Devilish. Maureen Johnson

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      A repeat. Really not a good sign.

      ‘…I’m not the only person who keeps track of your behavior.’

      ‘You’re saying I’m getting a reputation?’

      ‘You almost have your own file drawer in the guidance office. I don’t want to dredge up the past, but it’s starting to catch up with you. Your application to a men’s seminary school to become a priest. Passing out condoms on Valentine’s Day. And look at yourself now.’

      I looked down at my very white, very untanned thighs, well exposed by my shorts.

      ‘These are the things people just might remember when you ask them to write your college recommendations in the next few weeks, if you don’t do something to repair your image.’

      ‘What are they going to do?’ I asked. ‘Kick me out? My grades are perfect.’

      ‘But your attitude is not. And there are people who would like to make an example of you. They could kick you out — or they could try to keep you another year. And believe me, though I love you dearly and can barely stand the thought of parting from you, I do not want to see that happen.’

      This was sobering news.

      ‘They wouldn’t,’ I said. ‘It’s senior year! And I raised the SAT average for the whole school by about sixty points!’

      He leaned back and adjusted his stack of Modern Mathematics magazines until it was just so.

      ‘Jane,’ he said slowly. ‘I need to ask you something. What do you believe in?’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I mean, what matters to you? I know you have problems with some of the rules of the Catholic faith, but you must believe in something. What’s important to you? What’s true? What would you fight for?’

      ‘I fight about a lot of things,’ I answered honestly.

      ‘True. But some battles are more important than others.’

      I had come into class expecting to answer calculus questions, not explain the state of my eternal soul.

      ‘I guess knowledge,’ I said. ‘Knowledge matters. I get annoyed when people get things wrong.’

      ‘There are limits to knowledge, Jane. There are greater things in this world.’

      ‘Such as?’

      ‘Such as love,’ he said.

      ‘Not interested,’ I said.

      ‘Jane,’ he said. ‘This is going to be hard for you to understand, but this is going to be a difficult year. It will not be like the other years.’

      ‘I know. Senior year. Adulthood, responsibility, the fate of the world on our young shoulders…’

      ‘This is no joke, Jane.’ He sounded more grave than I’d ever heard him. ‘You have to realize something. You have gifts. You are exceedingly blessed with intelligence. But you lack willpower. You are often lazy and combative.’

      I looked down modestly. Such flattery.

      ‘I don’t say that to be critical,’ he went on. ‘The academic world is littered with smart people who are lazy and combative. They are lazy because they have never had to make a lot of effort to keep themselves employed. Just ask your father about those people. And they’re naturally arrogant because they think they’re better than other people. Trust me. They are not. The best thinkers — the smartest people — are the ones who really value other people, value ideas, and work from their hearts. This is something I really think you need to know. And now that I have given what amounts to an Oscar speech…’

      He paused and rubbed his bushy brows.

      ‘Jane,’ he said. ‘Be a good girl this year. For my sake, if not your own.’

      I wasn’t sure how my friend throwing up somehow became a reason to lecture me on my behavior. If it had been anyone else but Brother Frank, I would have said something back. But I let him get away with things that others couldn’t.

      ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘For you.’

      ‘Thank you, Jane. It means more to me than you can imagine. And now, do me a favor and go put your uniform back on. You look ridiculous.’

      I’d noticed a long time ago that A3 seemed to have entirely different biological needs. They were all really dry and doing things that seemed like things you do to your exotic lizard, not to your human self. They were huge on lotions, balms, glosses, Vaseline… you name it.

      Elsie always carried a small aerosol can of French spring water with her to spray on the undersides of her wrists. I once spotted her in the second-floor bathroom between classes rubbing her knees with vitamin E oil. Lai was always putting drops in her eyes, the theory being that she needed to after clubbing in Boston all night. Maybe the weirdest — and boldest — was Tracey Pils, who was seen on numerous occasions putting Preparation H under her eyes. I have heard that professional models and pageant contestants do this because PH is the best anti-inflammatory on the market. And I think Tracey was a pageant person once. But still. It takes a certain amount of confidence to be seen doing that.

      Being lizard-like, they were perfectly suited to this lung-deflating heat. I passed them on the way out the door after school, sitting all in a row on a concrete bench, passing around a tube of shea butter.

      ‘Hey, Jane,’ Tracey said as I passed. ‘Come here a second.’

      I don’t like being ordered around, but I also didn’t feel like causing a scene by ignoring them and walking past. I compromised by stopping and moving a step or two closer so that I was within earshot but hadn’t actually gone all the way over to where they were sitting.

      ‘How’s Allison?’ she asked. ‘We heard she was sick earlier.’

      It was said innocently. There was barely a trace of malice in that stone-white, heart-shaped face of hers. But just that they were asking was enough. The temptation to say something to her that would send her groveling back to the sinkhole she had obviously crawled out of was strong, but I remembered my lecture from earlier in the day. I needed to be moderate. My attacking Tracey wouldn’t help Ally.

      ‘Recovering,’ I said, as breezily as I could.

      ‘Guess she didn’t manage to get a little, then?’

      ‘Yes, she did.’

      That wasn’t me who said that. The voice came from behind me. The lanky sophomore from the bathroom trailed up, thin and long as a shadow. Lanalee hooked around in front of me and squared off in front of the A3. Her rust-colored hair was hanging long and free now, all the way down her back. She reminded me of one of those Renaissance women who got locked up in towers and had to let guys climb up their hair to rescue them.

      ‘I’m her little,’ she said. As she spoke, she was casually unwrapping a Twinkie. She consumed this СКАЧАТЬ