Orphan #8 (17 page)

T
HE NIGHT BEFORE THE
P
URIM
D
ANCE, THE GIRLS IN
F5 all washed their hair—except, of course, for Rachel. No matter they’d have to sit up late in the underheated dormitory while it dried, or sleep with pin curls pricking their heads. It was thirty minutes before Last Bell and the monitors hurried them along. Naked under the steaming showers, the prospect of dancing with boys led the adolescent girls to assess one another with a competitive eye. These hundred girls had been showering together and using the toilets in front of each other as far back as any of them could remember. They saw each other change, felt themselves changing. They knew when one’s monthlies started, saw when another sprouted hair between her legs, envied those who filled out early, at fourteen or fifteen already with the figures of women.

Rachel, however, seemed barely to have matured: nipples still inverted, hips slim, skin smooth as wax. Unlike Amelia, whose beauty had deepened from oval-faced childhood to round-breasted adolescence. She had become a queen among the F5 girls, casually accepting the tributes of her coterie—messages delivered from boys, extra portions of dessert, homework answers, hair ribbons.
Now legendary in length, Amelia made her hair more alluring by wearing it braided and pinned in a romantic swirl. Most of the girls had their hair bobbed short, the Home’s barber encouraging the simple style with magazine pages cellophaned to his wall. But Amelia refused the barber, instead visiting Mrs. Berger every few months for the slightest trim.

Rachel, with her bald scalp and looming eyes, was in a category by herself. Not that she had no friends; there was a companionship of sorts among the misfits, loose alliances that splintered into small subsets of girls in corners of the play yard. Various slurs had been flung at her over the years—mummy, Martian—but only Egg had stuck, repeated so often it had long ago lost its sting. Because Rachel didn’t try for any prizes, no one was jealous of her excellent grades. While other girls learned to sew or took up the violin, Rachel spent Club Bell in the Home’s library, losing herself in the pages of a book. Her favorites were biographies of courageous explorers; she had no patience for fiction.

Rachel’s connection to Sam and Vic, two of the most popular boys in the Home, afforded her some dignity. Vic, clever and outgoing, was involved in every activity and backed by his mother’s access to the superintendent. Sam had grown handsome and tall, his storm-cloud eyes threatening to boys and irresistible to girls, lauded star of the baseball team, ready to raise a fist at the slightest challenge.

Naomi had remained an ally. Though Rachel could never be her equal—a monitor’s authority depended on her prestige among her peers—Naomi kept a protective eye on Rachel, stepping in with a smack if someone shoved her on the stairs or tossed a handful of gravel at her in the yard. Rachel understood Naomi’s protection
was funded by Sam’s tributes, slices of bread replaced over the years by pilfered coins and stolen magazines, but by demanding nothing from Rachel herself, Naomi seemed more confederate than mercenary.

In the Home, everyone did a thing or no one did, so Rachel also showered the night before the Purim Dance. Near her was a novelty—a girl new to F5, just come over from Reception that morning, the loss of her parents a fresh wound. The girl’s baldy haircut and pockmarked cheeks were already drawing insults. At first, she’d thought Rachel was also new and lined up next to her for the showers. Close up, the smooth sheen of Rachel’s scalp showed that her hair hadn’t simply been shorn. When Rachel hung her towel and stepped under a showerhead, the new girl realized with a thrill she’d spotted something more valuable than an equal: someone worse off than herself.

“Are you some kind of fish? What do you have, scales instead of skin?” She glanced around the shower to gauge the others’ reactions. A few were giggling; it had been a long time since their attention had been drawn to Rachel’s body. Still, they hesitated to join in.

It was Amelia who picked up the thread. “She’s not a fish, she’s an Egg, like a lizard’s egg. When it hatches, she’ll come slithering out from under a rock.” The giggles turned into laughter. Amelia approached Rachel, wet hair flowing down her elegant back. “I hope you’re not counting on getting asked to dance tomorrow. No boy’s going to be interested in you.”

Rachel couldn’t hide the blush that colored her neck and cheeks. The new girl, wanting to be accepted by Amelia, joined in. “No boy would want to dance with a hairless freak!”

The monitor watching the showers called Naomi over. She ignored the new girl and grabbed Amelia by the arm, pulling her out from under the shower. “Go dry off.”

“I’m not done yet,” Amelia said.

