You know the kind of day when you simply can’t do anything right? If there really were Humiliation Escape jet packs, I would’ve used every last one on campus. Let’s recap:
1) Morning assembly debacle
2) Couldn’t find a single class on campus, when everyone else seems to have no problems at all.
3) Walked into one of Ryan Kent’s classes by mistake, only to be told by his teacher that I was in the wrong building.
4) During history class, when Coach H called on me, I had been reading one of the Bard yearbooks and didn’t realize he was talking about Franz Ferdinand the archduke of Spain whose assassination set off World War I, and not Franz Ferdinand the band.
5) Was so tired from not sleeping most of the night that I fell asleep in English lit, right after our teacher, Ms. P, passed out our reading assignment (Wuthering Heights — again, big surprise — I can’t get away from that book), and woke up in a puddle of my own drool. One of Parker’s clones pointed and laughed at me, and then passed me a note that said, “You were snoring.”
6) A girl faints in the hall (she was probably anorexic), and Blade insists it was because she’d been bitten by a vampire. In fact, shouts it for everyone to hear, with me standing right next to her, and then says, “My roommate will tell you — it’s true!” Because my social life isn’t enough of a vacuum at this point. I really wish she’d go back to her vow of silence.
7) At basketball practice, I’m so inept, that I can’t even dribble the ball. I keep hitting it off my foot, sending it rolling off onto the next court (the boy’s), where Ryan Kent is. He even witnesses my ball-in-the-face, when I don’t realize another girl is passing to me and she hits me in the side of the head. Ka-pow. Coach H then makes me run five laps around the gym.
By dinnertime, I am so sore (both physically and mentally) that I don’t even care what the food is on our plates (hot dogs — something semirecognizable). Hana and Samir and Ryan Kent are MIA, and even Blade isn’t anywhere to be found. I’m once again alone in the cafeteria. If I have to sit by myself, I swear I’m going to sue my parents later for emotional scarring. I had plenty of friends at my old school. I never, under almost any circumstances, ate alone there. It’s like my dad is trying to undermine my self-esteem. As if he didn’t accomplish that enough by ignoring me.
That’s when I look up and see Heathcliff.
He’s sitting by himself in the corner, staring at the hot dog on his plate as if he’s never seen one before. He picks up the hot dog and examines it, and then sniffs at it. It looks like he can’t decide whether or not it’s edible. I know how he feels.
“That was some trick you pulled this morning,” I say, as I put my tray down in front of him. Instantly, he stands up and gives me a little bow. Is this some kind of British chivalry? I don’t know.
“Is it okay if I sit here?” I ask, still not sure what he’s doing standing up.
He nods at me, but says nothing. I sit, and then he sits.
“Did you get in trouble?” I ask him. He looks up at me, reluctantly almost, and shrugs. “I should probably thank you, you know. You saved me a lot of dish washing.”
“Washing dishes is beneath you,” he says. I wonder for a moment if he’s being sarcastic, but I see that he’s serious. He means it. He thinks I shouldn’t wash dishes — ever. That’s some serious chivalry.
“So why are you here?” I ask him. “What did you do to get sent away?”
He shrugs.
“You don’t say much, do you?”
He shrugs again.
“In a conversation, when I ask a question, you’re supposed to answer,” I tease him. “That’s how conversations work. And then you can ask me a question, and I answer. Like, you can say, ‘Wow, the food is really bad here, don’t you think?’ and then I say, ‘Oh yeah, it’s terrible. What classes do you have?’ and so on.”
He just looks at me, the half scowl he usually wears on his face replaced by something that looks a little more like confusion. I can see he’s not the talkative type.
“Okay, I’ll start the conversation. My parents suck, which is why I’m here,” I say, figuring this might be a safe line of conversation. Nearly every kid in this place has a beef with one parent or both. “What about yours?”
“My parents are dead,” he says.
Instantly, I feel like an idiot. “Oh my God, I’m sorry,” I say.
He shrugs. “I never really knew them,” he says. “I was taken in by a man and his family.”
“In a place called Wuthering Heights?”
