A Breath of Eyre (3 page)
Authors: Eve Marie Mont
“Yeah.”
“She’s pretty. She’s a rider?”
“Was a rider.”
“And that’s your dad?” I said, pointing to the other photo.
She snorted at me like I was a moron. “That’s Carl Sagan.”
“Oh.” Long, awkward silence during which I felt like a complete idiot. “So ...”
“So ...”
“I guess I’ll finish unpacking.”
Michelle gave me a look that implied,
do whatever you want
. She seemed self-contained, like there was no room inside her for anyone else. She put on a set of headphones and lay down on her bed with her back to me, bouncing her head rhythmically to the music. Not exactly what I’d hoped for in a new roommate.
do whatever you want
. She seemed self-contained, like there was no room inside her for anyone else. She put on a set of headphones and lay down on her bed with her back to me, bouncing her head rhythmically to the music. Not exactly what I’d hoped for in a new roommate.
I couldn’t wait for classes to begin just so I’d have a reason to leave the room. On Monday, we had a half day during which we ran through our schedules on a twenty-minute rotation so we could meet our new teachers, receive our books, and get our first week’s reading assignments. Michelle and I kept our distance that first week, as much as that was possible when you lived in the same room with someone. We were cordial, but we didn’t exchange schedules or gossip or watch late-night TV like the other roommates did. We didn’t go to the dining hall together and come back with our pockets full of cookies and free bagels. And we didn’t even commiserate over all the work Lockwood teachers piled on. Michelle liked to listen to her headphones while she did her homework, and I liked to study at the library on Old Campus.
Lockwood’s library was magnificent—an enormous Gothic structure that looked like something out of an Edgar Allan Poe story: three stories tall with an imposing stone façade and the notched roof of a fortress. Birds nested up there, so there was the constant sound of crows, adding to the Poe-like atmosphere. Rows of knotty oaks ran behind it, and the steeple of the chapel could be seen peeking through the trees a little farther down the lane. A big round tower flanked the north side; it reminded me of the tower where Hamlet sees the ghost of his father. Many years ago, the tower had been turned into a reading room with transom windows at the top to let the light in. It was the best place on campus to study, surrounded by ancient trees, watching the leaves fall above you.
By the end of that first week, I was exhausted from running between Old and New Campus, carrying a backpack full of heavy textbooks, and trying to make sense of all the daunting syllabi. The second week was even worse. I was already struggling in my French class. I was taking French II, so I had to endure the humiliation of being lumped with the freshmen, and even they seemed miles ahead of me. Probably because they spent six weeks in Paris every summer and had personal French tutors.
Our teacher, Madame Favier, was comfortingly plump with a short pouf of gray hair and enormous eyeglasses that made her look like an owl. I’d find myself looking at her and thinking, “Hoo? Hoo?” and imagine her replying, “En français, Emma. C’est
Qui? Qui?
” I understood the verb conjugations and memorized the vocabulary just fine; it was the speaking part that got me. My pronunciation was terrible. Whenever I was asked to read a passage aloud, I’d stumble through it like I had marbles in my mouth.
Qui? Qui?
” I understood the verb conjugations and memorized the vocabulary just fine; it was the speaking part that got me. My pronunciation was terrible. Whenever I was asked to read a passage aloud, I’d stumble through it like I had marbles in my mouth.
Music class was just as degrading. Many of the students had taken private piano and voice lessons since childhood. Elise had been christened a music prodigy when she was seven years old and sang like an angel. She was also gorgeous—slender with unfairly big boobs, long buttery blond hair, and the most amazing wardrobe of cashmere sweaters, expensive tweed skirts, and knee-high boots that made her look like a 1960s film goddess. Everything about her was soft and feminine and lovely, which made it all the more astonishing when you found out she was a mean-spirited, soul-crushing wench.
Unfortunately, she was in every afternoon class with me. European History was my least favorite. Last year’s history teacher, Mr. Morris, had been young and funny and innovative, but he’d been fired for “taking liberties with the curriculum.” The headmaster, Dr. Overbrook, had taken over the class temporarily. He was middle-aged, short, paunchy, and balding. His one unique attribute was the birthmark on his forehead that looked like Edvard Munch’s
The Scream.
When he was at the front of the classroom, I had to resist the urge to slap my palms against my cheeks and howl.
The Scream.
When he was at the front of the classroom, I had to resist the urge to slap my palms against my cheeks and howl.
