Dad’s got his sunglasses on and he’s smiling because we’re on the golf course. That was the summer Dad gave me golf lessons for my birthday. The lessons were a disaster (I threw the golf club farther than I hit the golf ball) but the picture is a good one. It’s the only one I have of Dad when he’s with me and he’s smiling. Every other picture he looks bored, or worse, annoyed.
I get sad when I look at this picture. More than a little sad — like almost choked-up sad, which is ridiculous. I’m not normally sentimental, especially not about Dad, but the picture suddenly makes me feel very alone.
I put it down and pick up the next one to distract me (I am not going to cry over Dad — especially not now). The third picture is me at my fifteenth birthday. Liz (boy-crazy drama queen) and Cass (rock - star - in - training) are making funny faces, because they are total goof-balls I’ve known since I was four. If I’d met them in high school, we wouldn’t have been friends because we hang out with different crowds, but somehow we’ve stayed friends all this time, despite the fact that Cass listens to Audioslave and can slug a beer in one gulp, and Liz’s dream is to be this year’s homecoming queen (a goal she’s attempting to achieve by sleeping with half of the football team). I think I’m her last remaining virginal friend.
My parents think they’re bad influences on me, but the truth is that I’m a good influence on them. I’m the one who talks Cass back from the ledge when she wants to do tequila shots at a keg party, and I’m the one who convinced Liz to try waiting until the third date before offering the blow job. I’m the one who keeps my friends sane. But do I get points for this? No. I get sent off to reform school.
Still, Liz and Cass are loyal and supportive, and I miss them worse than caffeine, which by the way I haven’t had since I snuck some of Mom’s coffee earlier this morning. When they heard about my Bard Academy exile, Liz and Cass both offered to hide me in their respective attics. I should’ve taken them up on their offer.
Looking at the framed pictures on my desk makes me suddenly and desperately homesick. My anger at my parents melts away a little bit as I take in my side of the room, which is pretty bleak and has nearly no decorations, since I didn’t think to pack any. It’s just my polka-dot bedspread, my pictures, my pink towels, and my Paul Frank monkey robe.
I glance over at Blade’s side of the room and wonder how I’m going to sleep with a giant poster of the tarot Devil staring at me all night. I look up and see that my closet light is back on. That’s weird. I thought I turned it off. I glance over at Blade, who’s still lying on her bed. She couldn’t have turned it back on. Could she?
I walk back over and flick the light switch off.
There’s a knock on my door. I look up and see Hana.
“Hey,” she says, her eyes widening as she sees Blade’s shrine to all that is evil. “Uh, wow, that’s some room.”
Blade rolls over and scowls at Hana.
“There’s a meeting downstairs,” Hana says, looking at me. “Our dorm mother, Ms. W, is calling it and everyone has to go.”
Blade scribbles something furiously on her notepad and then shows it to us. It says, “Down with the fascists!” and is underlined three times, and then she goes back to her bed where she lies down, facing the wall.
“Ms. W?” I say. “What’s up with the names at this school? No one has a full name — everybody goes by an initial?”
“I heard it was for the teachers’ safety, so that students can’t find them in the summer and beat them up.”
“You’re serious?” I ask her, wondering, again, where on earth my parents have sent me. Rikers for juveniles?
“It’s the rumor,” she says. “So? You coming?”
I look at Blade. “Definitely,” I say.
“What’s with her?” Hana asks me when we’re out the door.
“That’s Jill Thayer, but she’s legally changed her name to ‘Blade.’ She’s taken a vow of silence. Her hobbies include selling her soul to Satan, piercing her nose, and being freakin’ weird.”
“You should totally call her Swiss Army,” Hana says, which makes me laugh.
Five
Our dorm mother, Ms. W, calls to order our meeting in the dorm den, a smallish library with couches, chairs, and a giant fireplace. Even though a fire is roaring, the room still feels cold — like every room at Bard. A group of preppy-looking girls wearing nothing but Juicy Couture from head to toe have all the best and most comfortable seats staked out. A few other freaky Goth types occupy the remaining seats. It’s standing room only, as Hana and I take up positions near the door.
Ms. W claps her hands. “Let’s get settled, everyone,” she says in a clipped British accent. I wonder just how many teachers here are British. “I really hate the goons — I mean, Guardians — but I will call them if I must.”
Ms. W seems like the sort of teacher who could be okay. The sort who understands there’s more to life than school. She’s got her hair cut short in a bob and is wearing a dress with a dropped waist. She’s got an unfortunate nose, but then, you have to give her points for not dressing like everybody else.
“As you probably know by now, our dorms are a little…odd,” Ms. W says. “They take some getting used to. I think they’re cold and creepy, but that’s just me.”
Given that my roommate could be a spawn of Satan, I agree with this assessment.
I raise my hand. “When do I get my hair dryer back?”
“Sorry, Ms. Tate,” says Ms. W, shaking her head. “Not until you leave. You’ll have to learn how to survive without it.”
Great.
“This is just as well,” Ms. W says. “You girls need to start working on your inner selves, and worry less about your outer selves.”
