ALSO BY MICHAEL KNIGHT
Dogfight & Other Stories
Divining Rod
Goodnight, Nobody
The Holiday Season
The Typist
Eveningland
Atlantic Monthly Press
New York
Copyright © 2019 by Michael Knight
Cover art and design by Jill Knight
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].
FIRST EDITION
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
First Grove Atlantic edition: April 2019
This book was set in 12.75-point Perpetua Std
by Alpha Design and Composition of Pittsfield, NH.
ISBN 978-0-8021-2842-3
eISBN 978-0-8021-4630-4
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available for this title.
Atlantic Monthly Press
an imprint of Grove Atlantic
154 West 14th Street
New York, NY 10011
Distributed by Publishers Group West
groveatlantic.com
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Contents
Cover
Also by Michael Knight
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Question 1
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Question 2
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Question 3
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Question 4
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Question 5
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Question 6
Chapter XXIII
Question 7
Acknowledgments
Back Cover
For Helen
We have no obligation to make history. We have no obligation to make art. We have no obligation to make a statement. To make money is our only object.
—Michael Eisner, former CEO,
Walt Disney Company,
internal memo
JENNY: Are you a dream?
ELEANOR: I don’t think so.
JENNY: Do you dream?
ELEANOR: I remember. That’s like a dream.
—Eugenia Marsh, Act 1, Scene 3,
The Phantom of Thornton Hall
Question 1
In November of 1993, hoping to capitalize on the existing base for historical tourism in the area around Washington, DC, the Walt Disney Company announced its intention to build a theme park called Disney’s America in rural Prince William County, Virginia. Which of the following was/were among the proposed attractions in the original plan?
A) A Native American encounter area, featuring a white-water rapids ride modeled on the journey of Lewis and Clark.
B) A turn-of-the-century steel town highlighted by a roller coaster that would plunge guests on a harrowing journey through a replica blast furnace.
C) A virtual-reality experience in which guests would be pursued by baying hounds and armed slave hunters during a thrilling Underground Railroad escape.
D) All of the above.
I
All boarding schools are haunted. Not infrequently by suicides. So it was at Briarwood School for Girls. According to campus lore, a young woman named Elizabeth Archer hanged herself with a bedsheet in Thornton Hall, her fiancé mustard-gassed at Belleau Wood, the thought of life without her love too much to bear. Ever since, residents had been reporting sudden drops in temperature, flickering lights. Actual sightings were rare but not unheard of. These brushes with the afterlife were easily debunked, attributable to drafty windows, touchy wiring, quirky ductwork, but there was a certain kind of Briarwood girl who longed to hear the creepy sounds at night, to behold a spirit, vague as mist, hovering through the wall.
It was not altogether remarkable, then, to come upon a group of students huddled around a Ouija board in the common room, candles reflected in the blank TV. On this occasion, Lenore Littlefield was outside looking in, hands cupped like parentheses beside her eyes, her breath fogging the window in the door. Poppy Tuttle and Melissa Chen pressed in close to peer over her shoulder. Lenore swiped condensation with the cuff of her peacoat, then mashed her nose against the glass again. She could see her roommate, Juliet Demarinis, and three other girls, bodies hunched over the board, hair hanging in their faces, shadows jumping in the candlelight. Lightly, doubtfully, Lenore rolled her fingertips against the pane. The dorms were locked at ten o’clock. After curfew, you were supposed to buzz the RA. The Ouija girls could have let them in without alerting anybody, but Juliet just smirked and waved.
“What the fuck?” Poppy said.
“I ate her Valentine’s candy.”
“Somebody sent Juliet Demarinis Valentine’s candy?”
“Her dad. Italian truffles. I offered to buy her another box, but she said they had to be special ordered from Naples or someplace.”
She’d been in bed listening to her Walkman to drown out her roommate’s snoring. The scent of hazelnut heavy in the air. Her hunger was overwhelming, irresistible. She’d devoured the whole box. Even when she felt sick, Lenore was hungry all the time. She’d confessed first thing in the morning, and Juliet burst into tears.
“Let’s just wait,” Melissa said. “Somebody normal will come along.”
Briarwood School for Girls was tucked away among old oaks and gentle hills between the towns of Haymarket and Manassas, a location that provided an abundance of field-trip opportunities and made for a picturesque brochure but offered next to nothing in the way of Friday night amusement for its boarders. Melissa, however, had a new black Jetta and a permission slip to drive off campus, so, after Lenore finished basketball practice, they’d cranked the radio and bolted, Poppy manning the music, Lenore stuck in the back, shuffling her feet among cassette cases and empty Slushee cups and leaning forward between the seats to keep up with the conversation. They’d stopped for beer at every convenience mart and country store for miles, but not one of them had a fake ID, and they’d failed to meet a sympathetic cashier or a man of legal age willing to make the purchase on their behalf. A wasted night, in other words, and in the end, at Poppy’s insistence, they’d gone for fried-egg burgers at the Depot, and the waitress had taken forever with their check.
