Meryl Lee did not wave back.
Her father followed the signs to Margaret B. Netley Dormitory, where portly Mrs. Kellogg, who was the dorm matron and looked exactly like what a dorm matron should look like, was waiting beneath the overhang on the front porch. While the Kowalskis stood with Mrs. Kellogg, two girls in black dresses and white aprons—they didn’t have dark umbrellas and they weren’t smiling—unloaded Meryl Lee’s suitcase and two shopping bags. The shopping bags, Mrs. Kellogg said, were to be taken up by Alethea, the suitcase by Bettye. They were to carry everything to Miss Kowalski’s room: Netley 204.
Meryl Lee watched them go.
“We’re so glad to have you here,” said Mrs. Kellogg.
“Thank you,” said Meryl Lee. She did not believe that Mrs. Kellogg, who sounded as if she were reading her lines from a script, was really all that glad to have her there.
“We hope that you’ll be very happy at St. Elene’s,” said Mrs. Kellogg.
Meryl Lee didn’t believe that either.
If Holling had been there, Meryl Lee would have turned to him and said, “See what I mean?” and Holling would have said, in some sort of robot-y voice, “We are so glad to have you here, Meryl Lee. We hope that you will be very happy at St. Elene’s, Meryl Lee. The girls of Margaret B. Netley Dormitory are eager to meet you, Meryl Lee, Meryl Lee, Meryl Lee.”
Then Mrs. Kellogg shook Meryl Lee’s hand and said, “The girls of Margaret B. Netley Dormitory are eager to meet you, Meryl Lee.”
Really, she said that.
Holling would have been rolling on the ground, holding his stomach, laughing.
“I think it’s time,” said Meryl Lee’s father.
She felt as if someone—maybe Mrs. Kellogg—had punched her in the stomach.
Her mother hugged her and her father kissed her on the top of her head, and suddenly Meryl Lee knew it was really going to happen. They were going to leave her at St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls and Holling wasn’t there and she would be very, very alone.
The Blank.
The howling echoes in her empty chest.
She followed them to the car and stood beside it. In the rain. Without a dark umbrella.
Her parents got in. They closed the doors.
Her mother rolled down her window.
“Mom,” said Meryl Lee.
“It will be all right,” said her mother.
“You are not leaving me here,” said Meryl Lee.
“Meryl Lee, this is a new start. It will be all right.”
“No,” said Meryl Lee. She put her hand on the back door handle. It was locked.
“Meryl Lee, you’ll be used to all of this in a day or so. You will. I promise.”
Rain coming down harder. Meryl Lee wiping at her eyes.
She looked over the car at the clapboard buildings of St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls. She looked at the white chapel across the commons, more gray than white in the rain. She looked at the steps of Margaret B. Netley Dormitory, where the waiting Mrs. Kellogg, standing strategically under the porch roof, purposefully wound the watch dangling from a dark braid from around her neck. She looked at the green and gold uniformed girls walking in and out of Margaret B. Netley Dormitory in umbrellaed groups, smiling as though they had been walking in and out of Margaret B. Netley Dormitory in those same umbrellaed groups together since, oh, first grade. Smiling with friends they had known all their lives.
Oh, smiling with friends they had known all their lives.
The two girls in the black and white uniforms had come back and were standing behind Mrs. Kellogg. They were both very wet. They both looked down at the ground.
“You are not leaving me,” said Meryl Lee.
Her father leaned across the car seat toward her. “Meryl Lee, we’ve been over this. There will be wonderful opportunities here, and new people, and new friends. St. Elene’s is one of the finest academies in all New—”
“Do you see that brick wall?” said Meryl Lee, pointing. “Do you know why it has iron spears on top?”
“That’s wrought iron on top, Meryl Lee.”
“So if anyone tries to get out, she’ll fall on the spears.”
“It’s time to go,” said Meryl Lee’s father.
“And do you see the ivy climbing the brick wall?”
Meryl Lee’s mother began rolling up her window.
“That’s poison ivy.”
“It is not poison—”
“No, it really is. And if you touch poison ivy that thick, you know how infected you’ll get? Do you really want to leave me in a place surrounded by a brick wall with spears on top and covered with poison ivy?”
