None of it made her happy.
First, breakfast at Greater Hoxne Dining Hall. Meryl Lee had skipped breakfast every school day since fourth grade. Now, an assigned table and an assigned seat with assigned Jennifer and four other assigned girls and one assigned teacher. A huge glass of fresh grapefruit juice beside her plate—also assigned, she guessed. A platter of scrambled eggs with cheese and bacon—Meryl Lee hated cheese in her eggs—and her table served by Bettye in her assigned black dress and starched white apron. Toasted English muffins. Small dishes of marmalade to be scooped with a pewter spoon that was way too small.
And all this was for Meryl Lee to eat before eight o’clock—except for the marmalade, which she was supposed to share with her assigned teacher: Mrs. Saunders.
Mrs. Saunders. Whom Meryl Lee feared.
When Mrs. Saunders’s head moved, it pivoted slowly above her shoulders, like an owl’s. And her eyes, dark and darting, saw everything. Mrs. Saunders saw Meryl Lee sit down and she said, “The rules of polite society dictate that the spine of a young lady should not touch the back of her chair.” Mrs. Saunders saw Barbara Rockcastle reach for her fork and she said, “A young lady starts with the fork farthest to her left.” Mrs. Saunders saw Marian Elders—the girl who got evacuated upon and didn’t look as if she had quite recovered—Mrs. Saunders saw Marian Elders about to eat and she said, “The neck of a young lady is not to bend when she takes up her scrambled eggs with cheese.”
It made breakfast sort of nerve-racking. Suppose I burp? thought Meryl Lee. What would the rules of polite society say about that?
If Holling were there, she thought, he would say, “Suppose you fart?”
At that, she almost snorted fresh grapefruit juice out her nose—which she was sure the rules of polite society would have something to say about.
Mrs. Saunders also believed breakfast was the perfect place to teach the intricacies of the English language. So she kept a dictionary beside her on the table. A dictionary that weighed about what she weighed—which is saying something. If one of the girls used a word incorrectly, Mrs. Saunders would say, “Please rise and consult Funk and Wagnalls.”
By the end of their first breakfast together, Meryl Lee had risen and consulted Funk and Wagnalls for neither, which was no longer acceptable as an intensive terminal (who knew?), and for dollop, which was colloquial and so, Mrs. Saunders said, vulgar.
Meryl Lee decided not to say very much at breakfast.
Meryl Lee was pretty sure Marian Elders would decide on the same strategy. When Mrs. Saunders told her that a young lady should abstain from a too-great indulgence in bacon and she should rise and consult Funk and Wagnalls about the meaning of abstain, Meryl Lee thought Marian was going to faint face first into her scrambled eggs with cheese.
But slowly, properly, the girls finished their breakfast, and slowly, properly, Bettye came to carry their crystal glasses and heavy silverware and china plates away, even Meryl Lee’s plate—which was still filled with a dollop of scrambled eggs with cheese.
“I hate scrambled eggs with cheese,” said Meryl Lee.
“Me too,” whispered Bettye.
Meryl Lee nodded. “Do you live near St. Elene’s?”
“Down by the shore,” said Bettye. “I think I saw you there.”
“I went a few days ago.”
“I go almost every day,” said Bettye.
“Finish clearing, please,” called Mrs. Saunders, and Bettye wheeled the plates away.
* * *
After breakfast, the girls of St. Elene’s went to Morning Chapel, where Dr. MacKnockater was waiting to read an Uplifting Passage from the classics to both the lower and upper schools. In Latin.
Or maybe it was Greek.
Meryl Lee couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t matter because she did not understand a single word of Latin—or Greek. Looking around, she wondered if she was the only one in Newell Chapel who didn’t understand a single word of Latin—or Greek.
Then Mrs. Hannah Adams Mott glided to the podium and told the girls to rise for the singing of the school song. They did, to the booms of the organ. And after all the hails were done, Mrs. Hannah Adams Mott told the girls to sally forth and enter the world of the Liberal Arts. “Grow in wisdom and knowledge. Resolve and Accomplish. Find your Best Selves so you may take your proper place in the world!” she proclaimed.
