I'm from Nowhere

by Suzanne Myers

  Warren. Her great friend from Hardwick, who stayed so close after she left for Barnard. Warren. Wrendle. Wren. I’m aware of my lips moving as I sound it out. It’s too close. It must be.

  I jump up, trying not to startle the horses standing next to the bleachers, all tacked up and waiting to go into the ring. I toss the rest of my hot dog into a garbage can and run back to my room.

  By the time I get to the top of the Selby stairs, my heart feels like it’s about to burst, either from the stairs or from my revelation. I grab the canvas schoolbag from under my bed. It’s good and dusty, since I haven’t needed to use it so far—too big, as it turned out—and dump it onto my bed. It offers up a barrette, half a pack of stale gum, two pennies, a nickel and a pen from Rincon Surf Shop I’ve been looking for all semester. But no slip of paper.

  Damn. My first real lead, and now I’ll have to wait until the next time I talk to Hannah to get his number again.

  I shove the schoolbag back under the bed where I found it and head back to the gymkhana.

  The egg-and-spoon race surprises me; it turns out to be really, really fun. Chester and I end up neck and neck with Amelia Tisdale, a girl who sometimes rides in my lessons. As I urge Chester into a slow jog, balancing my spoon and egg in front of me and bouncing all over the place, Amelia and I both almost fall off laughing.

  At the last moment, we are outpaced by Ned Gibson, Honor’s little brother. He’s not a serious rider like Honor but still has way too much experience from years of summer camp to be matched against pathetic newbies like us.

  “Sorry, ladies.” He gives us a friendly smile and nod as he takes the cup—in this case plastic and filled with Tootsie Rolls—and leads us from the ring.

  “Way to swoop in to victory,” I tell him as I hop down.

  “Yes, it was all part of my evil plan,” he jokes. “Although for a minute there, I thought you or Amelia had it sewn up. Maybe next year.”

  “You’re on. I’m going back to my room to practice right now.”

  “Baird lets horses into Selby?”

  I laugh. “Sure. As long as they’re mares. I’d be in major trouble if she caught me with Chester.”

  “Hey, Honor was telling me you’re from Ventura,” he calls as I turn away.

  “She was?” I can’t hide my surprise that Honor would be telling him anything about me at all. “Yeah, I am.”

  “Do you surf?” he asks, looking hopeful.

  I’m used to this question. It’s a common misconception that everyone in Southern California surfs and listens to the Beach Boys. “I actually don’t,” I tell him. He looks kind of devastated, so I add, “I have some friends who do, though.”

  “Yeah?” Ned’s eyes light back up. “Rincon?”

  “Sure.”

  “Pauly Desault? Dean Nesbitt?”

  I smile and nod. “Dean was in my class at Ventura High before he dropped out.”

  Now Ned’s eyes are bulging. “When he got his sponsorship with Twister?”

  “Right.”

  “Last May after the Sunset Beach International,” he throws in, his voice suddenly much louder.

  “I take it you surf,” I say dryly.

  He looks away, sheepish. “Well, you know, such as it is. In Long Island. You have Rincon. We have the Rockaways and Montauk. Pretty lame compared to SoCal, but my dad has a place in Amagansett.” Shyly he turns back. ”So, like, so you actually know Dean?”

  “I do. Not very well, but sure.”

  “That is so rad.” Now the kid is beaming. “So rad. Okay, anyway, I should glide, but . . . awesome. This is awesome.” He gives a wave and turns his horse toward the barn.

  As I watch him go, I am struck by how much he and his older sister look alike. Because I’m seriously wondering if Ned’s adopted. Could they really be from the same family? He’s so enthusiastic and funny and unguarded. And Honor’s so . . . not any of those things.

  After dinner, I do a quick search for Warren Norwood on my computer. The only pictures that come up are with whole casts onstage or in big groups, so I can’t see his face up close enough to tell if he looks anything like me.

