“Okay, good,” she says. She looks relieved and gives my wrist a squeeze. “My family’s just so super normal, you know? You’ll have to come visit us some weekend. You can meet them.”
•••
Most of the classrooms in Baldwin are small; the teacher and the students, usually ten or twelve of us, sit around a long oval table. That means that no one is sitting at the head, and the idea is that class is a conversation among all of us, that we are teaching one another. Hardwick is very proud of this method of instruction, which I’ve since learned is called Harkness Teaching. In Ventura, there is no “method.” Classrooms are big, about thirty kids, and we sit at old green metal desks with thick, splintering wood tops lined up in rows. At Hardwick, it’s much harder to doodle on your sneaker, text friends, chew gum, or skip the reading. Unfortunately, because of my sudden detour into show business last night, today I have not done the reading for American history.
I have two options. The first is to sit quietly, look interested and take notes. Lots of people do this. If you feel like it’s been way too long since you said anything, comment on another student’s comment. If you look too interested, the teacher will call on you, thinking you have something to contribute. If you are too quiet, the teacher will call on you, thinking you are shy and hoping to draw you out and allow you to enjoy the full potential of your educational experience.
Thankfully I don’t have to do either, because Van Rowen Alder has gone with option number two: talking nonstop. I mean, he is so practiced at serious bullshit he’ll fill a good thirty of the fifty minutes. I have to question what the teacher has vested in letting it go on so endlessly (Relaxing break? Comic relief?), but today Van is saving me with his blather. His voice drones on as my attention tunes in and out.
I worry. Will Honor turn me in for being out last night? Is there any way she could find out where Chazzy and I really went? Why is she so mad at me? What did I do, anyway?
My riding lesson is at noon. Mr. Kelley still has me in private lessons until I can catch up with the advanced beginners. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but I’m pretty excited to be considered an advanced anything on a horse.
Chester is busy today, so I’m riding a horse named Stormy. Stormy is a flashy black mare with a jagged blaze like a lightning bolt down her face. Her ears flick and dance a little nervously as Mr. Kelley helps me on, but she’s quiet and responsive as we walk in a big circle, sticking to one end of the ring. Her trot is springier than I’m used to, and I have to concentrate on pulling my spine tall and straight—while at the same time relaxing my lower back—when I really want to brace myself and cling to her mane.
“Good,” says Mr. Kelley, appreciating my efforts. “Now drop your stirrups and keep everything else the same.”
“What?!” I can’t help blurting this out, though it’s a universal rule of riding that you don’t talk back when an instructor tells you to do something.
“Just let your toes slip out, and let your legs and heels hang a little longer.”
I do it, though if I were allowed to comment, I would say it seems a little crazy. To my surprise, the bouncing diminishes, and instead I feel a fluid connection through my back to the horse. It feels like riding a boat through a slight wake. I grin. I can’t help it. This is way too much fun to be cool about it.
“Now,” says Mr. Kelley, “toes up, and find your stirrups.” I look down, fumbling for the stirrups, and start bouncing again. “WITHOUT LOOKING DOWN,” he bellows. I pull my head back up and try by feel. It’s not easy, but eventually I get my toes wedged back in so that the ball of my foot is back on the metal stirrup. I’m breathing hard from the effort.
“Shorten your reins and organize your trot. Outside leg back. Feel your inside rein. And canter.”
I try to follow each step. When Stormy trots faster, I dig my outside heel in a little harder, and the rough bouncing turns to a smooth rocking-horse canter, with an arching lift to the upbeat each time she pushes off her hind legs.
It’s all going so well until a bird pecking at something in the grass outside the ring decides to swoop through the fence and right under Stormy’s belly. Stormy flings her body sideways in a midstride panic and the saddle vanishes right out from under me. Suddenly I’m sitting on her neck instead of where I should be. I shove myself back and throw both arms around Stormy, trying to stay on.
“Turn her. Sit up! Wren, don’t drop your reins!”
It’s way too late for that. I look down and see the dirt sweeping by underneath me. That’s alarming, so I lift my head and stare into the horse’s neck instead, black horse hair and a tangle of mane rubbing roughly against my nose.
Luckily Stormy slows down, and when I can’t hang on any longer, I drop with a thud to the ground. It seems to happen in slow motion. I’m surprised it doesn’t hurt. My shoulder lands first in the dirt, and I roll onto my back, feeling the wind shoved from my lungs. Stormy, over it at this point, trots to the center and stops right in front of Mr. Kelley, looking bored.
I sit up. Standing along the rail are Eloise, India and, naturally, Honor.
“Ha! You’re baptized, my girl!” Mr. Kelley laughs. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I think so,” I answer, feeling like a fool. I try to turn away from my suitemates, but I can feel them watching me.
“You okay?” Eloise echoes. Honor looks away, smirking.
“That was pretty, but you should have seen this one eat it last week.” Mr. Kelley waves a hand at India, who giggles. “A beauty if I ever saw one. Right. Hop back on.”
I don’t want to, but I know it’s what you’re supposed to do. So I do, and then it’s all fine again. Part of the experience, right? When I turn back to the rail, the girls are gone.
