by Joanna Wiebe
“Shh,” she whispers. Her voice sounds completely normal. She looks…completely normal—except her braces are gone. She’s not ghostly in any way. The opposite, in fact. Even from feet away, she appears filled with life, vibrant. I rub my eyes and gape at her again. “They said you were dead.” I shove my covers off the rest of the way.
She shrugs. That response stops me in my tracks. It’s a surprisingly nonchalant thing to do when someone suggests you’re dead.
“Molly?” My chest is abruptly heavy with dread. “What are you doing here? Are you…a ghost?”
“I don’t want you to blame yourself,” she says, sidestepping my questions. “And I don’t want you to be sad. I know I’m going to be okay, but I need you to look out for yourself now.”
“What—?” I stammer, struggling to form a coherent thought.
She smiles softly. Without a sound, she begins backing down the stairs, keeping her pretty brown eyes on me the whole time, that small grin playing across her lips but, otherwise, such a mystifying expression. Clearly, she wants me to follow her. And I do. Like little mice escaping the attic, we quietly creep down the stairs, Molly staying five or so steps ahead of me and watching me, watching me. The stairs that bring us to the main floor of the cottage practically disappear under my feet, I am so fixated on her, on assessing everything about her and comparing it to what I know of ghosts and of humans, wondering which side she’s on. And then she’s leaving through the front door, and the moment I turn my eyes away to slip on my boots, she’s taking off at full speed, running with all her might, wailing into the wind, “Follow me, Anne!”
Stumbling, fumbling to get my boots on, I hobble as I race after her. The fog is hanging low, and it clings to my bare arms, neck, and face as I follow Molly toward the village, where the dim glow of a hundred torches turns the sky orange and where smoke mixes with fog. Drumbeats again, just like before. Molly runs faster than I knew she could, never even pausing for a breath, only glancing over her shoulder every other minute to make sure I’m still with her. And I am. I’m chasing an apparition into a village I’m sworn to steer clear of. Yet I can’t turn away, can’t stop. Even though I know I should. In the village are people who hate me, who likely blame me for what’s happened to Molly, but I’m running toward them all.
I come to a short stop near the bench where Molly and I watched the fire festival. Ahead, Molly runs up to a woman sitting in the ring of torches, a woman who must be her mother. Just as I wonder if anyone else can see the ghost of Molly, her mother puts her arm around her, pulling her close and kissing the top of her head fiercely.
“What took you so long?” I hear her mother say. “Every second with you is so precious, sweetheart.”
Like last week, Mr. Watso is in the middle of the circle of torches. But unlike last week, the dancing woman and the two shirtless men are nowhere to be seen. And unlike last week, the ring of people is small. A moment later, I see where the rest of the villagers have gone: in the darkness beyond, out at the docks, nearly fifty people are loading up a dozen mini-yachts. Two boats have already set sail, and I can just make out their floodlights glowing as they head west, toward the mainland. Am I wrong, or am I witnessing a mass exodus of the villagers?
“Our dear Molly has arrived, at last,” says Mr. Watso.
His tone couldn’t be any gentler, couldn’t be any different from the rough roaring of last week’s encounter. It’s a tone I recognize because it’s exactly the tone that everybody who’s ever given a eulogy at the Fair Oaks Funeral Home has had. He’s lost someone; he’s in mourning. But how could he have lost Molly if we can all see her?
Then he glances my way, spying me shivering in the fog. “It looks like Molly wanted her friend here, too.”
She nods. “I did,” she says, smiling at me. “My only friend.”
I return her smile and taste a tear that rolls down my cheek and between my parted lips.
“Without further ado, let us begin the cremation.”
It’s hard to say what happens next because it’s almost too much for my brain to process. A great fire is lit in the center of the ring. Mr. Watso says beautiful words about his granddaughter. Molly’s mother weeps; Molly whispers in her ear. Others in the circle cling to each other. Another boat shoves off, the passengers on it waving solemn good-byes. Mr. Watso lifts a long body wrapped in cloth over his head, managing the weight effortlessly, just like I’ve seen so many pallbearers do with caskets. A foghorn sounds in the distance. The wrapped body is gently placed in the fire, and Mr. Watso, overcome with sorrow, chokes out a good-bye. Everyone is sobbing now. Including me.