  I do spot Hannah in one old Hardwick production, dressed in a bonnet and pilgrim gear as Goody Somebody in The Crucible. Norwood stands next to her, gesturing toward something out of frame stage right and looking distraught. His hair is blond, so that’s a strike against paternity. But you never know. From what I can determine, he’s a medium-successful off-Broadway theater director. Obviously he found his true calling at Hardwick. The bad news is that he doesn’t write plays, so there are no texts to analyze for clues.

  Some of the photos are at benefits for lefty causes: the environment, human rights, the kind of stuff Hannah would be into. But lots of people are into those causes. Nothing concrete.

  I’ll have to ask Hannah for his address again. I’ll have to get in touch with him and figure it out in person.

  For the party that night, the boathouse has been filled with paper lanterns, and I must say, it looks beautiful. It’s warm enough out to keep the big doors open. You can see the sparkles reflected in the river’s black ripples. Chazzy and I sit outside with Eloise and India. India’s costume is more G-rated than I expected, and I’m secretly relieved. She’s got the wigs tied into a long waterfall of hair that reaches her knees, but other than that, she looks dressed for ballet class: pale pink leotard and cutoff tights with bare feet. She would only look naked if her natural skin tone was manicure pink.

  “Aren’t you cold?” I ask her, looking at her feet.

  “Nope. Feeling fine, thank you.”

  She and Eloise giggle, by which I take it to mean they’re stoned.

  The party is an official, school-sanctioned one—involving fruit punch and lots of teachers standing around—but even from where I’m sitting I can see some Last and Upper Years over behind the boathouse, tipping silver flasks into their plastic cups.

  Nick is among them.

  I haven’t run into him yet, but I’ve been aware of him every minute since I got here, like I have some kind of embedded radar or something.

  Chazzy groans and stretches his arms toward the starry sky. “I am jonesing for a smoke,” he complains.

  “Oh, come on.” I dig my elbow into his ribs. “That’s so lame.”

  India and Eloise look at each other. They are definitely a team tonight.

  “He means a cigarette,” I explain. “Not pot. Chazzy, why would you do something you know is going to kill you?”

  “Wren, no one knows what’s going to kill them.”

  “Yeah, but you can play the odds. Right?”

  He gives me a patient smile. “I love it when you get all riled up. It’s so un-Californian.”

  I stare out at the river. “I don’t think many people in California think I’m especially Californian.”

  Near the water, on the edge of the dock, I notice a petite blonde girl, a First Year. She’s dressed as Alice in Wonderland, making her seem even younger. Staring at Chazzy with her blue saucer eyes, she pretends to concentrate on sipping her drink. Pretty. I guess Chazzy has an admirer.

  “Think we should check out the gig at the gym?” Eloise asks.

  “Can’t,” says Chazzy. “Wouldn’t look right for Meade House if I deserted.”

  I check my Nick radar. He’s over behind the boathouse talking to Honor and a couple of Upper guys. “I’m going to stay,” I say.

  Chazzy smiles at me.

  “’Kay,” says India. She and Eloise rise, a little unsteady. “Later, then.”

  When they’re gone, Chazzy immediately says, “We need to plot our next escape. But this time we should practice. Maybe some original songs. Do you write?”

  I think for a minute, trying to wrest my mind away from Nick and Honor. “Sort of. Nothing I’d play in public, though.”
/>   “Can I be the judge of that?”

  “I consider you the public.”

  He pouts, which looks cute. He’s such an imp. “That hurts. You know, you’re going to have to play something for Gigi to get into her class, and she loves a singer-songwriter.”

  Since our escape to Falls Village, Chazzy has talked a lot about Gigi. Hannah wasn’t kidding when she said she was a legend—a former rock star who left public life in the ’80s to teach music at Hardwick. It’s rumored she dated Thurston Moore from Sonic Youth before he married Kim Gordon, and that Debra Harry is her godmother, although that rumor I don’t believe, because Gigi is about sixty, and Debra Harry’s only about ten years older, so it doesn’t make sense. I looked it up.

  “What about you?” I ask him.

  “Oh, no. I’m strictly the sideman of Birdbrain.”

  “Sucks for me, then. That’s kind of a lot of responsibility, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, I think—”

  “Hey,” a girl’s voice interrupts.