Poppy sat on the steps, scrounged a pack of Marlboro Lights from the pocket of her jeans, poked a wrinkled cigarette between her lips.
“Don’t be stupid,” Melissa said. “You’ll get busted.”
Thornton Hall leaked watery light over the grass, an illuminated boundary beyond which the rest of campus seemed far away, the pillars and arches, the modest slope of the grounds, the trees on the quad a tangle of black boughs. Lenore could close her eyes and picture Briarwood like a map, athletic fields and stables and a gatehouse down by the road, where the land was leveled off. Then the academic buildings, Murray Hall and Everett Hall and Brunson Hall and Ransom Library, all laid out around a quadrangle shaded with oaks and capped on one end by the Herndon Administration Annex and on the other by Hanover Chapel, its steeple silhouetted against the night. Above the quad, a little farther up the hill, were Burke Gymnasium and Beatrix Garvey Memorial Auditorium and then the dorms, Thornton and Blackford Halls, and Briarwood Manor, where Headmistress Mackey lived with her husband. At the very top of the hill, across a street called Shady Dell Loop, was Faculty Row, the houses one story, simple brick, painted white, most of them divided into duplexes. No moon tonight, or else it was hidden by smeary clouds. A bulb blinked on in the gatehouse, the security guard suddenly visible in its glow, hitching his pants, breathing into his hands. He’d be making his rounds before too long.
“Let me get one of those,” Lenore said.
She sat beside Poppy on the steps, and Poppy shook a cigarette from the pack and passed the lighter to Lenore. Lenore took dainty drags, like sips.
“Do they really think they’re talking to a ghost?” Melissa said.
The window in the door flickered like a jack-o’-lantern eye.
“They need to know,” Poppy said, “if there are fat virgins on the other side.”
Lenore said, “Have you ever done it, a Ouija board?”
“When I was like ten,” Poppy said. “My neighbor’s older sister had one, and we’d bring it out at slumber parties, ask about boys, stupid stuff. I’d move the thing around, mess with the other kids, answer their questions. But those girls, that’s pathetic what’s going on in there.”
“Agreed,” Melissa said, plopping down on Poppy’s other side. She waved the smoke away, wrinkled her nose. “Your hair’s gonna stink.”
Poppy and Melissa were roommates. They had played Old Maid to sort it out. Whoever got caught with the queen of spades would find somebody else or take her chances in the lottery, but by the time Lenore started asking, everybody decent had paired up. They still shared a table in the dining hall and clumped together in their classes and drove around looking for trouble on Friday nights, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that—what was it exactly that she felt? She had no intention of telling her friends about the weeks without her period, the pee tests to confirm. Now, Poppy tugged the scrunchie from her hair, gathered a blond handful, and reassembled her ponytail, cigarette tucked into the corner of her mouth.
“You know what really pisses me off?” she said.
But she never finished the thought. Before Lenore or Melissa could stop her, before they realized what she had in mind, she was on her feet and up the steps and at the door, thumbing the buzzer. Then she pressed it again. Lenore stubbed her cigarette out in a hurry and tossed the butt into the boxwoods, but Poppy just stood there until the RA appeared. Husna Hesbani was a senior. From Pakistan. Third in her class. She was wearing a Briarwood sweatshirt over her nightgown. Poppy made a show of plucking the cigarette from her lips and grinding it out under her shoe.
“Thank you, Husna. I hope we didn’t interrupt your Friday night diddle.”
Melissa picked up Poppy’s butt and dropped it in the trash can by the door. “Do you have to write us up? Please, Husna. We’re not that late.”
Husna glanced at the clock. “Half an hour. That’s late enough.”
“You’re a tyrant, Husna,” Poppy said, “and no one likes you very much.” Then she whirled to face the Ouija girls, ponytail sweeping the air. “Tell me, ladies, did the spirits advise you not to open the door?”
Juliet sat back on her heels. She looked pleased with her mischief, her eyes leering in the candlelight, a smear of zit cream on her chin.
“Does she sound drunk, Husna? I wonder if she’s been drinking.”
“What about it?” Husna said.
Poppy said, “I wish. What I am is bored. And sick of this place. I’m tired of stupid people and stupid fucking rules. I’m just tired, bitches, and I should probably go to bed.”
