I'm from Nowhere

by Suzanne Myers

  “He’s wonderful,” she says. “You’ll love him. You have the same sense of humor. You two should have met sooner.”

  As she speaks, I’m distracted by the gold and aqua constellations glowing on Grand Central’s huge ceiling. My eyes wander to the clock perched high above the swarm of people, huge and bright, just like it looks in every movie. It’s confusing, the chaos around me. The surreal dream feeling I have right now, like I’ve been transported from my own life into someone else’s. My mind races. What am I doing here? Why are we doing this again?

  “There’s your great-aunt Helen too,” Hannah says without a lot of conviction. That’s my grandfather’s sister. She moved a few years ago from Boston to her summer house on Stone Cove Island, and now she lives there full-time. We get a Christmas card from her every year, but she and my mom never really talk. “That’s a last resort, though,” Hannah adds. “Don’t think you’ll be needing her number. Unless you want it?”

  I recognize her journalist’s “trying to be fair” expression and shake my head. Then I stuff the note with the theater director’s name into my bag and instantly forget about it.

  “Okay then,” Hannah says, a little breathless. “Goodbye, my Wrendle. I’ll call as soon as I get there, and you can tell me everything. Maybe you can take some pictures for me.”

  We’re not allowed to have cell phones at school, but Hannah and I plan to video chat on my computer.

  “Bye, Mom.” I hug her, but it doesn’t feel like a real goodbye. I don’t know what it should feel like, but this isn’t it.

  A Hardwick shuttle bus picks me up from the Wassaic station and navigates the bouncy twenty-minute drive to school. I chew my thumbnail the whole time. I am the only student on the bus, since I am the only student arriving three weeks late. My bags have already been delivered.

  It’s mid-afternoon when we pull into the long, shady driveway. The campus feels very quiet. A student here or there hurries along a flagstone path. Someone hauls a bundle of lacrosse sticks and a net across the quad. Out the window, I see playing fields rolling gracefully down the hill in one direction; in the other, I see orderly redbrick dorms. They look pretend somehow, copied from and arranged to look like Oxford or Cambridge by men who had only recently left those places and were either homesick or looking to impress their old friends.

  The shuttle groans up the slight hill to the main entrance and stops in front of an elegant white clapboard administrative building: Burrage Hall. I know its name because of the prominent plaque. The whole picture is, to be honest, intimidating as hell.

  Once I’m off the bus, a lady in a twinset with reading glasses sliding down her nose appears. In a hushed library voice, she directs me to Selby Hall, a girls’ dorm close to the center of campus. Maybe that means I can at least get up late and still make it to breakfast on time.

  The schedule I read in the school brochure seems daunting. Breakfast at 7, 8 a.m. chapel (wait—chapel?!), 9 a.m. classes, marching along right through afternoon sports (mandatory), twice-a-week formal dinner (also mandatory), pre- and post-dinner study time, and dorm check-in at 10 p.m.

  When do I ride my bike around aimlessly? Noodle on my delightful new guitar? Sit on the beach and stare at the waves, just spacing out? Not that I have a bike at school, and there are no waves but, you know, conceptually.

  According to the giant packet of admissions materials Hannah dumped on me, I will be sharing a suite with three other girls. She’s helpfully included last year’s student directory.

  Honor Gibson: New York City, field hockey 1, equestrian 1, tennis 1, squash 1. (I figure out the “1” means they played the sport in ninth grade. The seniors have a “4” after their teams. Or a “1, 2, 3, 4,” if they were way into it and played the sport all the way through. I have “0” sports.) In the photo she has long, gleaming honey-colored hair and the polished look of someone who never bites her nails or forgets to shave her legs.

  Eloise Browning: Concord, New Hampshire, field hockey 1, equestrian 1 and swim 1. Eloise has a big, friendly smile, thick blonde hair in a ponytail and slightly big, very white teeth.

