Vicious Little Darlings

For D. L.

1

W
here to?” the cabdriver asks. He's middle-aged with cracks in his face and weary eyes and he's squinting at me through the rearview mirror.

“The nunnery,” I say.

The cabbie doesn't blink or laugh or say anything.

“It was a joke,” I explain.

He just keeps squinting at me.

I give up and say, “Wetherly College.”

Nodding, he starts the engine and pulls away from the curb, looping around the airport toward the nearest exit.

“You a freshman?” he asks, once we're on the highway.

“Yeah.” I check his nameplate.
JIMMY FORD,
it reads. He looks about ten years younger in his license photo: fewer grooves in his face, perkier eyes. When he looks at me in the mirror again, I consider sliding over to the left side of the car, out of his field of vision, but decide it's too hostile a move.

Instead, I roll down my window, letting in a blast of fresh dung. It's 5:47
PM
and still hot out. Aside from a couple of big rigs, the highway is empty.

Yup
,
I'm really here, in humdrum New England.
Where there are cows. Brown ones, black ones, and spotted ones, all happily grazing next to the highway. I'm three thousand miles away from my crazy Lutheran grandmother's crappy Spanish-style complex in the slums of Beverly Hills—south of Wilshire—with its peach stucco and fossilizing tenants. And now I'll be spending the next four years at a women's college instead of UCLA, all because Nana caught me with Brad Taylor, the most popular guy at my Lutheran high school. Nana basically gave me two choices: Wetherly (her alma mater) or a college of my choice, except she wasn't going to pay for Option B and she wanted me out of the house by September. All I can say is, Brad totally wasn't worth it. He was
so
not my type. I only hooked up with him because I was trying to see if popularity could be sexually transmitted. Turns out it can't.

So I blew it. I screwed up the one blood relationship I had. Not that Nana even cares. She used to tell me I was just like my mother, and she hated my mother. But can I blame her? I hate my mother too. I haven't seen or heard from the woman in twelve years, but if she called or visited me, I'm pretty sure I'd still hate her.

Jimmy turns on the radio and starts whistling along to “Close to You” by The Carpenters. Suddenly I feel like crying. Despite everything, I miss Nana. I miss the way she snorts whenever she laughs and the way she fixates on the TV during
As the World Turns.
Even when I think of all the mean things she did—like buying me a push-up bra for my tenth birthday even though I didn't have any breasts yet, and telling me to wear makeup because God doesn't like an ugly face—I still miss her. I guess it's because she's all I have.

“Hey,” Jimmy says, “what's a pretty girl like you doing going to an all-girls school?”

I can't help but snort.
Pretty?
I have skin like death—pale with visible blue veins—and dyed jet-black hair. I'm wearing torn Levi's, a black tank, and combat boots. If pretty were the point, I would be wearing pink blush and a dress made of doilies.

“I guess you can kiss your social life good-bye, huh?” he says.

“No kidding.” It's ironic: sex is what got me here, and now, for the next four years, I won't be having any. But maybe that's okay. Sex always seems to get me in trouble. Maybe I should make it my goal to be celibate until summer.

“Or maybe you're one of those lesbians?” While looking into the mirror, Jimmy raises his eyebrows suggestively.

Now there's a thought. If celibacy gets to be too hard, I could always become a lesbian.

“Sir,” I say, “if it's okay with you, I'd like to meditate now.”

“Sure. Fine. Knock yourself out.” He turns up the radio.

I close my eyes and try to relax, but I can't stop picturing Nana's permanent look of disapproval. Here's something I've learned from seventeen years of living: there's nothing you can do to make someone love you.

When I open my eyes, Jimmy is exiting the highway. He makes a sharp turn and drives down a private, tree-lined road. It's dark and eerie and feels as though time has stopped. We pull up in front of a sinister-looking wrought-iron gate with a plaque that reads
WETHERLY COLLEGE
1871.

Wetherly
. The name makes me think of Waspy women wearing white gloves and sipping Earl Grey with their pinkies thrust into the air. I can't help but sit up straighter.

Jimmy turns off the radio. “Which house?” he asks, suddenly all business.

I unfold my campus map. “Haven House,” I say. “It's in the quad.”

We drive past the gate and under a brick archway. Then we circle a courtyard with too-perfect lawns and trees with gnarled trunks, finally stopping in front of a massive, ivy-encrusted building. I step out of the cab. Jimmy stays in the car while I haul my own luggage out of the trunk, so I return the kindness with a one-dollar tip.

“Good luck,” he says ominously before speeding off.

I look up at Haven House. It's impressive, all brick and ivy, ivy and brick. It sort of looks like Harvard—or at least like what I know of Harvard from the movies—both welcoming and intimidating at the same time.

I drag my suitcases to the door and ring the bell. A minute later, the door opens and a girl with curly brown hair sticks out her head.

“You must be Sarah,” she says. Before I can respond, she motions for me to enter and begins talking in a rapid, no-nonsense way while I lug my suitcases into the foyer. “You're the last one to arrive. Everyone else is at the dinner. I almost thought I'd have to miss it. I'm Caitlin, by the way. I'm the head resident of Haven House. Your room's up on the fourth floor, and your roommate is …” She glances at her clipboard. “Madison Snow. But you already knew that. You probably e-mailed each other over the summer, right?”

“Not exactly,” I say, closing the door behind me. “I e-mailed her, but she never wrote back.”