Naomi slapped her face. Amelia’s friends bowed their heads at her misfortune. The new girl slunk away before she, too, could be struck. “You’re done when I say you’re done.” Naomi shoved a towel at Amelia and pushed her away. Her friends hurried after her, wrapping her in comforting arms. Rachel kept her back to the commotion, grateful and embarrassed.

“Finish up now, girls!” the shower monitor yelled. “One more minute!” They hastily rinsed the soap from their hair. The monitor turned the tap, and the sizzle of a score of showers became a forlorn drip. The girls grabbed their towels and filed back into the dorm, the monitor following.

Rachel, wrapped in a towel, left last. Naomi, too, hung back. Placing a hand on Rachel’s shoulder, Naomi said quietly, “Don’t listen to that bitch. I think you’re real pretty. Always have.” Rachel dropped her eyes as a different kind of blush crept up her face. She waited for Naomi to lift her hand before walking away.

At her bed, Rachel dried off quickly and pulled on her nightgown. The shower monitor was pushing the laundry cart through the dormitory. As Rachel held out her towel, the monitor leaned in and whispered, “I’d watch out for Naomi, if I were you. She’s not a normal girl. You know what I mean? She’s not natural.” Rachel looked confused. “Just don’t say no one warned you.” The monitor grabbed the towel, threw it in the cart, and continued down the row.

Rachel curled up on her mattress and pulled the blanket over
her head. She’d heard the accusation leveled before but wasn’t sure what it meant. She’d heard it said about girls whose close friendships were intense and dramatic, but Rachel wasn’t even sure if Naomi was her friend or just her protector. The way Naomi never seemed afraid of anyone wasn’t normal, not at the orphanage. How nice she was to Rachel might seem unnatural to anyone who didn’t know Sam paid her for it. But he didn’t pay Naomi to tell Rachel she was pretty, did he?

When Naomi made her rounds before Last Bell, telling girls to quiet down, she paused near Rachel’s bed. “Night, Egg,” she whispered. Rachel, pretending to be asleep, didn’t answer.

T
HE NEXT DAY
was infused with excitement for the Purim Dance. The children too young to attend were animated by jealousy; those twelve and up fidgeted through the school day, their minds on the coming evening. Dinner was eaten in fewer minutes than usual and everyone hustled out of the dining hall so preparations could be made for the dance: tables moved, benches stacked, decorations hung.

In their dormitory, the F5 girls spent the hour brushing their hair, trading ribbons, sharing tubes of contraband lipstick, and doing what they could to make their clothes special. Rachel changed into a clean dress and stockings, then pulled her cardboard case from under the bed and studied the wig.

“Why don’t you put it on?” It was Tess, whom Rachel numbered among her friends.

“It itches my head, and besides, it hasn’t been brushed out in forever.”

“Try it on, let me see you.”

Rachel reluctantly pulled the wig on her head. It was snug—because she hardly ever wore it, she hadn’t been given a new one since F3.

“You look wonderful, Rachel,” Tess said. “Here, let me brush it for you.” She sat on the bed behind Rachel and began running her brush through the wig’s hair, but she tugged too hard and it shifted. “Sorry! You better hold it.” Rachel pinched her fingers at the temples and held the wig in place. Tess brushed it until the dark hair shone.

“Doesn’t she look swell?” Tess asked Sophie, whose bed was next to Rachel’s.

“Let me have a turn,” Sophie said. Tess surrendered the brush. “Here, tie this around it.” A ribbon appeared and was looped around Rachel’s head, a bow knotted at her crown. The girls appraised their work.

“Too bad you don’t have eyebrows,” Tess said.

“It won’t matter with the masks,” Sophie said. “No one will know you, Rachel.”

When the girls of F5 entered the dining hall later that evening, it was transformed. The space, cleared of tables and benches, seemed to stretch on forever. Strings of colored electric lights were twisted around the poles and swagged between the beams. Platters were piled with buttery hamantaschen; fruit juice mixed with seltzer fizzed in punch bowls.

At the door, members of the Dance Committee handed out masks—sashes of colored fabric decorated with feathers and sequins, oblong holes cut out for eyes. Girls and boys accepted the masks, wrapping them around their faces and tying them behind their heads. With everyone’s hair cut by the same barber, virtually
all of them brunette and in similar clothes, the simple masks were amazingly effective at blurring identities. Even friends didn’t recognize each other until they were up close. They enjoyed the thrill of anonymity, the opportunity to imagine themselves for the night as something other than orphans.

