The Scarlet Letterman (2 page)

And yes, you don’t have to tell me how insane it is that I’m fantasizing about a fictional character when I have a real-life boyfriend right in front of me, who has just sat down on the bench and has taken off his sweaty jersey and is changing into a new, nonsweaty one. One who isn’t, technically, 160 years old.

“By the way, did I tell you that I’m not jealous that you and Ryan are dating?” Hana asks me.

“Only about a zillion times. I think it’s pretty clear you
are
jealous,” I say.

“Yes, but if I say it enough times, maybe it’ll be true,” Hana says.

“Oh, please,” Samir scoffs. “What does Ryan Kent have that I haven’t got?”

Ryan pulls his new jersey over his championship triceps and whips his glistening blond hair out of his eyes. He’s just played nearly an entire game of basketball and he’s still shoot-ready for a Hollister ad.

“You have to be kidding me, right?” Hana asks Samir, giving him a playful shove.

“I can’t believe you’re wearing Ryan’s jacket,” Samir says. “That’s so, like, 1985. I mean, who does that anymore?”

“You’re just jealous you don’t have a letterman jacket to
give
,” Hana says to Samir.

“Not to mention someone actually willing to wear it,” I add.

“Look, we all know that you’re just dating Ryan to make me jealous,” Samir says. “And, okay, it’s working, so let’s give up this charade.” Samir grabs my hand and pretends to land slobbery kisses on it. Samir is always trying to see how far he can get.

“Gross,” I say, pulling my hand away.

“Don’t listen to him,” Hana says.

“And when do I listen to him?” I ask her.

“Would you guys be quiet? Some of us are
trying
to watch the game,” huffs Blade, my quirky, occult-obsessed roommate, who despite her oddities isn’t actually all that bad. For the spring semester, and in honor of Valentine’s Day next week, she’s dyed her hair pink. She’s also put a sparkly barrette in it. Granted, it’s a skull and crossbones, but still. It’s a start.

“Since when are you into sports?” Samir asks Blade.

“Since Number Thirty-one started playing,” Hana adds. Number Thirty-one is a geeky, lanky boy who plays center on Ryan’s team, and Blade’s current love infatuation.

Samir’s face falls a little. I know he was hoping that Blade’s short-lived crush on him would last longer than a month, but Blade has moved on. And given Number Thirty-one’s awkward appearance (and Samir’s definite built-in geek factor), my Goth roomie has a thing for nerds.

More than half of the Bard Academy student body is sitting in the bleachers watching the basketball game. There isn’t much to do at a boarding school for delinquents stuck on a remote island off the coast of Maine where pagers, cellphones, televisions, and iPods are forbidden. As a result, school sporting events are always well attended.

The opposing team is some boys’ prep school in Maine. Even our rival teams have to be ferried to our island (appropriately named Shipwreck Island, since one hundred years ago it was a magnet for ships in storms, but it’s also apropos today because most of us feel like castaways). I heard some of the rival players calling our island “Alcatraz,” because of all the stories about the delinquent students here. Apparently they’re only one of about three boarding schools still willing to play us. Parents don’t like their Harvard wannabes mixing with the wrong crowd.

“You know, it’s good to see you with Ryan, though, seriously,” Hana says. “I thought for a while you might be holding a torch for Heathcliff.”

“Heathcliff?” I say loudly. Too loudly. I dial down a notch. “Why would I be holding a torch for Heathcliff? I mean, how is he my type?”

I’m secretly hoping this leads to a long discussion about Heathcliff. Maybe hearing Hana tick off his bad points will help me shake my obsession with him. Of course, if I’m honest with myself, I just really want the excuse to talk about him. And that can’t be good.

Hana studies me for a beat or two. Has she caught on? Does she know I’m secretly wearing his necklace and pining for the boy who nearly got her killed?

“No reason,” she says, and then falls silent.

I can’t help but feel disappointed. I wanted to talk more about him, and now the moment is lost.

“Uh-oh, looks like Ms. W is leaking again,” Samir says, nodding over in the direction of the Bard faculty section where Ms. W and Headmaster B are watching the game. It’s true. Ms. W has a wet sleeve again. It’s dripping onto the bleacher in front of her.

I wave at Ms. W, get her attention, and then point to my own sleeve. Startled, Ms. W looks down and then the water mark disappears.