I tear my eyes away from the cremation in time to see Molly begin to flicker just like the flames, in time to see her glance my way with that small grin that comes and goes. And then her mother is clinging to no one at all, her lonesome wail rising into the air. Molly is gone.
“The cremation is complete,” chokes Mr. Watso. “Let us pause to remember Molly Lynn Watso. Let us pray that the spirit of my grandchild finds rest in the eternal beyond.”
Villicus taps the hourglass on his desk, and a burst of sand flows down. His perma-arched eyebrow is high on his head this morning as he looks at me and waits for Teddy to fold his long body into a tiny chair placed off to the side. The jeweled case I saw Villicus carrying the other day is on his desk again, looking polished and new.
I am waiting patiently to be expelled. I am numb.
In any court, this case would be thrown out and the detectives and lawyers humiliated. Because I haven’t confessed to a thing. And the only evidence Villicus has to any wrongdoing on my part is either circumstantial—that shoe they found on the hill could have been worn by Molly herself—or provided by a witness I’d rejected just hours before the shoe was discovered (that is, Teddy).
But there’s no court here. And I’m the only one doing any sort of investigating, which says a lot. Villicus is free to make whatever judgments he’d like. Just as I’m free to make whatever judgments I’d like about him—the most important right now being that he played a role in the death of Molly Watso. No one has said who did it—hell, she might have killed herself—but Villicus is at least indirectly culpable. It was his institution that was so terrible that Molly chose death over it.
Crossing my legs and folding my hands over my knees, I await expulsion. I should be overjoyed to be leaving. But I feel nothing. I’m sure I went into shock last night, and I have yet to snap out of it. If this isn’t a nuthouse, as I strongly suspect it is, this expulsion will show on my transcripts when I apply to Brown—but that doesn’t matter now, not like it used to.
“Miss Merchant,” Villicus says finally. Pressing his fingertips together, he rests his chin on the steeple they form. From the corner of my eye, I see Teddy mimic him; he looks exactly like a praying mantis. “You have been made privy to the punishment Miss Molly Watso received for breaking our rules.”
I nod, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood. The image of Molly flickering last night at her cremation ceremony is all I’ve been able to think about in the few hours since then. The only good thing that came from witnessing that ceremony is that I’ve now got a couple of theories as to why there’s a rule to keep villagers and Cania kids separated. My first theory is that it’s got something to do with living and dying, though I’m not sure exactly what. The clues I have are unbelievable at best. Molly was alive in my room last night. She was flesh and bone, same old Molly, with the only difference being that her braces were gone. I have no idea how she was alive like that, but she was. And then, as Mr. Watso said, she needed to be cremated so her body and spirit could be released. As if the village itself holds some sort of reincarnation power. I get it now. The villagers have creepy powers. Creepy enough to make it necessary that they’re separated from us. Why Molly would be killed, though, makes little sense to me.
My second theory is that, in fact, this is some high-end, hugely experimental psychiatric facility for kids. All the students at Cania a
re mental patients. Villicus is the head administrator, Teddy my very own Nurse Ratched. That even explains what Dr. Zin, a legit doctor, albeit a plastic surgeon, is doing here. We patients need to keep out of the village because villagers smoke that Devil’s Apple stuff, which aggravates our fragile minds and causes hallucinations, like what I saw last night. The hard part is getting my head around the idea that I’d be locked up. I’m not crazy. Now that I’m out of here, I guess I’ll never know which theory’s at least close if not spot-on…but, wait, do you get expelled from mental hospitals?
“Let us proceed to your punishment,” Villicus says.
“My expulsion.”
Villicus and Teddy exchange a look.
“Your father worked very hard to get you into this school,” Villicus says. “It has been a long time since any parent showed such tenacity and persistence. I do not recall when I last heard someone threaten my life as he did.”
“I do,” I say. “The man on the dock. Manish.”
