The Unseemly Education of Anne Merchant (20 page)

Smiling over her shoulder, Molly shushes me and calls out in her best loud-whisper, “Go steal Ben away from that chicky, you gorgeous thing. Then meet me tomorrow morning at ten, in the woods by the marina, and tell me everything. And don’t say I never did anything for you! I should be sainted for what I’m doing.”

The problem with sainting is that they don’t hand those titles out to people until years after they’ve died, until well after someone’s lived a totally virtuous life. So you don’t get to become a living saint for performing one-off miracles.

But if there was a way to canonize a living, breathing teen girl or a competition for whom in the whole wide world should be sainted, I would stand on the tallest of mountains, the highest of hills, and proclaim that Miss Molly Watso of Wormwood Island
must
be
a strong contender.

But, I have to admit, it’d be hard to climb a mountain in the heels I’m wearing right now.

“Come on!” Teddy bellows as he marches over the red line to campus, annoyed that I can’t keep up.

I have questions—lots of them. I’ve had them since the moment I placed the long white box on my bed and opened the lid to reveal the most welcome gift I’ve ever received. Questions like how on earth Molly got her hands on strappy, gold-studded Jimmy Choo stilettos. Or how she had in her possession a Prussian blue Carolina Herrera trumpet-style gown that clings to every curve I’m still getting used to on my body. Or where on earth she found a thin golden mask with a dramatic plume of three feathers in three shades of blue. Or how she knew that I’d need all these things from her and delivered them just in the nick of time.

But I don’t want answers to those questions. No, I don’t want to spoil the closest thing to a magical encounter with a fairy godmother—a sixteen-year-old, non fairy, non godmother—I’ve ever had. I’m going to take this blessing without question, make it up to Molly however I can, and, best of all, hold my head high at the dance.

Even if I am walking into that dance with Teddy.

“I’m not going to keep stopping to wait for you,” Teddy shouts at me as he marches along the road to campus.

“Don’t let me keep you,” I call back, wobbling as I get used to these heels.

“It is my job to stay by your side.” He stops, hands on his scrawny hips.
“Des Chaos wunderlicher tochter!”

When I look at him, boney in his tuxedo, I realize there’s a reason they call them penguin suits. He looks like a malnourished, angry penguin.

“Why do you have to stay by my side?” I reply, stomping by him. “No other Guardians do that.”

“They ought to!”

His lips form an invisible, crooked line as his eyes slide over my body like black eels navigating seaweed. I try not to gag at the memory of this afternoon, of him in my room. Trust Teddy to ruin tonight for me. My first dance, and, thanks to Molly, I finally look like I’m supposed to be here. I’ve got a legit date and a mask and everything. But I’ll feel gross all night knowing Teddy’s watching me. Knowing what he’s thinking.

“I should have been by your side when you received your delivery,” he spits.

“Why? What does it matter?” I stare ahead, begging for my legs to move faster so I can escape what could easily turn into an inquisition. Molly and I are getting too casual with our interactions; we’d be smart to take Gigi’s advice or we’ll both be in trouble soon.

“You know damn well why,” he says. I refuse to respond.

The hypnotic beat of a drum machine set behind brittle, raucous tones and an echoing voice guides me and Teddy, marching in silence, through the campus gates. The music is coming from the other side of Goethe Hall where the dance is set up in the middle of campus, on the grassy quad. Over the course of the week, I’ve overheard Harper telling everyone within earshot all about the massive castle-like structure she was going to have her lackeys on the Social Committee build from scratch in the quad; the dance is inside the castle, and I’m certain Harper will find a way to have herself crowned queen before the end of the night. But I don’t care. Let her be queen. I’m here to enjoy myself—no matter what Teddy or Harper or anyone does.

As we walk around the side of Goethe Hall, I spy the castle, and my irritation with everything immediately washes away.