Meryl Lee wished she felt the same Resolution she had felt at the opening ceremony. But she did not. She had been rooming with Jennifer and her green satin duvet for four days now. It was hard to sally forth after rooming with Jennifer and her green satin duvet for four days.
And all that fresh grapefruit juice made her want to go to the bathroom.
Classes started right after Chapel, beginning in Lesser Hoxne Hall, which, though Meryl Lee looked very carefully, appeared to have no bathrooms on the first two floors. Which was annoying.
In fact, she thought the decision to place the only bathroom in Lesser Hoxne on the third floor—which she discovered after her first class—and at the extreme southern end of the hall, with a lock to which the key was kept in the administrative office on the first floor—to which Meryl Lee had to descend before she could rapidly reascend with the key hot in her hand—was inscrutable.
Talk about sallying forth!
Tomorrow, she would plan better.
* * *
In each of her classes, Meryl Lee knew at least one girl enough to say hello to—but this made her about as happy as not having a bathroom on the first two floors of Lesser Hoxne.
Meryl Lee sat next to Charlotte from Charlotte in American Literary Masterpieces for first hour, and in Life Sciences for second hour—right across from Marian Elders. Mrs. Connolly taught American Literary Masterpieces, and during that first class she asked them each to write a brief paragraph identifying the author whose work they would like to study on an independent basis during the coming school year in order to develop taste and discernment. Life Sciences was taught by Mrs. Bellamy, who smelled of formaldehyde, and who promised that before September was out, they would all smell of formaldehyde too. Charlotte from Charlotte raised her hand and said that she would not, could not, get formaldehyde on her pale skin—it was a medical condition—and Mrs. Bellamy said that perhaps her lab partner would take on most of the formaldehyde duties. When Charlotte from Charlotte asked who her lab partner would be, Mrs. Bellamy consulted her roster and announced that it would be Meryl Lee Kowalski.
Of course, thought Meryl Lee.
Rolling eyes from Charlotte from Charlotte.
In third hour, Meryl Lee sat in front of Ashley in Famous Women of History with Mrs. Saunders, who on the first day assigned ten-minute oral reports on famous women to be performed in pairs, and who chose Meryl Lee and Ashley to deliver the report on the Empress Joséphine, born Marie Josèphe Rose Tascher de La Pagerie. “Just saying her name will take up half the time we have for our presentation,” Meryl Lee whispered to Ashley.
Ashley lowered her face so that her chocolate-colored hair covered it.
Fine.
* * *
Dinner was precisely at noon, and while the girls ate in Greater Hoxne Dining Hall, mail was sorted into little mailboxes off Greater Hoxne Hall lobby. All the girls—except Meryl Lee—knew this was happening. So after dinner was done and Mrs. Hannah Adams Mott had delivered the St. Elene’s midday announcements, the girls processed out of Greater Hoxne Dining Hall in the calm and dignified manner that befitted their station in life—then took off at a sprint for the lobby. They mobbed the little mailboxes.
Blood could be spilled, thought Meryl Lee, who stood back for a bit, then made her way around the fringes and dove in behind Barbara Rockcastle, who was taller than most of the girls so able to navigate through the masses. Meryl Lee twirled the little knob on the little door into her mailbox and reached in sort of hopelessly. And she was right. Nothing.
But when Jennifer reached into her little box, she pulled out a letter. And Jennifer sque
aled a high squeal because she was holding another letter—she sniffed it—another scented-with-his-after-shave letter from Alden, dear Alden, and she wished she could read it out loud for everyone, she really did, but Alden, sweet Alden, would never want her to share their secrets.
All the girls who wanted to be Jennifer Hartley Truro more than they wanted their next breath began to squeal too, and wasn’t Jennifer lucky to have a boyfriend like scented Alden, and was it really true that his family owned estates and manors all over Scotland? And that they even had their own tartan?
But Jennifer only held her letter to her heart. She smiled and did not tell. Alden would never want her to share their secrets, she said. He’s that kind of a boy.
“Has he ever sent you flowers?” Ashley asked.