He nods.
“Is that in England?” I ask, trying to place his accent.
He nods again.
“Well, I told you there was a book by that same name,” I say, reaching into my backpack and showing him my paperback copy of Wuthering Heights from English lit. “And you know there’s a Heathcliff in it, too.”
I heard that much about the book, at least, before I fell asleep in class.
Heathcliff looks surprised.
“That’s some coincidence, isn’t it?” I ask him. “But I guess you don’t read much?”
He takes the book from my hand and studies it, a questioning look on his face. He turns the book upside down and then opens it up. It occurs to me quite suddenly that it’s not that he doesn’t read, but that he can’t read. I take the book from him and put it the right way.
“You can’t read, can you?” I ask him.
He drops the book, looks down at his tray, and then turns his attention back to his hot dog, which he picks up and nearly eats in one bite. I think I’ve embarrassed him. I feel bad about it, because the last thing I want to do is make him feel stupid. First, I bring up painful memories about his dead parents, and now I point out that he can’t read. Wow, I am on a roll.
I can only imagine all the teasing he’s gotten about not being able to read. And there could be a million different reasons he didn’t learn to read. Maybe he has dyslexia.
“You know, I could teach you,” I say, without thinking it through. First, I have no idea how to teach someone to read, and second, do I really want a lot of one-on-one time with what could be the biggest troublemaker in school? Still, I brush those thoughts aside. I owe him, and if he needs tutoring help, then so be it. And besides, don’t I pride myself on being friends with everybody? I don’t make snap judgments about people. Not like the Parker Rodhams of the world. The last thing I am is a snob.
Heathcliff looks up at me and there’s hope on his face, and maybe even the trace of a smile. He seems to like the idea. But just as suddenly as the cloud lifted from his face, it descends again and his lip curls into a scowl. His eyes are focused on something beyond my left shoulder and when I turn to see what he’s looking at, I see two Guardians headed our way from across the cafeteria. They seem to be after Heathcliff. In fact, they have their police batons out, as if they anticipate a fight.
“Uh-oh. It looks like you might be in some trouble. What did you do now?” I ask, turning back around. But I discover that I’m talking to an empty chair. Heathcliff has gone. All that’s left is his tray with his half-eaten hot dog. I scan the cafeteria, but see no trace of him. I look under the table, but he’s not there, either. He disappeared.
“Where did he go?” a Guardian asks me gruffly.
“I don’t know,” I say.
The Guardians push past me, into the crowd of students by the dish-washing station, but they’ve lost him, too. Secretly, I find myself glad he got away.
Thirteen
After dinner, I head to the bathroom for mandatory shower time. I’m late for my shower, on purpose, because this means I’ll miss most of the other girls. I don’t need everyone to see me naked, thanks.
I’m so sore from basketball and running around campus that all I want to do is have a long soak in the shower. Unfortunately, there’s nothing about our dorm bathrooms that is relaxing or soothing. It’s kind of like taking a bath in the public bathroom at the airport. You know that everything is filthy.
The worst part is that I didn’t bring flip-flops, and the tile floor is disgusting. The bathroom is dark and dank, like nearly every other place at Bard Academy. It’s got black-and-white tiles on the floor, and the toilets in the stalls have wooden toilet seats. The toilets also have those weird, high backs, with long chains for flushing. Porta-Potties have more amenities.
The showers are in the back, white stalls (well, more like once were white, but now sludge gray color with soap scum and mildew). They’re empty, as usual. No one likes to use them. I saw a girl washing out her armpits in the sink yesterday.
I take the first stall on the left and turn on the hot water. Okay. Commence Fastest Shower in the History of Mankind. I run through the shampoo and skip the second round and the conditioner. I’m rinsing out Pantene, when I hear the sound of…laughter. It’s faint at first and then it grows louder. It’s not the happy kind. It’s the creepy I’m-a-crazed-killer kind.
Okay. I’m naked. In a mildew-infested shower. The possibilities of foot fungus are scary enough. I don’t need any enhancements here, people.