Before dinner I get an email from my mom. She usually emails me windows of time when she’ll be at the lab, so we can Skype. It’s tricky with the time change. I dial the number, because if I wait until after dinner it will be too late for her.
Last week she sent me a really cool T-shirt with the Greenland flag, a red-and-white rectangle with a red-and-white circle in the middle, split down the center. If Chazzy and I ever brave that open mic again, I think I’ll wear it.
We don’t get to talk often enough, but when we do, Hannah is full of interesting facts about Greenland—like that it’s the largest island in the world. The center will end up underwater, like a donut, if the glacier melts. The ice sheet is the size of Mexico. I think she saves these facts up for our conversations. Not that we have nothing to talk about; we do.
I’m lucky I have a mom like Hannah, I remind myself. But she’s far away and I’m in a strange place, so it’s different. I can’t talk to her about what is really going on because I don’t want her worrying about me. I know she feels sort of bad for sending me away, though she says she’s convinced it’s a great thing for me. I’m afraid if we talk too much about school and home that I’ll get mad or say something I don’t mean. Or that I do mean.
Anyway, there’s no point talking about something when I don’t even know what I think about it. And I don’t want her to think I’m some miserable, homesick loser, even though the evidence might point to that. So I’m not going to talk to her about Honor.
“Wren, what is on your face?”
It’s the very first thing Hannah asks me. Her own face is very pink. She complains about having chapped lips and hands and cheeks.
“My face? Oh, dirt, I guess.” I neglected to wash my face or even look in the mirror when I came in.
“Dirt?”
“I fell off during my riding lesson. No big deal, though. I’m fine.”
“You fell off? Yikes. What happened? Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, no, the horse spooked at a bird and surprised me. I mean, we were both surprised.”
She seems to be squinting at me through the screen, across the ocean. “Be caref
ul. I’m a long way away to come pick up the pieces . . .”
“I don’t think Mr. Kelley will let anything happen. He’s pretty careful.”
“I hope. So everything else good? You’re having fun with your roommates? Finding time to play music?”
Having fun with my roommates? I skip to question two.
“Yeah. I met a boy who plays. I’m going to try to get into his music class. You’re supposed to audition at the beginning of the year, but since I wasn’t here I’m hoping I can convince Gigi—she’s this amazing teacher—”
“Gigi? She’s still there? She’s a legend,” says Hannah.
“You took her class?”
“Oh, no way; I wasn’t good enough. But she was my advisor, so I got to know her pretty well. You met a boy?” she adds, sounding excited.
“Not like that. Just a boy. Friend-type of boy.” I haven’t told her about Nick, and I’m not planning to, since at this point there’s nothing to tell.
“Friend-types of boys often make the best boyfriends, you know.”
“I know. I mean, I know you think so.”
“So what’s his name?”
“Chazzy.”
“Chazzy?”
“Charles Moorehead Robinson the Third.”
“Oh, of course it is. Well, I see Hardwick Hall hasn’t changed that much since I was there. Where’s he from?”
“Chapel Hill, North Carolina. What do you mean, it hasn’t changed? Your boyfriends here had names like that?”
“I didn’t have boyfriends. I was much too busy studying,” she says with a smile.
“Right.”
“But yes, lots of people had names like that. I was hoping things had gotten a little more, I don’t know, modern?” She throws me a hopeful look.
“Not so much.”
“No people of color?”
“Mom, no. I mean, yes, not all the kids are white, but I don’t think the ones that aren’t really want to be considered ‘people of color.’ I think they just think of themselves as kids.”
“Wren, you know it’s really important to embrace people’s individuality and differences—”
“Mom, this is high school,” I interrupt. “Do you remember high school?”
“A little bit, thank you very much,” she says, sounding mock hurt.
“Did you want to be embraced for your differences?”
“Yes.”
“Really?” I don’t believe her.
“I think I did. Deep down. Yes.”
“Well, I guess I would rather mine not stand out so much.”
“Wren. I didn’t send you there for you to learn to be conventional. You’re there to stretch your wings. Your wings. Not somebody else’s wings.”
“Okay. Gotcha. So far today I have stretched my butt by falling on it.”
“Well, that’s a good start. Have you gotten in touch with Warren?”
“Who?”
“Warren Norwood. My friend. The director I told you about. You should really write him or call. See if you can meet up.”
Oh, right. That guy. Meeting up would not be first on my list, but it seems important to her for some reason. “Okay.”
“Good.” She opens her mouth as if to add something, but decides against it. “We’re in the field for the next couple of days, then back in the lab. So I can talk then. Wednesday. Or Thursday, probably.”
“Bye, Hannah.” I say.
“Bye, Wrendle.”
She waits for me to log out first. The window closes, and the screen is filled with that generic, big-blue-marble Earth shot. I look at North America. I am far away from California and far away from Greenland. Somewhere in the middle. Hanging around. I open a new browser and type in the web address for Jonesy’s bookstore.
