Wuthering high: a bard academy novel (5 page)

“I think it would make a good drinking game,” Hana says matter-of-factly. “See a gargoyle, take a drink.”

“Around here that’s a way to get drunk in a hurry,” I say.

“You’re down that way,” Hana says, pointing down the hall.

“Oh, thanks,” I say, as a few white-faced Goths push past us. I feel a stab of disappointment. I’m not sure if I’m ready to wade back into the Sea of Freakdom. I liked the normalness of Hana.

“See you around then,” she says, and disappears around the corner.

The door to my room is open. It’s got no bathroom, and it’s only big enough for two single beds, a single dresser, two tiny closets, and two tiny desks — with lamps.

My roommate has moved in already, and she’s decorated her side of the room in what appears to be a uniting theme of…Satan.

She’s got demonic posters covering every inch of her side of the room, including a black pentacle, a giant picture of the Devil tarot card, and posters of Marilyn Manson. Her shelves are already lined with books about witchcraft, spells, and tarot readings. On her desk sits a life-size skull-shaped candle.

Where did she get this stuff? Pottery Barn: The Hell-mouth Collection?

I back out of the room slowly and double-check the number on the outside. Yeah, it’s room 216. This is my room, and it’s just gotten an Extreme Home Makeover by the Prince of Darkness.

I take a look at the purple - and - pink–polka - dotted comforter under my arm, the Bed-in-a-Bag that Mom bought at Linens-N-Things, and think, I am not in Kansas anymore.

My roommate (whose official name, according to my sign-in sheet, is “Jill Thayer”) uncurls herself from the bed. She’s got orange-and-black hair, which she’s wearing in pigtails, as well as four rings through her eyebrow, one through her nose, and a giant tattoo of a spider on her shoulder. She’s wearing enough black eyeliner to graffiti a 7-Eleven.

“Um, hi?” I say, not sure what it is you’re supposed to say to a punk-Marilyn Manson-Satan worshiper.

She holds up a notepad. She’s written on the page, “I have taken a vow of silence.”

She flips the page and it says, “I am protesting my imprisonment against my will here and will not be speaking to you or anyone else.”

I nod. Okay. She’s a Satan worshiper
and
she is freakin’ crazy. On the bright side, she’s not going to be making much noise.

She flips the page: “P.S. Don’t touch my stuff.” I look around at the giant skull candle she’s got on her desk, her Satan poster, and the black-and-red quilt on her bed that is covered with pentagrams drawn in permanent marker. Yeah, I think there’s absolutely zero chance I’ll be touching any of her stuff.

She hands me a printout of her MySpace profile.

NAME: Blade Thayer

TURNONS: Marilyn Manson, throwing things at little kids, weirdos, writing poetry, being handcuffed, witchcraft.

TURNOFFS: Liars, fakes, flakes, crazy bitches (that try to mess up your life ’cause they don’t have one), people who freakin’ stare, and anyone who calls me Jill. The name is BLADE. I had it legally changed.

Before I’m done reading, she snatches it away from me and then goes back to her bed, where she curls up again into the fetal position. There’s no reason to ask her why she’s here. It’s pretty obvious that she wouldn’t fit into any normal high school. Can you say Freak with a capital F?

I put my bag on my bed and start unpacking. It’s a bit odd with Blade (why not Hatchet or Steak Knife?) curled up in a ball and facing the opposite wall, but after a while, I just decide to ignore her. I open my closet, where I find a row of identical Bard Academy uniforms. I shove them aside to make room for my real clothes. Mom would only let me pack a few outfits, because that’s what the Bard Academy guide suggested. I’ve brought: jeans, my favorite Lucky Brand hooded sweatshirt, a dress (in case of dance/date potential), a couple of baby doll tees, and my favorite flannel Boys Stink PJs. I turn off the light and then turn my attention to the bed. I put sheets on it, and then I take out the framed pictures I brought with me — one of me and Dad, one of me, Mom and Lindsay, and one of my two best friends (Liz and Cass).

Dad’s got his sunglasses on and he’s smiling because we’re on the golf course. That was the summer Dad gave me golf lessons for my birthday. The lessons were a disaster (I threw the golf club farther than I hit the golf ball) but the picture is a good one. It’s the only one I have of Dad when he’s with me and he’s smiling. Every other picture he looks bored, or worse, annoyed.

