Breathless Page 5

  From the sofa, her husband—who I’d thought was asleep—sits upright and gives us both a big grin. “Best advice you’ll ever hear, sweetie,” he says, winking at me before lying back down and turning up the volume on the TV.

  Everything here is monogrammed: the awnings on the front porch of the headmaster’s house; the stone walkway leading to the front door; the napkins, the teacups, the plates—they all bear the Woodsdale Academy insignia, which is a large capital W with a smaller capital A formed in the W’s center, all contained within a circle. I can hear Will hissing over my shoulder; I can almost feel his breath and smell nicotine and rotten teeth and teaberry gum. He says, “Kind of looks like a pentagram, doesn’t it?”

  Everybody sits around sipping from teacups that barely hold anything, balancing their elbows on crossed legs while the female faculty wander about, mostly talking to each other.

  “There you are,” somebody says from behind me. It’s Estella. Her friend Lindsey is beside her. They’re both smiling.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi,” Lindsey says.

  Estella narrows her eyes. “I think you forgot something.”

  Oh, God. I’m probably wearing the wrong shade of pastel, or my skirt is an inch too high.

  “Your name tag,” she supplies. “Over there, on the table in the foyer. If Dr. Waugh sees you without it, she’ll come over and bother us.”

  I stare at their name tags. Lindsey Maxwell-Hutton. Estella Delilah Brinkley-Wallace. I suddenly feel incredibly inadequate with only two names. I can sense these girls, with their lineage on such display, staring at me with what must be pity, sizing me up based on my borrowed gloves and my simple name: Kathryn Kitrell. It looks ridiculous in calligraphy, even on the paper name tag.

  I follow them—I don’t know what else to do—to the corner of the living room, where we can lean against one of the wall-to-wall bookshelves.

  Lindsey puts me at ease almost right away. “I wish we could take these stupid gloves off,” she says, talking around a mouthful of egg-salad sandwich. “I have to borrow them from my mom every year. She keeps them in her nightstand drawer.” Lindsay shudders. “I’m afraid she and my dad use them for some kind of weird sex game.” She holds out her hands, asks the question to nobody in particular: “Who still wears white gloves? Freakin’ Queen Elizabeth?”

  Let your breath out, I think. I never have to remind myself when I’m swimming; only on dry ground. “I know, right? I’ve never owned a pair either. I had to borrow them from Mrs. Martin.”

  Estella—who is drinking coffee, not tea—perks up. “That cow,” she declares. Her voice is so sweet that everything she says, no matter how nasty, sounds pretty. “You’d be smart to avoid her. I mean”—her gaze rakes me up and down—“once you return those gloves.”

  Estella’s name tag takes up two full lines of script: “Estella Delilah Brinkley-Wallace.” I’ve never met anybody—not anybody—with any one of those names, let alone all four of them. Her face looks like it could have been sketched by Michelangelo. She would look more appropriate in a toga, a crown of olive leaves adorning her crimson hair.

  Then it dawns on me. “Your last name is Wallace? As in—”

  “Wallace Hall,” she finishes, grinning. “That’s right. My father donated the building to the school two years ago.”

  “Your stepfather,” Lindsey murmurs.

  “Either way. So, Katie. Tell us all about you.”

  I’d assumed Estella wasn’t the least bit interested in me. But her gaze is steady and almost fascinated. Nobody like her has ever shown an interest in me before.

  “Ummm . . .”

  “Where are you from? Why didn’t you start last year?” Her tone is verging on accusatory.

  “Well, I’m from Pennsylvania, and I didn’t start last year because . . .” I shrug. “I don’t know. My parents just decided to send me this year instead.”

  “Really?” She raises one perfectly groomed eyebrow, the mildest grin on her face. “Are you sure you didn’t get kicked out of your last school? Why would your parents just decide out of nowhere to send you here?”

