Breathless Read online

  I can tell she wants to ask more, but my look shuts her up. And then, when we turn the corner that brings us into the bottom of our dorm’s driveway, I put my hand on her elbow, point with my other hand, and say, “Hey! Look at that!”

  A Woodsdale Academy shuttle van (shiny maroon, the Woodsdale insignia painted in white on its side) is parked in the driveway. The school groundskeeper, Papa Rosedaddy (obviously not his real name, although nobody—not even Mrs. Martin—seems to know what his real name is), is hoisting a suitcase from the back. Mr. and Mrs. Martin are carrying smaller suitcases, one in each hand, toward the dorm. Behind all of them, her head down, a curtain of long black hair hiding her face as she follows them inside, is a girl who can only be my new roommate, Madeline Moon.

  chapter 4

  When I walk into my room, Mr. and Mrs. Martin are gone. It’s just me and Madeline and all of our stuff. I don’t know how she’s managed to do it so quickly, but Madeline has switched my sheets to the bottom bunk, claiming the top bunk for herself. Neither of us mentions it, but right away it sets an unsettling tone to the whole roommate relationship.

  At first, she doesn’t say anything to me—not even hello. She stands in the center of the room, lips pressed together, her small Asian features delicate and soft, and says, “This is crap.”

  Before I can respond at all, she continues. “Do we get laptops? I mean, do they issue them on the first day, or what?”

  I shake my head. Woodsdale is what they call a cyber-secure campus. There are computer labs in school, and most kids have laptops of their own in their rooms, but there’s no Internet access anywhere except the main academic building. We also aren’t allowed to have cell phones—each room has its own landline—or PDAs or iPods or anything like that. Breaking any of these rules is supposedly punishable by expulsion, although Lindsey has assured me you’d just get a ton of work details.

  When I explain this to Madeline, she looks on the verge of furious tears. I realize she doesn’t even know my name yet. “So,” I say, trying to ignore her obvious anger, “I’m Katie Kitrell, and I’m a sophomore too. And you’re Madeline Moon?”

  “Mazzie.”

  “Huh?”

  “Ma-zz-ie,” she pronounces. “Don’t call me Madeline. And my last name isn’t Moon. It’s Moon-Park.”

  Another hyphenated last name. Great.

  “Okay. Mazzie.”

  She nods. “Look—Katie? Let me just tell you now that I don’t want to be here. This school is a joke. I mean, as far as boarding schools go, it’s at the bottom of the totem pole. What is it, like, seventy percent of graduating students matriculate to top-tier colleges?”

  “I think it’s . . . eighty-five? Maybe ninety?”

  She snorts. “That’s what they tell you.”

  I don’t know what to say. But I don’t have time to come up with any kind of response before she continues with, “The last school I was at, in Connecticut, had a ninety-five percent matriculation rate to top-tier colleges. It cost about twice as much as this place.” She shakes her head at me, like she can’t believe I’m not as disgusted as she is to be someplace so clearly inferior.

  “Well if you don’t mind my asking, why did you leave your last school?”

  She pauses, glares at me, and says, “I don’t know. It’s not important.”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Why did you leave your last school?” She puts her tiny fists on her hips and smirks. When she narrows her eyes at me, they almost disappear. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  I don’t hesitate. She deserves to feel bad. “My brother died.”

  And then—right there, in that moment, which I know I’ll always remember, right down to the red-and-white-striped tank top Mazzie is wearing, the small beads of sweat on her high forehead, the bronze of her summer tan and her almost-labored breath—I feel a door closing, my brother’s face behind it.

  I feel awful. In this moment, I miss him more than ever. But I also feel relief, a kind of deep satisfaction now that I’ve managed to complete the lie I’ve been trying to tell for weeks. I feel, for the first time since I watched Will being driven away in the ambulance, like I can breathe on dry land again.

