Dark Companion (10 page)

Class seemed to go by quickly. Mr. Mason spoke clearly and paused for questions, which he answered easily. As we were leaving, he stopped me. “May I have a word, Jane?”

“Yes, Mr. Mason?” I moved to the side of his desk.

“We go at a brisk pace in this class, and I want you to know that I’m here to help if you find yourself getting swamped.”

“Thanks. I can keep up in Chem, but I’d like to transfer out of Western Classical Lit.”

“Is there a problem with it?”

“I can’t really connect to the subject. Mary Violet Holiday suggested Mrs. Radcliffe’s nightmare course.”

“Night Terrors. I’m surprised the headmistress didn’t sign you up for that. It’s an excellent course. I’ll talk to the registrar at my break, and you can stop in at her office after school today to get your revised schedule.”

“I really appreciate it. Thank you, sir.”

Mary Violet was waiting in the hall for me. “Mr. Mason’s so valiant and tragic. What did he want?”

“He was checking on me. He’s going to talk to the registrar so I can transfer to Night Terrors.”

I wanted to ask her why she thought Mr. Mason was tragic, but she said, “You were staring at the periodic table. Which element are you?”

“You’re perplexing me. Do I have to pick one?”

“Perplex is a good word. You can have any element but potassium. That’s mine.”

“I thought you might pick something, um, noble like neon instead of a humble poor metal.”

“Oh, so you think I’m gaseous! Really JW, you wound me deeply.” She bumped my hip. “I’m potassium because when it comes into contact with water or air, it instantly combusts—kaboom!—into violet flames.
Violet
. You should have figured that out. Knowledge is power.”

“Or I could have guessed because metals are sonorous and I bet you make a ringing sound when you’re smacked hard.”

“Don’t you dare, Jane Williams! Do you have lunch now? Let’s go to the café-teria.”

As we walked down the stairs together, Mary Violet told me that they usually went off campus for lunch. “We go to the Free Pop or get something from the deli in the market. Everything else in town is too slooow and takes too long. On days with long blocks, we’re stuck here.”

“Why aren’t there any fast-food places around? At my old school we had them right on campus.”

“The Birch Grove Alumnae Club makes the mayor’s life a living hell any time there’s a rumor that a fast-food place might move in.”

We went into the cafeteria and I smelled the wonderful aromas of Italian food and something baking, like cookies. “I’d rather use my lunch pass anyway. What’s good?”

“The salad stuff is always fresh, and the pasta’s good. Everything’s homemade and organic since the alumnae are terrified that we’ll have mutant babies if we eat anything with pesticides.”

“You sound like you’d
like
a mutant baby,” I said as we served ourselves mixed lettuces that I didn’t recognize.

“I’d prefer an alien baby with soft fur, like a kitten, but violet, of course.” Her big blue eyes opened wide. “Quick! Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“In Helmsdale, they would say,
You hella crazy, bitch!
” Which made her burst into giggles.

“See, that’s why I adore new students. Hattie would never say that or threaten to smack me. Constance always
says
she’ll hit me, but she hasn’t done it since we were seven and I stole her black Barbie to add to my collection. What color are you, by the way?”

“I’m a tannish or brownish, I guess.”

“I would call you a café au
lait shade. If anyone asks what color I am, you can say that I have a peaches and cream complexion—doesn’t that sound yummy? But what
are
you?”

“Mixed up, like someone poured all the leftovers from soda bottles into a glass. My mother was part Mexican, and everyone thinks I’m whatever they are.”

“It’s called ‘projection’ in psychology. Why did your mother name you Jane?”

“I have no idea. Why are you named Mary Violet?”

“It was a grand-aunt’s name and you have to pay tribute or else you’re cut out of the will. When she died, all I got was her collection of Tom Jones memorabilia. She used to go to Las Vegas and throw her underwear at singers, but we only learned that after she passed away, which is tragic because I have
so
many questions.”

“I noticed that about you.”

“I’m intrigued by mystery and you’re
so
mysterious, Jane! You could be anything—even part Laplander.”

