I Am Her Revenge (3 page)

I take a deep breath and pretend this is all normal for me.

Claire leads me to a room on the second floor. It’s small, more of a closet than a proper room, with two truncated beds shoved into it. One tiny desk faces the window, while the other faces a blank wall. I toss my bags on the bed that’s not covered by an explosion of pink. “I took the desk by the window?” Claire says behind me, her voice vibrating with nervousness. “It used to be Emily’s. If you want it . . .” Her voice trails off.

“The other’s fine,” I chirp, putting my hands on my hips and looking around the room with a smile as if it pleases me. I don’t look at Claire. I don’t want to see the emotions passing across her face. She’s so open, so vulnerable. Ready to be eaten alive.

“I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Hallie, then,” Claire says, her default brightness restored, walking out of the room before I can answer.

Mrs. Hallie, the housemother, is a plump, gray-haired woman who wraps her arms around me as soon as I meet her, and I bite my lip and force myself not to push her away. I learned at public school last year that I’m not very good at enduring hugs. This embrace lasts an interminably long time, until she finally gives me one last squeeze and lets me go. “You’re just going to love it here!” she declares as she shows me the bedding and other necessities Mother shipped for me.

Claire grins and heads back down the hallway, leaving me alone with Mrs. Hallie, who tells me the house rules, all of which I already know: No drinking, smoking, or boys, ever. Curfew at nine on weekdays, midnight on Fridays and Saturdays. The gates to the playing fields are locked every evening at seven, and all other gates to the outside are locked at all times unless a student is given special permission to leave by a faculty member. Internet is shut off promptly at ten o’clock each night. She explains that there’s no cell reception in this part of the country unless you’re very lucky, so there are landlines set up in each hallway. “With international plans, dear, so you can call your mother whenever you like,” she says.

I keep smiling and pretending to care until this interview is over and I can retreat to my room with my boxes.

Claire and the rest of the chattering girls have disappeared to their afternoon activities. After that they’ll go to dinner, and then the library to do homework, which the teachers pile high onto all of us. I shove the textbooks Mother bought me in the corner of the room and concentrate on unpacking and transforming myself. I find a box of cereal among Claire’s things and munch on that for dinner.

I think about Ben, replaying the conversation we had after English class. And an image begins forming in my mind. I start by taking out my black eyeliner and defining my eyes even more, until their blueness is electric. I tear holes in my tights and rip stitches in my skirt to make the seams and hem even more jagged. My only school shoes are a pair of ballet flats, but I use red nail polish to scribble lines of poetry on their gold surface, the chemical scent eclipsing the faint floral perfume that permeates the air from Claire’s side of the room. When it’s dried, the lines of my favorite Catullus poem are scrawled around the sides of both shoes.

Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?

Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

There. Everything about me reflects a passionate, tortured soul, in need of saving.

I’m setting up my desk lamp when Claire comes back. Her ringlets seem deflated, as if the long hours in the library sapped some of her blonde energy.

“Hey,” I say with a soft smile and an uncertain voice.

Claire smiles at me, raising an eyebrow as she takes in my new black-rimmed eyes. She notices the open box of cereal on my side of the floor, too, but says nothing.

“How much homework did you get done?” I ask, approximating a sincere tone.

“Not nearly enough,” Claire says with a dramatic sigh, flopping onto her pink marshmallow bed. “I swear, they’re being bloody sadistic this year. Did you do that history reading? We’re supposed to learn about a hundred years in one night.”

“Haven’t started,” I admit. “Is it that bad?”

She nods, then smiles. “The teachers will probably give you a little leeway for a few days, since you’re a new student and all that? But they’re pretty demanding, just to warn you.”

“I’ll get it done.” Mother taught me speed-reading almost as soon as I learned to read. My time is meant for more important things than homework.

“Can I ask you something?” Claire says, tilting her head in that observant way she has, her eyes intently absorbing me.

I steel myself. “Sure.”

“Why did you come a month into the year? Wouldn’t it have been easier to finish it out back home?”

I shrug, bending to plug in the lamp. “I’ve been on the waitlist for a long time. When this spot opened up, I couldn’t pass on it.”

“What about university? Have you already applied?”

“I’m applying to places in the States,” I lie. Mother told the administration that I would be using a college counselor in New York for all of my college applications. Hopefully no one here will notice that I won’t actually be applying anywhere. “I’m not really worried about it.”

I can feel Claire freeze up behind me. “You’re not really worried about it?” she repeats. “And your parents are okay with that? Mine would chain me up and torture me if I didn’t get into Oxford or Cambridge.”

“My mother doesn’t care,” I say. My tone is clipped, and she takes the hint.

“Well,” she says, bouncing off the bed and rummaging in one of her dresser drawers. “I’m going to take a shower. The bathroom’s at the end of the hall, and it’s for the whole half of this floor, so there are thirty of us sharing it. It can get rather crowded at night and in the morning.”

I offer up a smile. “Thanks for letting me know.”

As soon as she’s gone and I’m alone in the room, I sit on my hard bed and rub my temples.

Before I can decide what I should do now, someone knocks on the door. I open it to find an unfamiliar brunette girl with a pixie cut and a bored expression. “You’re Vivian?” she asks, her tone matching her expression perfectly.

I nod.

“Your mum’s on the phone for you,” she says before walking away.

I peek out into the hallway and notice a monstrously large black phone on the wall. I walk to it slowly and close my eyes as I pick up the receiver. “Hello, Mother.”

“You were supposed to call as soon as you arrived.” Her harsh, icicle-laden tree branch of a voice crosses the Atlantic as clearly as if she were standing next to me, her cold gray eyes staring into mine with an almost tangible distaste. I can picture her face so clearly: the porcelain skin, with only the faintest hints of lines at the edges of her eyes and wide, thin-lipped mouth. The heart-shaped mole on her cheek. The prematurely gray hair curling at her forehead.

