The Scarlet Letterman

by Cara Lockwood

  “That’s TMI,” I add.

  “God — I can’t believe I missed the horse dudes,” Blade exclaims, punching her pillow. “Were they cool? Tell me everything.”

  “They weren’t cool. Pestilence nearly killed Samir,” Hana says.

  “Pestilence! Ugh — and I missed it!” Blade says, flopping down on her bed and covering her face with her pillow.

  “So how do you think they’re going to explain the tiger?” Hana asks me, ignoring Blade’s theatrics.

  “They don’t have to,” Blade says, holding up the latest edition of the Bard Weekly. “There’s already a rumor that it escaped from a ship carrying a zoo across the Atlantic.”

  The newspaper’s headlines read “Tiger Escapes from Zoo Ship” and “Headmaster B Subdues Tiger with Folding Chair.”

  “Did she really kick the tiger’s butt with a chair?” Blade asks.

  “Pretty much,” Hana says.

  “Don’t you think parents will be upset?” I ask.

  “Uh, did you forget where we are?” Hana asks me. “The parents who sent their kids here don’t care.” Hana looks down at her hands. She speaks from personal experience, considering her parentals seem to always take neglect to the next level.

  “Do you know what’s going to happen to Heathcliff?” Hana asks me.

  “I don’t know,” I say. This much is true. Ms. W and Coach H took him with them to see Headmaster B. Ms. W promised they wouldn’t hurt him, and that I’d be summoned later. I remember the look on Heathcliff’s face, though. He seemed resigned to whatever they decided. I can’t help but worry. I’m not even fully enjoying my new freedom. Ms. W took away my red vest and told me I’m once again allowed to mix with the Bard masses.

  “By the way, speaking of beefcakes, you’ll be happy to know that Ryan’s going to be okay,” Blade says. “He had a mild concussion and he’ll be hanging out in the infirmary for a couple of days, but should be fine.”

  I’d been so worried about Heathcliff, I temporarily forgot about Ryan. What does that say about me? What kind of girlfriend — I mean, ex-girlfriend — am I?

  Down at the bottom of the front page of the newspaper, there’s a small story saying they’ve caught the Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker. Hana taps that story with her finger.

  “What is Parker going to do without a stalker around?” she asks. “She doesn’t have an excuse to stalk Ryan.”

  “I’m guessing she’s not happy,” I reply.

  “That karma, she’s a bitch,” Blade adds. “So are you going to give up the details about the horsemen? Or am I going to have to beg?”

  “Begging would be nice,” I say.

  “Don’t make me put a hex on you,” Blade says.

  That afternoon, Ms. W takes me to Headmaster B’s office.

  “Ms. W, I was wondering,” I say.

  “Yes?”

  “Before you disappeared, you tried to tell me something about my future here at Bard. What did you mean?”

  Ms. W gives me a sidelong glance.

  “I think you’ll find things out in your own time.”

  “But is there something you know — that the faculty knows — and aren’t telling me?” I think back to the bombshell that I’m part fiction. The faculty knew and didn’t say. What else do they know about me?

  Ms. W sighs.

  “There’s some speculation that you’re going to be a writer. A very good writer,” Ms. W says.

  “Me?” I ask. “But Coach H just accused me of plagiarizing.”

  “He knows you didn’t do that. But Parker put him in a difficult position,” Ms. W says. “But, more importantly, you’d be the first prominent writer with fictional roots. No one knows what this could mean. But it would be a first.”

  “How do you know I’ll be a good writer?”

  “Let’s just say that writers know their own,” Ms. W says. “We can smell them a mile away. And if you’d like, I’d like to tutor you. Mentor you, even.”

  “So if I become a famous writer, then you get some good karma points and get one step closer to getting out of this place?”

  “You see right through me,” Ms. W says, smiling. “That’s the first step in being a good writer. Being a good observer.”

  “So the lessons are already starting then?” I say. “Does this mean you’re going to be my Mr. Miyagi? Wax on. Wax off?”

  “Mr. Who?” Ms. W asks. Sometimes I forget that her pop culture references only extend to 1941.