“Who is that?” I call, hoping the peevish sound of my voice discourages whatever delinquent prankster thought it would be a good idea to hit me when I was most vulnerable.
“Is someone in here?” My voice echoes in the bathroom. Naturally, they don’t answer. The sound of laughter gets louder. It’s hard to tell where the sound is coming from, but I can definitely tell that it’s a girl’s voice, not a boy’s. It’s a girl or woman, and she’s laughing her demonically possessed head off.
“Okay, whoever is doing that, it’s not funny,” I say, trying on my best I’m - not - really - freaked - out - by - the - weird - maniacal - laughter voice. I finish rinsing and then turn off the shower. I’m in the process of throwing on my pajamas, even though I’m still wet. While I’m yanking on my shirt, the lights go out.
The hairs on my forearm stand up. Okay, forget trying to be cool. I’m outta here. I jump into my Pumas, feet still wet, and scramble out of the shower stall, my pajamas sticking to me in odd places, as I feel my way along the tiled wall toward the door. I’m groping my way along the wall, hoping to find the light switch. I make it five steps, then six, but instead of feeling a switch, my hand suddenly touches another hand.
“Ack,” I cry, recoiling. “Who’s there? Who is that?”
No one answers me. I put a foot out in front of me, but no one is there. Tentatively, I put my hand back on the wall, but I just feel the cool, smooth tile. Stay calm, I tell myself, and just get to the door.
My hand falls on the door and I push it open and stumble out of the bathroom. Outside, I smell smoke. Something is burning. At the end of the hall, I see Hana turning the corner. Before I can call out, I realize that the smoke in the hall is coming from my room.
I rush in, pushing open the door. There’s no sign of Blade, but there is a fire burning brightly in our trashcan. Without thinking, I stomp on it, trying to put it out, and in the process semiruin my favorite pair of Pumas.
Could this be Kate’s doing? Did her ghost set this fire?
“Hey!” cries Blade, appearing at the door. Ms. W appears right behind her, frowning.
“Are you all right, Miranda?” Ms. W asks, worried.
“I’m okay,” I say, feeling glad that somebody around here cares if I live or die.
“I’m fine, if you consider that my roommate just tried to burn down the dorm,” Blade says.
“Me? I didn’t do this,” I exclaim. “It had to be you.”
“Wasn’t me. I was in the den,” Blade says.
“Now, Miranda. I thought we talked about this.”
I suppose she’s referring to the acting-bad-as-a-way-to-get-attention talk during our session.
“But I didn’t do this — I swear!” I hate that she thinks I’m responsible for this. “I understand that acting out isn’t going to get me the kind of attention I want. And look, all I want to do is go home. Setting a fire isn’t going to do that.”
I try to show that I’m logical. I’m reasonable. Still, Ms. W looks at me with some doubt on her face. Blade looks at me, too.
“It could always be the vampire,” she says. “He’s definitely a troublemaker.”
I smack my palm against my head. Vampires! First, my room has a ghost, then a pyromaniac starts a fire in my trashcan, and now my roommate’s going on about her vampire obsession. It has got to stop.
“I told her to wear garlic,” Blade tells Ms. W, “but she won’t listen to me.”
“That’s nice,” Ms. W says, clearly not believing Blade. “As for you,” she says, looking at me, “I will send you to the headmaster’s office if I so much as even see a match in this room, you understand?”
I nod. “Yes, Ms. W.”
“Good. Now both of you — to bed.”
“But it’s only nine,” Blade whines.
“To bed,” Ms. W says in a tone that doesn’t leave open room for argument.
That night, I have the same nightmare — again — and wake up even before the bugle. It’s the same, in fact, for the next five nights in a row. My Worst Day Ever turns into my Worst Week Ever; between my nightmares and not getting any sleep, I am even more of a zombie than I was the first day of classes. I keep showing up late, and getting lost, and pretty much making a fool out of myself at every available opportunity. I still don’t know who started the fire, and Hana says she didn’t see anything.
