Dark Companion (2 page)

“I’m going to miss you, girlfriend.” I wondered when she’d last slept or eaten a real meal. “How are you doing? How are you
really
doing?”

“Oh, you know. You know how you been riding me to get my GED?”

“Because you’re as bright as a new penny.”

“That’s what Hosea used to say. Anyways, I’m gonna get my degree and go to beauty school.”

“Seriously? You’d be an amazing haircutter. You’re working those pink streaks.”

She flipped back her hair. “I did it myself. They’ve got videos online about cutting and styling and the other girls let me practice on them.”

“Wilde, maybe now’s a good time to clean up … because when you apply for those beautician licenses, I think they drug test you.”

Her eyes narrowed in warning. “Let it go, Jane. I
already
told you, I’ll clean up when I clean up.”

“Sure, I know you will,” I said, because Wilde got defensive every time I brought up this subject. “Hey, I’ll come back to visit when I can.”

“You do what you have to do and get settled in, baby girl. I’m gonna be fine even
without
you checking on me twice a week, and don’t deny it. My man, Junior, takes care of me.”

I gritted my teeth so I wouldn’t say what I thought about the midlevel thug.

When she gave me another hug, her hand snuck into my front pocket. “Some cash for your stash.”

“Wilde, you don’t have to…” I began, but she cut me off, saying, “Janey, you gave me running-away money when I needed it.”

I gazed around at the dismal surroundings. “It wasn’t enough to get you out of this place.”

“Well, you were always more ambitious than me. I got away from Mrs. Bitchard and that’s all that matters.” She shrugged her narrow shoulders.
“Quid pro quo.”

Laughing, I said, “Where did you learn that?”

“My clientele. See, I can talk Latin, too.”

A gray Volvo slowed on the street and the car’s window rolled down. The man inside leered at Wilde, who waved her hand at him and said to me, “Sorry, Mousie, I gotta get back to work. Now get outa here and show them rich girls that Hellsdale girls got brains, too!” Hellsdale was what we called our city, Helmsdale.

My friend sashayed to the car, swinging her hips widely as she called out, “Need some company, sugar?”

In another life, Wilde would have been a model instead of working the streets. I patted the bills she’d put in my pocket and walked slowly back toward Mrs. Prichard’s foster home. A shiny black Lexus was parked in front of the house. The men on the corner stared at me as I hurried to it, and I knew that they had already called in the license plate to their informant at the police station.

A driver in a blue suit got out of the Lexus just as I reached the front of the house.

“Hi, I’m Jane Williams. Sorry I’m late.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Williams. I’m Jimmy.” He tipped his cap. “I’m a little early. Mrs. Radcliffe didn’t want me to keep you waiting if there was any traffic. May I take your bag?”

As he was placing my ratty bag in the trunk, I saw that 2Slim, the local boss, had joined the corner crew and was now ambling toward me.

I told Jimmy, “I’ll be a minute. Do you mind waiting in the car?”

“No problem.” Jimmy glanced at 2Slim and got in the car.

I stood on the sidewalk and 2Slim seemed to take forever to walk to me. I admired the jaunty tip of his straw hat and the creamy suit that was loose enough to cover a shoulder holster. His skin was a rich caramel and his expression was friendly. “Hey there, Mousie. Going somewhere special?”

He’d never spoken to me before, and now I stood straight and spoke respectfully, because I wasn’t out of here yet. “Hello, sir. I’m going to Birch Grove Academy on a scholarship. It’s in Greenwood.”

“Birch Grove.” He hissed out a soft whistle through his even white teeth. “I heard of it. We had another Hellsdale girl go there before, a long time ago.”

The school’s headmistress hadn’t mentioned anything about another girl from Helmsdale. My confusion must have showed, because 2Slim said, “Nasty little thing left and never looked back. I don’t like people who forget where they from.”

“No, sir, I won’t forget.”

“Rich folk. You know the difference between them and us?”

I thought,
Yes, education, money, manners, culture, decency,
and waited for him to speak.