I get sad when I look at this picture. More than a little sad — like almost choked-up sad, which is ridiculous. I’m not normally sentimental, especially not about Dad, but the picture suddenly makes me feel very alone.

I put it down and pick up the next one to distract me (I am not going to cry over Dad — especially not now). The third picture is me at my fifteenth birthday. Liz (boy-crazy drama queen) and Cass (rock - star - in - training) are making funny faces, because they are total goof-balls I’ve known since I was four. If I’d met them in high school, we wouldn’t have been friends because we hang out with different crowds, but somehow we’ve stayed friends all this time, despite the fact that Cass listens to Audioslave and can slug a beer in one gulp, and Liz’s dream is to be this year’s homecoming queen (a goal she’s attempting to achieve by sleeping with half of the football team). I think I’m her last remaining virginal friend.

My parents think they’re bad influences on
me,
but the truth is that I’m a good influence on
them.
I’m the one who talks Cass back from the ledge when she wants to do tequila shots at a keg party, and I’m the one who convinced Liz to try waiting until the third date before offering the blow job. I’m the one who keeps my friends sane. But do I get points for this? No. I get sent off to reform school.

Still, Liz and Cass are loyal and supportive, and I miss them worse than caffeine, which by the way I haven’t had since I snuck some of Mom’s coffee earlier this morning. When they heard about my Bard Academy exile, Liz and Cass both offered to hide me in their respective attics. I should’ve taken them up on their offer.

Looking at the framed pictures on my desk makes me suddenly and desperately homesick. My anger at my parents melts away a little bit as I take in my side of the room, which is pretty bleak and has nearly no decorations, since I didn’t think to pack any. It’s just my polka-dot bedspread, my pictures, my pink towels, and my Paul Frank monkey robe.

I glance over at Blade’s side of the room and wonder how I’m going to sleep with a giant poster of the tarot Devil staring at me all night. I look up and see that my closet light is back on. That’s weird. I thought I turned it off. I glance over at Blade, who’s still lying on her bed. She couldn’t have turned it back on. Could she?

I walk back over and flick the light switch off.

There’s a knock on my door. I look up and see Hana.

“Hey,” she says, her eyes widening as she sees Blade’s shrine to all that is evil. “Uh, wow, that’s some room.”

Blade rolls over and scowls at Hana.

“There’s a meeting downstairs,” Hana says, looking at me. “Our dorm mother, Ms. W, is calling it and everyone has to go.”

Blade scribbles something furiously on her notepad and then shows it to us. It says, “Down with the fascists!” and is underlined three times, and then she goes back to her bed where she lies down, facing the wall.

“Ms. W?” I say. “What’s up with the names at this school? No one has a full name — everybody goes by an initial?”

“I heard it was for the teachers’ safety, so that students can’t find them in the summer and beat them up.”

“You’re serious?” I ask her, wondering, again, where on earth my parents have sent me. Rikers for juveniles?

“It’s the rumor,” she says. “So? You coming?”

I look at Blade. “Definitely,” I say.

“What’s with her?” Hana asks me when we’re out the door.

“That’s Jill Thayer, but she’s legally changed her name to ‘Blade.’ She’s taken a vow of silence. Her hobbies include selling her soul to Satan, piercing her nose, and being freakin’ weird.”

“You should totally call her Swiss Army,” Hana says, which makes me laugh.

Five

Our dorm mother,
Ms. W, calls to order our meeting in the dorm den, a smallish library with couches, chairs, and a giant fireplace. Even though a fire is roaring, the room still feels cold — like every room at Bard. A group of preppy-looking girls wearing nothing but Juicy Couture from head to toe have all the best and most comfortable seats staked out. A few other freaky Goth types occupy the remaining seats. It’s standing room only, as Hana and I take up positions near the door.

Ms. W claps her hands. “Let’s get settled, everyone,” she says in a clipped British accent. I wonder just how many teachers here are British. “I really hate the goons — I mean, Guardians — but I will call them if I must.”

Ms. W seems like the sort of teacher who could be okay. The sort who understands there’s more to life than school. She’s got her hair cut short in a bob and is wearing a dress with a dropped waist. She’s got an unfortunate nose, but then, you have to give her points for not dressing like everybody else.