“Meryl Lee,” said her father.
“This is a big mistake,” she said.
“Meryl Lee,” said her mother, “you’re going to love St. Elene’s. And you’re going to love Dr. MacKnockater. In every call we’ve had, she’s assured us that St. Elene’s will be just what we hoped for. A month from now, St. Elene’s will feel like another home.”
“Who knows if I’ll be here a month from now?” Meryl Lee said.
“Of course you’ll be here a month from now,” said her mother.
“Holling isn’t.”
The Blank.
Her mother got out. She took Meryl Lee’s hands. “No, he isn’t. And we all miss him. And we’ll always remember him. But you are here. You are. And now it’s time to live your own life, because you must.”
Meryl Lee knew her mother was right. She must. What else could she do?
“And you’re going to make the most of this new beginning. And we’re going to be so proud of you.”
Meryl Lee could not speak.
“We already are,” her mother said.
Meryl Lee nodded, and she tried to smile—because her mother wanted her to smile.
Her mother got back in. Her father put the car in gear.
“We love you,” said her mother.
“Don’t get too close to that poison ivy,” said her father.
They waved, and she watched them drive down the road toward the main gate—which also had spears on top—the dark wet gravel crunching under the tires. She watched the brake lights come on for a moment—“Please, please,” she whispered—and then the car pulled out of St. Elene’s and was gone.
The edges of the Blank blurred.
Rain misted around her, so that Meryl Lee almost looked as if she was crying.
Mrs. Kellogg finished winding her watch. She called from the steps of Margaret B. Netley Dormitory, “Miss Kowalski, being late for your arrival hardly grants you the privilege of being late for the opening ceremony as well.”
Meryl Lee took a deep, solidifying breath. One last look down to the main gate—just in case—and she turned to Mrs. Kellogg, who stood as straight as an exclamation point. Then Meryl Lee pushed back the Blank and walked up the porch steps, wishing beyond all wishing that she was not a new student at St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls, wishing beyond all wishing that she was at Camillo Junior High, wishing beyond all wishing that Holling, oh that Holling was coming up the main staircase with that worn-out black and white jacket he always wore and he would give that shy sort of wave he does—did—from his hip.
“Your luggage has already been taken to your room, where you should have been some time ago,” said Mrs. Kellogg. “Students—even new students—are expected and required to don the St. Elene’s Academy uniform for all school activities and events—especially the opening ceremony.”
Meryl Lee looked at the two girls standing under the porch roof, one still looking down, one now staring at Meryl Lee.
“Alethea,” said Mrs. Kellogg sharply.
Alethea looked down.
“Please follow me,” said Mrs. Kellogg.
Meryl Lee followed her.
But she had seen Alethea’s face before she looked down.
Alethea was not smiling.
Alethea was definitely not smiling. And somehow Meryl L
ee knew that Alethea did not care at all whether Meryl Lee would be happy at St. Elene’s or not.
She went to don her regulation St. Elene’s Academy uniform.
Four
The soap-smooth wood floor of Margaret B. Netley Dormitory was to be trod upon only by the upper school girls of St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy; the boards resounded with every single step Meryl Lee and Mrs. Kellogg took. Above them, aged dark beams crossed the ceilings—“Norman abbots once walked beneath these,” said Mrs. Kellogg. On Netley’s first floor, doors to the kitchen—“The refrigerator is well provisioned with snacks: cheese rounds, cut vegetables, assorted fruit juices, and bottles of Coca-Cola, the last supplied only if each girl, on her honor, pays twenty-five cents per bottle”—and to the laundry room—“Locked after nine thirty p.m. and packets of detergent available upon request, but to use only if needed, in between regular laundry days, when soiled garments are picked up in the morning and delivered back to your room by four o’clock”—and to the telephone—“No calls after nine forty-five p.m.” On the second floor, doors to the girls’ rooms, which were all open. Mrs. Kellogg made introductions as they passed, and Meryl Lee tried to listen: “Here are Elizabeth Koertge from Los Angeles and Julia Chall from St. Paul. Here are Ashley Louise Higginson from Brooklyn, New York, and Charlotte Antoinette Dobrée from Charlotte, North Carolina. Here are Marian Elders from Manhattan and Barbara Rockcastle from White Plains. Here is Heidi Kidder from Rutland, Vermont. And here . . .”