“It’s not only that they talk like they just sucked a lemon and dress uptight.” He pointed to a street memorial of plastic flowers and posters for the victim of a recent drive-by. “The difference is that we honest about who we are, what we
do
. They hide the bodies and think they so clean and
nice
.” His laugh had the staccato rhythm of automatic gunfire.

I smiled, because when 2Slim made a joke, it was best to smile.

He said, “I remember when you came here, all skittery and spitting mad, like you was rabid. Wasn’t sure if you’d want to get in the game like your girl Wilde, but I didn’t expect you to take the long view. You don’t have it all figured out yet, Mousie, so take care you don’t get your little neck snapped in a trap.”

“Yes, sir.”

He reached into his pocket and brought out a gold money clip holding a thick wad of bills. He counted out five twenties and held them toward me. “Here’s some cheese for little Mousie. No one from
my
turf’s gonna show up without a dime and shame Hellsdale. Can’t do nothing about your clothes now, but at least you neat and decent.”

I took the money, feeling the thick crispness of the paper. “Thank you, sir.”

“You remember me. You ever make good, you remember me. You know my name.”

“2Slim.”

“Too light to fight and too slim to win,” he said. “I was like you, Mousie, puny, so I had to use other resources.” He tapped one finger to his temple three times. “But for reals, the name’s Norton Barrows Blake. You remember that and I’m sure gonna remember you. Jane Williams, Little Mousie, the orphan girl with the spooky eyes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blake.” I didn’t want to be remembered as Little Mousie, the puny orphan girl who got shoved around and hassled. I wanted to be someone else.

2Slim stared at me curiously. “You never been like the others, you know. I could tell that from the start. Well, I got business to tend.” Then he flicked his bony fingers toward the car. “Go on now.”

2Slim stood there as I got in the front seat of the Lexus, and Jimmy, the driver, said politely, “You can sit in the back if you like, Miss. There are magazines and refreshments.”

I
should
have known to sit in the back. “I get a little carsick. Is it okay for me to stay here?”

“Of course, Miss Williams.” He moved to get out, but I closed the door before he could do it for me. He started the car, and I gazed out the window as we drove past a playground with broken swings and a toppled slide. We went by dirty walls and street signs all tagged with WTH, Welcome to Hell.

I’d heard that Eskimos have a hundred different words for snow; we should have had a hundred different words for filth because everything in Helmsdale was covered with grit and grime.

Jimmy said, “You can listen to the radio if you want, Miss.”

“Thanks.” I clicked it on to fill the uncomfortable silence. It was preset to a news station, and we listened to the entire broadcast twice as Jimmy steered along a series of freeways that led away from the group house, through the city, and beyond. I was conscious of my shabby clothes against the leather seat, but the fold of bills in my pocket reassured me.

Road construction slowed the trip, and three hours later we finally arrived in the town of Greenwood. It was set in a small valley below wooded hills draped with gauzy shawls of fog.

Jimmy turned on his headlights. “This place is in a fog belt. It’s overcast all year-round.”

I didn’t answer because I was too busy staring at a tree-lined main street with a row of shops, each with gleaming windows and colorful flower boxes. Jimmy took an avenue up a hill where enormous older homes were set back behind hedges. The color green was everywhere: deep green trees, vivid green lawns, and lush green bushes. I suddenly felt queasy and closed my eyes, but I could still see green, green, green, and I clasped my hands together and squeezed my eyelids tight.

“Feeling carsick, Miss Williams?”

Jimmy’s voice snapped me out of the weird feeling, and I blinked. “I’m fine.”

“Here we are, Miss. Birch Grove Academy.”

It was the first time, in a manner, that I had known space and air and freedom, all the music of summer and all the mystery of nature. And then there was consideration—and consideration was sweet. Oh, it was a trap—not designed, but deep—to my imagination, to my delicacy, perhaps to my vanity; to whatever, in me, was most excitable.

Henry James,
The Turn of the Screw
(1898)

Chapter 2

Jimmy turned right at a private drive marked by stone pillars and a lacy black ironwork archway in a leaf and branch design. A square brass plaque read
BIRCH GROVE ACADEMY FOR GIRLS
. The car’s tires crunched on the gravel road as we passed a garden. It looked like a park for the wealthy, with endless emerald lawns, flowering borders, and a pond with a fountain.