“As you probably know by now, our dorms are a little…odd,” Ms. W says. “They take some getting used to. I think they’re cold and creepy, but that’s just me.”

Given that my roommate could be a spawn of Satan, I agree with this assessment.

I raise my hand. “When do I get my hair dryer back?”

“Sorry, Ms. Tate,” says Ms. W, shaking her head. “Not until you leave. You’ll have to learn how to survive without it.”

Great.

“This is just as well,” Ms. W says. “You girls need to start working on your inner selves, and worry less about your outer selves.”

I’m not so sure about that. I glance down at Ms. W’s sleeve and notice that it seems to be wet. That’s a little strange. Did she spill something on her dress? Maybe she ought to worry a little bit more about her outer self.

“At ten
P.M.
, you’ll hear the Bard tower clock toll ten times, and this is your signal to turn off the lights in your room. Anyone caught with lights on after ten will be subject to detention or other punishment. These aren’t my rules, people. The headmaster — you met her — she’s the one with the Napoleon complex…”

A few people giggle at this. It’s true, she is
very
short but very stern.

“…well, you think she’ll punish you if you step out of line, but I’ll get even worse. So we’re all stuck here, in the same predicament. Let’s make the best of it, shall we?”

Ms. W sees me staring at her sleeve. She glances down, notices the wet spot, and deftly hides her hand behind her back. Odd.

“So I’m sure you all have memorized the rules and regulations by now,” she continues. “Normally, dinner is served at six, but tonight dinner will be late — in about an hour.”

“What happens if we don’t make curfew?” someone shouts.

“I have to turn you in to the Guardians, and they are very grumpy at night,” she says. “There typically is dish duty or toilet cleaning involved. Trust me, girls, you don’t want to have to do this.”

There are groans in the room.

“And everybody here should really be kissing up to me,” she continues, “because I’m the person who says if you go home for Thanksgiving or not. Now, I’m from England and we don’t celebrate Thanksgiving. That is just for you Yanks. But, I’ll take cash donations, or just worship. I don’t mind worship. By the way, each of you will be meeting with me once a week to talk about how things are going. And just to talk about things in general.”

There are groans around the room. Apparently, the idea of counseling doesn’t appeal to this group.

“One last thing — your first few nights at Bard are going to be difficult ones. If you have something you want to talk to me about — and believe me, I’m sure you will — let me know. I don’t sleep very much, so just knock on my door if you need to. It’s the one right by the front door, so don’t think about trying to run off. I hear everything,” she says.

There are a few sighs and grunts to this.

“All right, girls,” Ms. W says. “You’re dismissed.”

The other girls start to file out, including Hana. I feel a sudden urge to try to reason with Ms. W, so I linger behind. I don’t belong here. I mean, I
really
don’t belong here.

“Ms. W,” I say, reaching out to touch her sleeve, but when I do, I feel that it is, indeed, wet. Not just damp, but soaking. I’m surprised it’s not dripping. It’s like before - the - spin - cycle wet.

Ms. W whips her sleeve from my hand.

“Can I help you, Ms. Tate?” she asks. “Here to ask me more about blow-dryers? Or do you have a more substantive question?”

“There’s been some mistake. I mean, I really don’t think this is where my parents intended to send me. I don’t belong here. This is all some big,
big
mistake.”

Ms. W looks a bit sad. “Trust me when I tell you that I’ve been here a lot longer than you, and want to leave a lot more.”

This might be sarcasm, but she sounds like she’s a prisoner, too. But isn’t she an adult? Can’t she leave anytime she wants to?

“But, Ms. W., I mean it, I really,
really
don’t belong here.”

She puts her hand on my shoulder and gives me a little pat. Her hand is so cold, I can feel the chill through my shirt. “I’m sorry, Miranda. There’s not much I can do.”

“But…”

“It’s out of my hands,” Ms. W says, shrugging, as she walks out of the den. I look down and notice that she’s left a trail of wet footprints. They follow her out the room and down the hall.

I glance at the window outside. There’s no rain. Not even a cloud in the sky. And I look around the floor for a puddle, or something that might account for the water, but everything except her footprints is dry.

Odd.

Back in my room, Blade lights some incense that smells a lot like goat, and then begins some kind of silent dance in the middle of our room.