The Unseemly Education of Anne Merchant. Joanna Wiebe

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СКАЧАТЬ Molly chuckles. “I’d heard there was a new girl who was supposed to be different from the others. But don’t worry. You’re the least weird one up at that place, trust me.”

      “What makes them weird? That they’re all flawless? Or that they’re the evil offspring of, like, Rockefellers?”

      “Both!” Molly laughs again. “So you go into the village when you’re not supposed to. And you live with Gigi. What’s your deal? Just a sucker for punishment?”

      I get to my feet, dusting my hand-me-down jeans. Molly follows and hops on her bike.

      “It gets worse,” I confess easily. There’s something calming and, well, normal about Molly Watso. “We’ve got these Guardians assigned to us. And mine—Teddy—is actually living with me at Gigi’s. It’s pretty close quarters. I had to get out for some air.”

      “Damn. I figured maybe Gigi would be your Guardian, but she’s from the village, so that wouldn’t work. Not really cut out for critiquing you twenty-four-seven.” She arches her eyebrow. “But looks like your Teddy Bear isn’t doing a very good job with that either.”

      We fall into a stroll through the woods. I’m heading back to the main road, and I imagine she’s going to one of those enormous homes on the hillside.

      “Hey, you know what the punishment is for us even talking, right?” she asks.

      “Is it bad?”

      “I’ll take that as a no,” she says, grinning. “You could be expelled.”

      “And what’d happen to you?”

      “The worst.”

      “The worst?” I repeat. “The only thing worse than getting expelled from Cania might be having to go there in the first place.” I expect her to laugh, but she doesn’t.

      “Exactly.”

      “I’m kidding,” I say. “So, what would your punishment be?”

      “Exactly what you said.” She stops walking as we near the road. “I’d be forced to attend Cania.”

      “Attending Cania is a punishment? So, what? Is this place some sort of reform school?” I guess. Then another thought pops into my head. “Or, like, a mental institution for rich kids? Everyone there seems slightly off.”

      I don’t add my concern: that my dad, after I fell into my depression over my mom’s death, might have tricked me into coming here under the guise of starting fresh.

      Suddenly, a gunshot—at least, I think that’s what it is—tears through the air, bolting from the marina, ricocheting its echo, and sending me and Molly jumping out of our skin.

      Molly nearly falls off her bike.

      Another gunshot.

      “Holy jeez,” she stammers, balancing herself again. “This island is getting crazier every second.” She skids away and calls back over her shoulder. “You okay getting home?”

      Stunned, I think I mumble a yes. In a flash, Molly races to the hillside, shaking her head and shouting that she’ll see me later. I can’t believe she has the capacity to move. I’m frozen in place. By the time I’m able to move again, I stumble out of the woods and duck just as a Harley holding Dr. Zin and Villicus zooms by on the road below. It’s not until they pass and I regain my composure that the sound Molly and I heard makes better sense.

      “Not a gunshot,” I assure myself. “It was the bike backfiring. Had to be.”

      That has to be it. Because the alternative is not something I can let enter my mind. Not if I’m going to keep my sanity here, in a place that, the more I think of it, could very well be a high-end asylum.

      Back at Gigi’s, under the dim glow of candles on my bedside table, my heart has stopped racing and I’m flipping through my student handbook, looking for clubs to join. It’s occurred to me that the dreariness outside, the oddness of the day, my jet lag, and my strange encounter with Molly might have made me a little jumpier than usual. Those shots we heard? I’ve dreamt up a million more explanations. Could have been barking sea lions. Or wailing loons. Or someone scattering gulls. Or a starting gun.

      “Yeah, a starting gun,” I tell myself. “Starting gun for a running club.”

      Doesn’t matter that, if the list of clubs in this handbook is exhaustive, there’s no running club here. There is, however, every other club known to man. A Model UN. Something called the Pil-At-Ease Club. Economics Club. Glee Club. The Social Committee. Swimming. Tennis. Mathletes. Everything.

      What will I sign up for?

      “What would Mr. Ben Zin be likely to take?” I ask myself and just as quickly fling the handbook down. “Why am I even thinking about the snobby son of some gun-firing power tripper?”

      Just before I blow out the candles, I hear a motorbike in the Zins’ driveway, and I jump out of bed, flying to the window in time to see not a Harley but a yellow Ducati disappear under the Zins’ porte cochere. For what feels like hours, I stand in the shadows, looking out my window, watching their house, watching lights fill and disappear from one window after the other.

      In reality, I know guys like Ben don’t associate with girls like me. He’s a gorgeous senior; I’m a lowly junior. And I saw his reaction to my crooked smile. There’s no denying that. If his grades were poor, at least I could console myself that he might one day deign to discuss persistence in stochastic environments with me—but he’s set to get the Big V this year.

      “Nothing could possibly interest Ben Zin in me.”

      I turn to the small mirror on my dresser. And I rub my eyes.

      It must be the candlelight. Or maybe there’s something in the water here that makes people look better than we otherwise would. Sure, I’m nowhere near as flawless as the other kids I encountered today, but I can’t help but notice that I don’t look quite as unfortunate as I normally do. Flattering light—that must be it.

      Sweeping my hair away from my face and holding it high in a ponytail, I turn side to side to see my profile in the reflection. I look…hmm, not all that bad. It’s sort of like being introduced to myself, like my brain is temporarily allowing me a second chance to make a first impression. I definitely look more like my mom than I used to (a good thing). I can see similarities with her bone structure, her eyes, and her lips. Sure, I’ve got a blemish near my jawline, but I’m sixteen! I’m supposed to.

      Gradually, I let my eyes fall below my neck, but it’s like this chore to get them there—to get them to my actual body, not just my face and hair, knowing that I’m about to check myself out. One part pathetic; one part intriguing.

      Like a lot of girls, I guess, I’ve built an uncertain existence in the shadows of my most prominent flaws, which are the very qualities that make me different, which is only good on good days. But here I am now. Standing in my pajama shirt and undies. Tracing my fingertips over my collarbone in the dark. Dropping my arms to my side and letting my hand hover at the hem of my pajama shirt. Holding my breath, I lift it slowly. Take it off. And blush at my reflection. Because my body is so unrecognizable to me, it’s almost pornographic.

      “Not СКАЧАТЬ