As the car rounded a curve, I gasped as I glimpsed Birch Grove for the first time. Towering evergreens framed a magnificent dusky coral building that rose three stories against the leaden sky. The photos in the glossy brochure hadn’t prepared me for how … how intimidating it was. I clenched my fists so tight my chewed-up nails dug into my palms.

Jimmy parked in front of the building, where wide white marble steps led to massive wood doors. I was so excited that I jumped out of the car before he even undid his seat belt. I walked to the steps, trying to take in all the details while Jimmy got my bag out of the trunk.

Above the ornate doors, a carved banner with
BIRCH GROVE ACADEMY FOR GIRLS
arched over a shield with a lantern, a fox, and branches. I read aloud the motto beneath the shield,
Ut incepit fidelis sic permanet,
and then translated the words in a whisper to myself. “As loyal as she began, so she remains.”

I tore my gaze from the building and saw sprawling sports fields to the right and a more modern building set back on the left.

“There you go.” Jimmy handed me my bag. “Mrs. Radcliffe said that she would meet you here. Would you like me to wait with you?”

“I’ll be fine. Thank you, sir.”

“Good luck, Miss Williams.”

The car drove off and I stood there alone in the fog, feeling bewildered and incredulous. I patted my pocket, making sure the folded bills were still there. I wanted to take them out and count them, but someone called out, “Hello, Jane!”

I turned to see Mrs. Radcliffe, the headmistress, walking around the side of the building, carrying a basket filled with branches. Despite the weather, she wore a wide-brimmed straw hat with a white blouse, navy sweater, and navy slacks.

The first time we’d met, I’d been puzzled when I was called out of class and sent to my academic counselor’s office. An unfamiliar tall, slim woman waited for me. She had smooth ivory skin, clear blue eyes, and sleek sienna-brown hair twisted back into a bun. She’d smiled graciously. “Hello, Jane. I’m Mrs. Radcliffe, the headmistress of the Birch Grove Academy for Girls. I’d like to talk to you about a scholarship.”

It had seemed too good to be true, but here I was.

“Hello, Mrs. Radcliffe.”

“Welcome to Birch Grove. Let me put these inside. Then I’ll give you a tour of the school and show you the cottage.”

I wanted to see the cottage where I’d be living right away, but I said, “That would be great,” and we went up the steps to the building.

“How was your drive here?”

“Fine, ma’am. It’s a long way.”

“Yes, it is. I don’t suppose you’ll be able to visit your old friends often, but I know you’ll make wonderful new friends here.”

“I hope so.” I slowed down my speech and movements so she wouldn’t see my nervousness. I wished there were someone who could cue me in on how to act with rich people. “I heard that someone from Helmsdale came here once. Do you know who she was? Maybe I could say hello to her if she lives nearby.”

“That’s an excellent idea, Jane. I’ll try to find out her name, but it may be a while. We lost records in a recent computer upgrade and some of our older information hasn’t been digitized yet.” She guided me down a hallway with shiny indigo-blue linoleum. Awards and trophies filled glass cases, and portraits of white-haired women hung on the walls. “Birch Grove girls become friends for life.”

Mrs. Radcliffe opened a door that had
ADMINISTRATION
in old-fashioned gold letters on the glass inset. A counter separated the front reception area from desks and file cabinets. She directed me around the counter. “This is my office.”

She opened a door to a room with antique furniture, Oriental rugs, lamps with amber shades, and gold-framed certificates. It could have been a room in one of the
Masterpiece Theatre
shows we had to watch in English class. Although everything seemed to be very old, there were no chips, cracks, or dirt.

“Excuse me while I put these in water.” As Mrs. Radcliffe passed close to me, I recognized her fragrance from our earlier interviews. It was a pleasant smell, like a newly mown lawn. She went through a doorway, and I heard running water.

Rows of yearbooks stood on a nearby shelf, and one was open on a polished table. I flipped through it and saw photos of girls with funny old-fashioned names: Emily, Susana, Grace-Ann, Roselyn … I was about to check the date of the yearbook when Mrs. Radcliffe returned with the slender arching branches in a vase.