I’ve found myself in a pop-up book, in a fantasy world where the overwhelmingly massive ginger-and-rose moon watches from just steps off the inky shoreline, wisps of charcoal clouds drifting over it, their edges blood red in the moonlight. In front of the moon, the school buildings are jagged black cutouts, like the devil’s claws clutching at a fiery light. And here, just feet away, is the entrance to a perfectly imperfect castle—or the remains of one: tens of thousands of gray papier mâché blocks in various sizes, made to look like the stone of an old castle, encase a vast dance floor. Blocks are missing, ostensibly knocked down over the ages, leaving craggy gaps of all sizes through which crimson moonlight flows. Candlelight glows within. A colossal chandelier is suspended from the ceiling, which is itself comprised of whitewashed beams wrapped in silvery lights. I hate to admit it, but Harper’s outdone herself.

As if to lighten the darkly romantic ambiance, a trio of freshmen boys, obviously putting aside the Big V competition for the night, walk by, dressed in enormous white diapers and holding arrows; one of them whistles at me, making Teddy scowl and giving me a nice boost of confidence. Those boys seem to be the only Cupids here. All the other guys, I notice as I stop to take everything in, are dressed as various interpretations of Death. The usual black cloak and scythe—
dozens
of those guys. Some interesting Deaths, like an empty pill bottle and a puffy tornado with little trailers in it. One guy is dressed as an old-school cartoon bomb with
Acme
stamped on it, while, standing next to him, another is costumed as a glowing ball with spikes coming out of it.

“A virus,” I say with a laugh and point him out to Teddy.

“Childish,” he replies as a George W. Bush walks by and beams at me.

“
He
can’t be sitting well with Little Miss Texas.”

“Annie!” Pilot screams across the dance floor. His voice carries over the band. Heads turn.

“Remember, you’re with me tonight,” Teddy sneers, putting his arm around me.

Balking, I shove him off. “I’m not here with
you,
Teddy.”

“It’s my role as your Guardian! Your second shadow. Grading you all night long.”

“Don’t ever touch me again,” I snap, biting hard on the end of each word as it leaves my lips.

Teddy’s eyes narrow, his sneer stays put, but he storms off. Just as Pilot arrives, panting. Golden candlelight glimmers in his eyes as he takes my hands. Shaking off the memory of Teddy’s vile touch, I do my best not to turn five shades of red while Pilot looks me up and down.

“Wow, nice mask. You look effing fierce,” he says with a broad smile.

“Thanks,” I breathe. In my heels, I’m much taller than he is. “You look decent yourself.”

“Decent?” His eyebrows hit his hairline, but I just smile and shrug. He wears a suit—the conservative suit of a politician’s son—and carries a bright red scythe. “Okay, I’ll take it. Come sit? I’m sorry I couldn’t come pick you up, but Teddy was adamant that he had to walk you here.”

“Just count yourself lucky that you don’t have a Guardian.”

Around the perimeter of the room, the faculty watches us. Between them, those freaky secretaries, the lunch ladies, and a sprinkling of women I’ve never seen—presumably housemothers from the dorms—all stand, staring at everyone with what I’m starting to recognize as the mask of the Guardian: a deadpan gawp. There must be a hundred adults here, one for every junior and senior, plus a few extras to monitor the sophies and freshmen who aren’t yet being graded for the Big V. They’re all a reminder, a walking, talking, pen-scratching, clipboard-reading reminder, that this is no ordinary dance. Clipped to their boards are charts for grading our clothing, composure, conversation. They know our PTs by heart, which will factor into our grading. To drive home the point that tonight is still very much part of the Big V competition, at the back of the castle, standing in a small, dim balcony a dozen feet above us, is Villicus; the silvery lights on the beams near his narrow skull reflect off his pupils, transforming him into a golden-eyed shadow, a leering rat atop a pillar of black onyx. It’s hard to tell, but it looks like he’s watching me with Pilot.

Shuddering, I turn toward the band, which is comprised of five kids from a music club, with surprisingly cool lead vocals by Plum. Those are the only people I recognize, though. The girls on the dance floor are all masked. And most of the guys wear makeup.

“Getting dressed up makes the night easier,” Pilot explains, walking me to a table. “The costumes. The anonymity.”