Villicus’s eyes narrow. “Good. Confess your sins now, while you can. I assume you were with Miss Watso that night, eavesdropping.”
“What does it matter? Just expel me and get it over with.”
“I dole out the punishments, miss. Not you,” Villicus says. “And your punishment is not what you expect. You are not expelled.” Something in his tone makes me think I’m going to wish I were. “However, you will be punished. Ted?”
Standing and clearing his throat, Teddy flips open a manila envelope and reads. “In light of the school’s interest in retaining the contributions of both Anne and Stanley Merchant, I do hereby recommend that the punishment for Miss Merchant, in the matter of The Molly Watso Offense, be the refusal of admission to Parents’ Day for Stanley Merchant. And, for Miss Merchant, the completion of ten additional hours of club time, to be served this week.”
Club time?
No Parents’ Day for my dad?
“That’s it?” I ask, astonished. Mental institution. Definitely. “Molly is dead, and I’m pulling extra club duties?”
“You understand,” Villicus says as Teddy closes his folder, “that Miss Watso’s punishment, although seemingly disproportionate to her crime, was given to protect my students. The villagers have had a long-standing pact with this school. The punishment fits the crime.”
The secrecy pact. Between the villagers and, evidently, Villicus. Is he going to tell me what it’s all about, why Cania would pay seemingly exorbitant amounts to keep the villagers quiet? Exhaling slowly, I try to keep my face from revealing my thoughts. Glancing at Villicus, I peer into his eyes, but it’s like touching hot coals.
“The club on which you are to serve as penance for your sins is the Parents’ Day committee, led by Harper Otto.”
Under Harper’s supervision, I spend my after-school hours on Monday making flowers out of tissue paper and my lunch hour on Tuesday creating gift bags with the other poor saps on this committee: the Model UN from Hell, Pilot, and two sophomore girls, both of whom look exceptionally pissed off. I wonder if any of these people know what’s happened to Molly or if they’d care if they did. They’re all so indoctrinated by Villicus to hate the villagers, they’d probably spit on Molly’s grave, if she had one.
Harper has already proven a total tyrant to work under. “Fainting Fanny, I thought you were supposed to have an artistic eye,” she hisses as she tests the springiness of a ribbon I’ve just curled. She sweeps the whole pile of ribbon into a garbage can. “Start again. God, is it any wonder Garnet made me the lead for Art Walk?”
Oh, right, that. So it turns out that while Villicus was giving me my “punishment” Monday morning, Garnet was awarding Little Miss Texas for her attempts to draw the human form. (To look at Harper’s stick-figure sketches, though, I can’t help but think Garnet was awarding for Best Effort.) Harper has taken every opportunity possible to remind me that Garnet chose her. Unfortunately for her, I don’t care. My dad’s not allowed to come to Parents’ Day anymore—a fact that they wouldn’t even let me tell him—so who do I have to impress? Nobody.
“Don’t be mad, Merchant. With talent like mine, things like this just drop right into my lap.”
“And here I thought you were the only thing dropping into laps.”
I can almost hear her growl as her face reddens. “Everything I do, I do to win,” she proclaims. “I can only hope for your sake that you’re better at your PT than you are at art.” With the huff of a spoiled princess, she spins on her heels, pauses to collect herself, and saunters back to her gang.
“Don’t worry about Harper,” Pilot whispers. “She’s not all bad. She can be cool.”
I glare at him.
“In that complex, hard-to-understand way,” he adds.
“Sure.” I eye Harper up as she swaps a tube of lip gloss with Plum. “Every time I see her twirling her hair around her finger, I think, gee, that girl sure is complex.”
“Wow, you doing okay? You’ve seemed kinda pissed the last few days.”
“My dad can’t come to Parents’ Day,” I confess. I haven’t wanted to talk about it. Pilot wouldn’t understand if I told him about Molly, either, so what’s the point in saying anything? I don’t need anyone else to know I broke that rule. “It sucks. He was really looking forward to it.”
“Oh,” Pilot says. “I thought maybe you were still feeling bad about ditching me at the dance on Saturday.”
I look up to find him smiling. “I said I was sorry. Hold a grudge much?”
