The Casquette Girls (19 page)

“Fancy running into you here,” I squeaked.

His shoulders tightened when I spoke, but he just looked down at me with a blank stare. I couldn’t get my eyes to unlock from his.

A memory flashed in my head, too fast for me to catch it. Or déjà vu. Or something. Again, I had an overwhelming feeling that I’d seen him before.

He inched closer, until our bodies were practically touching again.

Is he actually going to kiss me?

His eyes looked peculiar, almost as if he was in some kind of trance. Something in his expression made him seem uneasy. Him being uneasy made me uneasy.

“Yesterday…” My voice shook. “I forgot to ask, have you had any luck finding your family?”

He pressed his incredibly red lips together until they became white. I immediately regretted asking. If he
had had good news, he would have mentioned it.

“I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry… What are you doing up so early?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but, before a word could come out, he snapped it shut again.

“Are you okay?” I quickly asked, having caught a glimpse of his mouth.

He nodded. The bright morning light washed out his pale face.

“Your mouth… I think it’s bleeding?”

His jaw tightened.
Is my close proximity making him nervous? Maybe he just doesn’t want to admit that he’s hurt
?
Beneath his pinched lips, I saw his tongue circle over his teeth. He looked like he was struggling not to implode.

“Um, are you sure you’re okay?” I raised my hand to his jawline, but he swatted it away and licked his lips.

“Oh my God, you
ar
e
bleeding.” I stood on my toes to investigate. “What happened?”

This time when my hand touched his face, he covered it with his own. I trembled, unsure whether I was terrified or excited by his touch. His head lowered closer to mine.

A loud squawk broke the silence.

He blinked. His gaze slid over to the crow
flapping on top of a street sign. He stared at it for a long beat, again like a hunter. The moment… our moment, whatever it was, was over.

“Do you think that is your crow?” He finally spoke. “The one who attacked you?”

“Ha. How could I tell?”

He forgot to snap his mouth closed – the lines of his gums were stained with blood
– when his attention turned back to me, I was staring.

“I bit my tongue, and it won’t stop bleeding,” he mumbled. “It’s not a big deal.” He picked up the one cup of coffee from the ground that, miraculously, had not been destroyed in the tumble.

Lights flashed, and a loud horn honked.

“Do you want a ride or not?” yelled a voice from the driver’s-side window. Désirée had followed through after all.

“That’s my ride, I have to—”

But he was gone. As was the crow. Just me with the single cup of coffee in hand.

My hands shook as I wiped the drips on the cup with the cuff of my sweater and then hustled to the passenger-side door. I prayed that the surviving coffee was the one with the vanilla as I stepped over a giant java puddle.

“Was that who I think it was?” Désirée asked as soon as I opened the door.

“Uh, Niccolò?” I handed her the cup of coffee.

She looked at me with one eyebrow raised as I climbed into the giant SUV.

“What?”

“Oh, don’t look at me with those doe eyes, sister. Parting ways with one of the hottest guys on this side of town before seven o’clock in the morning?” A wicked smile spread across her face. “I just might have underestimated you, little Miss Adele Le Moyne.”

My face burned. “It’s not what you’re thinking, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Riiiight.” She tapped her perfectly manicured nails on the steering wheel.

“Well, I’m sure you’re going to believe whatever you want to believe,” I snapped. The quickness with which I had slipped back into Parisian boarding-school mode startled me, but my defenses were sky high after the bizarre run-in.

“Hmm, maybe I really did underestimate you.” She put the car into drive. “Whatever, I don’t really care if the two of you were having an early-morning romp.”

I caught sight of my reflection in the window – a small smile fighting my lips. Just the idea that Désirée thought I stood a chance with Niccolò boosted my ego. But it also made me wonder why he had been out so early.
Had I busted him in a walk of shame, coming home from a late-night fling?

It was certainly plausible. In the city’s current state, there was nothing else to do before sunrise, and nothing was open that early. He was hot enough to have met someone so quickly. A twinge of jealousy bubbled.
What the hell, Adele? You don’t even know this guy.

“What’s the deal with his brother?” Désirée asked. “Does Gabe have a girlfriend?”

As happy as I was for the conversation to move from me to her, I worried that I didn’t have enough intel on Gabe to satisfy. “I don’t really know.”

Her face scrunched.

“If he does have a girlfriend, I’d assume she’s in Italy. He and Niccolò have only been here about a week.”

Her expression relaxed, and she turned on the radio. “I’m going to take Claiborne; it’ll be a lot faster.”

