In hindsight, I wonder why I believed he could make a promise like that. But it was also the first actual invitation I’d gotten to do anything in the four weeks I’d been at Hardwick, other than an occasional “we’re going to dinner” from my roommates. And that qualified more as an announcement than an offer, since they didn’t care that much whether I joined them or not.
I hop out and land a little awkwardly half in a bush, struggling to protect Hummingbird and not lose my balance.
Outside the air is cool. There’s a mist creating halos around the campus lights peppered here and there. I can hear muffled laughter from Baldwin Hall, where the Friday night movie is playing.
I brush myself off and look around. “What’s Chazzy short for?” I ask.
“Charles Moorehead Robinson the Third.”
“Oh,” I say.
“You asked.”
“So where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise. But you’ll need the guitar.”
I’m wishing I had a jacket. I’m still getting used to the cold weather, and I never have the right thing on. Like now: I’m wearing faded paisley-print pajama bottoms, low-top sneakers (no socks), and a long-sleeved black waffle-knit T-shirt. My hair is still wet from the shower I took after dinner. But Chazzy turns out to be such a fast walker that I soon warm up. By the time we reach the woods on the west side of campus, I’m almost sweating.
“I thought you were worried about Rivington,” I whisper, peering into the blackness beyond the trees. “Seriously, where are you taking me?”
“We’re halfway there. Promise. I just didn’t want to go out the main driveway to the road. We can get there through the woods. It’s really close.”
“Out? We’re leaving campus?”
“Wren, I got it. Really.”
I trip after him along a narrow but worn trail. I’m feeling more confident that he’s not a teen serial killer or vampire now that I see other kids have used this same route to break out. Soon we’re walking along the two-lane road into Falls Village, ducking back under the trees whenever we see headlights. Only a couple of cars pass us. It’s quiet. I take in the lacy iron gate of the Grassy Hill Cemetery as the road dips down and forks: right, under the railroad bridge and to the river, or left, past the inn onto Main Street.
“I think we should practice on the way,” says Chazzy.
“Practice what?”
“Do you know any less obscure stuff? Beatles? Neil Young? Something popular like that?”
“Sure. ‘Cowgirl in the Sand?’ Or ‘She Said, She Said?’ Elliott Smith? The Civil Wars?”
“Fine. Can you walk and play at the same time?”
“Not really. Maybe if you slow down a little.”
Now I can see the center of Falls Village where our road meets Main Street, a street too quiet to require a stoplight. A few old-fashioned storefronts glow dimly. It’s a short block, with only a handful of businesses, the town hall, and the former savings bank, pretty as a doll’s house. You feel like you’re in one of those old Christmas movies or something, and Bing Crosby or Barbara Stanwyck is about to walk out of the general store. Chazzy has a nice voice. I sing along, kind of forgetting where I am.
“Nice,” approves Chazzy when we finish.
“Too poular?” I ask.
“Nah. Just because it won a grammy doesn’t mean it’s not good. They’ll love it.”
They?
I’m standing with Chazzy in front of the coffee house on Main Street. It looks pretty busy for Falls Village, even by Friday night standards.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Guess so, since I don’t know what I have to be ready for.” I follow him in.
A girl in a fringe cowboy jacket and long hippie hair walks over to us with a clipboard. “Name?” she asks Chazzy.
He hesitates. “Uh, Birdbrain.”
“Okay,” she says. “You can be next.” And walks away.
“Next?” I say to Chazzy, but he’s already dragging me toward the “stage,” two bar stools pulled in front of the barista setup. It looks suspiciously like an open mic night. Oh, God. Suffice it to say, at this point I have played for my mother, my cats and friends I can count on one hand—including Chazzy. An entire room of people turns to stare at me while the cowboy coat girl introduces us as Birdbrain.
“I could kill you right now,” I say through my teeth.
Chazzy gives me a huge grin. “Isn’t this fun?”
I don’t bother to answer, because it’s too late to do anything about it. Suddenly we’re on, singing our one half-practiced-on-the-way-over song.
