Locked Inside (4 page)

She shrugged, then straightened her shoulders. Well, okay. She knew when to stop pushing. She did.

She’d be good.
Their
version of good.

Across the room, on her computer monitor, Marnie’s screensaver program drew, dissolved, and redrew an endless cycle of spinning mazes. She stared at it for a while. Then she sat down before it and logged on to Paliopolis, even though it was far too early for the Elf to be there. She tapped her fingers slowly on the keyboard for a moment and then retrieved and read his character profile. Yes, she’d remembered correctly: he had registered an e-mail address. She frowned, not quite believing she’d break her own “no outside contact” rule. But this was a special case. For the first time, she sent him a direct e-mail.

Hey, loser. I’m not going to be around for a while. I have to make sure I don’t flunk out of school. See you later … maybe.

That night, she did homework and went to bed at eleven. And the next morning, she showed up at Mrs. Fisher’s office for the conference exactly one minute before eight.

However, Mrs. Fisher was not there. And after fifteen minutes of waiting outside her locked office door, Marnie figured out that the conference must be at the dean’s office, across campus. Clenching her fists, she took an extra moment to curse Jenna for having synopsized—rather than read aloud—Mrs. Fisher’s note.

And then, more honestly, she cursed herself, for not taking the note back from Jenna.

Then she raced. But by the time she got to the dean’s office, she was a full half hour late. A half hour during which Mrs. Fisher, the dean, and
Max—on the speakerphone in New York—had been waiting.

Waiting and discussing Marnie’s March Internet access statement. Mrs. Fisher had a copy in her hand and a smug “aha!” look on her face.

I
t was the definition of irony, Marnie decided that evening, bitterly. She’d gone to the meeting full of penitence; she’d even brought last night’s homework as actual evidence of reform. But neither Mrs. Fisher nor the dean had been interested. They’d pushed the Internet statement in her face. Someone had taken a thick red marker and circled the total number of connected hours for the month of March. As if you wouldn’t notice it otherwise. One hundred and ninety-three.

One ninety-three, rhymes with coffee and tea. And fiddle-dee-dee. Money-back guarantee.

Mrs. Fisher was watching her.

Okay. Six point two hours online per day; Marnie supposed it
was
a lot. But weren’t there people who spent even more time watching television?

“Marnie, what do you have to say about this?” Mrs. Fisher’s eyes were full of a kind of superior
pity. And seeing it, Marnie just couldn’t help herself.

“Dayum,” she said cheerfully. “I coulda sworn I hit two hundred. Well, maybe this month. Anybody care to bet? Closest without going over?”

There was a brief silence. Then the dean said to Mrs. Fisher, “I see what you mean.”

Mrs. Fisher nodded. “This is not a joke,” she said to Marnie. “You’ve raised passive-aggressive behavior practically to an art form, but we can see the truth behind it. We are talking about a very real addiction. Even a dangerous one.” The sympathy returned to her eyes, though now it looked a little forced. “We were on the point of expelling you. But I’ve checked all your old Internet access statements, and this one is the worst. This is clearly a growing problem. We can help you, though.”

Marnie opened her mouth to roar a spontaneous Handel-inspired
Hallelujah
, and then, barely in time, remembered that she’d come here intending to make amends. Still … addiction? Oh, please.

Mrs. Fisher’s chest had expanded like a strutting pigeon’s. “Don’t you want to fit in better here? Be more like the others? You’d be happier then.”

Marnie’s brain skidded to a full stop. For a second she couldn’t believe her ears. Fit in?
Fit in? That
would make her happier?

“Something to think about, hmm?” said the insufferable Mrs. Fisher. Marnie gritted her teeth as the woman continued. “We have a plan to help you beat this thing. First, Ms. Slaight will be coordinating tutoring sessions for you next week during break. She volunteered. You need help in everything
but math. You should know, Marnie, that Ms. Slaight has been very much your friend. We had a meeting with all your teachers, and she was one of those who argued that you can succeed here, and we should give you another chance.”

What?
Ms. Slaight? Oh, no, Marnie thought. Anyone else, please—anyone but her. This was intolerable.

