The Unseemly Education of Anne Merchant (30 page)

“Teddy!” I blast, keeping my voice as low as I can while shouting. “You scared the living daylights out of me.”

“What are you doing in here?” he hisses. “You’re
not
just doing Harper’s bidding.”

“Who are you? Harriet the Spy?”

“I am your Guardian,” he snaps, glaring down at me. “Are you trying to get expelled? You are seconds away from losing all hope of even being
considered
for valedictorian, Missy!”

“You have no proof,” I say, getting to my feet again, “that I am not in here getting something for Harper. Just ask her.”

He leans back for a moment, considering my excuse. But, in a flash, he lurches at me and pins me to the metal shelves. His sticky hands wrap around my wrists; he’s stronger than he looks, I realize, as the sharp corner of a box digs into my spine.

“I saw you,” he scowls. “I saw you with my own two eyes from inside the hall. And I heard you fall out of that shaft.”

“Get away from me.” I wince. “I was looking beyond the surface you all expect me to accept. It’s my PT! There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“You were breaking the rules. Again.”

Bits of Teddy’s saliva fly over my face. He smells like doused campfire. His wet lips brush against my nose when he leans closer to me, but I dodge him, trying not to gag.

“Don’t force me to scream. I will.”

“And who would believe you? Nobody. You barely even exist here.”

“Then you should barely feel this,” I fire, thrusting my knee up and hitting him exactly where I know it will drop him. I bolt for the far door and, tripping over a garden house, burst into the dreary afternoon air, panicked but relieved to be free.

“Annie?”

Huffing, I glance quickly to the right. As my eyes adjust to the daylight, I see Pilot standing wide-eyed, smiling at me until he sees the state I’m in.

“What happened? You’re covered in dust.”

“Come on.” I grab his hand and begin limping away. I can’t be here when Teddy comes out.

“Harper’s looking for you,” he says. “And I wanted to ask you something.”

“Walk and talk, Pi.”

“We’re planning a get-together up at the beach tonight. North shore. An exercise in decompression, if you will. Post-Parent Pressure Day. You in?”

Tugging his arm, I nod vehemently, willing to agree to anything just to get away from this building.

nineteen

THE TUITION BATTLE

THE FORECAST CALLS FOR SLEET. I’LL HAPPILY SIT IN
a hailstorm, if I have to, just to get away from spending the night under the same roof as Teddy.

So, after dinner, when all the parents—from crazy-looking
I
Love Porno
dad to Harper’s surprisingly nice-looking parents—retire to the dorms, I meet Pilot at the school gates to head up-island.

“You came,” he breathes. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Why not?” I ask as we start walking north of the school, passing the hill where I watched Villicus dispose of who knows what that day; where I stood screaming at Ben, back when I still had anything resembling hope about him; where someone—probably Teddy—found Molly’s shoe and used it to trigger her death.

“Honestly? I was worried my dad creeped you out today,” he confesses.

Even though I’m not feeling particularly cheery, I laugh. “I wondered if you noticed.”

As we walk, clouds roll in overhead, replacing what little was left of the golden twilight with a dark gray smear. A yellow Ducati—
his
—zooms by.

“So tell me,” I say to keep from thinking of the fact that Ben, who evidently detests me now, didn’t even pause, “is there an unspoken truce going on tonight?”

“More like a temporary cease-fire.” Pilot’s idly dragging a branch. “No Guardians. No grading. No competition. Just us. It’s exactly what I need after the stress Lieutenant General Stone put on me today.”

“Was it that bad?”

“It was terrible. Every second word out of my dad’s mouth was
valedictorian
.” He rolls his eyes. “Good ol’
vale dicere.
The idea of wasting my life on that single achievement. Seriously.”

“He knows you don’t want to be valedictorian, doesn’t he?”

“It’s not that simple.”

Pilot’s voice is drowned out as, just ahead of us, Ben’s Ducati rounds a curve in the road, appearing again from behind a stand of bushy pine trees and racing our way. It roars as he revs the engine, lifting the front wheel inches off the road, slamming it back down and, seconds later, whizzing by us. Leaves scatter. I step on one, and it crunches under my shoe.