I don’t know why, but I think the fire, Kate Shaw, and my nightmares might be connected somehow, but I don’t know how. In my (very little) free time, I try to find out more about Kate. Oddly, in all the newspaper clippings, there’s no mention of a family or siblings. It’s like she didn’t have any ties at all.
I also discover that she checked out other old yearbooks from the library, not just the 1855 one. She checked out almost all of them, at one time or another, but in particular, the ones she checked out the most were 1855, 1848, and 1849. She borrowed those four separate times, which means she had them out for two months apiece. And, in each one, it seems like she might have circled a picture of a faculty member. And each picture is too blurry to make out the teacher’s face. I have three of them in my room, trying to make sense of what she was looking for. I’m not sure if it’s even related to why she disappeared.
By the end of the week, I meet with Ms. W again and she asks me how my letter to my dad is coming. It’s not, really. I’ve got a bunch of balled-up pieces of paper in my trashcan, but that’s about it. I’ve had other things on my mind.
Besides, it’s hard to write my dad, because I don’t really know what to say to him. Although I can think of two words I wouldn’t mind writing, but Ms. W said I should try not to be profane.
In the meantime, Ms. W gives me letters from Mom and Lindsay. They’ve both written me one for every day I’ve been here. Dad hasn’t, though. I try to not be upset by it. I wonder why, when my expectations are so low, that he still manages to disappoint me.
I still want to get out of here, but in the meantime, I’ve decided to make the best of it. The teachers aren’t as bad as I thought (Ms. P actually teaches a pretty mean sophomore lit class), and even though Coach H makes me run around the gym, he’s an interesting history teacher. He brought actual World War I artifacts to class the other day, including a bullet he said was pulled from a soldier’s leg. Now, try getting that kind of hands-on learning at my old public school. Fat chance.
After one week of classes, I find that I have more work than I did during a whole semester at my old school, which means that I have less time to worry about the mystery of Kate Shaw, why Heathcliff seems to be able to disappear into thin air, who set a fire in my room, and pretty much life in general that doesn’t involve homework.
For two hours after dinner every night, we’re supposed to study, read, write letters, or basically do anything constructive by yourself sitting at your desk. Your other choice is to just go to bed early, which is what Blade does, because she’s pile
d into her bed at 8:00 P.M., and is snoring. I don’t know how she can manage to sleep so soundly in this place — especially if she thinks vampires are about. But then again, she does have a poster of Satan above her bed, so she’s clearly not like the rest of us.
I settle down to read Wuthering Heights for English lit. As I get into the book, I can’t help but start thinking about some weird coincidences. Two things immediately strike me as strange. One, Heathcliff in the book is a lot like Heathcliff at Bard. They are both surly, tough, and adopted, and they are both semi-obsessed with a girl named Cathy.
Is Heathcliff obsessed with this book? Is he trying to be Heathcliff? But then again, he can’t read, right? Unless he’s faking that, too.
Another strange parallel is that a character in this book has the exact same nightmare I am having. The ghost outside the window, asking to be let in.
Very weird. It’s like life imitating art, for real. I’m not sure what to make of it. I look at the front of my book and see that it was originally published in 1847. That date sounds familiar for some reason. I look down at my backpack and see the Bard Academy 1855 Yearbook.
I open it, and sure enough, 1847 is the year that the original Bard Academy burned down.
That’s some odd coincidence. Did Kate figure out some connection between the three? The fire and the publication of the two books? In the front of my copy of Wuthering Heights, there’s a foreword that discusses the life of Emily Brontë and her sisters. It says Emily (author of Wuthering Heights) died in 1848 of tuberculosis. Anne (Agnes Gray) followed in 1849 of the same. And then Charlotte (Jane Eyre) died in 1855 of “exhaustion,” whatever that is.
1855.
1849.
1848.
Those are the same years of the Bard yearbooks that Kate checked out.
I get them from under my bed and open them again to the pages where teachers are circled. In each of the three, she has circled a female faculty member. But each face is blurred and indistinct.
Those dates, and then three different women. Is she trying to say that the Brontë sisters didn’t die? That they somehow faked their deaths and then wound up at Bard?
Wuthering high: a bard academy novel Page 8