Gilda Joyce: The Ladies of the Lake (12 page)
Read Gilda Joyce: The Ladies of the Lake Online
Authors: Jennifer Allison
Gilda felt incensed when she finished reading the article.
There’s not a single mention of the fact that Tiara saw a ghost, and that the whole freshman class completely freaked out!
Gilda had resisted extracurricular activities in order to save time for her investigation, but now she felt an urge to join the staff of
The Petunia
.
They obviously need my help
, she thought.
As its name suggested, the school newspaper at Our Lady of Sorrows was not known for its investigative reporting or relevance to anything that would ordinarily be called news.
The Petunia
, which was sometimes published weekly and sometimes not at all, featured movie reviews, an advice column, a fashion column, and an editorial page open to any member of the student body (most often featuring only one side of the issue discussed). Most of the news in the paper consisted of personal-interest stories about students and faculty, along with erratic reports on various school events.
The newspaper staff met at a bank of computers in the school library. Suddenly feeling nervous, Gilda approached the girls who sat at computers, typing busily. Most of the staff
members were juniors and seniors: Gilda noted a distinct absence of pink skirts and the presence of lattes from Starbucks that had been smuggled into the computer area without the librarian noticing.
“We’re probably not going to be done until the end of this period if you’re looking for a computer,” said a senior named Leah whose eyes were rimmed with dark navy eyeliner. Gilda noticed that she wore high-heeled stiletto sandals with her khaki pants.
“I’m actually interested in writing for the paper.”
“Really?” Leah arched her eyebrows. “We haven’t had a single freshman want to join
The Petunia
yet this year.”
“Most of them can hardly write their own names,” said Gilda, eager to be viewed as more sophisticated than the average freshman.
“Then keep them out of here,” said Leah sardonically “We’ve got enough problems as it is.”
“Don’t worry. I doubt they can find their way to the library.” Gilda sat down at a computer, attempting to look as if she felt at home. “It’s such a relief to be around more mature people.”
Leah regarded Gilda with a bemused expression. “So … You’re interested in writing for
The Petunia
.” She folded her arms and scrutinized Gilda’s face. “Tell me: what’s your favorite lip-gloss color?”
“It depends.” Gilda responded without hesitation, as if this were a perfectly predictable question. “I like ‘Rootbeer Float’ if I’m just wearing it to put myself in a better mood during the school day, and ‘New York Red’ if I need more of a sultry look.”
Leah grinned. It seemed that Gilda had passed some kind of absurd test. “I’m researching an article called ‘Our Favorite Shades of Lip Gloss’ for the next issue of the paper,” she explained, sitting down next to Gilda. “Anyway, my name is Leah, and I’m the editor. And, if you haven’t noticed, I write the fashion column, too.”
“I loved your article, ‘It’s Not Too Early to Think About a Prom Dress,’” said Gilda.
“Based on the hideous outfits I see people wear outside school, I assume
nobody
reads the fashion column.”
“I took
notes
, and I’ve already decided I’ll be going strapless.”
“Fabulous. Let me introduce you to Danielle,” said Leah, rising from her chair and walking with a sinewy, catlike grace that seemed to belong in a smoky restaurant rather than a girls’ school. “Danielle’s great at showing new people the ropes.”
Leah led Gilda to a strikingly pale, dark-haired girl who stared at a blank screen with her chin resting in her palm.
Gilda recognized the girl who had introduced the Eating Disorders Awareness Club along with several community-service clubs with names like “Helpers for the Homeless” on the first day of school.
“Danielle, this is Gilda Joyce. She’s interested in writing for the paper.”
Danielle offered a wan smile.
“Gilda, you’ll have to excuse Danielle; she’s suffering from writer’s block.”
“Among other problems.”
“She’s
supposed
to be writing our advice column.”
“
You’re
Miss Petunia?” Gilda had been intrigued by
The Petunia
‘s advice column because it offered a glimpse into the secret problems and worries of girls in the school.
“‘Miss Petunia’ isn’t just one person,” Leah explained. “The big secret is that we
all
contribute answers to the questions.”
Gilda had always thought it would be fun to be an advice columnist. “Could I try answering a few?”
“I don’t see why not,” said Leah. “Danielle, since you have writer’s block, maybe you can get Gilda started answering a couple of those questions.”
“Sure, I guess.”
“Just make sure the advice column is interesting, Gilda, because at the moment, we have nothing for this issue except my lip-gloss article. Nothing!”
Leah sauntered back to her computer to write about lip gloss.
“What she doesn’t realize,” Danielle whispered when Leah was out of earshot, “is that I haven’t even
started
thinking about the advice column for the next issue; I’ve been trying to write my college entrance essay. That’s what’s killing me.”
Gilda had overheard seniors talking in the hallway about their college entrance essays—writing assignments that seemed to loom over them like executioners. Gilda had never experienced writer’s block herself (her eighth-grade English teacher had accused her of having “diarrhea of the pen”), so she had to admit that it was hard for her to understand what they were going through.
“It’s just so much pressure,” Danielle complained. “I’m supposed to tell a ‘meaningful story about my life,’ but it’s like
my whole life is dependent on one or two pages of writing, and I hate talking about myself anyway.”
Gilda noticed the dark circles under Danielle’s eyes. She had a pensive quality—an aura of sadness.
Danielle opened a file on her computer. “See? This is all I have so far.”
An Interesting Life Experience
by Danielle Menory
Throughout my life I have always strived to do my best. In high school, I have worked hard to achieve my goals. I’ve been active in community service: for example, each week I volunteer in a shelter for the homeless.
“Sounds like a good start,” Gilda lied.
“It does not.”