“That’s everyone’s first guess,” I said, which sent Mary Violet giggling.

We split up at the hot entrées counter. I got something called pasta primavera, warm bread, and an apricot bar. I looked around for a place to sit, and Mary Violet came back and jabbed me with an elbow. “Come
on,
slowpoke.” She headed to a table near the lounge area. “This is reserved for juniors, although a few underclassmen might be allowed if we decide they’re worthy. Naturally, I was invited to sit here last year because I’m so fabulous.”

Hattie had a later lunch period, but Constance was already there. I sat at the end of the table, kept quiet, and observed the clusters of students. I’d been to enough schools to know that they all had the same cliques. Birch Grove was different, though, because geekishness was a common denominator, and no one seemed embarrassed by it.

I must have looked puzzled at some of their slang, because Constance explained, “Everything here has a nickname. The main building, Birch Grove Hall, is B-Gro, and the other building, Founder’s Arts Building, is Flounder.”

The other students told me that the nickname for the gymnasium was the Gin Nauseum, and the Founders Memorial sports fields were called Fo-Mem or Foaming at the Mouth.

Mary Violet said, “Do you have a nickname, Jane?”

“No, I’m just Jane.” Plain Jane.

“We’ll have to get to know you better and we’ll give you one. My grandfather was Horrible Holiday because he was a terror of the football field.”

Constance asked to look at my schedule and said to Mary Violet, “Jane’s got Ms. McSqueak for Trig!”

“Oh, you’ll love her,” Mary Violet said. “Especially when she says ‘hypotenuse.’ You have to count how many times she says it before Thanksgiving break and then guesstimate the total number over the semester.”

“We have a pool and it only costs a dollar to enter,” Constance said. “Whoever’s assigned the front right desk has to keep track, and then there’s a prize to whoever guesses the closest.”

Mary Violet said, “My mother won when she had Ms. McSqueak. She guessed one hundred and sixty-seven and she was right. We’re all so proud of her.”

I discovered what they meant when I went to Trigonometry. My teacher, Ms. McPeak, was a tiny ancient woman who gesticulated wildly and was covered with chalk dust. Her reedy voice broke upward on the last syllable of each word, especially hypotenuse. I counted four times and wrote it on the corner of my notebook cover.

Then I had history, which was mind-numbing, but at least the tests didn’t ask for personal interpretation. When the bell rang at the end of the day, I went to the registrar’s office and waited behind other girls trying to fix their schedules. When it was my turn, I asked to change classes.

“Hmm,” the registrar said. “Mr. Mason talked to me about that. Students reserve their spot in that seminar one or two years ahead of time.”

“But I just transferred in, ma’am. If there’s a space…”

“I can put you on the list for next year.”

I was trying to judge what tactic would work with her, whether I should get whiny, friendly, or demanding, when a voice behind me asked, “Jane, how was your day?”

I turned to see Mrs. Radcliffe. “Hello, ma’am. It was good, thank you.”

“Can I help you with anything?”

The registrar said fussily, “Miss Williams wanted to transfer into your class, and I explained that it was full and requires a reservation.”

“You’re quite right, but I think we can make an exception for Jane. Would you please handle the paperwork, Mrs. Dodson? Thank you so much.”

“Of course, Headmistress.”

As the registrar printed out a new schedule for me, Mrs. Radcliffe said, “Jane, I’ll have Lucian call you soon to arrange his tutoring sessions.”

“Okay.” I was amazed that she had both the desire and ability to help me—and I was excited at the thought of spending time alone with Lucky.

My homework kept me busy all evening. I spread all my books and papers on the floor and worked there. When night fell, I went outside and gazed up toward the Radcliffes’ house, thinking that I might be able to see their lights through the grove. The black splotches on the white-barked trees looked like pale, amorphous faces. The more I stared at them, the more they seemed to be gazing back at me.

I focused on the trunk of one tree and, when the clouds overhead moved, the shifting shadows seemed to reveal the face and body of an ethereally lovely woman. Her dress was made of the paper-thin bark and her eyes were as black and shining as anthracite. The scar on my shoulder suddenly burned as hot as fire.