“Is it just me, or are our teachers getting careless?” Samir asks. “I saw Coach H glide through a wall in the boys’ dorm last night. He’s lucky that nobody but me saw him. And to think they’re so clumsy after they gave us that big lecture.”

Samir is talking about the end of last semester when Headmaster B sat the four of us all down and swore us all to eternal silence about the Big Secret, which is the fact that all of our teachers are dead. They’re ghosts — and not just any ghosts, they’re famous literary figures stuck in purgatory for either taking their own lives or dying before their time. Headmaster B made us all swear not to tell any other student on campus about the Big Secret. I mean, like we
would.
You know, because we’re so likely to be believed. The swearing part is really unnecessary. Try telling someone at boarding school that you know that their teacher is really Virginia Woolf or Charlotte Brontë. It’s not the sort of thing that’s going to win you friends.

“I think something is up with them,” Hana says. “They seem distracted, don’t you think? Like something is bothering them.”

“You mean aside from the fact that they’re dead and stuck in purgatory with a bunch of adolescents?” Samir asks.

“We ought to form some kind of society — the four of us,” Blade says. “You know, a secret society to help protect them from themselves.”

“A secret society?” Hana asks, skeptical.

“We could call ourselves the LITs — Literary Investigation Team.”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Hana says.

“I think it’s kind of cool,” Samir says. “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of that acronym first, Ms. Bookworm.”

“Whatever,” Hana says, dismissive, as she adjusts her black-framed glasses. “You can’t seriously think we ought to form our own secret club,” Hana adds. “I mean, are we twelve? Miranda, what do you think?”

But I’m not paying attention. I’m busy watching the tall guy in the hooded sweatshirt, the one that has his face nearly entirely covered, the one who snuck in through the side door of the gym and is now milling about, arms crossed, on the left side of the bleachers across from us. Something about his shape looks familiar. Tall, broad, and brooding. Could it be Heathcliff?

“Miranda? Hello?” Hana says, snapping her fingers.

“Forget her,” Samir says. “She’s too busy looking at her Man Meat.” This is what Samir calls Ryan Kent.

“Besides, I don’t know if Miranda would be eligible for membership in LITs,” Blade says. “You know, because she is one-sixteenth fiction.”

Blade is referring to the fact that my great - great - great - grea - grandmother was Catherine from
Wuthering Heights.
It’s a very weird piece of information that I’m only just starting to digest. Apparently one of Catherine’s children managed to cross over to our world and did the deed with my great-great-great-grandfather, and now, here I am. The descendant of somebody who began as a figment of a writer’s imagination. Don’t ask me how it all works, I’m still trying to figure it out myself. All I know is that my middle name — Earnshaw — means I’m related to one of the most famous characters in literature. I keep waiting to see what else I find out while I’m at Bard. Was Hamlet my uncle? Anything is possible here.

“That’s racist,” Hana says.

“You mean fictionist,” Samir corrects.

“Anyway, Miranda would have to be in the club or I wouldn’t join,” Hana adds.

“Would there be meetings? Because I definitely don’t do meetings,” Samir says.

I watch the hooded figure at the back of the gym make his way closer to the faculty section. If that
is
Heathcliff, he’s playing a dangerous game. He has few friends among the faculty. As far as I know, if any of them knew he was still walking among us, they’d want to see him banished — for good. I’m not even watching Ryan now as he scores a three-point shot at the buzzer. Everyone in the bleachers stands to cheer, and I temporarily lose sight of the Hooded Sweatshirt Guy.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell Hana, trying to push my way through the crowd and down to the floor. Hooded Sweatshirt Guy is making his way out of the gym. I feel an urgent need to catch him. Is it Heathcliff? Could it be? I can’t tell. I need a closer look.

I’m caught up in a mini crowd cluster, and have to push through to get to the gym doors. I swing them open, and suddenly I’m standing outside in the cold February air. Alone.

Two

If Heathcliff came
this way, he didn’t leave any tracks. There’s a fresh blanket of white snow on the ground with no footprints. On the snow in front of me there’s a scrap of paper. I kneel down to pick it up.

It’s just white art paper with part of a drawing on it. It looks like half of a triangle of sorts. I can’t really tell what it is. It’s too small.

“Miranda? There you are,” says Ryan Kent, surprising me. Without thinking, I put the piece of paper in my pocket. “I thought I saw you come this way. Why didn’t you stop to say hello?”