“That should help you get caught up in your classes,” Mrs. Fisher continued. “And it will keep you really busy, so that you don’t even have time to think about the computer. We’re confident that with some concentration, you’ll catch up fairly quickly. No one questions your intelligence, Marnie. Are you willing to work hard?”

Marnie looked down. She thought about pulling out her hatpin; transforming it into some kind of magic wand. She’d wave it at Mrs. Fisher and the dean and turn them into Internet-crazed fiends. The dean would find herself watching the Africam obsessively hour after hour in hopes of seeing a rhino visiting the water hole. Mrs. Fisher would bid wildly on secondhand figurines and limited-edition plates from the Franklin Mint, building a huge collection that she’d stack up, in unopened boxes, all over her apartment. Max would day-trade Internet stock until his eyeballs gleamed red. And then—

Marnie disciplined herself. She nodded.

“You’ll make a serious commitment to work hard, to catch up?” Mrs. Fisher was insisting.

They wanted it out loud. Marnie said dully: “Yes. Sure. Okay.”

Mrs. Fisher’s lips pursed at her tone, but she
nodded anyway. “Good. Next, we are removing your computer from your room. When you need a computer for your schoolwork, you may use one in the library.”

The dean added, “Under supervision, of course.”

For one entire minute, Marnie could not think at all.

Then she said: “Excuse me?”

The dean said evenly, “You heard us the first time, Marnie. No computer. We know how you must feel. But you’re not to be trusted, any more than an alcoholic can be trusted with a bottle.”

Marnie watched the dean’s lips move. She watched Mrs. Fisher nod in agreement. The words floated by her ears. She cocked her head at Mrs. Fisher. Distantly she wondered, was Max buying this? Why was he so silent?

Then she thought of the Elf. She’d actually already told him she was going to be away for a while. He wouldn’t even wonder where she was. He wouldn’t give her another thought. Huh. Funny how much that hurt. In a remote way, of course.

Mrs. Fisher was going on. “Lastly, when break is over, you’ll begin seeing the school psychologist. Three times a week. To talk about these very serious issues; to get a grip on your dysfunctional areas.”

A psychiatrist? Dysfunctional areas?

For several seconds, as if she were on the point of fainting, Marnie’s vision filled entirely with white.

Words suddenly hammered in her head; her throat. Losers! Clueless, ignorant … losers! How dared they talk about her being happier! A lobotomy would make her happier too, had they thought
of that? Not that they were truly concerned with her happiness. They didn’t care who Marnie Skyedottir was, what she wanted, what she thought—

She opened her mouth to let it all loose.

As if Max somehow knew what she was about to say, from the speakerphone came his disembodied drawl. He sounded tired. “Marnie. I have something to say too. The thing is, Skye wanted you to have a good education. She said so very distinctly in her will. It was one of her charges to me and to you. It meant a lot to her. You know that. Please, can’t you focus on it?”

Marnie paused. The stream of furious words in her head stuttered to a stop. They were still there, but somehow she couldn’t reach them.

What would Skye want? Not for Marnie to move in lockstep with others; Marnie was sure of that. The psychiatrist? Skye had believed in self-examination, but not when it was against one’s will!

And the computer … ah, Skye wouldn’t have cared.

Mrs. Fisher, the dean, Max—they were ignorant and wrong! The problem wasn’t her online time. And it wasn’t fair that these people should have power over her, should be able to make these summary judgments. It would be years until she’d be free; how could she wait until then?

She tried to calm herself. She looked away from the nearly irresistible provocation of Mrs. Fisher’s and the dean’s face, down at her own hands. They were very different from Skye’s hands—squarer palms, shorter fingers, rounder nails—and that was peculiar, wasn’t it, because her feet were shaped
exactly like Skye’s. Marnie could remember, vividly, how Skye had laughed when Marnie’d noticed their feet. Marnie had been ten. They’d plunked down on the sofa side by side, propped up their feet on the coffee table, and just looked. Skye had said reflectively,
I like feet. They’re so useful.
Wiggling her toes, Marnie had decided right then that she liked feet too—all feet, even ugly ones.

A long time ago, from that day to this. All at once Marnie was aware that she had developed a nasty headache.

“Marnie?” insisted Mrs. Fisher. Her voice was soft now, which was good. Marnie exhaled softly. Suddenly and fiercely, she needed to get out of there.