  I spin around to see Honor. Nick stands beside her, smiling at me. Honor is not smiling, of course. “Where did Eloise and India go?” Her gaze flicks across me and lands on Chazzy. I can’t really tell which one of us she’s asking.

  “Gym party,” I say.

  “Traitors,” says Nick, pretending to be shocked. “Hey, Wren. I like the blonde thing. You could almost be Honor’s little sister. Look at those blue eyes. Honor, sit next to her.”

  “Shut up, Nick,” Honor says. She looks beyond annoyed.

  “We’re the same age,” I tell Nick, mostly for something to say.

  “I’m gonna go find them,” Honor says, her eyes off in search of better, more interesting people—anyone but me, I imagine.

  “Nah, come on,” Nick protests. “Stick around here. We’re going to take the boats out later. You too, Birdie. What do you guys say?”

  “Are we allowed?” I ask, suddenly turning into Goody Two-shoes. What is wrong with me? “I mean, sure,” I add quickly.

  “It’s a ritual for Last Years. And the captains and strokes of each boat. Coach usually coxes one of the eights,” Nick explains.

  In case you are wondering what any of this means, I’ll digress a moment: The boats for crew hold eight rowers, plus the coxswain (rhymes with “oxen”), who sits in the stern. The “cox” is generally small and light and basically barks orders at everybody. The stroke sits in a key position facing the cox and sets the rhythm for the other rowers. That would be Nick. He is the stroke in the first boat—the fastest one. It’s pretty much like being the quarterback of rowing, if that makes any sense.

  “Well,” says Honor. “I’m freezing. Let’s at least hang inside.” She starts to walk away, and Nick turns to follow. I’m cold too, but I feel like it will look like I’m following Nick, so I stay put.

  Chazzy reclines on his elbows. “Uh-oh,” he says.

  “What?”

  “I think I feel a song coming on after all.” He starts singing in a gravelly, deadpan Lou Reed style.

  “New York City girl, your ballet flats are so shiny

  New York City girl, your pearls are so . . . briny—”

  “Briny?” I say. “I should definitely do the songwriting for our band.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t like that.”

  “No, I did. You’re trying out for The Strokes, right? It’s too bad The Velvet Underground isn’t around anymore. They would have loved you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You bet.”

  “So who’s the blonde?” I ask.

  “The blonde?”

  “Alice in Wonderland.”

  A smirk flits across his Peter Pan face. “Gretchen Towne. She’s in Gigi’s class. First Year.”

  “Oh,” I say. That means she plays. Or sings. And that she’s talented.

  We sit quietly for a few minutes. Now I’m really cold and also starting to worry about my American history paper. Just because Halloween is a holiday doesn’t mean Thursday isn’t coming tomorrow. Besides, lights-out is only pushed an hour later tonight. I glance back into the boathouse a few times, trying not to be too obvious, but it’s dark in there, and I can’t really make out faces, only silhouettes. Finally the Last Years start gathering on the dock, holding oars and lifting two shells into the water with a gentle splash.

  “Yo, Evans!” one of the heavier, super tall guys from Nick’s boat calls out. He looks around for Nick. “Where’s your stroke when you need one?” he asks the assembled crowd in a raunchy voice—to amused chuckles from his rower buddies.

  “He ditched half an hour ago with Honor Gibson,” says Bennett Hale. (Yes, like the library, in case you were wondering. I embarrassed myself by asking the same question my first week. He’s the cox from Nick’s boat, smaller than Chazzy, even.) “Forget him. Let’s do this.”

  I suddenly feel like I have a large stone in my stomach.

  Chazzy doesn’t seem to notice that I’m even listening to their conversation. “You cold?” he asks.

  “I’m worrying about my Federalist Papers paper.”

  “‘Papers paper’?” he teases.

  “Don’t you have any homework?”

  “The difference is, I’m not worried.”

  “The difference is, you don’t care about your grades because you like irritating your father with bad news,” I tell him.