  “So are you going to tell me what Headmaster B decided to do with Heathcliff? Or do I have to guess?”

  “You’ll find out shortly,” Ms. W says. “It’s a fair decision.”

  In Headmaster B’s office, I see a subdued Heathcliff sitting quietly in a chair, staring at Headmaster B, who is sitting behind her desk with her arms crossed. Heathcliff’s dark, curly hair is back from his face and he looks like he’s shaved. The Bard uniform barely fits his broad shoulders.

  “Miranda — sit,” Headmaster B says. I take the open seat next to Heathcliff. I look over at his face, trying to read it, but as usual it’s a blank slate. Correction: a frowning slate. He doesn’t like authority figures, least of all Headmaster B — the sister of his creator, Emily Brontë.

  “First of all, I owe you an apology,” Headmaster B says. “We unfairly accused and convicted you of meddling in the disappearance of two of our faculty members. For that, I apologize.”

  “Apology accepted,” I say.

  “Now, before us is the more serious issue of you withholding information about Heathcliff,” Headmaster B says. “And, more generally, about Heathcliff’s future.”

  I glance over at Heathcliff, but he’s just staring at his shoes. “I think it’s important for you to know how helpful he was these past few weeks,” I blurt. “Not only would I have been dead, but most of the students, if it wasn’t for Heathcliff —”

  Headmaster B waves her arm to show she doesn’t want to hear more. “I know, Ms. Tate,” she says, unable to keep a little annoyance from her voice. “But what’s more important, Miranda, is that you no longer keep secrets like this from us in the future. It’s important that we be able to trust you.”

  “I understand,” I say. “I promise.”

  “Good,” she says and nods her head. “Now, the faculty have met to discuss the fate of Heathcliff. And we’ve decided that, for now…he can stay.”

  “He can stay!” I shout, elated. Without meaning to, I lean over and hug Heathcliff. He’s temporarily taken aback, but then he folds his arms around me.

  “Ahem,” Headmaster B says, clearing her throat. “Contain yourself, Ms. Tate,” she commands before continuing. “There are three conditions under which he can stay. He cannot leave the school grounds, which basically encompass this island. His stay here can only be three years, as that’s the length of time he is missing from the novel Wuthering Heights. And he’s already spent eight months of that time here.”

  “That’s all!” I cry. That’s hardly fair. He can only stay in this world, well, until I graduate.

  “Also, Ms. Tate, it is very important that he not form any romantic entanglements while here.”

  She stares at me pointedly.

  “But —”

  “If we see or hear of anything, ahem, untoward going on between you two, we will have no choice but to banish Heathcliff immediately,” she says. “This is for Heathcliff’s own good. When it is time for him to return to the novel, he has to go. Are we agreed, Mr. Heathcliff?”

  Heathcliff looks at his shoes and nods. I think about the kiss he landed on me in the secret passageway. I feel a pang of disappointment.

  “Are we agreed, Ms. Tate?” Headmaster B asks me.

  I look at Heathcliff and then at Headmaster B. I see no alternative. Reluctantly, I nod.

  Outside Headmaster B’s office, Heathcliff turns and looks at me.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  “For what?” I don’t think I did anything other than agree to let them send him
back to Wuthering Heights in two years and four months. It hardly seems like a good ending.

  “For believing in me,” he says.

  “But they’ll only let you stay two years and four months,” I say. “That’s so unfair. And we…I mean, we can’t…” What? Kiss? Date? Get it on like rabbits? No words seem appropriate here, so I just trail off awkwardly.

  Heathcliff gently takes my hand and turns it over in his palm, as if studying it. Then, ever so gently, he bends down and kisses the upside of my wrist.

  “Any time I can spend with you, I’m grateful for,” he says. He gives me a piercing look.

  The spell is broken by the approach of Coach H. “So I hear I need to find a room for you,” Coach H tells Heathcliff, clapping him on the shoulder and pulling him away from me. “Let’s get started with that, shall we?”