The dean was biting her lip. “Well, Marnie? We’re pressed for time. Mrs. Fisher has laid it all out. These are the conditions under which you may remain at Halsett. Do you understand?”

Oh, yes. She understood, all right.

“Marnie?”

“Yes,” said Marnie finally.

“And you agree?” asked the dean.

Oh. They wanted her to say it twice. Sadists. So Marnie liked Paliopolis better than Halsett Academy. What was so dysfunctional about that?

“Yes,” said Marnie. She was just buying time, she decided. She’d think this all out later.

“Good,” said the dean. “Then we’re done. Excellent. Marnie, Mrs. Fisher will talk with you later about the details—the tutoring during break, and so on.”

Mrs. Fisher laid a hand on Marnie’s arm. “I think
you’ll find,” she whispered conspiratorially, “that one day you’ll be glad we had this conversation.”

Yes, and one day Marnie would sprout wings and flit from flower to flower singing operetta. She pulled back sharply so that Mrs. Fisher’s hand dropped off her arm.

Later. She’d think this all out later. She heard Max say good-bye to the dean. He said something to Marnie, too, but she didn’t listen. She couldn’t. She heard the line disconnect. Fine. That was fine. That was best.

She walked, steadily, through a gray haze to the main quad. She went to her next class. Then she took some aspirin and went to the class after that.

She knew her computer would be gone when she got back to her room. And it was. But it still shocked her to see the emptiness of the desk. It made her feel—violated.

On top of which, she thought drearily, now she’d never find out if the Elf had answered her e-mail.

Which, she knew, was a silly, silly,
silly
thing to be the final straw that broke—

T
he next day was Friday, the last day of classes before break. Lots of girls were leaving that afternoon; long before breakfast Marnie could hear the commotion as they packed. If last semester’s break was any guide, she’d be the only one left on the floor after five o’clock.

For a moment she thought she might be making a mistake, staying here at a near-empty school instead of going to New York. But she’d set the pattern years before, made it very clear to Max that the apartment on Central Park West wasn’t home and never could be. When she
was
there, Marnie always lived out of her suitcases rather than unpacking, and made sure Max and Mrs. Shapiro knew it.

She wondered, sometimes, if they were uncomfortable in that apartment as well. There was something about many of the rooms that said they were usually unoccupied.

“No family life. Yet another symptom of dysfunction,” she told her weary image in the mirror. She looked terrible, so she drew on her dark eye makeup with a heavier hand than usual. She tried not to look at her empty desk but couldn’t quite avoid it. It was very dusty. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cleaned.

She wondered where they’d put her computer. In some closet somewhere, right in this dorm? In Mrs. Fisher’s apartment downstairs? With the Elf’s e-mail probably sitting there on it, unread. It just killed her.

Then she blinked. She was a complete idiot. The meeting yesterday had truly messed up her head. Because of course she didn’t need her own computer to check e-mail. She hadn’t downloaded anything. Her mail was still floating in cyberspace. All she needed was any computer with a Net connection. She could skip right over from the school’s server to the one on which she kept her private account. No problem.

Hel-
lo
, Elf.

With a library computer—no, that would be too blatant, especially now, without other students around to distract attention. But every Halsett girl had her own computer, and nearly everyone would be gone by this afternoon. There was sure to be someone who was careless about locking her room.

Marnie headed off to breakfast with a slightly accelerated pulse. She loved having a plan; and the specifics of figuring out how to get to a computer and access her e-mail made her feel almost as if she were in Paliopolis. Not to mention the pure joy of
thwarting Mrs. Fisher, and Max, and, oh, all of them.

Take that, buffoons! Marnie stabbed her imaginary hatpin in the air.

The cafeteria was nearly empty—people skipping breakfast in favor of packing. Jenna Lowry, however, sat alone at one end of Marnie’s usual table. She was reading a paperback book that she held open on the table with one hand. Half a bagel sat untouched on her tray.

Marnie knew she could plunk herself down anywhere; there were no seating arrangements for breakfast. But something in her was stubborn. She placed her tray directly across from Jenna, who scowled. Marnie lifted her orange juice glass in a mocking little salute. Jenna’s nostrils flared with disdain before she returned, theatrically, to her book.