  “True. Okay, I’m done too. Why don’t I walk you to Selby on my way back?”

  “Selby’s not on the way back to Meade.”

  “Trying to be a gentleman here. Which, if you were a lady instead of some hippie freak”—he pauses to gesture at my costume—“you would get.”

  I hold up two fingers in a peace sign. He gives me a thumbs-down in return. Then I follow him up the path to the dorms. It’s nice, I realize, having a real friend.

  Chapter Eight

  Call Me Gigi

  On the way to the arts center the next day, Chazzy helps me strategize about getting into Gigi’s class. You’re supposed to audition, since it’s a practical class, not history or theory, but to do that I would have had to be here in September. I clutch Hummingbird as we walk, trying to mask my nervousness. I can’t tell if I want to impress her or him. I don’t even know Gigi yet, but what will Chazzy think of me if I don’t get it?

  “Listen, there are so many people in that class who suck—”

  “That’s supportive,” I interrupt. “I thought you said Gigi liked to keep it about positivity.”

  “Okay, you’re right. There are so many people in that class who just really fucking suck.”

  “Much better,” I say, pretend primly.

  What is it with me when I am with Chazzy? Sometimes I feel like we get on a roll talking; it’s like we could be in a movie. He says something funny that makes me laugh, and then I say something funny because something about the way he talks to me makes me feel like I’m funny—which I never thought I was—and suddenly we’re in a game of witty ping-pong. Back and forth and back and forth.

  It’s fun, but I get outside myself while it’s happening. I watch myself and say, Who is this girl? How did she have the nerve to say that? Where did it come from?

  Of course, Hannah would say I’m overthinking it.

  “If it bothers you, don’t watch from a distance.” I can hear her saying it now, as though she’s walking along the path with us. Ever practical. No nonsense. This is one of the funny things about boarding school. You think you’re leaving your family behind, but the relationships you have with them follow you and then play out in your head, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing. It’s not exactly like hearing voices, but close.

  “—that there is no way she is not going to hear you and beg you to be in her class,” Chazzy continues.

  “Beg?”

  “Ok
ay, really, really, really want you in her class.”

  “How did you get in?” I ask.

  “Madrigals. She sat in on auditions last year.”

  “And then she begged you to take her class.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Did she ask anyone else?”

  “No,” he says and fakes looking at something on his shoe so I won’t see him smiling.

  “Rock star,” I say.

  We arrive at class a few minutes early. Chazzy introduces me. “Gigi, this is that new student I was telling you about.”

  Her hair is dark with thick gray streaks and cropped at her chin. She has on a jean skirt and a billowy shirt with a watercolor-y floral pattern that looks French somehow, black tights and tall leather boots the color of spilled red wine. No boarding-school girl would wear that color. Or cut her hair that short. Not even Honor. Everything about her is sophistication and experience. In a flash I understand the cult of Gigi, and I want in.

  “Nice to meet you,” she says, admiring Hummingbird. Her clear blue eyes sparkle. “You’re a lefty, huh? Like Kurt Cobain. I used to have a J-45.”

  “Like Aimee Mann! What happened to it?”

  “Oh.” She laughs. It’s a wry laugh. She’s the kind of person who does wry well. “It was part of a bad breakup. I still really miss it.” She turns those clear eyes to me. “Do you have a free this afternoon?”

  “I do.”

  “So come back at four, and we’ll see what we can do. I’m not supposed to add students this late in the term, but Chazzy has really made a case for you.”

  “That means don’t screw it up,” he says. But he’s smiling.

  He stays for class, which sucks, because he can’t help me figure what to use as an audition piece. So stupid that we didn’t figure that out before.

  I’m too nervous to sit still and practice, so I walk the loop past the boathouse and the barn, half hoping to run into Nick (of course). Things are quiet on the dock. Practice doesn’t start for a couple of hours. I decide I’ll play Gigi an old Glow song. It has enough vocal show-offiness to sound good if I do it right, and the chord changes are simple enough to fumble through on my guitar. I know it backward and forward, thanks to Hannah. She had a record she used to play endlessly when I was a kid.