I’m not so sure about that. I glance down at Ms. W’s sleeve and notice that it seems to be wet. That’s a little strange. Did she spill something on her dress? Maybe she ought to worry a little bit more about her outer self.
“At ten P.M., you’ll hear the Bard tower clock toll ten times, and this is your signal to turn off the lights in your room. Anyone caught with lights on after ten will be subject to detention or other punishment. These aren’t my rules, people. The headmaster — you met her — she’s the one with the Napoleon complex…”
A few people giggle at this. It’s true, she is very short but very stern.
“…well, you think she’ll punish you if you step out of line, but I’ll get even worse. So we’re all stuck here, in the same predicament. Let’s make the best of it, shall we?”
Ms. W sees me staring at her sleeve. She glances down, notices the wet spot, and deftly hides her hand behind her back. Odd.
“So I’m sure you all have memorized the rules and regulations by now,” she continues. “Normally, dinner is served at six, but tonight dinner will be late — in about an hour.”
“What happens if we don’t make curfew?” someone shouts.
“I have to turn you in to the Guardians, and they are very grumpy at night,” she says. “There typically is dish duty or toilet cleaning involved. Trust me, girls, you don’t want to have to do this.”
There are groans in the room.
“And everybody here should really be kissing up to me,” she continues, “because I’m the person who says if you go home for Thanksgiving or not. Now, I’m from England and we don’t celebrate Thanksgiving. That is just for you Yanks. But, I’ll take cash donations, or just worship. I don’t mind worship. By the way, each of you will be meeting with me once a week to talk about how things are going. And just to talk about things in general.”
There are groans around the room. Apparently, the idea of counseling doesn’t appeal to this group.
“One last thing — your first few nights at Bard are going to be difficult ones. If you have something you want to talk to me about — and believe me, I’m sure you will — let me know. I don’t sleep very much, so just knock on my door if you need to. It’s the one right by the front door, so don’t think about trying to
run off. I hear everything,” she says.
There are a few sighs and grunts to this.
“All right, girls,” Ms. W says. “You’re dismissed.”
The other girls start to file out, including Hana. I feel a sudden urge to try to reason with Ms. W, so I linger behind. I don’t belong here. I mean, I really don’t belong here.
“Ms. W,” I say, reaching out to touch her sleeve, but when I do, I feel that it is, indeed, wet. Not just damp, but soaking. I’m surprised it’s not dripping. It’s like before - the - spin - cycle wet.
Ms. W whips her sleeve from my hand.
“Can I help you, Ms. Tate?” she asks. “Here to ask me more about blow-dryers? Or do you have a more substantive question?”
“There’s been some mistake. I mean, I really don’t think this is where my parents intended to send me. I don’t belong here. This is all some big, big mistake.”
Ms. W looks a bit sad. “Trust me when I tell you that I’ve been here a lot longer than you, and want to leave a lot more.”
This might be sarcasm, but she sounds like she’s a prisoner, too. But isn’t she an adult? Can’t she leave anytime she wants to?
“But, Ms. W., I mean it, I really, really don’t belong here.”
She puts her hand on my shoulder and gives me a little pat. Her hand is so cold, I can feel the chill through my shirt. “I’m sorry, Miranda. There’s not much I can do.”
“But…”
“It’s out of my hands,” Ms. W says, shrugging, as she walks out of the den. I look down and notice that she’s left a trail of wet footprints. They follow her out the room and down the hall.
I glance at the window outside. There’s no rain. Not even a cloud in the sky. And I look around the floor for a puddle, or something that might account for the water, but everything except her footprints is dry.
Odd.
Back in my room, Blade lights some incense that smells a lot like goat, and then begins some kind of silent dance in the middle of our room.
“Um, do you have to do that?” I ask her when her flying elbow nearly hits me in the face.
She furiously scribbles “Sacred Wiccan Protection Vampire Ritual” on her notepad and shows it to me, and then points to the wall. In one of the spaces not covered by a picture of Satan or his minions, there is a certificate that reads, “Wiccan Witch, Certified 2003 by Wicca Women’s Association — Cleveland.”
“Vampires? What do you mean?”
She picks up an old copy of Dracula from her desk and hands it to me.
“I know what a vampire is,” I say, pushing the book aside. “But why are you protecting us from them?”
She scribbles on her notepad, “Saw one,” as if this is a regular occurrence for Blade. You know, some people go bird watching. Blade prefers vampire watching. Now I know she’s insane.
She tries to hand me a string of garlic to wear around my neck, but I decline. I don’t really want to smell like a lasagna, thanks.
Blade shrugs and then leaves the room, wearing her own garlic lei.
I decide I’ve had enough.
I undo the latch at the window and find it swings inward. I look out and see I’m on the third floor, but there’s a ledge, and even better, a drainpipe. Just like the one at home I used (once!) to sneak out of my room.
Could it be this easy? Could my ticket to freedom be right in front of me? I glance back over my shoulder and decide I’m not going to wait for Blade to come back. I grab my backpack and put my foot on the ledge. I come face-to-face with a gargoyle and nearly lose it. Jesus. Why does this place have to be so freakin’ creepy? God! I put my hand on its head and haul myself out the window.