  Just like every other year, there’s a kind of death in the air as the summer is squelched by autumn. It is a lonely feeling. At night, I lie in bed and listen to Mazzie breathing above me, thankful for her warm sound in the dark. Even though she’s still barely willing to speak to me, it feels better than being all by myself. Sometimes I pretend she is Will, and that I know exactly where he is and what’s happening to him, right there above me. Sometimes I try not to think about it, and I don’t pretend anything. Mostly, though, I pretend that everything I’ve told everyone is true: my big brother is dead. In that scenario, at least, we all get some rest.

  For the entire first week of classes, aside from our brief exchanges when we come and go from the room, Mazzie and I hardly speak to each other. At breakfast and dinner, it’s mandatory that you eat family-style, seated with your roommate and a few other girls from your dorm, along with a handful of boys and at least one faculty member to head the table. When we’re forced to eat together, Mazzie and I sit across from each other, wordlessly passing food.

  In spite of this, we quickly settle into a rhythm as roommates; we learn from each other’s slowing actions when it’s time to turn out the light at night; we shake each other awake in the morning if one of us—usually Mazzie—sleeps through the alarm. The telephone in our room doesn’t ring once all week. It’s typical of the Ghost and my mom; now that they know I’m tucked away, they don’t feel any need to get in touch. It doesn’t bother me so much. It’s not like I want to talk to them, anyway.

  The person I do want to talk to is Mazzie. I feel like, if she’d just give me the chance, we’d have a lot to say to each other. It seems like we are both alone in the world, families out there somewhere, for whatever reasons disinterested in making contact, and we both seem determined that it’s okay with us—isn’t it? I can’t help but feel so sorry for her, even though she took my bed without asking, even though she can’t seem to stand being around anyone. As far as I can tell, she hasn’t made any friends so far. Whenever Lindsey and Estella come into our room, she makes herself scarce; it’s almost like she can slip away before they even know she’s around.

  There’s something else, too: from the first night she arrived at Woodsdale, and every night afterward, Mazzie has talked in her sleep. It starts with the grinding of her teeth; that’s how I know she’s out. Then, after ten or twenty minutes, she starts murmuring to herself. Her voice is angry and sad at the same time. More than once, I’ve gotten out of bed to watch her. I’ve thought about shaking her awake, or even putting my arms around her and holding on tight so she can’t struggle away. I want her to know that, whatever she’s dreaming, I’ve probably known worse.

  But I get the feeling she wouldn’t appreciate it if I woke her, or tried to comfort her in any way. When she talks during her dreams, she speaks Korean, her guard up even in sleep.

  The more I get to know Lindsey and Estella, the more I like both of them. Well, not Estella as much. But I at least understand where Lindsey is coming from when she defends her. Right away, it’s obvious there are advantages to being her friend. On the first day of school, I’m standing at the back of the lunch line when Estella, Stetson, and Lindsey walk past me. Without a word—she doesn’t even look at me—Estella takes my arm and yanks me out of line, leading me toward the front with them. None of the people we cut ahead of say anything.

  Later that day, in study hall, I’m sitting a few rows away from Estella, looking over the pile of Latin homework that’s already been assigned. She and Stetson are in the back row, deep in hushed conversation. There’s no way I’d have the nerve to join them. As I’m staring at a page of conjugations, I feel something hit the back of my head. It’s a balled-up piece of paper. When I open it, it reads,

  Hey Sasquatch—

  I’m goi
ng to pluck your eyebrows for you tonight. C U in my room after dinner.

  XOXO

  —E

  I don’t know whether to feel embarrassed—I mean, she did just throw paper at my head—or happy. When I look back at her, she gives me a wave, fluttering each of her long, manicured fingers individually. And when I glance around at everyone else in study hall, nobody is laughing at me. If anything, the other girls seem curious to know what the note says.

  Estella, I think, knows how obnoxious she is. She’s more clever than people give her credit for. It seems like everyone assumes she’s a spoiled bimbo, when she’s neither. I can see it in the way she looks around sometimes, quietly, her face tight with concentration, just taking everything in. If people weren’t so quick to judge, just based on what she looked like, she might not be able to get away with so much. Then again—her stepdad is on the board of directors.

