I can see why they might be nervous about students knowing this particular secret. It would be like if you found out your principal was Superman, and you knew the location of two tons of kryptonite.
“I can understand that, but really, your secret is safe with us,” I say.
“I know that, because I know you and your friends,” Ms. W says. “But the others aren’t so sure.”
“Who?” I ask, wondering if it’s Headmaster B. She definitely wasn’t keen on us finding out the truth.
“I can’t tell you, but you and your friends need to be careful,” Ms. W says. “For one, stay away from the vault.”
“We weren’t planning on going near it,” I say. “None of us wants to see a reappearance of Dracula.”
“Good,” Ms. W says, looking a little relieved. “Just keep a low profile this semester and do well in school, and I’m sure the other faculty will come around.”
I’m not sure who she’s trying to convince more — her or me.
Five
“That totally sucks,” says Blade that night during our study time. Every evening from 8:00 P.M. (curfew) to 10:00 P.M. (lights out), we’re confined to our rooms, where our choices are study or sleep. “They don’t trust us? But we saved their ghostly butts last semester.”
“Tell me about it,” I say.
“This just proves they’re not just dead, they’re crazy,” Blade says. “I mean, take Mr. B, my American history teacher. He talks to invisible people.”
Mr. B is William Blake, the poet. I’d heard rumors about him before. Most of the students think he’s on drugs, because he talks to himself, and on occasion, people who aren’t actually there.
I want to ask her more about Blake — even talking to Blade is preferable to reading one more chapter on the Puritans. But, before I can, I hear the footsteps of the Rat Patrol in the hall, and so both of us swivel to the front and pretend to be studying. The Rat Patrol is a group of Guardians who patrol the dorms and the campus grounds to make sure that no student is out of their room during mandatory study time.
I hate study time. It’s two hours of sitting in complete silence. I can barely find the stamina to watch two hours of Laguna Beach, much less do something like read. But at this point, I would literally kill someone just to hear ten minutes of a radio. Even if it was a country station. That’s how desperate I am for a sound other than the wind blowing against our window.
It’s enough to make me want to cry, I’m so bored. For the first ten minutes of study time, I read and reread the letters from home — one from my friend Liz, and one from Mom. I reread them each ten times. That’s how desperate I am for entertainment. Liz, bless her, has taken it upon herself to give me TV updates, so I can almost imagine the finale of Veronica Mars. As usual, though, there’s no letter from Dad. He’s still pissed that I wrecked his new BMW, but I don’t really care. I was trying to save Lindsay from a school bully, which is technically his job anyway. Besides, Dad took the insurance money and bought a Range Rover, so it’s not like he’s got a right to have a pity party. Not when I’m stuck on Shipwreck Island without even so much as a single copy of Teen People.
Thinking about Dad makes my blood pressure rise, so I put him out of my head and focus on Liz’s loopy handwriting, which calms me. She’s giving her own opinion about her new must-see show, My Super Sweet 16 on MTV. The last part of her letter outlines what she would do with $100,000 instead of throwing a lame birthday party. This reminds me that my own birthday is coming up in little over a month. I’m going to spend my sweet sixteen in purgatory with a bunch of ghost teachers. This thought makes me hate my dad even more.
“God, I’m bored.” Blade sighs, voicing my own thoughts. She throws up her hands and shuts the book on her desk. “I’m going to bed,” she declares.
“It’s only eight-thirty,” I point out. At this rate, she’ll get eleven hours of sleep.
“I’m either going to sleep, or slip into an ennui coma,” Blade says. “And I prefer sleep. My dreams, at least, can be like television.”
Blade falls right to sleep, but I can’t sleep until lights out at 10:00. And even then, I lie awake thinking about Heathcliff. Did he attack Parker? Is he even still alive? Maybe the piece of paper in my locket isn’t enough to keep him in this world. Maybe he’s faded to oblivion like his creator, Emily Brontë, who disappeared after most of her book was destroyed last semester.
With all these questions swirling around in my head, I fall into a fitful sleep, and I dream about Heathcliff.