Jennifer looked at her with the disdain of a demigoddess. “Of course,” she said. “Roses. Dozens of roses.”
The Blank, immediately in front of Meryl Lee.
She tried to shake it away. She looked into her mailbox again. Perhaps she had missed something.
She hadn’t.
And as the girls gathered around Jennifer—wouldn’t she tell them just the eensiest, teensiest bit?—Meryl Lee went to her fourth-hour class.
By herself.
* * *
Meryl Lee sat behind Heidi Kidder and ahead of Jennifer in Algebra with Mr. Wheelock for fourth hour, and behind Jennifer and ahead of Heidi Kidder in Domestic Economy with Mrs. Wyss for fifth hour. Meryl Lee was not sure what Domestic Economy was supposed to be about, but Jennifer, who was still vibrating over Alden’s letter, seemed to know. She whispered to Barbara Rockcastle next to her that she did not need a class with Mrs. Wyss because someday she’d have a staff of Scottish maids and cooks and they could worry about stupid domestic economy for her.
Jennifer would not even look at her, so Meryl Lee did not ask why all the maids and cooks would be Scottish. She was afraid Jennifer would think she was such a dope.
And she still had no idea what Domestic Economy was about. Cooking? Then why didn’t they call the class Cooking?
She’d had a lot to figure out, and the day wasn’t even over.
* * *
After fifth hour, the girls of St. Elene’s were free to “engage in meaningful activity,” as Mrs. Mott put it. So Meryl Lee headed over to Putnam Library to find something about Empress Joséphine, born Marie Josèphe Rose Tascher de La Pagerie. The wind on the commons was swirling, stirred up, perhaps, by Mrs. Connolly, who was carrying a briefcase and strutting quickly along the sidewalk, parting girls from the lower school like Moses at the Red Sea. But when she saw Meryl Lee, she billowed sharply right to intercept her.
“Miss Kowalski,” said Mrs. Connolly.
Meryl Lee had already lived long enough at St. Elene’s to know how to reply.
She forced the Blank away from her—but it hovered nearby.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Connolly.”
“Good afternoon. I had hoped to see you after dinner.”
“To see me?”
Mrs. Connolly zipped open her briefcase and rummaged inside for a moment. She drew out Meryl Lee’s paragraph identifying her chosen author for American Literary Masterpieces. “You write here that you would like to study John Steinbeck to develop taste and discernment,” she said. “That is impossible.”
“Impossible?”
“Impossible. He has none.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Connolly. He has no what?”
“Taste and discernment.”
Meryl Lee’s eyebrows moved sharply upward and held steady—which is what they always did when she was surprised. Holling said it made her look like a startled chipmunk. Holling used to say it made her look like a startled chipmunk.
The Blank so close.
“I thought I would read The Grapes of Wrath,” she said.
Mrs. Connolly did this thing with her nose, breathing in quickly as if in great suffering. “John Steinbeck,” she said, “is a lewd writer. No student of mine who hopes to develop taste and discernment would ever read anything written by that Communist. Find someone else, please.”
Meryl Lee’s eyebrows were still pretty chipmunk-y.
Mrs. Connolly did the thing with her nose again.
“Charlotte Dobrée will be reading the poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, a wise and sensitive choice. I’m sure she would be delighted to help you to find another author.” Mrs. Connolly smiled sweetly, as if the name Charlotte had brought her a deep happiness. Then it passed, and Mrs. Connolly looked hard at Meryl Lee. “Failing that, I will assign you a suitable author.”
“I’ll talk to Charlotte,” Meryl Lee said.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Connolly. She handed the paper back to Meryl Lee. “I’ll be waiting for the rewritten paragraph.”
She zipped her briefcase.
Meryl Lee’s eyebrows came back down.
“And one more thing, Miss Kowalski. A word of caution, actually, from an observation this morning at breakfast.”
Meryl Lee’s eyebrows went back up.
“It is never wise to speak overmuch with the staff. You have come to St. Elene’s to study and to learn. The girls on staff have been hired to serve the students and faculty of St. Elene’s. They are not here to be associated with. You attend to your studies. Let them attend to their work. Is something wrong with your eyes?”