  A few weeks into the year, I’m sitting at lunch with Estella and Lindsey. I’ve started eating with them every day. “You have an accent, you know,” Estella informs me. So far she’s plucked my eyebrows, showed me how to roll the waistband of my skirt up so that it’s at least a few inches shorter than regulation (although none of the teachers say anything), and openly expressed her hopelessness that I’ll ever be able to properly apply eyeliner. I keep waiting for the day when I can relax around her. So far, it isn’t looking good.

  “Do I?”

  “Yes. Very Pittsburgh. My mother’s first husband is originally from Pittsburgh.” She shakes her head, oblivious to the hint of a West Virginia drawl in her thick, accusing tone. As her hair spills over her broad shoulders, her movement sends a swirl of perfume across the table. It smells so good—so clean and lovely—I can almost see it. “He trained himself to get rid of it. You should do the same thing.” She digs into her cake—Estella eats three huge pieces of cake for lunch every day, and her body is perfect—and chews silently, staring at me.

  “You’re so mean,” Lindsey says, staring at her own untouched piece of cake. The minute she takes a bite, Estella will narrow her eyes and kind of cock her head to one side, looking at me, expecting us to share a smirk.

  “I am not mean. I’m honest. You know, nobody is ever straightforward. But sometimes people need to hear the truth.”

  “Hey, look”—I put my hand on Lindsey’s arm—“there she is.” We’ve been trying to spot Mazzie every day at lunch, without any luck. Now the three of us stare as she takes small steps, balancing her tray in one hand, looking around the room for a place to sit. I catch her gaze and try to wave her over to us.

  “You know, she’s super smart,” Lindsey says. “She’s in my advanced abstract mathematics class.”

  “She’s in my advanced abstract mathematics class,” Estella mocks. Even though she’s pretty smart, there’s no question Estella isn’t good at math. She’s taking geometry for the second year in a row. “Big deal. Eat your cake already. You know you want to.” Underneath the table, she kicks Lindsey.

  “Ow!” Lindsey’s eyes well up with tears. “That really hurt!” Estella is cocaptain of the girls’ field-hockey team, and you can tell who the other team members are by the way their shins are covered in bruises so purple as to be almost black. Each day after school, they cringe as they peel off their knee socks. Only Estella and the other cocaptain—Amanda Hopwood—are almost bruise-free.

  “Go get her,” Lindsey urges me.

  “Yeah,” Estella echoes, giving me a much lighter kick under the table, “go get her.” She rubs her hands together. “She can’t avoid us forever.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, watching as Mazzie—who pretended not to notice my wave—sits by herself and begins to eat at a deliberate, fast pace. “Maybe we should leave her alone for now.”

  I feel protective of Mazzie already. I’m not sure why. Maybe because, at first, it also occurred to me to hide out during lunch, as she’s likely been doing up until today, but I managed to force myself to do otherwise. Or maybe because I keep hearing her talking in her sleep, her voice as angry as ever. I’m not sure why I don’t tell Estella and Lindsey about Mazzie’s restless nights—it’s definitely a juicy piece of info. I just don’t. Somehow it feels cruel even for me to know, because I think Mazzie would be mortified if she found out.

  Things loosen up after the first couple of months at school. On paper, Woodsdale Academy is a model of academic excellence. Its students’ days are planned down to the minute. We wake up in time to get dressed and hurry to breakfast by 7:15. Homeroom starts at 7:50. Classes begin at 8:00 and last until 3:00. Every student is required to participate in at least one extracurricular event, preferably a sport, and practice is held at a minimum from 3:30 to 5:30 every day. A sit-down, family-style dinner follows from 6:00 to 7:00. Study hall in the dorms—bedroom doors open, no talking or music allowed—lasts from 7:30 to 9:30. Lights out is at 11:00 for underclassmen, midnight for upperclassmen.