Caitlin checks something off on her clipboard and says, “You're going to have to work that out with Madison.” Reaching into the back pocket of her plaid Bermuda shorts, she pulls out a small envelope and hands it to me. “Here are your keys. The gold one's for the front door and the silver one is for your room. I'm going over to Belmont Hall to see if there's any food left. I suggest you drop off your bags and do the same.” She hands me a brand-new campus map, pointing to a building in the southwest corner. “That's Belmont Hall. See you there.”

A quick wave and she's out the door, leaving me behind in the musty entryway.

I look around. The wood paneling, dim lighting, and faint scent of leather remind me of a funeral home. Above the door hangs a banner that reads
WELCOME FIRST-YEARS
.

One at a time, I drag my suitcases up the stairs, stopping in front of the door that bears my name and hometown on a star-shaped piece of pink construction paper:
SARAH WEAVER, BEVERLY HILLS, CA
. It's strange seeing “Beverly Hills” next to my name. It makes me sound like some kind of princess, which I'm not. Nana was a teacher until just a few years ago, and when Grandpa was alive, he owned a plumbing-supply store in Culver City.

Next to my star is another that reads
MADISON SNOW, NEW YORK, NY
.

I place my hand on the cool doorknob.
Relax
, I tell myself.
It's just four years.

I open the door, a little surprised to find it unlocked and a
lot
surprised to find a guy and a girl in the middle of the room doing something I really shouldn't be seeing. The girl is on her knees with her back to me, oblivious to the fact that there's a stranger in the room. The guy, on the other hand, is looking right at me. My first impulse is to bolt, but I'm too stunned to move—the guy is so incredibly good-looking. He's tall, with dark hair and green eyes, and I can barely take my eyes off him. He brings a finger to his lips and winks at me.
Hot.
Too bad he's an asshole. I turn and walk out, making sure to slam the door behind me.

I find the communal bathroom, a large, basic room with six sinks, four toilets, three shower stalls, and a bathtub. I wash my hands vigorously even though they're not dirty, and after washing and drying them three times, I feel refreshed—that is, until I look in the mirror and see what a mess I am. I've got dark circles under my eyes, chapped lips, and a frighteningly bad case of airplane hair. Shit. I hope that guy couldn't tell I was attracted to him. But guys are kind of smart that way. Even when they're clueless about everything else, they can always tell when a girl is into them. I know because I've slept with a lot of guys: some cute, some not-so-cute, and even a couple of teachers—Mr. Johnson, who taught US history, and Mr. Christopher, who taught physics and then had the nerve to give me a B for my final grade.

Suddenly the bathroom door flies open and the girl walks in. She's tall, with long, blond hair, gray eyes, and a rounded forehead like Botticelli's
Venus
. Her beauty startles me. She didn't seem beautiful at all when she was down on her knees. Who knew she had such luminous skin and high cheekbones? Even in her simple outfit of dark-wash jeans and a white T-shirt, she exudes sophistication.

“Are you Sarah?” she asks.

I hesitate. “Yeah.”

She marches right up to me and extends her hand. She's so close I can smell her green-apple shampoo. “I'm Maddy,” she says. “I'm going to be rooming with you.”

“Nice to meet you.” I shake her hand even though I really don't want to, considering where her hand has just been. Inwardly, I cringe and hope she'll leave soon so I can wash my hands again.

But she doesn't leave.

She just stands there picking at her short, midnight-blue fingernails, saying nothing. The awkwardness of the situation feels all too familiar and I get a flashback of Nana walking in on Brad and me midcoitus. Mortifying.

“Look,” I say, “you don't have to worry. I didn't really see anything.”

Maddy exhales. “Thank goodness. I didn't hear you come in, and I thought you were at the dinner.”

“Yeah, I kind of missed orientation.”

“I'm so sorry.” She covers her face with her unwashed hand. “It's just that my boyfriend, Sebastian, is leaving for Cornell tonight and we're not going to be able to see each other for a couple of weeks, so … you know.”

“Yeah,” I say, though I'm not quite sure what I'm agreeing with.

She runs a hand through her hair. “The thing is, we haven't had sex yet, and I know it's frustrating him. And now he's going to be so far away! I mean, you saw him. He's gorgeous, right? Girls fawn over him. But I'm just not ready to … you know. We do other stuff, though,” she says reassuringly, “and I know he's not going to cheat on me or anything, but still …”

I'd hate to be the one to break it to her, but I'm pretty sure her boyfriend cheats on her. I could see it in his eyes.

“Anyway,” she says, “Sebastian's getting ready to leave, and I'd really like to introduce you to him properly.”

“Oh, okay.” I
so
want to wash my hand, but I don't because Maddy seems nice and I don't want to make her feel any worse.

She checks her reflection in the mirror. “By the way, I'm sorry I didn't e-mail you back. I had a very busy summer.”

“No problem,” I say. But I wonder, Who's too busy to answer an e-mail?

We walk back to our spare, garretlike room and find Sebastian on the floor doing sit-ups. The guy is ridiculous.

“Sweetie,” Maddy says, “come and meet Sarah, my new roommate.”

Sebastian jumps up and extends his hand. “Sebastian. Pleasure to meet you.”

While shaking his hand, I stare at his long, black lashes and pray that my eyes won't give me away. But it's hopeless. Despite myself, I
am
attracted to him and I know he can tell. I turn and smile uncomfortably at Maddy.

“So anyway, I have to get back to Ithaca,” Sebastian says, rubbing his hands together. “Can I drop you ladies off in town somewhere? I think you might've missed dinner.”

“That's a great idea, sweetie,” says Maddy. “There's supposed to be a yummy Italian place in town. I think it's called Antonio's.” She turns to me. “It's not that far from here. Sebastian will drop us off and we can walk back. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” I say, “just let me go wash my hands.”