At first I’m not sure who bothers me more, the people watching us, or the people not watching: drinking, talking and laughing as though we’re not up here exposing our deepest, darkest souls. But after a minute, some of them start watching instead of talking.
When a few people start to sing along, something shifts. It feels amazing. Amazing, like nothing I have ever felt before. I feel like I’m floating above my own head, watching myself sing, hearing my voice outside and inside at the same time. I can hear how it joins and separates from Chazzy’s, as though I’m watching the show through my own eyes and from outside, like a movie.
And then it’s over.
Everyone claps. I squint under the lights, unable to keep from grinning. One person yells, “Wooo!” and someone else, “Play another one!” The cowboy coat girl nods, and Chazzy and I look at each other. We only practiced the one song. But I don’t want to stop yet.
“‘Red Vines’?” he mouths.
I shrug and start into it. It’s not until halfway through the first verse that it occurs to me that Chazzy doesn’t know the words, and it’s only my voice I’m hearing both inside and outside my head. Panic flutters in my belly. My voice wavers as it hits one of the upper range notes, and I know I have to refocus. I force myself to look at one thing, a red candle flickering on a table near the center of the room. I consider picking a person to look at, but I’m worried they will get wigged out thinking I’m singing the song to just them, and that will in turn wig me out. I keep singing.
The rest of the room recedes, and the inside/outside voice thing stops. Chazzy’s voice comes in at all the right places, and before you know it, we reach the end, and there’s more clapping and it’s all okay. More than okay.
As I follow Chazzy to the door, people smile, nod or pat our shoulders, saying, “All right. Nice.”
Outside I’m beaming. My skin feels hot. “I can’t believe we just did that,” I say.
“I know.” He’s grinning again too. “Now we just have to figure out how to get back to school on time.”
“What? You promised we wouldn’t get in trouble.” My glow evaporates. I’ve only been at Hardwick for a month, and whatever mixed feelings I have about being here, I do not want to get kicked out. I can’t. Where would I go?
“It’s trickier once it’s this close to check-in. But we’ll be fine. Will your roommates cover for you if we don’t make it?”
“Oh my God. What time is it?”
“Quarter of ten.”
“Check-in is in fifteen minutes. I have no idea if they’ll cover. Maybe India. I don’t think Honor would. I don’t know about Eloise. If she’s with Honor, no.”
“Well, let’s go. We can be there in fifteen.”
“Chazzy, no, we can’t!”
“We have to be,” he says, starting up the main street.
On the way back, every car sends us hustling into the brush; it could be a search party from Hardwick. Stumbling through the woods, I skin my shin and scrape my arms on branches. I hug Hummingbird protectively, trying not to ding her against a tree.
Chazzy finally leads me back to Selby and gives my hand a squeeze. “That was excellent. I wish Gigi could have seen us.”
“Who’s Gigi?” I
ask.
“Are you kidding? I thought you were into music.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“More on that next time. Okay, try the kitchen door. Best of luck.” I make out his smile in the dark, and then he’s gone. Silently, like Peter Pan.
I sneak in through the kitchen door, hoping not to catch Mrs. Baird mid–tea preparation. The coast is clear on the stairs and in the hall on our floor. Mrs. Baird must be in someone’s room. Hopefully not in our room. I’m in pajama bottoms; maybe I can pretend I was just in the bathroom. Except I have a guitar, not my toothbrush. Best just to run up the stairs and pray. I manage to reach our room without seeing her and open the door as quietly as I can.
India is asleep, breathing loudly. The door to Eloise’s and Honor’s room is almost closed, but I hear someone sit up in bed. The light stays out.
“Eloise?” I call hopefully.
“She’s asleep,” Honor answers. No surprise. Eloise goes to bed the earliest of any of us, unless she’s studying for a test or finishing a paper.
“Oh, hi. Did Mrs. Baird come by already?”
“Yeah. She was just here.”