  I can feel my eyes widen. The whole room seems to get smaller. When I open my mouth, my voice is shaky. “They just did.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Lindsey asks. She seems genuinely interested, kind, excited to meet someone new. She’s pretty, soft and curvy, and is wearing a shade too much makeup. Even though it’s the first time I’m talking to her, there’s something kind of desperate about her. But she seems genuinely nice, and I like her already.

  When she asks about brothers and sisters, I stare down at our hands—at all of our hands, white gloves pulled taught and flawless over our fingers—and all I can think about is Will and the blood everywhere the last time I saw him. I remember watching from my window as Donny George stood with a hose in his backyard, rinsing the blood from his kids’ swing set, spraying down the concrete walkway in his yard. It took him forever. As I’m thinking about it, I can feel my shin aching where I fell on the cinderblocks in the Georges’ yard and took a chunk out of my flesh.

  The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. “I had a brother,” I say.

  “Oh.” It takes them a moment to fully understand. Then Estella says, “Oh,” and leans forward just a little; I can hear her breath quicken. She nods her head, satisfied. “So that’s why you’re here?”

  I nod. Part of me wants to punch her in her beautiful face. She’s so entertained by me. “Kind of.”

  “Oh, my God.” Lindsey puts a hand on my arm. “That’s awful, Katie.”

  Estella puts her hand on my other arm. Her grip is tighter than Lindsey’s. “Do you mind if I ask . . . what happened?”

  I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to lie, but I can’t imagine anything more awful than the truth. “There was an accident,” I say.

  They both nod, looking at me differently now. For a few awkward seconds we stand there, nobody speaking, all three of us sweating in our gloves. Estella seems to glisten, even though she continues to drink coffee so hot that I can still see steam rising from its surface.

  “So. Well. Where are you going to volunteer?” Lindsey wants to know.

  I’m grateful for the change of subject. “Oh, I haven’t decided yet.”

  “But you know it’s mandatory?” Estella asks. She closes her eyes for a moment, like she’s so irritated that she can hardly contain herself. “Everything at this stupid place is mandatory.” Even though I don’t know if I even like her, I know I want to be her friend. She’s so annoyed by everything, so intimidating, that just standing there talking to her—knowing she can bear being around me—makes me feel good.

  All of the Woodsdale Academy students are required to volunteer for five hours a week. According to the school literature, volunteering is designed to “foster a bond with the greater community and a sense of responsibility to mankind.” I’m guessing it’s really because it looks so good on college applications.

  “I read to blind people,” Estella says, “Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons.” Then she whooshes the idea away with the flick of her wrist. “But you can’t do that, because all the blind people in Woodsdale are already taken.”

  “Why don’t you come to the soup kitchen with me? My mom organizes the group for Saturday mornings. We start next month,” Lindsey offers.

  “Ooh, that might be good,” Estella reasons. “Since you’re on the swim team, you’ll have all kinds of Saturday-morning meets. That means you’ll almost never have to actually go volunteer.”

  I don’t have any reason to say no. “Okay, sure. But wait—your mom is in charge of the volunteers?”

  Lindsey nods.

  “But where do you live? I mean, where do your parents live?”

  They look at each other, and then back at me, confused. “We live in Woodsdale.”

  “So . . . why do you live on campus if your parents live in town?”

  Estella opens her mouth l
ike she’s about to say something, closes it, opens it again. “Because it’s . . . you know . . . boarding school.”

  “Oh. Right.” The idea of living so close to your family while still living on campus seems silly. I mean, why pay all that extra money for room and board when you could just drive your kid to school every day?

  “So you two knew each other before you came here?”

  “All our lives,” they say, almost in unison.

  There’s a brief pause. I can’t think of anything to say. Finally, I shift my focus to Lindsey. Her smile is constant. “I think it will be fun to volunteer,” I say.

  Estella narrows her eyes at me. “Katie, are you a Democrat or a Republican? Because if you’re a Democrat . . .”

  “We aren’t old enough to vote,” Lindsey says, putting another triangle of sandwich in her mouth. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes it does.” Estella licks her lips. “My mother’s first husband was a Democrat.”