He’s carrying me in his arms, just like he did when he saved me from a fire in the library last semester. His arms are strong and thick, and I feel like I can stay there forever. His eyes are the same — dark and ambiguous — and as usual, I don’t know what he’s thinking.
He’s taking me deep into the woods, just like Ryan did, but this time Heathcliff doesn’t stop until he takes me to a river. He puts me down by a horseshoe-shaped tree, and disappears into the forest. Alone suddenly, I know something very bad is coming, and when I look up, I see the two red eyes again, peering at me.
Distantly I hear Heathcliff call for help, but I can’t get to him somehow, and I know he won’t be able to help me. I have to face whatever is attached to those eyes alone.
The eyes start to move closer to me, and that’s when I wake up, cold sweat trickling down my back. I find myself nearly face-to-face with a white demon, and that’s when I realize I’m facing the window and looking at the gargoyle sitting on the ledge.
My heart nearly leaps out of my throat before I realize I’m just at Bard, where the campus decor is like Fright Fest.
The full moonlight glints off the gargoyle’s sharp fangs. I shiver and turn away. One of these days I’ll remember to go to sleep with the blinds down. No wonder I’m having nightmares. In the dark, Blade snorts and rolls over, then begins a loud chain of snores. It’s one of the few times I’ve been glad that Blade snores. There’s something reassuring about a roommate who can sleep through nearly anything.
I think back to the short-lived two-week Christmas break, back when I slept in a room decorated with pink gingham, and I wonder if I’m ever going to get back to a place where I can peacefully sleep through the night without dreaming about monsters. There’s one thing about Bard that never changes. It always seems to give me nightmares.
I’m awake now, and I know I won’t be able to go back to sleep. I creep over to my desk, careful not to make any sudden sounds, even though I doubt anything would wake Blade up. I pull my backpack off my chair.
Blade snorts in her sleep, and I temporarily freeze. When she shifts under the covers and starts snoring again, I grab my dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights, the one I’ve read and reread, and flip to the middle of the book, where I keep the note Heathcliff sent me.
Delicately I unfold it, taking in Heathcliff’s shaky handwriting, and rereading it for the thousandth time.
“You are my soul. So long as you exist, so do I. Yours forever, H.”
I trace the H with my finger. I can’t believe he’d just stop talking to me. Not after sending me this note. I think about his thick dark hair and mysterious eyes.
Where is he?
Six
“Did you hear? There was another attack of the Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker,” says Blade the next morning over breakfast (something lumpy, yellow, and watery that may or may not have been an egg-based product).
“You can’t be serious,” Hana sniffs. She still does not believe the Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker exists. She thinks Parker is making it all up.
“Who did he attack?” I ask, all the while wondering if that is Heathcliff what in the world is he doing?
“Some girl, who apparently didn’t know Parker,” Blade says. “I overheard the story in the shower this morning. This girl — her name was Amanda or something — was with the crew team, and was walking down by the river where they practice. She said this guy jumped out of nowhere and knocked her down.”
�
�We’ve got a crew team?” I ask.
“Duh,” Blade says. “Anyway, that’s it. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, but she didn’t see his face. Just like Parker.”
“So there wasn’t a rape?”
“No rape. Nothing like that. Just shoving.”
“So why is everyone calling him a stalker? He should be called a shover,” Hana says.
“You still don’t believe Parker is telling the truth?” Blade asks.
“I just think it’s all a bit convenient,” Hana says. “Right, Miranda?”
“Um, yeah, right,” I say, wondering if my suspicions about the Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker are right. Is he Heathcliff? And if so, should I tell someone? But who?
I decide I can’t be sure if it’s Heathcliff. After all, I didn’t see his face, either.
Before my first class, I duck into the bathroom, and while I’m in the stall, a few girls come in, voices I don’t recognize. While I’m there, I hear a conversation that goes like:
“He’s so dreamy. I mean, you heard what he did for Parker.”
“He totally saved her from the Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker,” says another.
I perk up at this. Are they talking about Ryan? They must be. Who else would “save” Parker?