“Did you say anything?”
“What was I supposed to say?”
“Oh. Will she come back? Should I go tell her I’m here?” Would that be worse? To leave our room after check-in? I really don’t know.
“If you want. Night,” Honor says with finality.
“Good night,” I say, climbing into bed. I roll over on my belly, wondering how much trouble I will be in tomorrow.
Chapter Five
I Make an Enemy
The next morning, there’s nothing to do but wait for the ax to fall. It’s quiet in our room. We have half-day classes on Saturdays, so we’re expected to be up bright and early and at breakfast just like any other day. When I come out to the sitting room with my bath bucket, only Honor is there, pulling on her coat. She gives me the tiniest nod, barely raising her head.
“Hi,” I say, my voice coming out at half its normal volume.
“So where were you last night?” she asks. Her cold look is contempt mixed with something else. Could she be curious? Threatened? Impressed? It’s impossible to know.
Ridiculous, I tell myself, feeling angry I’m more afraid of Honor than our housemother.
She doesn’t bother to wait more than a second for me to answer before she turns to go—until something stops her. Her eyes flick in a momentary double-take. “Where did you get that?” she snaps.
“What?” I ask.
“The charm. On your necklace.” Her voice is even harsher than usual.
“My mother,” I answer, not understanding the sudden storm behind her eyes. She’s furious. It makes no sense.
“Are you kidding? Are you kidding me?” I can see tears rising, pure rage. I haven’t seen that much emotion in Honor’s face ever, and I have no idea where it’s coming from now. She closes her eyes, tenses her jaw and swings away from me, letting the door slam behind her.
I stand in the room alone, shell-shocked. Crying seems reasonable, except that I wouldn’t know what I was crying about. I decide I’ll call Hannah, because even though she has no connection to my roommates or what just happened, she is connected to Hardwick. She’s responsible for what happens to me, isn’t she? Even if she’s not here? Even if she has no idea what’s going on in my life? And I have no one else to talk to.
Outside there’s a steely chill, a preview of winter. Sorry; I said up front I wouldn’t harp on details about the weather, but when you come from California, where there is no weather—only the occasional natural disaster—these things stand out. I’m curious about snow and looking forward to it, though it’s only October.
I wonder if I’ll still be here for the first snowfall.
In the dining hall, Eloise and India are sitting together with some girls from the field hockey team whose names I don’t know. Honor joins them with a tray of granola and coffee. It seems glamorous to me, drinking coffee. I don’t like it, even the smell of it, but I feel like that’s something I should work on.
The table’s only half full. I head for the line slowly and take a tray. If I seriously dawdle, maybe some more of Honor’s acolytes will fill the empty seats, and I won’t have to sit with them. On my way I pass a table full of teachers, and Mrs. Baird is one of them. She looks up as I go by and gives me the same half-encouraging, half-pitying smile she always gives me. And that’s it. I nod hello and take a stack of tepid pancakes, even though they’re only good if you seriously smother them in syrup.
From across the room, Chazzy catches my eye. He’s sitting with a bunch of boys from Madrigals. They all have this particular look, scarves draped around their blazers, hair parted to one side and pushed back across the other, obviously requiring gel of some kind. Smooth skin. Expressive, theatrical faces. It’s all very Gatsby. Chazzy raises his eyebrows at me. He looks concerned rather than impish this morning. Well, maybe a little impish, perhaps mixed with a little guilt? I shrug my shoulders to say, “Seems okay.”
I have no choice. I sit next to India, positioning myself as far away from Honor as I can. I consider sitting alone, starting a new table, even though it’s against the rules. But that seems like admitting guilt, and I have no idea what I’m guilty of. Honor doesn’t look at me as I sit down. She’s telling a story to some field hockey girls, blonde girls, the kind of New England blonde where the hair seems washed of color, thick, dry and straight, like bleached wheat. They are engrossed, their faces pale and soft, pink blotching their cheeks, and they laugh in unison at Honor’s story when she gets to a good part.