“I’m kidding!” he laughs. “Anyway, it’s too bad about your dad, though I admit I’m jealous. I wish my dad wasn’t coming this weekend. The pressure he puts on me. I’m relieved when he leaves.”
I pull the blade of scissors along a ribbon and produce a too-tight curl.
“That’s no good!” Harper shouts at me from across the room. “This ain’t rocket surgery, Merchant.” Then she reaches into her pocket, pulls out a key, and marches up to me. “There’s a box of pre-curled ribbons in the storage shed between the dorm buildings. Maybe you’re the kind of artist who needs to copy examples. A paint-by-number type.”
I take the key and leave. Retrieving the ribbons is easy enough, but I’m in no rush to get back to taking orders from the Secretary General from Hell. And standing right near the dorms with a perfectly good excuse for being there, I decide to find out what exactly I’m missing. There must be a reason I’ve been kept at Gigi’s.
It’s as silent as a tomb in the girls’ dorm when I inch the oak door open and step inside. It’s dark. Frosted sconces glow up and down the hall on the first floor, up the stairwell, casting more shadows than they uncover. Cautiously, I step into the foyer.
“Hello?”
No answer. I put the box of ribbons down.
The thickly glazed floor creaks underfoot, and I find myself falling into old funeral-home habits, holding my breath to counteract the creaking while I move down the hall as quietly as possible. Lined on both sides with tall fir doors on which dried flower wreaths hang, the hall leads to a luxurious common area, the only bright space in the building. Checking over my shoulder and peeking into the cracks of each open door to be sure I’m alone, I tiptoe in and let my feet sink into the dense cream rug. Three pink-crystal chandeliers are suspended from the ceiling, reflecting light off silver-framed mirrors and scattering diamonds over the plush purple lounges, over the cozy corners lush with pillows. Tall windows line the far wall, which looks out over the ocean. This common area is, by far, the prettiest room I’ve seen at the school—austere but girly, conservative but lush. Thrilled, I’m about to step further in when the floor above creaks. I pause, hold my breath, waiting for voices. But there’s nothing.
With the heaviest sigh, I sink into a posh highback armchair that’s more comfortable than it looks. On the table next to me is a stack of books. I absentmindedly grab the top one and flip through it without even glancing at its images or words, absorbed by the serenity of the room, which, the more I sit in it,
feels a tad like the reception area at our funeral home, just with pillows and a heavy rug added.
As I’m about to return the book to the pile, I glimpse its title: The Many Lives of the Girls of Cania Christy.
Intrigued, I open the book again. It’s filled with thick pages slathered in photos, stickers, poems, clippings, and small captions. Like a yearbook, but more detailed. Like a nondigital Facebook. As I flip through, I realize each page is dedicated to a girl. Plum is smiling in a school photo; little magazine photos of her on the red carpet, standing next to other Thai celebrities; magazine clippings and a newspaper article written in Thai. The next page is a senior I recognize. The next, a freshman. The next, Harper.
“Blech.” I quickly flip the page.
The next is Lotus. I smile to see her; I barely knew her, but I miss her anyway. Since the moment I heard about her expulsion, I’ve had a sick feeling. That feeling’s only grown worse.
Suddenly, there are voices down the hall. Thinking fast, I close the book and stuff it up my shirt, determined to read it in detail later if only to better know my enemies. I tuck my shirt into my skirt, button my blazer, and creep to the doorway to listen. As the girls walk up the stairs together, I skulk down the hall, grab the box of ribbons, and head across campus. One step closer to living a new twist on my PT: uncovering the secrets of the students of Cania Christy.
fifteen
THE SCULPTOR
“TODAY, YOU BECOME SCULPTORS,” WEINCHLER ANnounces.
On cue, Ben pulls the dust cloth off a cart filled with oyster-colored blocks of clay. I haven’t seen him since he and Garnet basically shoved me out of the library on Sunday—even if he did later sneak into my room to leave that Machiavelli book there—and I’m feeling strange about him. I’m feeling strange about everyone. But it’s different with Ben, knowing what I know about his relationship with a teacher.