  India Alpert: Westport, Connecticut, equestrian 1, arts 1. Hardwick has an option where you can paint, dance or study music as a “concentration,” which seems like a fancy way of saying extra credit. India has a round face, medium brown hair in a braid and is wearing a woolly fisherman’s sweater. In the photo, she’s laughing and making a peace sign.

  Perfect, I think. They all ride horses.

  I flip through the directory. There is only one other kid in the book from California, a studious-looking Chinese boy named Philip Han. And he’s from San Francisco (computer 1, video lab 1).

  •••

  Selby Hall is very old: dark redbrick and casement windows paned with wavy glass. A twisting wisteria grows up the walls. The whole campus looks much more like a college than a high school, laid out around a perfect green quad, with crisscrossing paths that veer off on either side of the main building past the dorms and drop away down to the stables, tennis courts and boathouse, on a widened part of the Housatonic River.

  Our suite is at the end of a low-eaved attic floor at the top of worn limestone steps. It’s small but sunny. Cozy is my impression the first time I see it. Two narrow bedrooms, each with a bunk bed and a desk, open to a shared sitting room with two desks, a sofa and a bay window looking out over the quad. Outside I can see a few boys playing Frisbee in T-shirts. It’s cold, early fall, but one of them is barefoot.

  As I turn back toward the door, I almost jump. A tall girl with straight blonde hair is stretched out on the sofa, reading. Eloise Browning. I recognize her instantly. Friendly smile, big teeth.

  “Hi, I’m Eloise.” She tosses her book on the floor and jumps up to shake my hand. Formal, for a kid our age.

  “Wren,” I say, looking around. I drop my bags near the door, since I’m not sure which room is mine.

  “Excellent. You’re sharing with India. In here.”

  She motions to the room on the right. I take in India’s pale print comforter spread across the top bunk, a batik tapestry on the wall and lots of postcards and photos pinned on the ceiling.

  Eloise catches my gaze. “People always send her postcards when they go to India. She has a big collection. That girl in the picture with the hat, that’s her sister Tabby. She went here. She’s at Amherst now.”

  “Oh,” I say brilliantly. “Wow.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone in Ventura who’s been to India. Unless they were Indian, of course.

  “Honor and I are in the other room. Do you want to drop off your stuff? I can show you around a little if you want. We have a quiz in history tomorrow, and dinner’s at six thirty, so I don’t have a ton of time, but—”

  “No, that’s cool. Really, thanks. I think I want to just unpack a little and walk around. You know, dive in slowly.” I drag my bags to the entrance of my new room and sit down on the faded Marimekko print cushion on the window seat.

  Eloise catches sight of my guitar case. “Do you play?”

  “A little. I’m still learning. I’ll try not to torture you guys too much. What happened to your old roommate?” I ask to change the subject. I’m shy about playing in front of strangers.

  “Katie? She got caught partying in the woods. India made it back just in time for check-in. Katie was too slow dragging herself away from her boyfriend, and well, it was kind of three strikes: stoned, caught with a boy, late for check-in.” In case I’m worried, she adds, “Don’t worry about India, though. She never gets caught. Tabby taught her the ropes while she was still here last year. And even if she parties a lot, she won’t care if you don’t. She’s chill.”

  “Where are they? India and Honor, I mean.”

  “At the barn still. Taliesin, the horse I’m riding this semester, has a stone bruise, so I’m not riding today. You’ll meet them a
t dinner. Do you ride?”

  I shake my head. “No. I’ve been on trail rides at home. You know, riding Western. But nothing serious like here. At least, what it looks like in the brochure. Jumping and everything.” I have no idea what a stone bruise is, but I don’t ask.

  “Oh, you can learn. Lots of people are beginners when they come here. Most people ride. At least, the girls do. Not many of the guys. Rowing is bigger with them. You know Corwin Hardwick, who started the school, dug his own lake especially for rowing? His daughter was into horses, so that’s how riding got to be such a thing. Of course, she broke her back doing it, but . . . you know. That doesn’t really happen much.”

  “Oh, cool.” To be honest, I hadn’t considered riding. I figured you were either a horsey girl who showed up, pony in tow, or you weren’t. I pictured myself more as the arts-concentration type, skipping sports entirely. Honestly, I’d had a hard time picturing myself here at all.