At the front of the room, a stage was set up for the members of the band who had rehearsed dance tunes. When the superintendent mounted the stage, the band director cued the trumpet player, who gave a flourish to catch everyone’s attention.

“Welcome to the annual Purim Dance,” Mr. Grossman said. “I invite the committee to come forward to make a few announcements.”

Five boys made their way onto the stage, Vic stepping up to speak for them. His mask hung untied over his shoulder, and all the girls knew who he was. Widely considered to be the most handsome sixteen-year-old in M6, his romantic attachment to one of the F6 girls had been chronicled in the gossip column of the last Home newsletter—but that didn’t stop every other girl from hoping for a dance with him. Sam had helped set up, but since he wasn’t on the committee, he stayed on the floor, his back against a wall.

“On behalf of the Dance Committee, welcome!” Vic waited for the round of applause to dissipate. “We’re going to have a great time tonight. How do you like the decorations?” More applause and a few whistles. “Our kitchen staff is working late to keep us supplied with punch and pastries, so let’s show our appreciation.” Another round of applause. “And special thanks to the members of the band who have been rehearsing a great set of songs, and yes, there will be a Charleston!” Claps, whistles, and foot stomping.
“Now, there are a few rules, and if we all follow them, we’ll have lots of fun and make all the work our committee has done worth it. No one leaves the dining hall, except to use the facilities. Counselors will be attending both the girls’ and boys’ bathrooms, so no funny business.” A wave of nervous laughter. “All other corridors are off limits. The dance will continue until Last Bell. When you hear it, F4 and M4 will exit first, followed by F5, M5, and F6. And remember, the younger kids are sleeping, so be quiet! M6 boys will stay to help take down the decorations and put all the tables and benches back in place for breakfast.”

“Thank you, Victor,” Mr. Grossman said. “And thank you, members of the Dance Committee, for all of your hard work in planning this affair.” A final wave of applause as the boys stepped down from the stage. The band director lifted his hand, counted a quick four-four time, and the dance began.

With her wig on and the mask around her face, Rachel felt transformed. She milled around with her friends for a while, then thought she recognized Sam from his tight jaw and the set of his shoulders. As she got closer, his gray eyes showed through the holes in his mask.

“Aren’t you going to dance with me?” she asked. As he heard his sister’s voice, his scowl softened.

“Rachel, is that really you? Vic, here’s Rachel. Can you believe it?”

“If someone told me you could look prettier than usual, I wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t see it for myself,” Vic said. “You better come back and dance with me, Rachel.”

Sam took Rachel out just as the band started a fast waltz. Neither of them knew how to dance to it, so they just held hands and
twirled and laughed. Rachel enjoyed seeing Sam’s smile up close—usually, he was only this happy when the Home’s baseball team won a game. By the time the dance ended, Rachel was breathing fast. As the band started a tango, Vic came up and put his hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“May I cut in?” he asked, mimicking a movie star.

“Why, of course.” Sam gave Rachel’s hand to Vic and bowed.

“Madame, may I have this dance?”

“Certainly, sir.” Rachel curtsied. Vic lifted her hand up to his shoulder and placed his other hand at her waist, his fingertips pressing into the small of her back. The members of the Dance Committee had asked Millie Stember to give them lessons, and Vic led Rachel across the floor in measured steps. When he spun her in a twirl, she looked around to see who was watching. Amelia, her hair undisguisable, had her eyes on them. Vic kept turning Rachel so she caught only passing flashes of Amelia whispering to a tall boy and pointing in her direction. She knew the other girls must be watching her, too. Rachel smiled, imagining their jealousy. When the dance ended, Rachel’s face was flushed, her dark eyes shining through the mask.

“You’re a fine dancer, Rachel,” Vic said. Bending, he planted a kiss on her cheek. Suddenly awkward, Rachel stumbled a little and let go of his hand.

“See ya later!” Vic headed off toward the refreshment table. Rachel was at a loss for a moment until Tess and Sophie surrounded her.

“He kissed you, we saw it!” Rachel was about to say it was just because Vic was Sam’s friend, that he was like a brother to her, but
she swallowed the words. She let them think Vic liked her, enjoying, for the first time, their admiration and envy.