  Lindsey stares at the ceiling. When I follow her gaze, I notice that even the exposed wooden beams are painted in a maroon-and-white checkerboard pattern. “You mean your father?”

  “Yes.” Estella presses her lips together. “My biological father.” And she sighs, saying, “You should meet my sister. She’s also a Democrat. She’s at Princeton now, but let me tell you, she’s headed nowhere in life.”

  There is a smear of egg salad at the edge of Lindsey’s mouth as she grins at me and says, “My mother says that Estella is a living example of the trauma divorce inflicts on families.”

  Estella whips her head to the side, glaring. “Really, Linds? My mother says you need to stop eating carbs.”

  Lindsey blinks at me, still smiling. “See what I mean?”

  The next few days are filled with swimming practices so intense that, by the end of the week, my muscles ache so badly I can barely get up from a sitting position by myself. Each day, I come back from practice expecting to find that Madeline Moon has arrived, but every night I go to bed by myself, in my otherwise empty room. I usually fall asleep early, exhausted from practice, and as I drift off I can hear the sounds of the other girls talking and giggling in their rooms, keeping their voices low so that Jill doesn’t come banging on their door.

  After about a week of tentative talk with Lindsey and Estella, Lindsey comes knocking at my door one night, just as I’m about to fall asleep.

  “It’s nine thirty, Katie,” she says when she sees me in my pj’s. “You weren’t going to bed, were you?”

  I shrug. “I have to be up early for practice.” It’s actually the latest I’ve stayed up all week.

  Lindsey moves past me, into the room. And then, before the door has a chance to close behind her, Estella pushes herself in.

  She watches as I yawn. I stretch my arms over my head, wincing. She snorts. “What are you, eighty years old?” She laughs out loud.

  “We’re going to wax our legs,” Lindsey tells me, leaning against Madeline Moon’s bare desk. I notice that Estella is carrying a basket of supplies: a container of hot wax in what looks like a tiny Crock-Pot, wide wooden sticks for spreading the wax onto our legs, and long strips of cloth to yank the hair out from the roots.

  “We’ve been growing our hair out for, like, six weeks in order to wax right before school starts,” Lindsey explains.

  “And we noticed your legs are hairy as hell,” Estella says. “But I don’t know—are your bones too fragile for wax strips? We wouldn’t want Granny to break a hip.”

  I shake my head at Lindsey, trying to ignore Estella. “I can’t do it.” And I explain to them how drag works in the water, and that it would look bad if I showed up to practice with smooth legs.

  Estella frowns. “What about your armpits and bikini line?” She wrinkles her nose at me. “You’ve got to do something, Katie.” Her gaze drifts to my legs. “You look like Sasquatch.”

  I take a moment to consider. It isn’t that much hair. Besides, here I am with two girls who are obviously interested in being my friends—although I’m still not sure why—and if I tell them to leave so I can go to sleep, they might not come back. “I guess that’s okay.”

  “Put on your swimsuit, then,” Estella says, slipping out of her boxer shorts, anxious to get started on her fuzzy legs. She stands in the middle of my room, wearing nothing but a white thong and matching white tank top. “I’ll do your bikini line, okay?” She gives me an exaggerated wink, followed by that huge, irresistible grin of hers. “Don’t worry, Katie baby. It won’t hurt a bit.”

  But it does hurt—so bad, in fact, that after just half of her right leg (which is bleeding already), Estella hops out my window and strolls, half-naked, into the woods behind the dorm to take a break and smoke a cigarette.

  Lindsey and I both watch her from a distance, the white of her top and underpants glowing beneath the moonlight. She seems unafraid of being caught and takes her time, running her free hand through her long hair, absently searching for split ends in the almost-dark.

  “Is she always like this?” I ask, trying to keep my voice down.

  Lindsey nods. “She’s something, huh?”

  I know I’m taking a risk, since I barely know Lindsey. But I ask, “Why do you think she’s . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “Such a bitch?” Lindsey supplies. She doesn’t even look up from her waxing.

  “Well, yeah.”

