Cavendish Home for Boys and Girls

by Claire Legrand

  “Don’t mind the birdies,” said Mr. Alice, grinning. “They won’t snatch you when you’re with us.”

  “But you should remember, Victoria, that after lights-out, we mustn’t wander, hmm?” said Mrs. Cavendish. “Sometimes . . . the Home has a mind of its own.”

  Victoria wondered if this was really the case, or if Mrs. Cavendish was the Home’s mind, and why Mrs. Cavendish’s voice had sounded so strange just then. She didn’t have a lot of time to think about this, though, because soon they were in a low hallway of doors with a mirror at each end like in a hotel.

  “Get cleaned and dressed,” said Mrs. Cavendish, pushing Victoria into a bathroom with a tiny tub and sink. Little patters of feet following Victoria made her turn to see two tiny squashed people with fat bellies and toothpick arms.

  She gasped and jumped away. The people were horribly ugly and reminded her of those dogs with squashed, wrinkled faces. Their backs bent weirdly. They had knobs here and there instead of hands or feet, and patches missing from their skin. They had only one wide, watery yellow eye each, and neither of them spoke. They just made little grunting noises as they moved, like it hurt them.

  “Who are you?” Victoria said.

  “They’re my gofers,” said Mrs. Cavendish, watching from the doorway. “It’s such a task, taking care of so many children. Sometimes Mr. Alice and I need assistance.” Her voice turned hard. “Gofers aren’t good for much else.”

  The gofers put a towel and a set of pressed clothes beside the tub. They grunted at Victoria, stared up at her from beneath the sagging skin over their eyes, and hobbled out to hide behind Mrs. Cavendish’s skirt. Mr. Alice hit the gofers with his rake, and they scrambled away.

  “Why did you hit them?” said Victoria. Even though the gofers were disgusting, something about their ugly, wide-eyed faces reminded Victoria of how she felt at the moment—small, and confused.

  They had knobs here and there instead of hands or feet, and patches missing from their skin.

  “Hurry up” was all Mrs. Cavendish said before she shut the door.

  Victoria did not want to bathe in this tub. She did not want to take off her clothes or put on the new ones, but disobeying Mrs. Cavendish was surely a horrible idea.

  “I’ve got to be careful,” Victoria whispered. For now, she added silently. She had only just arrived, after all. It was better to do exactly as Mrs. Cavendish instructed, pay close attention to everything that happened, and figure out what, exactly, was going on here.

  The more Victoria thought about this, the better she felt. It was easy to settle into her lifelong habits of being good, paying attention, and staying silent. This method had never failed her before, and it wouldn’t fail her now.

  She bathed in the hottest water she could stand because even the soap felt scratchy. She dressed in the clothes the gofers had left—a collared pajama shirt and matching pajama pants.

  “Oh, Victoria?” said Mrs. Cavendish from outside. “The lights are almost out.”

  Mrs. Cavendish’s voice crawled with impatience. Victoria opened the door and smiled politely.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I just wanted to make extra sure I got all the dirt off.”

  Mrs. Cavendish wasn’t fooled, Victoria could tell. But Mrs. Cavendish pretended. She smiled and dragged her warm fingers through Victoria’s hair. Victoria watched Mrs. Cavendish’s face carefully, and Mrs. Cavendish watched Victoria’s face just as carefully.

  “Much better,” said Mrs. Cavendish. “You look like a proper girl now, fresh and ready.”

  Victoria stepped out into the hallway and froze.

  “But I thought . . . ,” she began.

  Mrs. Cavendish folded Victoria’s hand into hers. Her grip pinched Victoria’s skin. “Yes? You thought what?”

  The hallway from before had vanished. In its place was a narrow staircase Victoria had never seen before, wedged between polished stone walls. A lamp at the top was the only light. The ceiling flickered in waves, and then silence fell.

  “You’ll find an empty bed,” said Mrs. Cavendish. “Go to sleep. Breakfast is at eight o’clock. I’ll expect you to be punctual.”