  I start to shake my head, but surprise myself by saying, “Yeah, maybe.”

  Part of me feels the urge to try something I normally would never do. Nobody here knows what is or isn’t me. I could make up anything, really. Be anyone.

  “Isn’t it too late, though? I mean, everyone’s already been here awhile.”

  Eloise smiles in a patient way that reminds me of a babysitter. “Well, you have to pick a sport for the semester. Talk to Mr. Kelley tomorrow if you want to do it. He runs the program.”

  “Great. Maybe. I think I’m going to go look around. So I’ll see you at dinner?”

  “’Kay. See you there.”

  Outside the light is starting to fade already, and the air has a sharpness it never gets in Southern California. Some of the leaves on the trees glint gold, the light striking from a sideways, angled pitch. Students are hustling back and forth—between dorms, sports practice and Hale Library—but it’s quiet, punctuated by an occasional sweaty lacrosse or soccer player’s yell of “Duder!” and the slapping high-five sound that follows.

  Everyone seems very focused on where they’re going and what they have to do. Which is good for me. I’m less onstage as the new girl, showing up midsemester with no horse, no field hockey stick, no lay of the land, no friends.

  The path I’m following leads to a row of classroom buildings. Behind them the landscape drops, and at the base I see an old-fashioned red barn with a big, sandy riding ring surrounded by a post-and-rail fence. Three horses and riders crisscross it in even, flowing circles, moving seamlessly from trot to canter and back. Without thinking, I turn onto the path that leads down there. I’m a little mesmerized by the silken, muscular swirl of the horses, their hooves beating the ground in an even, drumming rhythm.

  I stop outside the fence to watch. A tall, thin man leans against the red-and-white striped top rail of a jump, frowning with concentration. He’s limber but hunched over, like he’s trying to take up less space than he needs. A messy wave of red-blond hair falls across his forehead; his face is that ruddy tan of someone outside all the time. His eyes follow the dark horse coming around the top of the ring and turning back in our direction.

  The rider is slender, graceful and relaxed. She looks like she’s sitting still, though the horse’s pace has increased—and then it springs, front legs snapping up neatly to clear the jump. They land together and circle back around to join the other horses standing in the center.

  I try to imagine my mom here, jumping a horse like that. I can’t. I feel a sudden pang; I should have pumped her for more information. Not about classes and opportunities and all the glossy crap she did tell me, but about the reality of a place where girls are professional equestrians and boys call one another “Duder.”

  “Nice enough,” the thin man says to the girl in an English accent. Not as criticism; the way he says it comes across as high praise.

  The girl smiles politely but looks dissatisfied. She smooths her horse’s mane, then brushes at something on her knee. I don’t have to know anything about riding to tell she’s exceptional at it. The way the other kids look at her. The way the trainer treats her. The way she doesn’t notice any of it. You can tell she’s used to being the star, or at least one of them.

  “You next, then, India. Weight in your stirrups right up to the base and in the air.”

  So this is India. She wears her hair in a braid like in her picture; it pokes out from under her helmet. She giggles as she untangles and shortens her reins, already cantering toward the jump. “Mr. Kelley?” she calls from the far end of the ring.

  “Organize and keep the chatter for after the fence, missy,” he says. India rides a golden horse with a cream-colored mane and tail, the kind you often see in cowboy movies. It looks springy and good-natured as it gathers itself for the jump. When the horse lands, clearing the stacked rails by a good ten feet, India laughs again.

  “Distance! Distance! Right around again, and I’m counting with you this time,” yells Mr. Kelley. India circles around once more and heads for the same jump. She counts her horse’s strides out loud with Mr. Kelley. “Four, three, two, one . . .” The horse pats the ground lightly with its front hooves and clears the jump easily. It’s not as sleek and polished as the first girl’s performance, but Mr. Kelley seems satisfied. India rejoins the horses in the center.