  Lindsey shrugs. “Duh, Katie. Just look at her. She’s like that because she can be. She’s my best friend, you know, and she’s not even nice to me. Like, the summer between seventh and eighth grades, my parents hired me a trainer and I lost, like, fifteen pounds. When we went back to school, Estella told everyone I’d been to fat camp. It’s just her way of getting attention. Or whatever.”

  She yanks away a section of hair, closing her eyes momentarily to let the pain subside. Pinpricks of blood appear in bursts where her hairs have been ripped from their roots. “Don’t take her personally. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t like you. And, Katie,” she continues, “she’s the most popular girl in the whole school, and she wants to be your friend. So, I mean—who cares what she’s like?”

  I glance out the window. Estella has finished her first cigarette and lit another. Anyone looking out their window could spot her. It’s almost like she’s daring Jill to come out and catch her.

  “Why does she want to be my friend, though? She doesn’t even know me.”

  “Because . . . you’re mysterious. Here you are, arrived out of nowhere with this tragic past . . . ouch!” She has yanked away another sheet of wax. “Where’s your roommate, huh? What’s her name?”

  “Madeline Moon.”

  “Right. Fifty bucks says she never shows up. Anyway, people like you, Katie. You shouldn’t be so surprised.”

  “Why do you like me, then?”

  Lindsey shrugs, stirring the wax. “You’re nice. You’re pretty. Like I said, you’re mysterious. We need to expand our group a little bit. Lately Estella’s always busy with Stetson or something, and everyone else we hang out with . . . they only want to be friends so they can get invited to parties and, you know, be seen with us.”

  “But you said she’s the most popular girl in school,” I say, confused.

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Well . . . doesn’t she have a ton of close friends?”

  Lindsey looks me in the eye. “She has a bunch of people who think they’re her friends. But I’m the only person who really knows her.”

  “Oh.” I nod, pretending to understand.

  “This isn’t public school, Katie. Things are more complicated here. Just trust me.” Glancing at the window, Lindsey lowers her voice. “Here she comes. Shut up.”

  The day before school starts, I’m walking back from dinner with Lindsey. Estella is still in the cafeteria, sharing a sundae with Stetson McClure, who, Estella has informed me, Belongs To Her. Stetson is captain of the boys’ water polo team and has yet to say a word to me even though I’ve sat at the sa
me meal table with him and Lindsey and Estella and a few other people more than once.

  Lindsey is telling me about the parties she has, almost every weekend, at her parents’ house. I’m only half listening, tired and full and homesick in an achy way I’ve been feeling all week—homesick for an impossible place. My parents have called every night to check in and see how I’m doing. When I ask about Will, they say he’s fine, and then they clam up. Our conversations are never more than three or four minutes.

  “. . . plus,” Lindsey continues, oblivious to my distraction, “we have an indoor pool. It’s huge. My mom has a family history of arthritis, so she can only do low-impact aerobics.”

  I perk up at the mention of the pool. “So you have pool parties, like, every weekend?”

  She shrugs. “Pretty much.”

  “What do you do there?” I ask.

  She shrugs again. “Whatever we want. Get drunk, mostly. Smoke up. You know—normal teenager stuff, I guess.” She squints at me. “Why? What did you do at parties back home?”

  I shake my head. “Oh, the same thing. You know—normal stuff.” Got high with my clinically insane brother. Smoked cigarettes stolen from my supernatural father. The usual.

  Lindsey lowers her voice. “What’s your family like? You haven’t mentioned them. I mean, besides your brother.”

  When I look away, she rushes on, “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just—there was an accident, you said?”

  Once again, I hear the words coming out of my mouth automatically. I keep telling myself that as long as I don’t say “dead,” it isn’t really a lie.

  “Yes.” I nod. “It happened very close to our house.” Not untrue.

  “Katie, I’m so sorry.” Her look is full of pity. “And . . . I mean, what kind of accident? What happened?”

  “It was . . . It was a mess.” I stare at her, pronouncing the next few words without having to force any false emotion into my voice. I just want her to stop asking questions. “Then he was just gone.” Technically not untrue.