“Show off,” Pilot mutters. Then he looks at me. “Listen, tonight’s about getting away from all that valedictorian stuff. Starting now.” With that, he pulls two mini bottles of vodka, the small bottles you get on airplanes, from his coat pocket. Holding them between his fingers, he tips one toward me. “Can we do that?”

“Sure,” I say, smiling.

Truth is, I think I’ve finally figured out why it’s important to become valedictorian: it’s the ultimate act of
normalcy.
How better to pretend your child hasn’t died than to not only see them go to school but to set the same goal for them that every other overachieving high-schooler on earth has? To be valedictorian. It’s such a common aspiration, such a simple way to pretend life is as it was. The thought of it makes my eyes water, knowing how far we’ll go to hold onto any sense of normalcy—however tenuous—just to lessen the pain of losing someone we love. I know that’s all my dad wants for me. I know he’d do anything to sustain the illusion that I’m alive and well.

Of course, there must also be parents who care only about status, about knocking out the competition so they can prove what skyrocketing investment portfolios and custom homes in the Hamptons can’t: that their offspring, the fruit of their loins, even postmortem, is the best. What floors me is the willingness of the kids to play along. It’s taken me a while to figure that out, but that’s because there are so many impossible curiosities to sort through. I have to attack them one at a time. My hope is that, tonight, Pilot will help with a few straggling questions. Surely he knows more than he’s let on.

Nodding, I tug one cool bottle from his grip. “Straight vodka?”

“You don’t think you’ve earned it?”

I’ve earned it and then some. Twisting the lid off, I think,
Here’s to our pathetically short lives,
and, nodding at Pilot as he rests his bottle on his lips, tip it back. I shudder. It’s like drinking window cleaner. Or diesel.

“It’ll hit you hard. But it doesn’t last long,” Pilot wheezes, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Nope. Never lasts long enough.” As he chuckles, I finish my bottle off—fast, before I can taste it, before my tongue can react to it. He does the same and, wiping his lips, softens his expression. “You holdin’ up okay, Annie? You seem like you’re doing an awful lot of
looking closer
lately.”

“It’s hard not to.”

“So,” he tilts his head, looking curious, “you found anything interesting?”

“Depends what you mean by interesting.” I’d call what I’ve discovered shocking, stomach-churning, even horrifying. But not
interesting.

“So you’ve found something, and now you need to find everything?”

“Does everyone talk in code around here?”

“Not always. Just with you. Just since you arrived.” Tossing his empty bottle into the woods, he rubs his hands over his ultrashort hair. “Have you cracked the code yet?”

I’m closer than ever to getting the answers I thought I wanted. But, suddenly, I don’t want them—not yet. Because my head is exhausted with the revelations of the day. Because I don’t feel like being serious right now, like interrogating or investigating or using my brain in any way. I just want to unwind like a normal sixteen-year-old would. In the absence of knowing what such unwinding might look like—lack of experience—I say nothing.

I simply take off running.

What am I running from? From Pilot confirming everything and, in one short breath, eliminating any hope that I might be wrong? What am I running toward? A beach filled with dead kids.

Tossing the branch he’s been dragging, Pilot chases me. Suddenly we’re racing, laughing as we push ourselves. Minutes later, we arrive at the sandy beach at the northernmost tip of Wormwood Island, where dozens of kids mosey around in the sand, their shoes off as if it’s ninety degrees, not thirty, their arms slung over each other’s shoulders. I can’t help but compare tonight to the dance last weekend, where we danced under the pressure of Guardians grading us, where we scrapped and jabbed because we were so caught up in the race for the Big V. A vanity race. Here, tonight, on this beach, there’s none of that. Just giggling. Someone strumming a guitar. Y’know,
unwinding.

“Looks like these bitches are already
crunk,”
Pilot laughs.

“We’re late for the party.” I grin. “Better catch up.”