“I had no time alone,” I say. “The hallway has been crowded.” I wince at the lie.

“Then you should have figured out a way to get some privacy. You know the rules.” She speaks slowly, deliberate as always, her brutal words seeping through the telephone line.

Her reproach is a birch switch on my back. “Yes, Mother.”

“The report?”

I hold my head up, trying to overcome the lump forming in my throat. I’ve disappointed her, and I hate myself for it.

“Everything’s going great here!” I say brightly. There’s no one in the hallway, but I’ve already discovered how thin the doors and walls are, and I want to sound like a normal girl giving her doting mother her first impressions of her new school. My voice in its feigned cheerfulness bounces around the navy walls. “My roommate is really sweet, and I think we’ll get along great. And there was this very cute boy in English class.” I say this last sentence more quietly, though it’s innocuous enough.

“Your impression of him?”

“Popular and cute. I’m sure he’s got lots of girls swooning over him already. He seems very nice, though. Kind.”

“What is your plan?”

I laugh, a laugh that is high-pitched and clearly fake. I cut it off quickly. “Oh, I remember what you told me, Mom. But I think I might be a bit more vulnerable than you think I am.”

“Fine. Play the vulnerable girl if you think it will work on him. As long as you are sure. If you are wrong, it could cost us everything. Remember, I want email updates every night and a phone call every Sunday. No exceptions.”

“Of course, Mom,” I say, as if the lump in my throat is not growing larger.

She clicks off before I can say anything else, and I dock the receiver back in its cradle.

A hundred memories press down on me, and I stumble back to my room, sitting on the bed and closing my eyes tightly, hoping to push the unbidden recollections away. Still, these images of my mother flying into a rage crowd my thoughts. If I ever made even a whisper of a mistake, she would be overcome with anger so startling and violent that it would leave her almost incoherent. And it would leave me cowering in the corner of the room.

I’m still struggling to control my breath when Claire comes back in pink cotton pajamas and a towel wrapped around her head. It makes her light brown eyes seem even larger, like the open, trusting eyes of a baby doll.

I focus on that weakness and let a mask of nonchalance fall over my face. “I guess I should follow your example,” I say, getting up off my bed and hunting for my shampoo and towel.

I let the hot water in one of the old marble showers ease the stress out of my shoulders, ignoring the long line of grumbling girls waiting for their turn. When I’m done, I saunter past their scowling faces with hardly a glance.

When I get back, Claire is on her laptop, hanging out with her Ava avatar. Her Ava, who has blonde hair in ringlets just like Claire’s, is picking out an outfit for her from some online shop, showing her how to pair a mustard-yellow wool jacket with a brown tweed skirt. I start combing out my long hair in the mirror, glancing at Claire’s reflection. “What’s your Ava called?” I ask.

She meets my eyes in the mirror, startled. Then smiles. “I named her Victoria. After the queen, you know? Because she’s so strong and independent?”

I nod, as if I find this fascinating. I don’t understand the obsession with Ava avatars. But those digital dolls that you can install on your computer or phone have become increasingly popular since I was a kid, and Mother made sure to mention them to me in her lessons.

They serve many purposes. An Ava can model different outfits from shopping sites for you, showing you how to accessorize or the best poses to show off certain features. She can dispense advice about how to deal with bullies. She’s programmed with a plethora of clichés and positive can-do spirit. Everything she says or does depends on which model you buy—there’s an Ava for the glam girl, for the shy girl, for the lovelorn. A few years ago, they came out with a boy model so that shy boys could have best friends, too. They named him the Adam, which, though the name isn’t as catchy, sold just as well.

But the most intriguing feature of these avatars is that they can have conversations with their human companions. The more you talk to your Ava, the more intelligent and custom-designed she becomes. Soon, she knows her companion’s secrets and crushes and troubles and can tailor her questions and responses and suggestions accordingly. She mirrors her companion’s attitude and becomes the best friend she ever had.

It’s always struck me as a bit frightening.

“This is going to sound pathetic, but . . . I didn’t have many friends in primary school,” Claire explains, “so Victoria became my best friend. She taught me how to open myself up to people and be myself. I guess I’m too old to keep interacting with her, but she was just such a big part of my life, you know?”

“Sure,” I say encouragingly.

“Do you have an Ava?”

I shake my head. Aside from the fact that Mother was never very good with computers, she’s always hated Ava. She wanted me to interact with real people instead. Real people with secrets and facades and ulterior motives.

“You know there’s a boy in our class whose father invented them? Ben Collingsworth?”

“Oh, really?” I say, as if this means nothing to me.

“Mm-hm.” Claire focuses back on her computer. “Goodnight, Victoria,” she says.

“Goodnight, Claire!” Victoria says with an impressive amount of enthusiasm and a British accent. “Sleep well, and remember that tomorrow is a brand-new day! I’m sure your new roommate will see how fantastic you are in no time!”

I try my best not to roll my eyes. “So you told her about me?”

A blush is already staining Claire’s pale cheeks. “Yeah, I hope you don’t mind? I tell her everything.”

I smile a tight smile. “Of course I don’t mind.”

Later that night, I pull out my book of Tennyson’s poetry and begin rereading it. Claire is lying on her stomach reading a biology textbook, taking notes and kicking her feet in the air. At ten o’clock we turn off the harsh fluorescent light and leave only our desk lamps on, which creates a warm, hazy-rose atmosphere.

Here in this room with Claire, I’m feeling something I can’t quite define, but I think it’s contentment. I snuggle in my sheets, pretending they’re softer than the coarse, cheap cotton Mother sent, and dive into the familiar pages.