were a lot of books still on the shelves. About brain surgeries and reforming bad girls and stuff.”
I thought of the forbidding library, a cavernous room bulging with bookcases that reached into the gloom. The shelves were clogged with moldy books. Some of the titles were still visible. Female Behavioral Reformation. Neurological Science. Psychology of Hysterics.
“At least half of them were rotten,” I replied, but I nodded as I spoke. “Which leaves the other half.”
“Which leaves the other half. Let’s skip Charlotte’s mortification and check them out,” she suggested. “Everyone else will be busy watching. It’ll be the perfect time to start researching the unfinished business of the dybbuks of Marlwood.”
I considered it. “Maybe I should watch out for Charlotte. Mandy forced Kiyoko to skinny-dip in the lake, and look what happened.”
“She died much later,” Shayna countered. “Not because of the prank. And anyway if we can do something to stop Mandy, everyone will be safe.”
I knew that at least twenty or thirty girls would sneak out to watch Mandy’s cruel hazing ritual. If Charlotte got in trouble, surely someone would have the sense to jump in and rescue her. And if Shayna and I were going to do this thing, we should do it. If I could find some way to placate Celia, to free her and Mandy, too . . . if I could be free of her, forever . . .
Free of all this. It sounded like a wonderful dream.
“Okay,” I said. “What time is the prank?”
“One would assume it’ll be the same as usual. Elevenish. When all the trusting housemothers will be fast asleep.”
When all the housemothers could say they’d been asleep, to deny knowledge that their charges were breaking curfew and risking hypothermia in a pitch-black lake.
“Then we’ll meet in front of the library at eleven,” I said.
We nodded, and parted. I caught up with my dormies, who were complaining about homework—no fair, we were just back—catching up on what they’d done over break, and expressing their disbelief that Charlotte Davidson would actually agree to swim naked in Searle Lake in January.
“Mandy’s just doing it to be mean,” Ida said, and we all nodded, even Julie.
“Charlotte has to know she doesn’t really have a shot at becoming one of Mandy’s elect,” Claire said.
“But why else would she do it?” Marica argued.
“Because no one else has made her the center of attention?” Julie said. “You know she wants to be. She wouldn’t dress like Countess Dracula if she didn’t.”
“How very sad,” Marica said. And then she ticked a quick glance toward me; I realized maybe she thought I dressed like an orphan just to get attention. It was a little embarrassing; she was so rich and exquisitely put together that she truly couldn’t fathom that someone might just opt out of the fashion race because it could not be won, not for someone like me.
The icy rain returned that night, so the prank would have to be delayed. I watched as the word spread, as people got more and more excited as suspense grew. Charlotte basked in the attention for the next two days straight: noticed, selected by Mandy—the kiss of popularity burning like a brand on her forehead. Even if Charlotte didn’t make it to the winner’s circle, she was being given a chance to run the race, and few Marlwood girls had gotten that far. No matter that she might get shot down (probably), humiliated (definitely), or even . . . killed. For a few brief shining moments, she could see paradise.
“Someone should clue her in that she’s just the sideshow,” Julie told me as we looked on over those two days. “She’s not Cinderella. Not to be mean, but it just doesn’t seem like Charlotte is going to turn cool overnight. I guess it wouldn’t matter if we said anything, though. Right?”
It hadn’t mattered last semester to the girls who had vied for spots on Mandy’s team. In fact, I had come to Mandy’s attention—lucky
I thought of the forbidding library, a cavernous room bulging with bookcases that reached into the gloom. The shelves were clogged with moldy books. Some of the titles were still visible. Female Behavioral Reformation. Neurological Science. Psychology of Hysterics.
“At least half of them were rotten,” I replied, but I nodded as I spoke. “Which leaves the other half.”
“Which leaves the other half. Let’s skip Charlotte’s mortification and check them out,” she suggested. “Everyone else will be busy watching. It’ll be the perfect time to start researching the unfinished business of the dybbuks of Marlwood.”
I considered it. “Maybe I should watch out for Charlotte. Mandy forced Kiyoko to skinny-dip in the lake, and look what happened.”
“She died much later,” Shayna countered. “Not because of the prank. And anyway if we can do something to stop Mandy, everyone will be safe.”
I knew that at least twenty or thirty girls would sneak out to watch Mandy’s cruel hazing ritual. If Charlotte got in trouble, surely someone would have the sense to jump in and rescue her. And if Shayna and I were going to do this thing, we should do it. If I could find some way to placate Celia, to free her and Mandy, too . . . if I could be free of her, forever . . .
Free of all this. It sounded like a wonderful dream.
“Okay,” I said. “What time is the prank?”
“One would assume it’ll be the same as usual. Elevenish. When all the trusting housemothers will be fast asleep.”
When all the housemothers could say they’d been asleep, to deny knowledge that their charges were breaking curfew and risking hypothermia in a pitch-black lake.
“Then we’ll meet in front of the library at eleven,” I said.
We nodded, and parted. I caught up with my dormies, who were complaining about homework—no fair, we were just back—catching up on what they’d done over break, and expressing their disbelief that Charlotte Davidson would actually agree to swim naked in Searle Lake in January.
“Mandy’s just doing it to be mean,” Ida said, and we all nodded, even Julie.
“Charlotte has to know she doesn’t really have a shot at becoming one of Mandy’s elect,” Claire said.
“But why else would she do it?” Marica argued.
“Because no one else has made her the center of attention?” Julie said. “You know she wants to be. She wouldn’t dress like Countess Dracula if she didn’t.”
“How very sad,” Marica said. And then she ticked a quick glance toward me; I realized maybe she thought I dressed like an orphan just to get attention. It was a little embarrassing; she was so rich and exquisitely put together that she truly couldn’t fathom that someone might just opt out of the fashion race because it could not be won, not for someone like me.
The icy rain returned that night, so the prank would have to be delayed. I watched as the word spread, as people got more and more excited as suspense grew. Charlotte basked in the attention for the next two days straight: noticed, selected by Mandy—the kiss of popularity burning like a brand on her forehead. Even if Charlotte didn’t make it to the winner’s circle, she was being given a chance to run the race, and few Marlwood girls had gotten that far. No matter that she might get shot down (probably), humiliated (definitely), or even . . . killed. For a few brief shining moments, she could see paradise.
“Someone should clue her in that she’s just the sideshow,” Julie told me as we looked on over those two days. “She’s not Cinderella. Not to be mean, but it just doesn’t seem like Charlotte is going to turn cool overnight. I guess it wouldn’t matter if we said anything, though. Right?”
It hadn’t mattered last semester to the girls who had vied for spots on Mandy’s team. In fact, I had come to Mandy’s attention—lucky
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