Edwards parents receive a monthly update from the school on what’s happening, so she already knew all about the Mixer.

  “You going with anyone?” she asks casually, like the answer doesn’t really matter. But I know her. She used to watch Days of Our Lives when I was at school, and her bookshelf is dominated by romance novels. She lives for this stuff.

  “Yep.”

  “Who?”

  “Some guy who’s a friend of a friend,” I say. Just enough truth that she won’t notice how much is missing. The feminist in her would hate this whole “match-up thing.” “I like him, and he’s, uh, pretty popular. But . . .”

  “But what?” Mom asks, her eyes keen with interest. I’ve never told her about my school crushes before.

  “But I’m nervous. What if I say something stupid? He’s older than I am—”

  “How much older?” she interrupts.

  “Just a year.”

  Another lie. But Mom doesn’t even look suspicious as she says, “That’s pretty normal, I think, for high school.” She nods, completely buying it. I’m on a roll. “Well, I’m happy for you. But don’t do anything you wouldn’t want to tell me about.” Her expression morphs into Mother Bear face. This is her Mama Bear Who Will Kill You For Even Touching Her Cub face. “I know what the pressure is like after school dances to, you know—”

  “Mom, he’s a gentleman.”

  “What about your roommate . . . what was her name? Gracie, you said? Are you going together?”

  She never cared about my social life this much back in middle school. It’s kind of charming.

  “I’m working on finding her a date, too.”

  “That’s cute. A girl and her best friend going to the school dance.”

  Best friend? I guess so, since it turns out all my old friends are tedious. “Any other friends going?” Mom asks, turning down the volume on Project Runway once the judging ends.

  “Uh . . . I don’t really have any besides Gracie.” I wouldn’t exactly call Bex and crew my “friends” yet.