Meryl Lee felt the Blank hovering.
“And here is your room,” said Mrs. Kellogg. “You will be living with Jennifer Hartley Truro from Truro, Massachusetts.” To make sure Meryl Lee understood, Mrs. Kellogg leaned down and said, “The town is named after the family.” This door was closed, so Mrs. Kellogg knocked and opened it. “Miss Truro? Here is your new roommate, Miss Meryl Lee Kowalski, from . . .”
She turned to Meryl Lee.
“Hicksville, New York,” said Meryl Lee.
“New York,” said Mrs. Kellogg. “Miss Kowalski, Miss Truro.”
Jennifer Hartley Truro slowly elevated from her bed, tossed her long blond hair back like a cape behind her, and floated cloudlike across the room. She extended her hand in a way that suggested Meryl Lee should bow down and do worship.
“Hey,” said Meryl Lee.
“Good morning,” said Jennifer Hartley Truro.
“Generally Miss Truro rooms with Stephanie DeLacy from Philadelphia,” Mrs. Kellogg said. “But Stephanie’s father is a United Nations diplomat and the family is living in Budapest for the next year. So the two of you will be rooming together. I’m sure you will get along well.”
The whole time Mrs. Kellogg was talking, Jennifer was looking at Meryl Lee as if she had completely blundered into the wrong room and there was no reason in the whole wide world that they would ever get along well.
Then Jennifer pointed to a corner of the room, beyond Meryl Lee’s bed and the mattress that lay naked upon it, where a suitcase held together with a leather belt and two wet shopping bags dripped.
“Those must be yours,” she said.
Jennifer had obviously been in the room for several days—and it looked like she had brought her interior decorator with her. A green satin duvet covered her bed, and gold satin pillows lay strewn over it, perfectly placed as if they had been tossed there so very carelessly. A paisley cloth covered her dresser and cushioned the tray that held her set of tortoiseshell combs. Above them, a gilded mirror hung. On the wall above the green satin duvet, framed posters of Ringo and Paul and John and George, all signed in big felt-tip marker. “Love and kisses to Jennifer,” said Ringo. “This night the stars were all in your eyes,” said Paul. In the closet, her hangers were pink and plush. Meryl Lee turned away before she could see what they were holding.
This isn’t going to work, she thought.
“You’ll need to change quickly, girls,” said Mrs. Kellogg. “The opening ceremony is in”—she looked down at her dangling watch—“eighteen minutes.”
“I’ll be ready,” said Jennifer.
Meryl Lee lugged her wet suitcase onto the mattress. She undid the leather belt. The first thing she took out was a dried rose. She laid it carefully on the desk beside her bed. Then she took out her regulation St. Elene’s uniform and looked around for the bathroom so she could be alone for a minute, just a minute, just one stupid minute—and then maybe she could hold back the Blank a little while more.
But there wasn’t even time for that, since Jennifer made it to the bathroom first. She took twelve minutes—mostly, Meryl Lee figured, with her hair. Meryl Lee took two—mostly with her eyes closed, breathing slowly. Then, one minute after that, Meryl Lee was walking down the hall, three steps behind the blond hair of Jennifer Hartley Truro, the flowing auburn curls of Charlotte Antoinette Dobrée, and the chocolate-colored locks of Ashley Louise Higginson. The three were all wearing their regulation St. Elene’s Academy uniform—except for Charlotte, who had substituted a blouse made of something that shimmered.
Charlotte’s shimmering blouse fit her perfectly.
The regulation St. Elene’s Academy uniforms that Jennifer and Ashley wore fit them perfectly too.
The sleeves of Meryl Lee’s regulation St. Elene’s uniform shirt—which did not shimmer—came down over her knuckles.
Of course.
“Maybe we can find some paper clips,” said Ashley, looking back.
They paused on the steps of Margaret B. Netley Dormitory. The rain had stopped and the sudden sun was already steaming the puddles. Across the commons, Newell Chapel shone brilliantly white in the clearing air.