“He even walks her to class,” says another.
“I wouldn’t mind him walking me to the bedroom,” says another.
“Doesn’t he have a girlfriend, though?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know what he sees in her. I mean, look at her.”
“She’s like, completely flat.”
“Totally.”
“And I don’t think she’s even that pretty.”
“I mean, Ryan could have any girl he wanted…”
Ryan. It’s for certain now. There’s only one Ryan at Bard that a group of three girls would be gossiping about. That’s my Ryan. And the flat-chested girl they’re talking about is me.
I flush, and step out of the stall, taking brief satisfaction in the shocked look on the girls’ faces.
“Oh, don’t stop talking on my account,” I say. “Please, continue.”
The girls, frozen to the spot, come to life all at once. They file stiff-legged out of the bathroom. Outside they burst into laughter. I roll my eyes.
Great. Freshmen are talking about me. Specifically, about my lack of cleavage. Don’t they have anything better to do? But I don’t know why I’m surprised. Since I became Ryan’s girlfriend, I’m on everyone’s gossip list. From what I’m wearing, to whether or not we’re going to break up, everyone seems to want to talk about us. It’s the downside of dating Ryan Kent. I’m surprised we don’t have one of those celebrity monolithic names like Ryanda or Miran.
I check out my reflection quickly in the mirror, but don’t see anything out of place, like ketchup on my face or my hair sticking up. It’s just me, the reassuringly normal, middle-of-the-road Miranda. I’ve dyed my hair a lighter shade of brunette, a tad lighter than last semester’s nearly jet-black look. I’ve got on Ryan’s oversize letterman’s jacket, which is so long it nearly reaches the hem of my skirt. But it’s warm and nice, especially in February. Otherwise I’m the same. Not the prettiest girl, but certainly not the ugliest. I’m what my mom calls “approachable,” which somehow always sounds like a little bit of an insult. Still, I’m not hideous. I’m worthy of Ryan Kent, even if I don’t fill out a B-cup bra.
Outside the bathroom, a girl runs by and hands me a pink flyer. I expect it to be another mug shot of the Bard Campus Would-Be Rapist, but instead, it’s a flyer for a dance. It says “Spring Break Dance, March 17. Help us plan! Join the Bard Pride and Spirit Committee.”
“You got one of those, too?” Hana asks me, catching me in the hall on my way to theology class.
“What is the ‘Bard Pride and Spirit Committee’?”
Hana frowns. “That’s Parker Rodham’s group. She formed it last year and tried to convince the powers that be around here to hold a prom for seniors. Apparently she only managed to convince them to have a spring break dance, since we don’t actually get a spring break around here.”
“Awkward dancing was the one thing I didn’t mind leaving behind in my old school.”
“You know Parker. She’s not happy unless she’s making life a little more miserable for all of us,” Hana says, sighing. “Anyway, what are you worried about? You’ve already got a date. You can take Ryan.”
I perk up a bit. Instant Dance Date: one of the many perks of dating Ryan Kent.
“Well, you could take Samir,” I counter.
“But we’re just friends,” Hana says, sounding appalled.
“Right. Just friends,” I say, not buying it. Those two are so in denial.
“We are,” Hana says, in a tone so firm that I decide to drop it. The bell rings, announcing the start of the next class.
Hana ducks into sophomore lit and I head to theology down the hall.
“Hey, Miranda,” says Derek Mann, stepping in front of me. Derek is one of Ryan’s basketball teammates and also a giant a-hole. He’s a notorious mlut (man slut) and has a reputation for hitting on anything that moves.
“Derek, I’m late,” I say, trying to move past him, but he moves with me, blocking my path at every turn. He holds up his notebook like it’s a stop sign. He’s actually written “Derek’s the Mann” on it. Gross.