Tugging his sleeve, I pull him toward the crowd that’s formed around Jack. It’s something I never would’ve done before—not here, and not in my previous life. But, like Pilot said, we need to decompress. And I’m too aware now, too frustrated by the fuzzy areas around my suspicions, too bewildered by the forces focused on oppressing me to care. I’m too far gone to play by the rules I’ve played by before. Excuse my French, but fuck the rules. Fuck competing with everyone just to make our parents proud or to make them feel better about
our
deaths. Fuck Teddy, Villicus, Dr. Zin—hell, even Ben. And if Harper doesn’t like me, fuck her, too. And Plum. And the whole Model UN from Hell with their big, nasty boobs and obvious desperation.

Jack’s holding a bottle of something. To his right, a few guys try to build a bonfire out of driftwood. Down by the water, Tallulah and Mark Norbussman are soaking wet after tumbling into the water while wrestling. Everyone roams in every direction, crossing to the dark woods that flank either side of the beach, meandering to the waterside, where the last streaks of daylight on the horizon make the shallowest waters glow with a pale golden hue.

“Jack!” I shout into the wind as we near his crowd. He waves us over. “What’ve you got there?”

“Hey, you sex bomb! You, too, Anne,” he shouts with a loud laugh. “It’s tequila. Tequila!” Hoots and bellows of joy fill the air.

Reeking of booze, Harper runs up out of nowhere, guffaws, and pulls Plum, who’s near me, to her chest. “Y’all ready to get hog wild?”

“Let’s do it!” Pilot shouts.

“Tequila!” Jack bellows again. He rifles under a stack of blankets and finds a basket, opening it to reveal a dozen more bottles. “And lots of it.”

“Pilot!” Harper hollers, even though she’s standing directly in front of us. Leaning on Plum, who’s laughing for no reason, she grabs Pilot’s collar and stares him down. “Pi, I have to say, you’ve been doing
such
an amazing job.”

Blushing, Pilot glances from her to me and mutters in my ear, “Social Committee stuff.”

“Really,” Harper continues, her drawl blending into one hiccupy stream of soft sounds, “you’re going above and beyond. I’ll square up with you later.”

“Anyway,” Pilot interrupts, gently pushing her away. “You’ve never had tequila, have you, Annie?”

“No.” I glance back at Harper, who’s whispering in Plum’s ear. They break into a fit of giggles. “What was Harper talking about?”

“Don’t worry about her,” Jack slurs. “She’s drunk.”

“So are you.”

“And you should be, too,” he laughs. “Come on. Take off some of those layers, Anne, or I’ll make you play strip poker with me. Christ, who wears a winter jacket to one of these things?”

I
should
loosen up tonight. Why not? I’m dead now. I don’t have to be the artsy geek anymore. I can be anything. Do anything. Reading my mind, Jack fills a shot glass with golden tequila that sloshes over the sides and hands it to me.

“The best way to relax, gorgeous.”

With a blush, I take it. Jack’s quickly filling another shot glass and then more until everyone in our huddle is listening to Harper count down
three, two, one.
And we drink, polishing off our glasses, gasping; I hold my stomach to keep it down.

“Another!” Plum hollers. Everyone cheers and the rest of the crowd hustles over to join us. Shot glasses appear from nowhere.

“Aren’t we supposed to have salt and lime with tequila?” I ask.

“Not with this stuff, Fainting Fanny,” Pilot teases, wrapping his arm around my shoulder, warming me as the wind rolls in off the ocean. “This is the best. Straight from Jack’s dad’s last distillery, which just so happens to be the
best
distillery in all of
Meh-hee-ko.”

“Wait,” Jack cries out, his warm breath freezing in white puffs as the sun, at last, completely disappears below the horizon. He waves his hands to stop the conversations up and down the beach. “Wait, wait, wait! Everyone, this next bottle of
extra añejo
requires a toast. My dad wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“May your life be long and useful like a roll of toilet paper,” Tallulah shouts, holding up her glass. “And if not, may you end up on Wormwood Island. Let’s drink!”

“
That’s
not a toast,” Jack says. Then his gaze falls on Pilot, and his tone turns theatrical. “Mr. Pilot Stone. The one person on this whole island who doesn’t give a crap about the Big V. My hero. Will you do the honors?”