The platinum charm bracelet on Danielle’s wrist jangled as she tapped the Enter key on her keyboard nervously Her fingernails were painfully short stubs.
“Cool bracelet,” said Gilda, noticing that the charms included several crosses, a four-leaf clover, a tennis racket, and a ballet slipper.
“It was a birthday present.” Danielle exhaled a deep sigh of exasperation. “My parents are hoping I’ll follow in their footsteps and go Ivy League, but I’ll be lucky to get into community college with this essay.”
Gilda was gratified to hear a popular senior speaking to her in such a confessional tone. “Maybe you just need to jazz it up
a little bit, and maybe throw in some flattery to get the reader on your side,” she suggested. “I could help you, if you want.”
“That’s okay.” Danielle stared morosely at her computer screen.
“It’s no problem.” Gilda sat down at the empty computer next to Danielle and began typing at an explosive pace:
Dear Officers and Madams of the College Admissions Board:
I salute you! Without the hard work and rigorous standards of admissions officers like yourselves, our universities would be overrun by riffraff and pseudo-intellectuals.
As you can see, others may cringe from the dreaded college essay, but not I. Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Danielle Menory.
Don’t worry: I’m not about to bore you with the usual story about how I managed to pull straight A’s while also winning the school’s pie-eating contest for the fourth year in a row. I also won’t tell you that “here we go again” anecdote about how I happened upon a cure for my grandmother’s bunions while completing a science project on qualitative analysis. You’ll be relieved to know that I won’t even waste your time playing the “pity card” with sob stories of my appendicitis or the setback I endured due to my brief time spent in jail. I will simply say this: you don’t know it yet, but you need me. Here’s a taste of what I offer:
1) My grades range from fine to superfine.
2) My community service makes Mother Teresa look like a slacker.
3) (Fill in impressive qualification here.)
I’ll tell you more about myself when we have a chance to talk in person, preferably over pancakes and a latte.
Eagerly yours,
“Danny”
P.S. Next time you’re driving through Bloomfield Hills, don’t hesitate to stop by for a chat!
“How about something like this?” Gilda felt pleased with her ability to crank out a splendid college entrance essay in less than five minutes. She wondered why the seniors were being such babies.
Danielle leaned over to read Gilda’s draft of the college entrance essay. She stared at the computer screen with a confused frown. “I don’t know if that’s the kind of thing they’re looking for either,” she said tactfully.
“It would get their attention, though.”
“Gilda, you shouldn’t be worrying about my problem; we should get you going on some writing for
The Petunia
. Do you have any ideas for stories?”
“I thought the story about the flood in today’s paper was interesting.” Gilda spoke cautiously, aware that Danielle had written the story. “But I thought it would also be interesting to write a story called ‘The Mildewed Ghost,’ about how all the freshmen were freaking out because they thought the school was haunted. I could also investigate the story everyone tells the freshmen—about how the ghost of Dolores Lambert is
supposed to rise out of the water if you make any noise when you cross the bridge over Mermaid Lake….”
Gilda trailed off because Danielle wore a glazed expression that suggested that she found Gilda’s idea about as appealing as a plate of raw kidneys.
“You hate the idea.”
“I just don’t think we should perpetuate these kinds of ghost stories in the school; it gets everyone all worked up. Dolores Lambert was a real person, not just a ghost or something spooky.”
Gilda felt chastened, but she also sensed something about Danielle’s reaction that triggered what she thought of as her “psychic radar.”
“So—you must have been good friends with Dolores?”
“Friends?” A fleeting panic crossed Danielle’s face. She shook her head quickly. “Oh no. I hardly even knew Dolores. I just don’t think we should be writing about ghosts, is all.”
Gilda was certain that an article about Dolores’s ghost would be newsworthy, but she decided to let the subject drop for the time being. After all, it was her first day on the newspaper staff.
“The other idea I have,” Gilda ventured, “is a story called ‘The Senior Common Room: What’s
Really
in There?’”
Danielle laughed and seemed to relax. “That’s funny,” she said. “Believe me; it’s not as exciting as I thought it would be.”
“But everyone who
isn’t
a senior is so curious. If you published a paper with that as the headline, I guarantee, the freshmen would be talking about
The Petunia
all week instead of using it as toilet paper.”
“They use it as
toilet paper
?”
“Sometimes,” said Gilda, attempting to liven up the conversation. “I mean, only in emergencies.”
Danielle regarded Gilda skeptically. “Letting a freshman into the Senior Common Room would go against school tradition, but I’ll see what Leah thinks of the idea. In the meantime, it really would be great if you could write some Q & A for the ‘Miss Petunia’ advice column. And you could also start writing a profile of someone in the school—like a teacher or someone like that. That’s usually the first assignment for a new reporter.”
Gilda already knew she wanted to investigate Miss Underhill. She left
The Petunia
with a new feeling of excitement about Our Lady of Sorrows; she was bursting with story ideas that were certain to infuse some vitality into the wilting pages of
The Petunia
.
The Petunia
!
by Leah Jones
Our newest writer on
The Petunia
is Gilda Joyce. Although a mere freshman, Gilda is quite the writer: she has already written more than two novels!
Gilda lives on the east side of Ferndale, so she has quite the bus ride to get here to Our Lady of Sorrows. “I don’t mind buses,” Gilda comments. “Most of the germs you pick up on the seats wash off,” she adds.
Gilda’s favorite things include: “my typewriter, which was a gift from my dad (now deceased), finding leftover spaghetti in the fridge when I expect to find nothing but a moldy jar of jalapeño peppers, having a peanut-butter-and-banana-and-chocolate
sandwich on a rainy afternoon, and wearing my pink freshman uniform.” She adds that she is kidding about the last item.
Keep an eye out for Gilda Joyce!