“Traffic?”

“There is no traffic, Adele. No one is back in the city. They’ve cleared most of Claiborne, so it’s faster to drive down. How do you not know this? Don’t you drive?”

“No, I was in Paris for my sixteenth birthday.” I refrained from telling her I didn’t even have a learner’s permit.

“Don’t you ever leave downtown?”

“Not really.”

When we pulled onto Claiborne, I quickly understood what she meant. The multilane avenue was almost completely empty. Despite it being rush hour, we were one of only a handful of cars on the road.

“Jesus, is that…?”

“Yep, the water line.”

Everything we drove past—an abandoned supermarket, a dilapidated bank, a gym, a hamburger chain, a laundry mat, a pizza joint, a housing project—everything had the same distinct mark of the Storm left on it: the water line. As we moved from block to block, the five-foot-high line continued alongside us.

Neither of us said another word for the duration of the ten-minute ride.

Eventually the houses became bigger, the cars became fancier, and everything became shinier. It was like we had entered another world.

No matter how many times I’d been uptown, its beauty never escaped me. Even in the aftermath of the Storm, St. Charles looked like a scene from an oil painting. Giant oak trees created a canopy over the long avenue of historic mansions, further preserving the feeling of exclusion.

Most of the damage on this side of town had been from the wind tossing cars around or ripping roofs off, and since St. Charles sat atop a natural levee, there had been less flooding, and more people had been able to return home. Uptown being far livelier than downtown was a weird role reversal – the lack of damage to the Lower Garden District shocked me almost as much as seeing the damaged areas of the city. I was overjoyed for these residents, but it was frustrating that the people with the most money seemed to have experienced the least amount of damage. I was going to have to bury that thought if I wanted to survive my junior year at
the Academ
y
.

Désirée easily maneuvered the sprawling SUV into the school parking lot and cut the engine.

“So, do you have any advice for me?”

“You only need to remember one thing to survive at Sacred Heart,” she said without looking my way. “Stay away from Annabelle Lee Drake.”

“Who is Annabelle Lee Drake?”

“My bestie.” Her fake tone was back to accompany her fake smile. It was as if she had switched on her uptown persona. She grabbed her bag and exited the car, slamming the door behind her.

As soon as I shut my door, a sharp noise signaled the activated alarm. I took it as a sign that I was now on my own. My heart sank a little, but what had I been expecting? That Désirée Borges and I would walk onto campus, arms locked, as she shouted introductions to all her friends? I took a peek at my reflection in the car window and tried to wipe the terrified expression off my face.

“Here goes nothing,” I whispered and followed the gaggles of uniformed teenagers towards the large iron gate that surrounded the campus, protecting the city’s finest youth from the proletariat.

There was no denying that the school grounds were magnificent.

The Greek-revival estate had a connected wing on each side and a white balcony that wrapped around the entire second floor. A large crucifix that had a green patina sat atop the small cupola on the roof. Workers bustled about, busy getting the courtyard landscaping back to its pre-Storm state.

As I walked through the giant iron archway that spelled out
Sacré Cœu
r
,
I remembered riding up the hill on the back of Émile’s Vespa to the original
Sacré Cœu
r
in Paris. From up top, we had watched the sun set over the city. The view from the hilltop basilica had been worth the trip to Paris in itself. Despite the symbolic pair of hearts sculpted every few feet into the concrete base of the building, I had a feeling that this Sacred Heart wasn’t going to be as romantic. One heart had a flame and a dagger piercing the center, the other was wrapped in a crown of thorns. I didn’t know a whole lot about Catholicism, but it seemed kind of twisted.

Wandering into the main building, I tried not to gawk at the other students. The halls were full of the kind of beauty only money could buy: glistening teeth, shiny coifs, sparkly jewelry on French-manicured fingers, and these were only the obvious details. Hair extensions, nose jobs, and even breast implants enhanced some of the more permanently modified minors.

The hallway buzzed with energy. I wondered if it had always been this lively or whether the recent integration of Holy Cross’ all-boy student body had anything to do with it. I tried to muster enough courage to approach a group of students that looked my age, but chickened out when they looked at me.
Patheti
c
.
Instea
d,
I walked over to a lonely-looking tween whose nose was buried in a book.

“Excuse me, can you tell me where the administration office is?”

Her face lit up as she pointed me in the right direction, and then looked a little sad when I thanked her and walked away.
Please don’t let that be me in a week
. I looked at my watch and hustled through the office door.

“Miss Le Moyne, I presume?” asked a white-haired lady.