The branches thrashed in a gust, altering the pattern of moonlight on the bark. In that moment, I thought I saw the woman smile at me.

I spun around and raced into the cottage.

I slammed the door shut and locked it quickly. My heart pounded and I was trembling because, because …

Because I thought I recognized her.

I slid to the floor and clutched my left shoulder hard, pressing against the pain, and it faded away. When I stopped shaking, I stood and opened the door. All I saw were trees.

Whilst he was petting the horses and trying to quiet them, dark clouds drifted rapidly across the sky. The sunshine passed away, and a breath of cold wind seemed to drift over us. It was only a breath, however, and more of a warning than a fact, for the sun came out brightly again.

Bram Stoker, “Dracula’s Guest” (1914)

Chapter 9

I thought my morning would be manageable because I had Latin, but when I walked into the classroom Catalina was there arranging her books on a desk. Her luxurious amber hair hung in curls down her back and gold earrings gleamed on her earlobes.

“Please sit at your assigned seat.” The teacher, Ms. Ingerson, was looking right at me. She was a sturdy woman with cropped hair the color of a dead lawn and brownish yellow eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses.

To my dismay, I spotted
Jane Williams
on a piece of paper atop the desk beside Catalina’s. The stunning girl raised her eyebrows in disdain, and I rolled my eyes at her in response.

The moment the bell sounded, Ms. Ingerson began class.
“Salvete, discipulae. Latine colloquamur
.
”
Hello, students. Let’s speak in Latin. She put us through a series of rapid drills. I could barely follow what she was saying, and I kept flipping through my dictionary, trying to translate. When the bell rang an hour later, I felt as if my brain had run a marathon.

Catalina gathered her things and stood gracefully, watching me as I scribbled down what I could recall of our homework assignment. She waited until I shut my notebook and then said, “Maybe this isn’t the right place for you.”

“Thanks for your condescension. Guess what? I don’t care.” I shoved my books in my tote and stood.

“You
should
listen to someone who knows something.” She tossed her head dismissively. “So the headmistress has enrolled a new scholarship student, another poor little homeless thing.” Her accent was barely discernable, only evident in the full rounded vowels. “Harriet Tyler has adopted you, no?”

“No one’s ‘adopted’ me. I can take care of myself.”

“Hattie was friendly to the other scholarship girl, too. Another
pobrecita
like you.”

If Wilde were here, she would shriek “Get the bitch!” and jump Catalina, hauling out hanks of her hair. I spent a moment enjoying that fantasy before saying, “The world has as many poor girls as it does nasty snobs.”

“The world may be full of poor girls, but not Birch Grove Academy. One poor girl vanishes, and another quickly replaces her. But why?”

“The scholarship was available.”

“Then why not a freshman, instead of someone who will always be behind? As for snobs, your so-called friends are among the worst at the school.”

“I don’t need your concern.” I resisted the urge to swing my tote at her head, and I walked away.

*   *   *

When Constance invited me to go off campus, I told her I was going to eat in the cafeteria. She said, “Next time then. How was Latin?”

“It would have been better without Catalina. She told me I shouldn’t be here.”

Constance grinned. “Welcome to the club. Being insulted by Catalina is a rite of passage here. She called me Rotten Applewhaite for weeks. Once she told Mary Violet that if she didn’t stop sitting at the upperclassman table she would slap her like a maid who steals jewelry. Of course, Catalina said it in French because she thinks MV actually speaks French.”

“I thought she did, too.”

“No, she takes German, but she thinks French is more glamorous. MV made me translate and I told her Catalina thought she had the most beautiful hair at Birch Grove.”

“At least Catalina didn’t jab me with a pin while her friends made a video.”

“Did that happen at your old school?”

“Frequently. I think it was offered for five units as a performing art.”

*   *   *

My last class of the day was Expository Writing. The classroom was in the Founder’s Arts Building, aka Flounder. I got lost in the hallways before finding the classroom in the basement, so I was five minutes late. The first thing I noticed was a row of computers on tables against the wall. Wooden file cabinets lined another wall.