The Girls of No Return (8 page)

But on the day the new girl arrived, everyone stood around in small groups, or took their time getting the gear for the canoes. Even Boone was leaning against the lifeguard stand, her arms crossed in front of her, staring out at Bob like she didn't have anything better to do. (Normally, I wouldn't even see her at Waterfront. I wasn't sure where she went during that hour of each day, but it was clear that Boone never swam.)

It was a gray day, but warm, a slight wind shaking the tops of the pine trees so that they whispered to one another from thirty feet overhead. Even though I was far from an expert at canoeing, I planned to take a boat out by myself. I held my paddle in front of me and stood by the canoe on the beach. I was pretty sure I had forgotten something, so I was looking around, trying to remember what it was. But who was I kidding? We were all waiting for the Seventeens to troop down from their cabin.

Which they did, with a little more pomp and circumstance than usual. I'd only been at school a couple of weeks, but I was already used to the Seventeens' posturing. As the oldest girls, they felt entitled to ignore everyone. They felt entitled to pretty much everything. They marched down to Waterfront in a line, with their prize — the new girl — in the middle. Then they stood casually in a circle on the beach, talking to one another as though they didn't realize that everyone was staring at her. It was like her cabinmates had already had her appraised and knew exactly what she was worth.

And yes, okay, she
was
pretty. Jules was right. But she was pretty in a strange way, like the composition of her face had been sketched by a different artist than the one who finally molded it. She had almond-shaped eyes and a jaw that was angular and sharp, but even though she walked slowly, she seemed always to be moving her head, so that it was hard to get a good look at her face. She was tall with graceful arms, and skin that looked like it had been cut from white plaster. She was wearing a very cool vintage leather jacket and straight-legged, scuffed jeans. Her hair was so blond it was almost white, and it hung down the length of her back, catching the light as she turned to listen to what one of her cabinmates was saying. Sure, she was pretty. But I didn't see what the big deal was.

I pulled a life jacket from the shed where they were kept and buckled it on. As I grabbed the prow of the boat to pull it into the water, I looked back at the cluster of Seventeens. One of them must have said something witty, because most of the girls in the circle started laughing. But the new girl — she just tossed her head once, like a pony. Reached up and flicked a piece of hair away from her face while the other girls laughed and gradually fell silent. Then, and only then, a smile passed so quickly across her face it could have been a wink.

Such a small movement, you might have missed it if you weren't paying attention. But it was a smile with a thousand stories behind it. In that split second, I saw what everyone else had already seen, and I felt the heat even from where I stood.

 

Georgina Longchamps. A French name. It wafted around the Mess Hall that night at dinner as we all watched her eat her food slowly, delicately.
Longshawm
. It was a mouthful.

“Apparently, she goes by Gia,” said Gwen, darting her eyes over to the Seventeens' table and back again.

Jules was thoughtfully chewing on a piece of broccoli. “Gia's a beautiful name,” she said. “She must have a beautiful mother.”

“Why?” asked Gwen.

“I think beautiful people pick better names for their kids,” Jules said. “They want their names to match how they look.” She nodded, as if confirming this fact to herself.

“Jules,” said Boone, “I swear to God. Sometimes you are just so full of shit.”

Jules just speared another piece of broccoli and brought it to her mouth. “Ishchrue,” she said as she chewed.

“Where was she before coming here?” asked Karen.

“Unclear,” said Gwen, who had bribed a Seventeen with a couple of American Spirits to get the little information she had. “I think somewhere abroad. Boarding school? Her cabinmates don't seem to know the whole story.”

“Hard to keep a secret at this place,” Boone said.

I had been cutting some butter for my baked potato and I paused, the clear plastic knife in my hand. Had Boone just glanced at me? I stared at my potato.

I think everyone was wondering how Gia would be welcomed — what Boone would do to her to make her enrollment at Alice Marshall unofficially official. Gia already seemed somehow exempt, but I knew Boone didn't see it that way.