“Is it true about you and Ryan?” Derek asks me, leaning in and giving me a leer. His breath smells foul. I don’t know how a guy scores as much as Derek is rumored to score when he’s never used a Tic Tac. But then again, he’s tall, broad, and athletic, and I guess some girls just don’t care about fresh breath. Derek is cute in a probably-already-has-every-STD-known-toman kind of way. He got sent to Bard because he knocked up his principal’s daughter, or so the rumor goes. Apparently he got her pregnant while he already had a pregnant girlfriend. He’s the K-Fed of my generation.
“That we’re dating? Yeah, we are,” I say.
“No, silly,” Derek says, and this time he leans in and pushes a bit of hair out of my face, invading my personal space and filling it with his dragon breath.
“The other rumor.”
Does Derek Mann hang out in the girls’ bathroom, too?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, annoyed. Is this about the other night in the woods? I don’t have time to figure it out, though. I don’t want a tardy because of Derek Mann. And have I mentioned the halitosis? Serious ew. The second bell, signaling tardiness, rings. “Now move. I’m late.”
“Sizzle pooh,” Derek says to me as I push past him. He’s always making up Derek slang. “Sizzle pooh” is his way of saying “nice butt.” When I look back to frown at him, I see Derek has his eyes fixed on my rear.
I have never felt so in need of a shower.
Seven
“Ms. Tate, you’re late,” Coach H says, accidentally rhyming and causing a couple of snickers from the stoners who sit in the back of the class. They wear their hair in their face and find everything funny.
“Sorry, I —”
“Sit!” Coach H bellows, waving his hand to show he doesn’t want any excuses. I like Coach H under normal circumstances. He’s sort of like a big grizzly bear. As long as you don’t take his curtness personally, you realize he really does care about you.
I mean, last semester he and Ms. W saved me from Dracula, so I know he cares about me, even if he doesn’t like to let on he does. The fact is, he doesn’t have great people skills, and besides, Ernest Hemingway isn’t known for his patience. Plus, he’s stuck teaching theology, which I can tell isn’t his favorite subject. He was much better suited for last semester’s history class, where he could show off his World War I artifacts.
I slide into my seat, right next to Parker Rodham, and can’t help but notice she’s gloating. She’s always happy if I get in trouble. Theology is one of several courses that’s a mix of sophomores and juniors.
Like all classrooms at Bard Academy, this one is predictab
ly dark and grim-looking. Instead of modern desks with plastic chairs, we have to sit in these old, wooden chairs with small desks attached to the arms. The desk-chairs are bolted to the ground, so you can’t move them at all. Hana tells me this was because one year a student hopped up on crystal meth threw a chair through a window and tried to escape. I don’t know if this is just another Campus Legend or not, but whatever. It’s as good an explanation as any for why we have to sit on ancient chairs that don’t move.
I glance over at Parker and notice she’s wearing a button on her Bard blazer. It’s got an artist’s rendered drawing of the Hooded Sweatshirt Guy, and says “Catch the Stalker!” She sees me staring at her button and she leans over and whispers, “Ryan says ‘hi.’ ”
I frown at her. She must know I haven’t seen him yet today. He’s probably already walked her to and from a dozen buildings by now.
“By the way, thanks for being so understanding,” Parker continues, her voice dripping sarcasm. “I mean, other girls would get jealous about lending out their boyfriends. Especially a boyfriend like Ryan.”
What she really means is: “I am so stealing your boyfriend and there’s nothing you can do about it.” Before I can respond, Coach H clears his throat, signaling the start of class.
Reluctantly I settle in to listen to the lecture while I try to think of ways I can kill Parker. Maybe a Bic pen to the jugular would work.
We’re currently in the middle of studying the Puritans, and as in most classes at Bard, we’ve found a way to link it to classic literature. We’ve just finished reading The Scarlet Letter, and now we’re going to start on the play The Crucible, both of which deal with Puritan extremism. I’m not a huge Hawthorne fan (they all made far too big a deal out of a little affair, if you ask me. I mean, Hester Prynne’s husband was presumed dead, lost at sea, and she’s supposed to be celibate her whole life? As far as I can tell, her only crime is not using birth control, and that wasn’t exactly her fault since it was pre-Trojan times).
The Scarlet Letterman Page 3