  “Okay,” Mr. Kelley says. “You could have used more leg at the base, but much better spot that time. I think we’ll quit on that one.”

  “Honor, wait up,” India calls to the girl with the dark horse. They disappear into the barn together.

  I hang by the rail a moment longer, absently twisting the charm on my necklace, a tiny anchor set with black diamonds. That makes it sound a lot fancier than it is. The diamonds are like tiny chips, so it sparkles, but it’s a dark sparkle, not like regular diamonds. It belonged to my mom until I dug it out of the bottom of her jewelry box one day a few years ago, the summer before seventh grade.

  I hadn’t seen it before. She never wore it. When I asked her about it, she said she’d just never really liked it that much. Her father had given it to her as a graduation present, but it didn’t really seem like her, so she’d stuck it in the box and forgotten about it. I asked if I could have it; I liked its goth Victorian vibe. She said okay, and I haven’t taken it off since. I’m in the habit of wearing it inside my shirt, because in Ventura wearing diamonds—chips or otherwise—would be kind of conspicuous. Probably here no one would notice.

  Part of me wants to follow India and Honor and see the horses up close. But I don’t.

  I’ll meet them back at the suite later anyway, in a place that if not exactly familiar, will feel more like neutral turf.

  In our room, India is friendly, showing me around, pointing out her favorite belongings, chattering about her sister and some bands she saw over the summer—jam bands, not exactly my thing, but that’s fine. She asks to see my guitar.

  Honor says “hi” and “welcome.” Her voice is bright, but the whole time she’s combing her hair in the mirror and not really looking at me. Eloise sits nearby, helping her pick out something to wear. They laugh about something that happened at the barn earlier that day.

  Apparently I’m supposed to dress up for dinner. Good to know.

  The huge dining hall is nothing like the cafeteria at Ventura High School. This looks more like a library, or maybe Hogwarts. Heavy, dim chandeliers hang on thick chains from a high, vaulted ceiling; two rows of old wood tables line each side of the room like church pews. My school’s cafeteria was loud and metallic and echoey. This one isn’t quiet, of course—it’s still filled with teenagers—but the sounds are softer, rounder, richer.

  What you are supposed to do is fill the next available seat and sit with whoever’s already sitting there—boy, girl; Upper, Lower, Last or First; your roommate, your best friend or a stranger. You can see how this was a nice idea in theory.

  On my first night at Hardwick, I so wish
the rule was actually enforced. But that’s not how it works. Instead kids clump up at the end of the food line, waiting for their friends so they can sit together. Once you are seated, you’re allowed to get up and move around, so actually it’s worse than having to wander around with your tray looking for a table. The person you sit with can get up at any point and leave you for someone more interesting.

  Tonight at least my suitemates don’t seem like they’ll abandon me. We hover together at the end of the food line. At the last minute, a few other girls hustle through the line to catch up, and we take a big table near the back. With seven we’re enough to almost fill the table on our own.

  Honor sits across from me. The other girls ask her questions nonstop. She answers but never asks any herself. A few boys stop by the table, say hi to her and then the other girls, but they can’t stay because there’s no room left. I try not to stare at her. You’d think Honor was a movie star being interviewed about her latest role in one of those behind-the-scenes shows, judging from the way everyone bombards her with such breathless focus. I’ve never seen anything like it in real life.

  It doesn’t take me long to figure out that Honor, in fact, doesn’t have much to do with real life. There is a magic, invisible force field around her; her effect on others is supernatural. Girls become clones. Boys become slaves. Eloise, her best friend, normally friendly, turns off her personality when Honor is around. Honor is not mean, like the fake, bitchy cheerleaders at Ventura High School. Honor is Teflon. She doesn’t need anything or anyone, but she always gets whatever she wants. If she likes you, you’ll be friends. If she doesn’t like you, you don’t exist.

  That’s the category I fall into. She looks through me. Her eyes glaze over when I speak, so I quickly stop talking to her altogether. I shouldn’t let it bother me, but it does. Because as much as I don’t belong at Hardwick, Honor does.