History had never been my strong suit anyway. I just couldn’t make myself care about all those dates and wars and battles and religious edicts. But with Overbrook at the helm, it became even more intolerable. We were studying nineteenth-century Europe that year, focusing on the themes of Imperialism and Revolution. During Friday’s class, Michelle surprised us all by challenging Overbrook after he made an insensitive remark about third world countries being backward.
“Just because a country is third world,” Michelle said, “doesn’t mean it’s backward. My country, Haiti, is the only country in the Western Hemisphere to have had a successful slave revolution. But we lack the goods and infrastructure you would require to call it a civilized nation. Oppression by dictators and foreign occupation have made political autonomy there all but impossible. America has had its military in Haiti and other developing countries for centuries, and I think it does more harm than good.”
Overbrook glowered at her. He generally discouraged discussion and debate.
History is about facts, not opinions,
he always said. He cleared his throat.
History is about facts, not opinions,
he always said. He cleared his throat.
“Excuse me, Ms. Dominguez, but the presence of American military in
your
country is the only reason Haiti has any roads, hospitals, houses, or infrastructure at all. America has been the salvation of countries like yours all over the world. Just because you disapprove of the politics that have prevented your native country from thriving does not make the U.S. a tyrant. The very system you condemn makes it possible for the rags-to-riches tales of so many of our most successful American leaders. Those of us lucky enough to live in this country recognize that it’s the greatest country on earth and are thankful for the opportunities we’ve been afforded here. I would think that as a daughter of immigrants you might agree.”
your
country is the only reason Haiti has any roads, hospitals, houses, or infrastructure at all. America has been the salvation of countries like yours all over the world. Just because you disapprove of the politics that have prevented your native country from thriving does not make the U.S. a tyrant. The very system you condemn makes it possible for the rags-to-riches tales of so many of our most successful American leaders. Those of us lucky enough to live in this country recognize that it’s the greatest country on earth and are thankful for the opportunities we’ve been afforded here. I would think that as a daughter of immigrants you might agree.”
Elise snorted and gave her friends a knowing look, and they all sniggered like morons. Elise’s roommate Amber Stone was a miniature poodle version of Elise, cuter and smaller but impeccably trained. Jess Barrister was tall and cross-country skinny with a long face and a withering stare. And Chelsea Anderson was the ugly one they kept around to make themselves feel better. Her father also co-owned the Boston Celtics, which made her quite popular among guys, and therefore, socially useful.
Michelle continued, undaunted. “I
am
grateful to live in a country that allows me an education and a home and food on my table. What I’m saying is, we shouldn’t be so narrow-minded as to think that our government and way of life are the only ones that work. Or that they’re necessarily the right ones. Especially when we see daily how this country abuses the very freedoms we have by victimizing and oppressing other cultures.”
am
grateful to live in a country that allows me an education and a home and food on my table. What I’m saying is, we shouldn’t be so narrow-minded as to think that our government and way of life are the only ones that work. Or that they’re necessarily the right ones. Especially when we see daily how this country abuses the very freedoms we have by victimizing and oppressing other cultures.”
Overbrook strolled to the door, twirling a piece of chalk in his hand. “Oh, yes, everyone is a victim in Ms. Dominguez’s philosophy. My dear, you’re going to have to accept the fact that this world is about survival of the fittest. Kill or be killed. The law of the jungle is the law of man.”
“But we aren’t animals—” Michelle said.
“Enough, Ms. Dominguez. I’ve grown tired of this pointless debate.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
He scowled at her and raised an index finger. “You are finished.”
“But—”
“Ms. Dominguez, please step into the hallway.”
Michelle flinched briefly, then stood up and walked out the door, shutting it quietly behind her. I admired her for standing up for her beliefs, but I worried where it might get her, fearing it would be far worse than the outside of Overbrook’s classroom.
Physics came next. Mr. Sarkissian was an adorable man with curly red hair and a slight lisp. Students could always get him off topic by mentioning time travel. Today, he was talking about Einstein’s theory of relativity, saying some scientists believed time travel might be possible during our lifetime.
“Time isn’t linear like people think,” he said. “It’s fluid, like my coffee.” He held up his glass mug, then dropped a sugar cube in it. “Stir a spoon through it, and the cube gets twisted, just like time can be twisted. One day, we’ll be able to use light to twist time and send particles backward or forward at will. They’re already doing it at the subatomic level.”
Michelle raised her hand. “Do you think humans might be able to go back and change the past?” she said.