Suddenly, more than anything, Meryl Lee wanted to hear the sound of a bottle of Coke being opened. That wonderful fizzing sound that said something wonderful was about to begin. Something wonderful that was wonderful because you were sharing the Coke with someone you . . .
But all she heard was the sound of boots on the gravel path, the giggles of friends reunited after a summer, the light chimes of Newell Chapel, Mrs. Kellogg’s matronly fussing.
This wasn’t going to work.
They walked past the oldest part of campus—the long white steps and high wooden pillars of eighteenth-century Greater Hoxne Hall, the shorter white steps and shorter wooden pillars of Sherbourne House, the diamond-windowed Putnam Library, the six-gabled Lesser Hoxne—and joined the current of girls (lower school first, then upper school) channeling into two lines beneath the high white steeple of Newell Chapel, which needled the newly blue sky.
Every regulation St. Elene’s uniform in sight fit every girl perfectly—except Meryl Lee and, as it turned out, the girl beside her in line. Her skirt was a lot longer than it should have been. She kept hitching it up. Meryl Lee was afraid to look, but she thought the girl might be crying.
She knew how she felt.
She really knew how she felt.
Suddenly, at some cue Meryl Lee missed—maybe it was the organ starting to play, or maybe it was a glance from Mrs. Kellogg—the girls quieted, then marched side by side through the high doors of Newell Chapel. They marched beneath the ancient school banners of St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls, and Meryl Lee looked up. Those banners must be a hundred years old, she thought. They marched up the center aisle between the black-robed academy teachers, who stood at attention by the end of each of the pews. Some of them must be a hundred years old too, thought Meryl Lee.
When they had all moved into the pews—Meryl Lee stood in the pew behind Jennifer and Ashley and Charlotte since they hadn’t left room for her beside them—the organ shifted from its slow processional into something a little more rousing, paused dramatically, and then boomed into what Meryl Lee figured was the school song—which she did not know, but everyone else seemed to.
Hail to thee, St. Elene’s.
I pledge my heart to you.
Hail to thee, St. Elene’s.
I pledge my two hands too!
Meryl Lee thought the school song
used the word hail a little too much.
Hail to thee, St. Elene’s.
The stars shine down on you.
Hail to thee, St. Elene’s.
To you we will be true.
Definitely too many hails. If Holling heard this song, he would be on the floor again, laughing like a dog. He would laugh and laugh and his hair would be all messed up and his eyes would be bright and . . .
The organ went back to being solemn, and then Dr. Nora MacKnockater, the headmistress of St. Elene’s lower and upper schools, and Mr. Lloyd C. Allen, the chairman of the St. Elene’s board of trustees, together slowly processed down the main aisle, then up the stairs to the plush red chairs upon the podium, where Mr. Allen sat in Regal Ease, and where Dr. Nora MacKnockater stood in Awful Dignity and gazed at the girls—sort of like a searchlight scoping out the incarcerated in a dark prison yard. When Meryl Lee saw the headmistress’s gaze looming toward her, she looked down and waited until she knew it would be past. Then she looked up again.
But her timing was off: Dr. Nora MacKnockater was gazing directly at her.
Quickly Meryl Lee clasped her hands behind her back and held her breath.
The gaze lingered, lingered, lingered—and moved on.
Meryl Lee breathed again.
When the organ finally stopped, a minute of terrible silence stuffed Newell Chapel until Dr. Nora MacKnockater spoke: “The Faculty”—she paused—“may be Seated.”
It seemed to Meryl Lee that Dr. MacKnockater spoke in Capital Letters.
The collective sound of the faculty being seated. The strain of the pews. Adjusting of long robes. A few light coughs.
“Returning Girls”—Dr. Nora MacKnockater paused—“may be Seated.”
More pews strained. A few quick laughs, quickly stilled.
Meryl Lee looked around. Almost everyone in the chapel was now seated. Except the lower school’s youngest girls. And Meryl Lee. And the girl whose regulation St. Elene’s uniform skirt was too long and who was definitely crying.
Just Like That Page 2