“Yes. Hi, I’m Adele—”

“Here’s your schedule. They’re waiting for you inside.”

I pocketed the small card and paused in front of the set of closed oak doors; I had never been inside a principal’s office. She motioned for me to go in. I exhaled loudly – the doorknob began to turn on its own. I frantically grabbed it and looked back at the secretary to make sure she hadn’t seen anything unusual. Luckily, she was hunched over, cleaning her glasses on her blouse.

Principal Campbell’s office was classic feeling: navy-blue brocade drapes, walls of books and lots of framed accolades. A middle-aged woman in a red skirt-suit, reading glasses, and a tight ashy-blonde French twist stood behind a large oak desk. She looked more like a high-powered CEO than a high school principal. Across from her sat two other students: a boy with skin as dark as espresso beans and a close-shaved head, who looked even less excited to be there than me; and a short, buxom blonde with large ringlets cascading down her back, who appeared born ready for this meeting.

I felt a moment of relief when I realized I wasn’t going to be alone in this endeavor.
Maybe the three of us could band together as newcomers? I might actually be able to survive this place in a group of three.

All six eyes followed me from the entrance. I snuck a glance at the clock on the wall. I was still two minutes early, which at Sacred Heart apparently meant that I was late.

“Please take a seat, Miss Le Moyne.”

I moved quickly to the empty chair next to the boy. He was rubbing his head as if he expected something more to be there. It must have been a new cut.

Three fat files sat on Principal Campbell’s desk, one for each of us. I stared at the manila folder with my name on it.
What about my life could possibly fill a two-inch-thick file?

“Dixie Hunter, Tyrelle Johnson, and Adele Le Moyne, you are the three
displaced
students who were carefully selected to join the junior class of the Academy of the Sacred Heart. Holy Cross, in your case, Tyrelle.” There was something about the tone in her voice that said we were not actually welcome – like someone had forced her to invite us to her party. I think only two of us picked up on it: Dixie smiled cheek-to-cheek as if she had just won the lottery, while Tyrelle adjusted his tie and slouched to one side in his chair, despondent. I was pretty sure I could see a tattoo under the edge of his cuff. This was someone I could get along with.

“I hope you understand what a stupendous opportunity you have been given, as we almos
t
neve
r
accept transfer students.” She slowly took her seat. “Nearly all the student body has received their entire education within these walls, so you have a lot of catching up to do. The Academy of the Sacred Heart holds the utmost standards when it comes to both academic performance and grooming virtuous young adults, and it is imperative that this standard is upheld both on campus and off. You are now a part of this prestigious institution, and that privilege does not go away when you walk out of the door.”

Do not fidget
,
I repeated in my head as she continued talking up the school. Bu
t
I was completely uncomfortable, both physically and mentally. I had to concentrate just to sit up straight.

She only glanced my way once (at my messy bun, with total contempt) because she rarely took her eyes off Tyrelle. Her eyes kept dropping to his chest. I couldn’t see him doing anything offensive from my vantage, but I was too scared to move my head to get a real look. She said something in Latin, and I made sure to nod as affirmation of my attention.

“You must maintain an above-average grade point average, or you will automatically slip into academic probation. You will be expected to participate in extracurricular activities and to perform community service to ensure that your Ivy League college applications are impeccable. The Academy of the Sacred Heart has a 98% acceptance rate into the Ivies, and I won’t let anyone drag that record down. Do I make myself clear?”

We all nodded.

“Adele, we’re thrilled to have you transfer from Notre Dame International.”

I blinked my eyes repeatedly, trying to keep them from rolling at the pretentious mention of Notre Dame, where I had attended school for only two months, as opposed to NOSA, where I had been for over two years.

“We’ll expect great things from such a worldly artist.”

Worldly artist? These people really do choose to believe whatever they want
.
“Um, I’ll try not to disappoint.”

Dixie and Tyrelle both looked at me, equally unimpressed. I responded with an awkward smile.

“Well, I think I speak for the three of us,” Dixie said in a heavy Texas twang, “when I say that we are honored to be here, and I can’t wait to get involved with the Academy.” She sounded like a perfectly rehearsed pageant contestant. There was a long pause as she looked over to me and Tyrelle, as if it was our turn to suck up. Neither of us obliged.

Principal Campbell handed us each a thick handbook of the school’s policies and values, which we had to sign and date before she cut us loose into the sea of teenage
pirañas
.

* * *

We stood outside the office, examining our schedules.

“Well, I’m the token kid from the hood. How’d the two of you end up here?”