With those words, she made her exit, both fists raised to give everyone the finger, Melissa scuttling after her down the hall. The Ouija girls returned their attention to the board, and Husna disappeared into her room, and candles threw trembling specters on the walls, and Lenore could imagine how her waking hours would play out—brushing her teeth and washing her face and slipping her headphones over her ears, hoping to fall asleep before Juliet came up, hoping, if she had been a certain kind of girl, for the gust across her skin, the hackles rising on her neck, a sad spirit crossing over from the next world into this.
II
Freshmen took turns ringing the old iron bell between classes and at mealtimes, one of those boarding-school traditions that had seemed quaintly exotic to Lucas Bishop when he’d first arrived at Briarwood. The bell was mounted at the center of the quad—thick rope dangling, clapper big as a fist. The sound of it carried from the gatehouse to Faculty Row. Bishop could hear it from the stoop outside his duplex, where he was nursing a second cup of coffee and studying the wet blanket of the sky, his Lab mix, Pickett, squatting in the yard next door. The bell rang exactly ten times, and by the final ring, girls were spilling from their dorms, headed to the dining hall for breakfast or to the library to finish up some homework before first period or to the parking lot to sneak a smoke. They were all hair and hands from that distance, the whole unruly flock of them veiled in puffs of winter breath. Today Bishop would chaperone his classes on their annual field trip to Manassas National Battlefield Park, and the sky did not bode well.
He whistled Pickett inside, then knotted his tie with shaky fingers, a trace of hangover behind his eyes. He washed three aspirin down with the cold dregs of his coffee. When he emerged, the sky seemed somehow closer to the ground.
The bus was waiting in the turnaround behind the Herndon Annex, the driver and Coach Fink hashing out the weather. At least two chaperones were required on all field trips. Bishop would not have chosen Coach Fink for her company, but she was willing, and her mornings were often free, and the students were afraid of her. She sported a Briarwood sweatsuit—green with white piping—over a turtleneck, one foot propped on the step of the bus, leg extended, body bent, nose touching her thigh. Her braid dangled almost to the pavement. If pressed, Bishop would have put her in her middle thirties, a daub of freckles lending a girlish aspect to her face. She was barely five foot three, but there was something aggressive about the way she took up space that made her appear taller than she was.
“Well,” she said, “think it’ll hold?”
“If we don’t go today, then we’re not going,” Bishop said, and here came the bell again, and in no apparent hurry, students began to drift down from the quad, a stream of white blouses and plaid skirts, knee socks and saddle oxfords and peacoats, washing past Bishop and onto the bus. He called the roll, and Coach Fink paced the aisle taking a head count just in case. Fifty-eight junior girls. Coach Fink gave Bishop a thumbs-up, and Bishop told the driver they were ready, and off they went, the battlefield just a few miles up the road. He sat up front, behind the driver, while Coach Fink posted herself in back, where trouble was most likely to occur. It was too early in the year for such an outing, trees still leafless, pastures muddied by melted snow, the scene rolling by outside the windows nothing at all like what those doomed young men would have looked upon in July of 1861, but Bishop had to get through the Civil War, both world wars, and Vietnam before Briarwood released the girls for summer vacation.
She thumbed the lapel of her peacoat forward so he could see the button more clearly—a silhouette of Mickey Mouse X-ed out over the letters FTM. She was also wearing long-johns bottoms under her skirt, both the button and the long johns violations of the dress code. Coach Fink could write Poppy up if she wanted to. Next to Poppy on the bench seat was Melissa Chen, and next to Melissa, by the window, was Lenore Littlefield. Lenore was asleep, it looked like, her mouth nodding open, her head on Melissa’s shoulder.
“FTM?”
Poppy unfurled a smile. “Fuck the mouse,” she said, and Bishop blinked three times. Slowly. Like a cat. Since Disney had announced its plans, there had been a bubbling of resistance and complaint but not enough, Bishop thought, to make a difference. The governor was on board with Disney, as were the chamber of commerce types. Money was already changing hands. Back in November, he had asked his students about Disney’s America—How did they want the history of their country represented? Was there such a thing as historical authenticity, or were all portrayals of history corrupt in one way or another? Would Disney gloss over the darker elements of American history, and why was that important? But most of the girls seemed excited about the prospect of Mickey Mouse and the rest of the gang descending on Prince William County. Someone—Thessaly Roebuck? Marisol Brooks?—had even asked whether there might be future field trips to Disney’s America in addition to or instead of the usual outings to Colonial Williamsburg and Monticello and Manassas National Battlefield Park. Poppy liked to raise the subject when she was bored as a way of distracting Bishop from the lesson. Just last week, she’d wondered how Disney would portray the Trail of Tears, and he’d let himself be suckered in, wasting half the class.
“Subtle,” Bishop said.
At Briarwood School for Girls Page 1