  “But—”

  Mrs. Cavendish grabbed Victoria’s face with her free hand. At first it hurt, but then Mrs. Cavendish’s fingers loosened and stroked Victoria’s cheek. Victoria stared at her, refusing to blink; this close, she could see the tight gray color of Mrs. Cavendish’s skin, and beneath the pretty blue of her eyes, an angry red. Victoria thought, She’s exhausted. Last time she had seen Mrs. Cavendish, she had looked bright and happy, but now her hair was not quite as shiny, her skin not quite as smooth. Perhaps she was simply having a bad day.

  It was like Mrs. Cavendish could hear her thoughts. “Go to bed,” she said, shoving Victoria toward the stairs.

  Turning her back on Mrs. Cavendish—and on Mr. Alice, who was picking bits of filth off his rake—was the last thing Victoria wanted to do. But the light at the top of the stairs was almost out, and in the growing darkness, Mrs. Cavendish’s image twitched with shadows.

  Victoria hurried up the stairs. At the top, she put her hand on the doorknob and turned back.

  “Pleasant dreams, Victoria,” said Mrs. Cavendish from the dark. The only things Victoria could see were the glinting prongs of Mr. Alice’s rake and the shine of four watching eyes.

  Victoria turned the knob and cracked open the door.

  The light went out.

  BEHIND VICTORIA, IN THE DARKNESS, THE ENTIRE Home stretched and sighed. The ground felt suddenly wet and shifty. Grunts and wing beats whispered at Victoria’s heels.

  She hurried past the door and closed it.

  Past the door lay a long, high-ceilinged room lined with clean white cots, a more conventional setup than Victoria had expected. An empty fireplace stood at the far end. Each cot also had a tiny lamp overhead, but they of course were not lit.

  “Lights-out,” Victoria whispered.

  The only reason Victoria could see anything was that moonlight was coming through the only window in the room, high in the corner near the ceiling, far too high to ever reach.

  The cold stone hurt Victoria’s feet, so she hurried to each cot, checking for the empty one. She saw girl after girl after girl lying in the cots, all in the same pajamas as her own. Some of their faces were very thin, and some were very pretty. A girl in the corner lay completely unmoving and awake with her eyes wide open. She didn’t move even when Victoria waved her hand over the girl’s face.

  “Hello?” Victoria whispered.

  The girl didn’t move. Victoria turned away with a shiver, folding her arms over her chest.

  Victoria tried to count the number of cots but kept losing her numbers. She blinked a few times and tried again, but her brain kept turning to mush. Finally she gave up and found an empty cot near the fireplace. A dark nameplate on the wall above it said VICTORIA. She climbed into the soft white sheets and realized that she had lost her book bag somewhere. Alone and cold, she lay down and tried to sleep. In her dreams, her parents held her and said, “We love you, Victoria,” over and over. It felt wonderful and warm and safe. But then they said, “Time for bed, Victoria,” and it wasn’t them anymore; it was Mrs. Cavendish, and she shoved Victoria into a box and locked it.

  Two hands grabbed Victoria’s arm and shook her awake.

  “You’re the new girl, right?” said a voice.

  Victoria awoke with a start and sat straight up. She was not in a box. She was in her cot, in the girls’ dorm, in the Home.

  Sunlight from the window in the high corner made a white square in the middle of the room. Several girls were lining up at the door. Some of the girls were Victoria’s age, some younger, and some a little older. Some of them seemed to be avoiding Victoria, looking anywhere but at her. Some of them whispered and glanced at her with mean or frightened faces. Some seemed sad for her. A couple of them tried to smile.

  “You—what?” Victoria said to the girl who had shaken her awake, t
rying to notice everything in case she needed it later. A dozen girls. Twenty girls? She couldn’t be sure.

  The girl repeated, “You’re the new girl,” but then she saw the nameplate on the wall. Her jaw dropped. She moved closer. “Victoria?”

  Victoria narrowed her eyes at this girl. “Yes?”

  “It’s me,” the girl said. She smiled, and it was too bright, too perfect. “Don’t you recognize me? It’s Jacqueline.”

  “Jacqueline Hennessey?” said Victoria. She tried not to show how horrified she was, but something was definitely wrong here. The girl in front of her was not strange, freakish Jacqueline, with her ratty hair, hunched shoulders, and splotchy face. This girl had glossy red waves to rival Jill Hennessey’s, and even her pajamas seemed pretty.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Victoria. She put on a version of the dazzle she reserved for when Lawrence did something exceptionally stupid. “I’ve gone to school with Jacqueline my whole life. You’re not her.”