  I watch the two of them walk across campus. Every so often, Heathcliff turns back to look at me.

  I can feel the spot on my wrist he kissed. It tingles.

  So much for no romantic entanglements, I think.

  Thirty-one

  “Your love life is more convoluted than The OC,” Hana tells me as we walk together across campus.

  “Tell me about it. What am I supposed to do?” I’ve confessed to Hana that I think I have feelings for both Ryan and Heathcliff.

  “Well, considering that romance with Heathcliff is forbidden, and he’s from 1847, you know my pick would be Ryan.”

  “Who knows if he would even take me back?” I ask, still not sure how I feel about Ryan. Do I even want to be his girlfriend again? I just don’t know. How sad is that?

  “You don’t know until you try,” Hana says.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I say, thinking about the place on my wrist where Heathcliff kissed.

  “You’d better figure it out quickly,” Hana says. “We’re here.” Hana stops outside the infirmary, where I’ve come to visit Ryan. After his run-in with a tiger, he’s been resting until Coach H is sure he’s ready to go back to class.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I say.

  “Start with ‘how are you feeling?’ and go from there,” Hana says.

  “You mean if he doesn’t throw me out first,” I say.

  “Just go,” Hana huffs, giving me a little shove inside.

  Ryan is sitting up in a cot. He’s got his head bandaged, but otherwise, he looks good. He’s talking to Derek Mann when I get there.

  “Miranda!” Ryan says, his face lighting up when he sees me. I’m surprised. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but this definitely isn’t it.

  “Hi, Ryan. Um, how are you feeling?” I ask, taking Hana’s advice.

  “Good,” he says. “I’m glad you came.”

  “You are?” I ask, still surprised. Just last week he hated me.

  “Of course I am. You saved my life,” he says. “If you hadn’t distracted that tiger when I was helping Parker, we’d have both been goners.”

  I guess that part is true. “But you saved my life right back,” I say. “So we’re even.”

  “I don’t know about even,” Ryan says. “I can’t believe how brave you were. You weren’t afraid of that tiger at all. Unlike Derek here.”

  Derek turns bright red. “I wasn’t afraid.”

  “No, you were petrified,” Ryan corrects. “Speaking of Derek, I think he has something to say to you.”

  Derek Mann clears his throat and looks at his shoes. Ryan gives him a nudge.

  “Uh, yeah. Um, I, uh…I’m sorry,” Derek Mann says.

  Are my ears working? Did Derek “the” Mann just apologize? That’s a first. And I thought since his public abstinence pledge, I’d seen it all.

  “You’re sorry for…?” Ryan prompts.

  “For, uh…believing those rumors about you. And, uh, helping to spread them. I know now they’re not true. Mr. B suggested I write the column, and well…”

  So Blake was behind that, too!

  “And I’m going to write an op-ed piece for the student newspaper, explaining how the rumor was all wrong, and how we were wrong to ostracize you over something so stupid.”

  “Well,” I say, glancing over at Ryan. I know this is all his doing. “Thank you, Derek. Apology accepted.”

  Derek mumbles something I can’t quite hear and then leaves the room. Clearly Derek “the” Mann isn’t used to apologizing to anyone.

  “How did you get him to do that?” I ask Ryan.

  “I threatened to write a letter exposing the fact that he’s a virgin.”

  “He’s a virgin?” I cry, and I can’t help it — I laugh. “But the rumors. The reputation that he’s a ladies’ man?”

  “All lies. His doing. I don’t think he even kissed a girl for the first time until two months ago.”

  “But what about him supposedly knocking up the principal’s daughter — at his old school?”

  “Total fabrication,” Ryan says. “I don’t know what the real reason is, but I think it had to do with the fact that he threw a party at his house when his parents weren’t home. Only I don’t think anybody came. I heard that he ordered a big keg, but it just sat there, sweating on his parents’ living room rug.”

  I have to laugh at that. A free keg — and still nobody showed up? How unpopular do you have to be for that to happen?

  “Wow,” I say. “I guess you really can’t believe rumors.”

  “Exactly my point all along,” Ryan says.