This time, I don’t have to search archived photos, because I see that Jonesy has started a blog. Actually, Jonesy has started a blog starring Spite and Malice. He is a nut, but it is fairly hilarious. First he shot them behind the cash register and in the shelves as though they run the store. No idea how he got them to do that because Spite and Malice, as you might guess, follow directions about as well as cats. Next he has given them each their own page for reviews and recommendations. I see that Spite has gotten into cooking and nonfiction, whereas Malice is specializing in current fiction, self-help and children’s books. Jonesy’s even convinced some poor authors to let the cats “interview” them.
I can see from the flashing counter on the webpage that I am the two hundred and ninety-first person to visit this week. I guess that’s pretty good, right? Anyway, I’m glad the cats are earning their keep.
I want to skip dinner, but it’s a formal night, so I take a quick shower, put on a skirt and join the later seating.
After first making sure Honor’s nowhere in sight, I find a table with a girl from my biology class and some other kids I don’t know. We eat quietly. There’s some chitchat about lab reports. Another boy from biology joins and asks to borrow notes from last Saturday’s class because he had to miss it for an away lacrosse game at the Lyme School. I’m distracted, so I don’t respond quickly enough, and someone else offers. I’m replaying the scene with Honor in my head for the hundredth time. Why did she freak out like that so suddenly? What could I have done to her?
It turns out I don’t have to wait much longer to find out. Mrs. Baird stops me on the way out of the dining hall. She looks uncomfortable as she gestures toward the coatroom off the entry lobby. “Wren, can I see you for a moment?”
I follow her in, and she closes the door behind us, looking a little pained.
“Wren, I know you haven’t been here long enough to know all the rules of conduct at Hardwick,” she begins, “and I certainly think you’ve been an exemplary student thus far.”
“Thanks. Is something wrong?” I really don’t want her to drag this out longer than absolutely necessary. She must know I was out last night.
“There has been a serious accusation. It’s serious enough to call for the disciplinary committee to meet. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“No,” I say, though I think I do. It’s about where I was last night.
“A piece of jewelry.” Her eyes stray to my neck. “Honor has a charm that is quite valuable and important to her family.” She looks up at me, meeting my gaze. “It’s missing, and she, uh, believes you may have taken it.”
“Are you serious?” I blurt before I can stop myself. I guess that’s the answer to why Honor’s so mad at me, but I have no idea how she could think I did that. Or that I would ever do that. It makes no sense. She didn’t tell Baird I snuck out; instead she made up some lie about how I stole my own necklace?
“I didn’t take anything from her,” I quickly add, noting Baird’s scowl. “My mother gave this necklace to me when I was twelve. I haven’t taken it off since. It belonged to my great-grandmother. I wear it every day. You can ask anyone. Honor is . . .” I hesitate, searching for the right word, the right phrase. “Wrong. About this.”
“I’m sure we’ll resolve it,” Baird says, clearly not wanting to hear too many of the details. “I came to tell you that the disciplinary committee meeting is next Wednesday, following chapel. We’ll have to bring it to them if you and Honor can’t resolve this on your own. It will be held in the headmaster’s library. Do you know where that is?”
I nod.
“I will be there as housemother. Honor will also be there as well as the members of the disciplinary committee.”
This committee, I already know, is made up of teachers and students: a combo of do-gooders and the power-hungry. All I can think is, I have only been here a month, and I’ll end up getting kicked out for a crime I didn’t even commit. My mother will be so disappointed in me . . .
“As I said, I’m sure we can resolve this, Wren,” Baird says. Then she tur
ns back to the dining hall, giving me a final closed-lipped smile. I’m dismissed.
“Okay,” I say. I want to go back to my room before I start crying. On the other hand, I never want to go back to my room.
Next Wednesday. I have to live with Honor with this hanging over me until next Wednesday.
As the heavy double doors of the dining hall clank shut behind me, I can just make out Honor’s blonde ponytail and the swish of India’s patterned skirt disappearing up ahead on the path. I slow down and let them get far enough ahead to be out of sight.
Under the arched arcade that runs along the chapel, the Madrigals are gathered in the center of a crowd, dressed in their piped navy jackets. Chazzy sees me and gives a quick nod, but his attention quickly turns to the performance. It looks like half the school is here, a big turnout.
The Madrigals move from show tune to jazz standard to a-cappella-adapted rock song to hymn. They stand in a semicircle, switching spots as different boys take the lead. They are all really, really good singers, but Chazzy is great. It’s amazing; it feels like this scene could have been pulled from any point in the school’s history—this same sound, filling this same arch, reverberating year after year, made by different boys, in a place that never changes.
Chapter Six
Black Anchors
On Monday I wake up feeling terrible, an oh-no pit in my stomach as soon as my eyes register daylight. Fortunately there is no one else in the room. I have a few minutes to pull myself together and figure out how to face the day.
When I come back to the room after taking my shower, there is a note under my door. I pick it up, and my stomach lurches into free fall. It’s from Nina Taubin. She’s the head of the disciplinary committee. Ms. Taubin doesn’t even teach any of my classes. I only know who she is from chapel; she usually reads announcements. She purses her bright red lips, raises her eyebrows and stares from behind heavy-rimmed glasses, waiting for absolute silence before she begins.
Wren,
Please stop by to see me at my residence at your convenience.
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