Now I could see the outline of a large gold chain underneath Tyrelle’s white button-down shirt and tie. I patted the hidden
gris-gris
against my chest.

“I have no idea how I ended up here,” I said. “I don’t even recognize my own life right now.”

“There are no tokens at the Academy,” Dixie enlightened us. “We all paid our way in, fair and square.”

“What’s fair and square about paying your way into something?” I asked.

She looked at me with total confusion, as if I had said something in Chinese, and then turned back to Tyrelle. “My family just moved here from Dallas. My father owns the third largest construction company in the South, and he says this place is a gold mine. Lots of things around here need reconstructing.”

I was speechless. I certainly hadn’t bought Dixie’s sickly-sweet Southern-girl act in the principal’s office, but I couldn’t understand how
anyone
could be so crass about the city’s fragile, post-Storm condition. Sadly, I suspected it wouldn’t be my last encounter with carpetbaggers moving to New Orleans to exploit the current state of affairs.

Dixie got no response from either of us, so she turned her back with a swirl of her skirt and flounced
down the hall.

“And then there were two,” I said, watching her walk away with the misguided confidence of a teen beauty queen. I turned to Tyrelle. “What class do you have next?”

He looked me up and down for a few seconds, as if trying to figure out whether to trust me or not. I guess I didn’t meet his criteria, because he plugged in his earbuds and walked off, shaking his head in disgust.

Zero for two. If I couldn’t even befriend the two other
displaced
students, how would I ever win over the natives? The bell rang loudly.

Lockers slammed. The hands of couples tore apart, and cliques scattered like flocks of startled birds. I double-checked my schedule while the crowd thinned. I didn’t even need to look up from the paper to know that heads were turning as they walked passed me. Like Principal Campbell had said, “They rarely accept transfer students.”

Grea
t
.
My first period was A.P. English, the senior-level class they had stuck me in since, coming from art school, I was ahead in humanities credits – as if I needed one more reason to stick out.

“Are you lost?” asked a tanned, dirty-blond guy with a polished voice. He stopped directly in front of me.

“Yeah, actually, could you tell me where to find classroom 317?”

He extended his hand, and I surrendered my schedule.

“It’s in the east wing.” He gestured for me to follow.

I became nervous.
Is this some kind of trick, or is someone really being nice to m
e
?
He didn’t stare at me like all the other people in the hallway had been. I adjusted the bag on my shoulder and prepared to hustle, but he seemed utterly unconcerned about getting to class on time. We strolled.

“If you just explain where it is, I’m sure I can find it… so you don’t have to be late for class.” I peered at my schedule like it was a hostage between his fingers.

“Thurston.” He held out his other hand. “Thurston Gregory Van der Veer III.”

“
Enchanté
. Adele Le Moyne, NOSA transfer student,” I answered, with a firm shake. There was something about him that exuded elitism. Maybe it was his perfect diction, or maybe the way his perfectly straight back made him appear as if he’d had equestrian training since he was a toddler? Whatever it was, I felt like a total mismatch walking down the hall with him. The instant rubbernecking by the few students left in the hall only reinforced my feelings.

“So, when did they merge Holy Cross?” I asked, following him up two flights of stairs. Holy Cross was even closer to the levee breaches than NOSA.

“About two weeks ago.”

“Sorry about your school.”

“Luckily only a fraction of each school’s student body has returned post-evacuation, so this campus is not too overcrowded, yet. But I’m ready to get out of here.” He examined the rest of my schedule as we sauntered down the third-floor hall. “You’re a junior? In A.P. English? Only the best at the Academy, eh?”

Did I sense a hint of sarcasm?

“Yeah, well, don’t get too impressed. I’m also in the sophomore-level science class. So, I guess that means you’re a senior?”

“
Ou
i
,
we also have French III together. Wait a second, why do you only have four classes?”

Before I could answer, we arrived in front of the door marked 317.

“Well, thanks for showing—”

He opened the door and held it for me. “I apologize for our tardiness, Sister Cecilia. I found Miss Le Moyne wandering the hallways, lost.”

I tried to whisper, “Wait, you’re in this class, too?”

“How chivalrous of you, Thurston,” she replied with annoyance. “Oh, yes, Le Moyne, the junior.”

I felt my face turn red as all the ears in the class perked up at the mention of the lowly word.

“You can take the empty seat right here in the front row.”

I scurried to the desk, while Thurston took his seat on the other side of the room.

“Who is that girl?” someone whispered behind me.

“I don’t know, but I’m texting Annabelle.”