  “Oh, I promise I am,” said Jacqueline, flashing a beautiful smile that Victoria knew would send her father into jealous fits.

  Her father.

  She had worked so hard to impress him, to be the best so he could show her off to everyone, to make him smile (which didn’t happen very often). And now she was here, because he had forgotten her. They both had forgotten her. Or worse, they had let her go.

  A twinge of loss and anger in her chest pricked tears from Victoria’s eyes.

  “No, don’t cry,” said Jacqueline quietly, in a more normal, less cheerful voice. “Crying singles you out. You’ve got to stay calm, or some of the others will make things bad for you. Really bad. And then there’s the Home.” Jacqueline looked around at the sunshine-coated walls. “If you knew some of the things that’ve happened . . .”

  “What is going on?” Victoria said. “What do you mean, bad things? And who are all these girls? And where is everyone going? And—”

  “Shh. Later. Right now, it’s breakfast time. Come on, we can’t be late.”

  Someone started opening the door with a metal click-click-click.

  “Hurry,” said Jacqueline, yanking Victoria forward. They reached the end of the line just as the door opened to reveal a gray-and-brown gofer with a droopy mouth and one leaking yellow eye. The girls began to file out, and Victoria clenched her teeth together to stay calm. Just pretend this is how all your days start, Victoria told herself.

  As she and Jacqueline crossed the threshold, the gofer began shutting the door, but before it could, a voice shrieked from near the fireplace, “Wait! Wait, I’m coming!”

  “Oh, no,” whispered Jacqueline, tightening her grip on Victoria’s hand. “Gabby.”

  Running toward them, tripping over the ends of her sheets, was the girl Victoria had seen the night before, the girl who had lain wide awake instead of sleeping.

  “What’s happening?” said Victoria.

  “Just watch,” Jacqueline said. Her eyes hardened as she watched Gabby run for the door. “Pay attention, or it could be you.”

  The gofer shut and locked the door before Gabby could reach it, even though she screamed for it to wait. Victoria heard Gabby’s sobs as she pounded on the door from the other side. All the girls on the stairs watched, some of them smirking, some of them crying.

  “Let me out, let me out,” Gabby screamed, but the gofer hobbled down the stairs, grunting. The girls followed it out as Gabby’s cries grew louder. Her pounding fists became nails scratching the door. Her sobs and screams became higher and louder. Then silence fell.

  “What happened to her?” Victoria dared to whisper as she followed Jacqueline into a new hallway, a stone one with paintings of meadows on the walls.

  “She was late,” said Jacqueline. “When you’re late, you get locked in and left behind, to teach you a lesson. And you’re there alone till we come back for lights-out.”

  “That doesn’t sound so—”

  “You don’t want to be alone in the Home. Not in the dorm, not anywhere.” Jacqueline stared straight ahead at the backs of the girls in front of them. “Trust me.”

  In the dining room, gofers served breakfast—egg casserole with big chunks of meat in it. The girls lined up at one door, and Victoria peered past people’s heads to see a line of boys waiting at another door across the room.

  Mrs. Cavendish sat down, followed by Mr. Alice, both looking fresher than they had the night before. The girls filed in and took their seats on one side of the table. Then the boys came in, and Victoria saw him—a boy with a silver streak in his dark hair.

  Her heart and stomach did a strange joint somersault.

  Lawrence.

  Before she could even think if it was a good idea, and before she even took a bite of her casserole, even though she was starving, she shoved her chair back and ran around the dining room to throw her arms around him. She laughed into his collar. She didn’t even stop to think how stupid she looked.

  “Lawrence,” she cried. Only when Lawrence pried her loose, his eyes wide, whispering, “No, no, no,” did Victoria pause long enough to see everyone staring at her, including a sharp-eyed Mrs. Cavendish.

  Victoria had just made her first mistake.

  “SUCH BEHAVIOR, VICTORIA,” SAID MRS. CAVENDISH, the poisonous, honeyed words dripping from her mouth. She held her face very tight and still. Her long, pretty fingers drummed the polished tabletop.