“Oh, uh, I mean, I was going to, but I needed some fresh air,” I say. “Um, you know, too much boy sweat in there.”

“Since when do you not like boy sweat?” Ryan says, grabbing me and shaking his sweaty head so that I’m showered with sweat drops.

“Ew!” I squeal, but he’s got his arms around me, and then he pushes me up against the side of the gym and lands a kiss on my lips.

And for a second I forget about Heathcliff, Bard, and everything else, and I’m sucked into that kissing-a-cute-boy vortex where time stands still and everything around me freezes. Ryan Kent is a fantastic kisser.

When he pulls away, I’m a little breathless.

I glance up at Ryan, and then over his shoulder, to the woods, where there’s a flash of movement. I think it’s Hooded Sweatshirt Guy, but I can’t be sure. Did he see me kissing Ryan? There’s no way to tell. I can’t see anyone near the trees now.

“Come on,” Ryan says, taking me by the hand and leading me off to the trees.

“But the rules,” I say, thinking about how we’re not supposed to go into the forest at night. And Heathcliff might be there. And while I’m dying to see him, I have no idea how he’d react to Ryan, who’s at this moment, squeezing my hand.

“This is our only time together. We’ve got twenty minutes till curfew,” he says, picking up the pace and taking me along. “We probably won’t even be missed for fifteen.”

Having a boyfriend at a delinquent boarding school is difficult, it’s true. It’s not like we can go on dates, or be alone for extended periods. There are Guardians everywhere, and faculty, too, and so even kissing can be a challenge.

“But…” I don’t tell him what I’m really thinking. The woods are really seriously creepy. I know now that Bard is purgatory, and that most of the ghosts here don’t really mean us harm, but that doesn’t mean that I’m willing to hang out in the dark woods at night with a full moon over our heads and not get a little wigged out.

Still, Ryan is determined. He’s got that look on his face that all boys get when they want to get some. And, honestly, I’m not sure what makes me more nervous. The idea of being stuck in the woods, or whatever Ryan is hoping I’m going to do. Like I said before, my friend Liz is the one with the experience. I have no idea what I’m doing.

It’s so cold, my hands feel numb, but Ryan squeezes my hand and glances back at me as he leads me deeper into the woods. I wonder what’s going to happen. Are we just going to make out? Will I have to do something else? I’m so totally clueless in this department, it’s seriously sad.

Which is why Liz says I ought to live with the Amish. She acts like I’m the only girl in America who hasn’t given it up yet, but I know there are others out there. I can’t be the only one.

I tell myself to calm down. Aren’t I crazy about Ryan? And wouldn’t almost any girl in class love to trade places with me?

Ryan stops now, and turns. He’s got a snowball in his hand. He whirls it at me, and it hits me straight on the forehead.

“Oh, you’re
dead
,” I say, grabbing a bunch of snow from the ground and putting together a hapless snowball. I head after him, managing to hit him dead in the face. He laughs, and spits out new snow, even as he grabs a handful of snow on the ground and lunges at me, grabbing me by the waist and pinning me against a tree. As I squirm to get free, he shoves snow down the back of my Bard jacket and shirt collar. The snow is freezing as it drips down my back.

“Aaaaaaaaack, you
jerk
!” I squeal at him, but I’m laughing, too. I can’t help it. Ryan is just
fun.
The anxiety I felt before is completely gone, and now I’m just with Ryan and it feels good.

Ryan gets a semiserious look on his face and leans in for a kiss. But instead of feeling swept up in the moment, I feel a hard piece of bark jabbing my back.

“Wait, ow,” I say, pushing against him a little, and he eases his weight off me a little, backing up.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, suddenly worried.

“It’s just the tree…and…it’s cold…” God, I’m blowing it. I sound as whiny as my kid sister Lindsay.

“Not the best make-out spot is it?” Ryan asks me.

I’m glad he agrees.

“Bard is very short on those,” I say.

“I guess I’ll have to write an official complaint.” Ryan leans in to kiss me again, but before his lips touch mine, I hear a sudden crack. Like a footstep on a twig.

“What was that?” I ask him, turning my head toward the noise.

“What was what?” he asks me, dipping and nuzzling my neck. I hear another cracking sound. It sounds like something very large and very heavy is walking in the forest. I think suddenly of Hooded Sweatshirt Guy. What if that wasn’t Heathcliff at all, but some psycho killer with an ax? There’s another crunching sound. Whatever is out there is getting closer.