I climb halfway down and then jump the rest of the way. I land on the ground hard, but manage not to hurt anything. It’s not that much different than sneaking out of my room at home. Not that I’ve done that more than once or, okay, maybe twice. And I swear it’s all Cass’s fault (I guess in some ways she is the Bad Influence Friend — she always knows of the kegger party, and always wants me to come).
I march off in the direction of the woods. Can you really blame me? The bus driver nearly killed me, there are brain-dead Guardians beating the hell out of anybody who breathes, the students are insane (see Blade and Heathcliff), and I am being forced to live without a hair dryer. I don’t know what other signs you need. I’ve seen Lifetime Original Movies (or as Cass calls them, Knifetime Original Movies, because of how often a deranged, knife-wielding stalker pops up in one of them). I’m not going to wait around to be a Knifetime victim.
There don’t seem to be any teachers or other adults about as I make my way down by the buildings and toward the dirt road that the bus took to get here. I’m not an outdoors girl, so I think it’s best if I stick with roads. Just as I’m almost to the Bard Academy gate, I see two Guardians walking by. Quickly, I duck into the forest. The sky above me is a dark shade of magenta. It’s starting to get dark. I wonder how often that ferry comes. Hopefully, often.
I try to remember what they told us about surviving in the woods at night at camp. I didn’t pay attention. I never imagined I’d actually have use for camping survival types. Who knew?
I start heading in the direction where I think the road is. I walk for what seems like forever. I’m getting a blister on my right toe and I’m now ankle-deep in what has to be poison ivy. Mosquitoes buzz in my ear and nip at my arms. I’ve smashed two already and missed a half dozen more. Bugs of some kind are nipping at my ankles. Knowing my luck today, they’re probably ticks. I’ll not only be lost in the woods forever, but I’ll also contract Lyme disease.
I try imagining the speech I’m going to give my parents when I call them whenever I finally get someplace where my mobile phone works. Mom will have to listen about the “no hair dryer” rule and polyester uniforms. Then she’ll have to take me back. Sure, she wants to punish me, but even she can’t want me to be without my hair dryer. Good grooming is a basic civil right.
I run into yet another spiderweb and I do that really embarrassing Spiderweb Dance. Liz says that when people run into a spiderweb they always do the same thing — flail their arms and do a little boogie dance, which makes everyone, no matter how cool they are, look ridiculous. I think about Liz talking about the Spiderweb Dance and have to smile. I miss her. I miss Cass, too. I can’t believe I didn’t take them up on their offer to stow me away in their attics.
While I’m struggling with the spiderweb, I nearly run smack into another tree branch. The forest is getting thicker. And it’s definitely getting darker. I should’ve been to the road by now. I don’t remember it being this far.
Something rather large rumbles around in the bushes a few yards away.
If that’s a chipmunk, it’s a really big freaking chipmunk.
I start thinking again about the Friday the 13th movies. I never should’ve watched them when they came on cable. Now look at me. I’m worried about a psycho killer in the woods on some island off the coast of Maine.
Another mosquito bites my arm. I smack it, and think I shouldn’t be worried about Jason. I should be worried about contracting malaria.
I see lights up ahead. The road — finally. Jeez. It’s taken me long enough.
I check my mobile phone: still no bars, but the phone says I’ve been walking for an hour.
I push the last branch away from the lights and find myself staring, not at the road, but at the white stone buildings of Bard Academy. In fact, it’s the exact place I stepped into the woods.
This is impossible.
I look around. How did this happen? I could’ve sworn I wasn’t moving in a circle. I’m an outdoors virgin, but still, I’ve got a better sense of direction than this. I never get lost in the mall, ever. Could the woods be so different?
And even if I did get lost, how did I come back at the exact spot where I left? I mean, that’s just not possible that I did a U-turn somewhere out there. But here I am, right back in the Goth Village, right in front of the lion
statues standing guard outside the library.
The campus is eerily quiet. And I notice that even though we’re on an island, I don’t hear the sound of the ocean. Everything is quiet, except, in the distance, a wolf howls.
This isn’t normal.
Just where am I?
Six
When I get back to the dorm, I find it completely empty.
What the…?
The halls and every room is empty. Completely deserted. What happened? Where is everybody? I wander into the dorm den, where I find Ms. W sitting by the fire and reading a book.
The wet spot on her sleeve is gone, but there seems to be one near the hem of her dress. Odd.
She closes her book and looks at me.
“Got escape out of your system, I hope,” she says, in clipped English.
I flinch. “How did you —?”
“I have my ways,” she says. “Not including the mud that you have all over your jeans.”
I look down at them and can feel my face go red. I guess I have to work on being more stealth.
“I’m sorry, I am, it’s just that…”
“The woods are dangerous, you know,” she tells me as I watch a single drop of water fall from the hem of her dress and land on the carpet. Is it water or sweat? “You could’ve died of hypothermia, or worse.”
I don’t think I want to know what “worse” is.
“And even if you made it out of the woods, where are you going to go? We’re on an island, Miranda,” she says. “The ferry only comes twice a day.”
Wuthering high: a bard academy novel Page 4