  I can see with perfect clarity that I’ve treated Ryan terribly. He really is a good guy.

  “Listen, Ryan, I’m really sorry for everything that’s happened. I think you were right. I overreacted.”

  Ryan smiles and then looks down at his hands, folded in his lap.

  “Look, it’s no problem, really,” Ryan says. “It helped me do some thinking actually. I was thinking that maybe we should start over,” he says. My heart skips a beat. He does still want to be my boyfriend. A tiny voice in my head says, What about Heathcliff?

  I am such a headcase. A boy-crazy headcase. Still, if Ryan is willing to give us another shot, then shouldn’t I be open to that possibility, too?

  “Yes, I think so, too,” I say.

  “Hear me out,” Ryan says. He glances down at his hands. “Miranda, I really like you.”

  “I really like you, too,” I say.

  “But…”

  “But?” I echo. Where did the “but” come from? “Buts” are never good.

  “But, I think maybe we ought to just be friends.”

  The words hit my stomach like a bowling ball. Just friends?

  “I mean, I’ve had more experience than you. And I’m older, and maybe, well, I just don’t think we’re a good fit right now. Maybe things will change, but I think we want different things right now. And I think I rushed things with you.”

  “You mean sex?” I cry. “It’ll be different this time, I’m —” I was about to say “ready,” but Ryan cuts me off.

  “No,” Ryan says, shaking his head. “Be honest with me. You don’t even know what you want.”

  This is true. But I’m fifteen (sixteen in less than twenty-four hours). Am I supposed to know everything right now?

  Ryan pulls me forward, and just when I think he might kiss me on the lips and make everything he’s said go away, he gives me a peck on the forehead. Like I was his kid sister. It feels like a slap.

  “Let’s just be friends for now, and see how things go?” he suggests.

  “Ouch,” Hana says, when I fill her in on the details as she and I and Samir walk to the mailroom to pick up our mail.

  “The friend speech — I hate that speech,” Samir seconds.

  “I just don’t get it,” I say, shaking my head. “I mean, I go from having two boyfriends to none. How is that fair?”

  “It isn’t,” Hana agrees.

  “I mean, I save the world, but I don’t get the boy? How is that fair?”

  “Whoa — you saved the world! What about us?” Hana cries.
r />   “Okay, we saved the world,” I amend, putting my arm around Hana.

  “Yeah, don’t forget me, either,” Samir says.

  “Oh yeah, a lot of good you did nearly dying,” Hana says.

  “Hey! I’d like to see how well you deal with the plague,” he shoots back. “Besides, it’s called being a martyr. Look it up.”

  “Guys! We all saved the world, okay? I stand corrected.”

  In my mailbox, I find one letter and two brightly colored envelopes. The two envelopes are from Mom and Lindsay — they’re birthday cards.

  At least they remembered. In her card, Mom promises to throw me a party in June, when I’m back home. It won’t be like the My Super Sweet 16 bashes on MTV, but frankly, a trip to Pizza Hut would seem like a luxury after another few months of Bard food.

  Lindsay’s card is about sisters who borrow each other’s shoes. It would be funny except that I know Lindsay is totally raiding my closet right now, and she has Fred Flintstone feet.

  The last envelope is from my dad. Did he actually send me a birthday card? I open the envelope to discover a folded letter.

  Miranda,

  Your stepmother Carmen has suggested that a summer job might prove you’re mature enough to drive, and she has been generous enough to offer you work at her new clothing boutique. To make up what you spent on her credit card, you won’t be getting a salary, but will be working a minimum of 35 hours a week. Any complaints or back talk from you on this issue and I will report your theft of my car to the police.

  I’ve talked this over with your mother, and she’s reluctantly agreed that working might be the best thing for you.

  Sincerely,

  Dad

  Happy birthday to me.

  I doubt he even remembered.

  I can’t believe I’m going to be Carmen’s slave for the entire summer. I’d rather deal with the horsemen of the Apocalypse, thanks. And since when did she have the money to open up her own clothing store? Now I know that had to come from my college fund.