  But most of their “model of excellence” is a load of crap. It’s just so people like the Ghost can feel great about packing up their kids and sending them away. Once you know what you’re doing, it’s easy to break the rules. Take our uniforms, for example. In the student handbook, there are five whole pages devoted to their care and cleaning. During our first dorm meeting of the new school year, we even have a visit from a member of the housekeeping staff, who explains how we should hang and fold each article of clothing in order to keep our shirts and skirts in pristine condition. As we lounge on the sofas and on the floor, we pretend to pay attention as she demonstrates how to properly fold—never roll—a pair of nylon-and-cotton-blend knee socks to be stored in our drawers.

  This is how it really works: after school every day, most of us have loosened our ties and untucked our shirts before we even get back to the dorm. At the end of the hallway, there are two piles: one for neckties, and one for navy blue knee socks. We add our own clothes to the pile, toss our shirts over the back of our desk chairs, and leave our skirts wherever they happen to fall on the floor of our bedroom. Anytime we put on our uniform, we pluck a tie and a pair of socks from the collective pile. At the end of the week, when they come to collect our laundry, the housekeepers know where to find everything. In the student handbook, “improper uniform maintenance” is supposed to be punishable by half a dozen demerits. But nobody ever mentions what a departure we’ve made from Woodsdale procedure—not even Jill, who is usually so rule conscious that, as Estella loves to say, “She would have made a great Nazi.”

  It’s the same kind of thing with sports and academics. Officially, academics come first No Matter What. But Woodsdale has a widespread reputation for its fine swimmers. The varsity team practices year-round, and we compete in scrimmages all fall.

  In my first scrimmage, I come in first in every one of my heats. Most of the other girls tell me how excited they are to have me on the team this year, but I’d bet anything they glare at me the second I turn my back, especially Grace.

  The following Monday, Coach Solinger tracks me down during a boring lesson on sentence diagramming in English class, tapping me gently on the elbow and nodding at the door.

  No matter what time of year it is, Solinger looks like he just wandered off a beach in Malibu. His blond hair is sun streaked, and he’s always in swimming trunks, flip-flops, and some kind of T-shirt. I guess he gets away with it because he’s the swimming coach. Today he’s wearing a threadbare Tom Petty T-shirt that you just know he’s had since college.

  Solinger is flirty and has a reputation for picking favorites among his varsity swimmers.

  “Katie, I have to tell you, you’re my favorite swimmer,” he declares, leaning against the wall in the empty hallway, gazing at me with a combination of hope and adoration. He rubs an open palm against his whiskery chin, shaking his head. “I simply don’t know where they found you.”

  He’s probably in his late thirties now, but I heard he spent the early part of his twenties swimming professionally, and even had a mediocre turn in
the Olympics, where he walked away without a medal. He has his doctorate in sports medicine, and I can already tell he’s a great coach. He’s so cute, it’s embarrassing to make eye contact, especially when we’re alone in the hallway like this.

  My breath catches. “Hillsburg, Pennsylvania,” I supply.

  “What?”

  “They found me in Hillsburg. It’s about an hour east of Pittsburgh.”

  “Oh. Right.” He grins for a split second before growing serious. “Listen,” he continues, “your schoolwork is important. I mean, nothing is more important than your education, right?”

  I’m not sure I’m completely sold on the idea. So far, it seems to me that good looks and money are more important than anything. But whatever—Woodsdale’s slogan for the year (they have a new one every fall) is, “Education is the most valuable tool a person can have.” “Right,” I agree. “I mean, it’s the most valuable tool a person can have.”

  Solinger continues to rub his chin. “You’re going to be our key swimmer this year on girls’ varsity. I hope that isn’t too much pressure for you.”

  I shake my head. Pressure can feel good, especially if you can push through it. Swimming is all about forcing your way through endless resistance.

  “What you need to do,” he continues, “is practice, practice, practice.” He pauses, waiting for a reaction from me. When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Practice.” Then he puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes. “Practice. Practice. Practice.”

  I nod. “Three thirty. I’ll be there.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” He takes me by the elbow. “Come with me.”

  I glance toward the classroom door. “What about—”

  “Don’t worry. You’re clear.” And he tugs me down the hallway, in the direction of the pool.