Why do they look alike? They aren’t related. They probably aren’t even from the same state. All three of them are wearing their team sweatshirts and jeans, half ready for the game against Taft this afternoon. Honor’s dressed in layers of thin, ruffle-edged T-shirts and a cashmere cardigan. A long, complicated necklace of ribbons, knots and pearls dangles around her neck.
She always has a city gloss the other girls don’t, hair that falls and swings just right, a sparkle to her eye where the field hockey girls’ eyes are pale ice blue and blank. Honor has been to debutante balls, nightclubs, parties in unsupervised Park Avenue apartments. This particular story seems to involve all three.
When she gets to the part where her shoe heel gets stuck in the taxi and she leaves it there, walking barefoot to the after-party at Daniel Boulud’s restaurant, I find myself laughing with the rest of them, though I don’t want to. Honor’s a good storyteller. The maître d’ tries to stop her on the way in, but luckily Chef Daniel himself walks out, and since he knows her father, he tells her she can stay—but to hide in the coat check if anyone from the health department shows up.
Then, a boy shows up with her shoe. He saw it fall from the cab onto the sidewalk, and he chased after her—so here he is, crashing an after-party at 2 a.m., trying to find the girl with one shoe. Of course, it turns out he’s really cute, and the older brother of a boy in our grade at Collegiate, so she lets him put the shoe back on. They dance, with Honor as Cinderella, hobbling and tipsy and radiant (she doesn’t say “radiant,” but you can tell you’re supposed to picture it like that). Then they end up at his place. They’re still friends; he might come up to a dance later this month.
“Oh, yeah? Does Nick know about that?” asks a field hockey girl.
My ears prick up.
“Sure. Why would he care?” Honor asks with faux innocence. “We’re just friends.” Is it her fault if she leaves a wake of broken hearts? All she wants is to be friends. With boys, with girls, with everyone except me.
After breakfast, I have American history with Eloise, so we walk together to Baldwin Hall. I want to ask her what I’ve done to make Honor so angry, but somehow it seems like a better idea to try to figure it out myself. Besides, I’m embarrassed to admit to Eloise th
at I’ve done something wrong and don’t even know what it is.
“Where were you, anyway?” Eloise asks. “India and I came back from the bathroom and you weren’t there. We told Baird you were brushing your teeth.”
“Thanks.” So that’s why Baird was okay with me this morning. I want to tell Eloise where I was. I want to trust her, but I don’t trust her not to tell Honor.
“What happened with Honor?” she asks as if reading my mind. “She’s in a real snit about you.”
“I have no idea,” I tell her truthfully. So much for keeping it to myself.
Eloise purses her lips, looking sorry for me, like Honor being mad at me is about as bad as failing math or getting diagnosed with mono. “I’ll try to find out. I’ll talk to her.”
“Thanks,” I say. It’s implied that it’s up to me to figure it out and fix it, which annoys me. We walk in silence for a few minutes.
“Wren, I feel bad about that thing I said the other night about your mother abandoning you,” says Eloise. “Lots of kids are here for lots of reasons. I shouldn’t assume things about your family. It sounds like you and your mom are really close.”
A month ago, I would have said, “We are,” with no hesitation. I say it now, but the words sound hollow. Since I’ve been here, I’ve started to feel like I’m looking at everything in my life backward, as though I’ve seen it reflected in a mirror in one direction, and now I’m looking at it from the other side.
Before Hannah left for Greenland, it was just the two of us. It felt like a team, like we didn’t need anyone else. Now at school, I see my circumstances the way they must appear to the others. My mother’s secret, which was mostly a joke or irritation to me before, seems like something much bigger. If I had a father, I think, I would be at home now. If I had a father, there would be someone else to take care of me. If I had a father—and I must have one, right?—if I had a father, Hannah would not be making all the decisions about my life on her own.
“Eloise, I can’t believe you’re still worried about that,” I add, making my voice light. “Really. I didn’t take it that way at all.”
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