  Victoria backed away from Lawrence and forced her face blank, trying to ignore Jacqueline’s little head shake of no. All right, so she maybe shouldn’t have yelled quite so loudly, and maybe Mrs. Cavendish was picky about people running indoors, but that didn’t explain why everyone was looking at her with such horrified expressions.

  Lawrence averted his eyes and shoved his hands in his pajama pockets.

  “I’m sorry, but I only—” Victoria started to say.

  “Don’t be sorry, Victoria, just be quiet,” said Mrs. Cavendish. “Pockets, Lawrence.”

  Lawrence slid his hands quickly to his sides.

  “Sit down, everyone. Eat your breakfast.”

  The children obeyed, pulling out their small, dark chairs, unfolding their napkins, and picking up their cutlery. Victoria noticed that some of them looked green in the face as they dug into their plates of steaming eggs and meat. Others looked grim and determined.

  Victoria and Lawrence made to join them, but Mrs. Cavendish said, “Oh. Not you two.”

  They froze in place.

  Mrs. Cavendish rose from her seat. She glided toward them and clucked her tongue. She circled them slowly, smoothly. Victoria felt like a piece of meat being inspected for quality. She caught a whiff of Mrs. Cavendish’s light, floral perfume. Mixed with the eggs and meat, it was rather stinky.

  “You must understand that there are rules here, Victoria,” said Mrs. Cavendish. She stopped in front of them, and even in her fright, Victoria couldn’t help looking over Mrs. Cavendish approvingly. She looked much better today than she had the night before—glossy hair, clear skin, impeccable (if somewhat old-fashioned) clothing. Mrs. Wright would call it vintage and ask Mrs. Cavendish for shopping tips.

  Victoria’s throat tightened as she thought of her mother, but Mrs. Cavendish kept on.

  “. . . of course, I understand that you’re new to our Home, Victoria. It can be difficult to adjust.”

  Some of the other children had stopped eating to watch. Mrs. Cavendish noticed and slid her eyes sideways.

  Mr. Alice whispered, “Eat, eat,” and the children resumed, some of them with such vigor that they smeared egg on their faces.

  Victoria kept trying to catch Lawrence’s gaze, but he wouldn’t look at her. He stared at the floor, his gray eyes sharper than they had ever been, and the skin of his cheeks saggy, like he’d had something sucked out of him.

  “Mrs. Cavendish,” Victoria began, putting on her most effective polite voice, the one she used on her professors, her parents, everyone. It was the voice that bent people to her will. They
couldn’t help themselves because the voice had a curve to it that said, “Oh of course you know best, for give me for asking, but please, if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

  “I’m really, really sorry for—” Victoria said, but Mrs. Cavendish put two warm fingers over Victoria’s mouth.

  “Shh, shh, shh,” whispered Mrs. Cavendish. “Listen to me carefully, Victoria.”

  Victoria couldn’t decide whether to be offended or scared out of her mind, but she did not look away and forced herself not to blink.

  Mrs. Cavendish knelt and dragged her fingers from Victoria’s lips to her hair, twirling her curls. She examined Victoria’s face.

  “I’ve decided to go easy on you this once,” said Mrs. Cavendish. Her voice was so soft and sweet that Victoria suddenly wanted to fall asleep in her arms. “You’re new, and I can be lenient. But only to a point. We don’t misbehave around here, do you understand?”

  Victoria’s cheeks flushed at being treated like such a child. “But it’s not like I meant—”

  Something sharp dug into Victoria’s skin—Mrs. Cavendish’s polished fingernails, cradling her neck.

  “Now, now,” said Mrs. Cavendish.

  Mr. Alice chuckled and wiped his mouth with his napkin to clean away meat flecks.

  “We don’t run indoors. We don’t disobey our elders. We don’t speak too loudly. Sometimes we don’t even speak at all, hmm? Sometimes children shouldn’t say a word.”

  With an elegant flourish of her free hand, Mrs. Cavendish made a zipping motion over Victoria’s mouth. Those polished fingernails scraped so close that Victoria thought Mrs. Cavendish might rip her face open.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Cavendish,” said Victoria. She sounded braver than she felt.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t let misbehavior go unpunished. Someone has to face consequences.”

  Mrs. Cavendish turned to Lawrence and pet his drooping cheek. He didn’t move, but his eyes flinched.