Sarkissian rubbed a hand through his curls, coaxing them around his ear. “Not exactly,” he said. “I don’t think we’ll be able to change what’s already happened, but I do think we might be able to start a new path. Grow a new branch in the space-time continuum.” As comforting as this idea was, I didn’t think we’d ever be able to change the past. In life, there were no do-overs.
After Physics, I barely had time to grab a bagel at the dining hall before running down to the stables for Equestrian class. The instructor, Ms. Loughlin, had chosen Elise to be her assistant that year, and I knew Elise was going to lord it over the rest of us. That afternoon, Ms. Loughlin was telling us about the Interscholastic Equestrian Championship coming up in the spring.
“If you’re thinking of competing,” she said, “you’ll need to start training now. But you have to qualify first. There’s a written test in November and open tryouts in December. I know some of you have your own horse, but the school will lend out horses for training and competing as long as you qualify.” Michelle’s face lit up momentarily, and I wondered if she was thinking of entering.
“I’ve competed in I.E.C. every year,” Elise told us, flipping that silky column of hair behind her, “and I placed second last year. My mother says this is my year. For those of you who have never competed before, I’ll warn you that it’s very expensive—seventy-five hundred for entry fees and another thirty-five hundred for special training.” She looked directly at Michelle, and the warm light in Michelle’s face went cold.
Eleven thousand dollars? That kind of money was pocket change for most of these girls, but for Michelle, it was an impossibility. On our way back to Exeter, I ran to catch up with Michelle.
“Sometimes you can get a sponsor,” I said, trying to match her stride.
“What?” She glanced at me briefly but didn’t slow her pace.
“A sponsor. For the competition. Someone willing to pay your training expenses. You looked like you were thinking of trying out.”
“Well, I wasn’t.” Her glare implied that I should mind my own business.
Last period of the day was Brit Lit with Mr. Gallagher. I’d had Gallagher last year for Freshman Composition, and he was my favorite teacher at the school. I don’t know exactly why I worshipped him. Maybe it was the way his forehead loomed so large and noble, like his brain held all the wisdom of the world. Or the fact that he could recite “Kubla Khan” from memory. Or how his hair looked dark and wild, like it wanted to fly off his head. Rumor had it that he and his wife had separated, and sometimes when I was the first one in the classroom, I’d find him wiping off his eyeglasses, looking like he’d just been crying. He was dark and melancholy and brooding, like some dashing hero from a nineteenth-century novel.
That afternoon, he was telling us about our big research project for the year. We were to choose a classic novel from a list of nineteenth-century British authors and read at least fifty pages of it by Monday. This was on top of the Samuel Johnson essays he’d assigned for Wednesday. The class uttered a collective groan. It was last period on Friday with two minutes to the bell, and Gallagher had just dashed dozens of plans for shopping excursions to Boston, sailing trips to the Cape, and parentless parties with pot and beer.
“Now, come on, you knew this year was going to be a challenge,” he said. “You will be writing a research paper based around a thesis that is critical in nature. This will not be a book report. You’ll actually have to read this time.” The class forced some weak laughter, and Mr. Gallagher raised one of his jutting eyebrows. “Do you know what I mean by ‘critical’?”
I glanced up at the clock, willing the second hand to move faster. As much as I adored Gallagher, I lived in mortal terror that he might call on me some day, as I’d recently come to believe that my voice made me sound like a cartoon rodent. Besides, if there was any hope of him returning my affections, the chances were far greater if I kept my mouth shut.
“How about you, Ms. Townsend?” Gallagher said, confirming my fears.
“Um, critical,” I said, buying some time by repeating the word. “Critical means ... using criticism to prove your point?” I knew this was a feeble answer, but honestly I couldn’t speak intelligently in front of someone as good-looking and intimidating as Mr. Gallagher.
“I suppose that’s true,” Gallagher said, to my relief. Public flogging wasn’t his style. “But I was hoping for something a bit more ... incisive. How about you, Ms. Fairchild?”
“Critical,” Elise said in a breathy voice. “I don’t know what you’re looking for by way of a definition, but I know I’m an expert at it.” The class laughed, spurring her on. “Being critical is judging something, like what someone’s wearing, for example. Because it’s so ... trashy and awful, you can’t believe anyone would be caught dead in it.” She turned around in her seat, her eyes boring into Michelle’s red, off-the-shoulder sweater as her mouth curled into a smirk that reminded me of the Grinch’s evil smile that keeps going and going until it takes over his entire face. Amber gave Elise a dainty fist bump, and Jess and Chelsea both laughed under their breath.
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