“But they’re grading us, so nothing’s different,” I say, glancing again at Teddy, who’s prowling the room with his eyes on me. Feels like I’m being stalked by a skinny, horny cougar. “Competition as usual.”

“We can pretend, though.” Pilot grips my hand. “I mean, we’re still teenagers in high school. We still wanna…”

“Knock boots?” I laugh, doing my best Harper impersonation. “You know what I’ve wondered? I get the whole junior—senior competition, but why don’t the younger kids hang out? They don’t have Guardians yet. They’re not being graded.”

“Well, they have parents,” Pilot says, walking me to a table in the corner where a few others are seated. “Their parents are already pressuring them. So, yeah, they’re as deep in this competition as any of us, even if no Guardian is keeping score.”

As if to help Pilot make his point, a sophomore boy in a black cloak rips the mask off a freshman girl and throws it down. As he stomps on it, the girl shrieks and, tearing his scythe from his hand, jabs him in the gut.

Ben is nowhere to be seen. In a way, I’m relieved. But that relief switches to irritation when, arriving at the table, I see that Harper, Tallulah, and Agniezska are here, watching me from behind their flashy masks. Harper’s in an orange mask meant to look like the Texas Longhorns emblem. Tallulah’s mask must have cost serious money if the jewels on it are real. Taking home the skanky award is Agniezska, whose mask is transparent with tiny white diamonds on it—just like her skintight dress, under which she does not wear pasties or anything to cover the darker areas of her naked body. If I were Teddy, I’d ask to swap with whoever her Guardian is. No challenge there. All three girls smile at Pilot, as do the guys sitting around the table. In fact, everyone in the room is totally accepting of Pilot because he’s the only one they’re never in competition with.

“Anne, long time no see,” shouts Jack, who’s exchanged his usual Goth kid gear for a pimp-style red suit with white, feathery angel wings. A blend of Cupid and Death.

“I think you mean
Fainting Fanny
,” Harper snickers.

“Right. Because I fainted once,” I deadpan. “Clever.”

“Yeah, that’s so obvious, Harper,” Jack adds. “Your insecurities are really showing.”

“God, can we please get along tonight?” Pilot begs.

“What’re you talking about?” Jack asks. “That’s impossible. It’s obvious these girls are in full competition mode. I just can’t believe all four of you have the same PT.”

Four of them? Plum’s onstage, so Harper, Tallulah, and Agniezska make three. Whirling in her chair, Harper glares at Pilot. And then at me. And then at Pilot again.

“What is Jack talking about?” she demands. “I thought you said her PT was to act like Inspector Gadget or some bullshit?”

When did Pilot talk to Harper about my PT? That’s private. I told him that in confidence.

“Sorry, Jack,” I say, “but I don’t think we do.”

“So, wait,” Jack says with a confused look on his face. Then he leans back and claps his hands together, grinning broadly. “Wait, wait, wait. Anne, are you saying you’re not even trying to be sexy tonight? That’s not even your PT?” He guffaws. “And you’re kicking their asses!”

I turn red. Bright red. Tomato red.

Cheers on the dance floor distract us all, and everyone around the table leaps to their feet. The song has changed to an even louder, faster one, a twist on a Beyoncé song I half-recognize, sending the crowd into an absolute frenzy of joy, a craze I hadn’t even
considered
these normally uptight, bitter kids could produce. Flailing arms. Shaking, jumping bodies. Hoots, hollers, bellows. Laughter and screaming—good screaming—like I haven’t heard in ages. It’s my first dance. And, Harper and Guardians aside, it’s already
so much better
than the ones I’ve seen in eighties movies, which just so happen to be the ones I’ve based my expectations on: boys leaning against one wall, girls against the other. This dance is night-club fabulous. Way too fabulous for me to even consider sitting down. As much as Pilot obviously wants to avoid the dance floor, I can’t. Not when I want to do much more than
observe,
not when dancing is the one thing that makes me feel normal…cool, even.

“What do you think?” I ask him. He just shakes his head. The longer I stand, my shoulders bouncing, my toes tapping, gazing out over the rapidly filling floor, over the manic crowd, the paler his complexion grows.