“No, Mrs. Connolly.”
“Have I made myself understood?”
“Yes, Mrs. Connolly.”
“Then I’ll see you in class tomorrow. I look forward to the semester with you, Miss Kowalski. I can see from even that short paragraph that your writing style has potential—yet another reason to avoid the infection of a lesser writer such as John Steinbeck.”
“Thank you,” said Meryl Lee. “I am looking forward to a semester with you as well, Mrs. Connolly.”
And as Mrs. Connolly left, the wind brisking and swirling around her, Meryl Lee thought, I’ve just flat-out lied to a teacher.
She had.
Because she was not looking forward to a semester with Mrs. Connolly.
She decided that she’d go to Putnam Library later, and instead Meryl Lee walked out past the open field and the woods beyond and down through the birches and the firs to the open blue shore, and she went out on the warm rocks and closed her eyes and listened to the waves—that sound that never stopped—and she listened a long time.
And when at last she walked back to St. Elene’s, she found that the birches had startled into a bright yellow—or perhaps it was the slant of light that shone on them. Now they looked like torches lighting the way.
They did all that this afternoon, she thought. Just like that, everything can change.
Nine
Back at Netley, after evening meal, Meryl Lee put on her Camillo Junior High sweatshirt to do homework. She still had to figure out how to shorten the sleeves on her regulation St. Elene’s uniform, but right now, somehow, she could still hear the lovely sounds of the waves, and she did not much care what she wore.
Then Jennifer put on her lavender silk robe. “From Brussels,” she said.
The sounds of the waves vanished and Meryl Lee thought, It’s Monday night and it’s time to do homework and she’s wearing a lavender silk robe from Brussels.
She took off her sweatshirt and put on her new best blouse. The pale yellow one. And Jennifer said, “Your Woolworth’s tag is showing.”
“I’m just trying it on for size,” said Meryl Lee. “I’ll probably return it.”
“Then probably you don’t want to try it on inside out,” said Jennifer.
Meryl Lee put her Camillo Junior High sweatshirt back on. She went to Putnam Library to find an author for Mrs. Connolly’s class—which was not something you would do if you were wearing a lavender silk robe from Brussels.
But at Putnam Library, she got distracted.
First, because Mrs. Hibbard sat by the reference desk, knitting what seemed a very complicated pattern, and clicking h
er needles like an industrial machine.
Second, because the reading room of Putnam Library glowed with sunset light coming through stained glass windows taken from a manor house in East Anglia—windows that were ancient when Henry VIII looked at them; at least, that’s what the plaque beneath them said. The room was dark wood and huge beams and thick rugs and marble floors and a curling wrought iron staircase and long tables with green glass lamps across from each chair. On the walls, thick paneling behind the portraits of the eighteenth-century sea captains who founded St. Elene’s. Gold frames around them all. Eighteenth-century tapestries hanging above the card catalogue.
And third, she got distracted because the first book she saw in the fiction section was The Grapes of Wrath. Really. It was.
And even though she knew she should be looking for an appropriate and not lewd author for Mrs. Connolly, she did want to read The Grapes of Wrath—and so she pulled it off the shelf. She sat at one of the long tables and put her Domestic Economy book within reach to cover The Grapes of Wrath in case Mrs. Connolly was on patrol. Then she quickly thumbed through to see if she could find the lewd parts. She couldn’t, so she turned to the first page and fell into the red and gray country of Oklahoma.
Everything else vanished.
The reading room.
St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls.
Time.
The Blank.
So when Mrs. Hibbard came to tell her that Putnam Library was closing soon and she might begin to gather her books, Meryl Lee looked up, startled. The truck was just about to hit the turtle. Would Mrs. Hibbard mind if she—
“Of course not,” said Mrs. Hibbard. “Finish the chapter. Wait until you see what happens.”
That night, Meryl Lee lay in bed, thinking about what happened at the end of the turtle chapter. And she thought about Holling, and what Holling would have said about the turtle. About the stupid second driver. About what happened to the turtle.
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