We got our answer the next morning during Circle Share. It was another hot day, but the sky was pocked with dark clouds. The Frank's weather patterns were as comprehensible as Sanskrit. I was getting great use out of my hoodies, carrying one with me everywhere I went in case the clouds won and it started to rain, but I was tired of it. Even though I wouldn't be caught dead in a bikini or a wraparound sari on the beach, I still longed for direct, unfiltered sunlight.

We filed into the Rec Lodge once again. While I still didn't want to participate in Circle Share, it had proven to be an innocent form of gossip. Sure, the things you heard around the circle couldn't be spoken of outside of the Rec Lodge, but while we were in there, it was open season on the deliciously terrible Things we had done.

I got my coffee and sat down, careful not to look around. Eye contact meant an invitation for a smile, a joke, a brief conversation. From there, it was just a short jump to “And why don't you tell us a little about yourself, Lida?” I still wasn't in the mood for self-disclosure, so I stared at the ground.

Which is why I didn't see Gia come in. She was already sitting down by the time I even noticed that the chatter in the Rec Lodge was more subdued than usual. When I looked up, she was directly across from me in the semicircle, and she was looking straight at me. She wasn't smiling, exactly, but she had this . . .
questioning
. . . look on her face. Her eyes were soft and kind. It was the strangest thing — I felt as though her gaze was touching me with feathery fingertips. I blushed and looked at my lap.

“Welcome back, everyone.” Amanda glanced around the circle, trying to make eye contact with each girl. She did this every week. When she got to Gia, she smiled and nodded but didn't say anything.

I mumbled as the other girls' voices marched through the incantation, and then we all waited for Amanda to speak again.

“I see you've all gotten comfortable,” she said. “Anyone have anything to share? Any thoughts come up in the past week?”

There were some nods. A few girls shifted around in their seats and glanced at one another, wondering who would go first. There was a long pause, and then a girl with dark hair cleared her throat. Her name was Katia. I'd seen her eating sullenly with the other Fifteens. She always looked like she was about to slap someone.

“I, uh, I heard from my boyfriend,” she said, smiling sadly. “His parents are moving him to Pittsburgh. So he, well, he said not to wait, you know? He said . . .” She stopped, and I could see that she was picturing the letter in her mind, making sure she remembered every word exactly as it was written. “He said that
it's probably better to just go ahead and cut our losses.
” Her eyes had filled with tears, which she brushed away with the back of her hand. She glared at her lap. “What fucking losses?”

There were supportive murmurs from the circle.
Screw him. What a loser
.

“He'll come crawling back,” someone said, and I tried to picture it: a scrawny punk with safety pins in his jacket and tight black jeans, trying to crawl through the woods and up the mountain. He wouldn't get twenty feet.

“I see,” said Amanda. Her hands were folded calmly on her round belly. Nothing ever fazed her. “And he was important to you?”

“Of course,” said Katia defensively, glaring at Amanda. “I mean, he wasn't my first or anything like that, but he
got
me. He had this van, right? And he put a bed in the back — not like just a dirty mattress or anything, like a real bed with a down comforter and satin sheets. So whenever my parents were getting on my case, he'd just roll up and we'd take off for San Francisco or somewhere. He was always looking out for me.”

Amanda put her hand up to keep Katia from saying more. “That doesn't sound like he was taking care of you, Katia. It almost sounds like he was keeping you from taking care of yourself. What do you think?”

“Not true,” said Katia, but Amanda just sat there quietly, letting what she'd just said sink in. This was her way. She would just sit there like Mother Nature, all comfortable and easy in her chair, and wait for you to get it.

Finally, Katia spoke again. “There was only one pillow on his bed,” she said. “And he never offered it to me. What kind of guy only buys one pillow? Bastard.”

She talked some more, and other people joined in, adding their stories of manipulative boyfriends and hurried, selfish sex.

I didn't speak up. Obviously. My experience with guys was limited to a nasty kiss in the parking lot of the 7-Eleven with an older guy who'd agreed to buy beer for me. He was losing his hair and his teeth were coated with a film like they hadn't been brushed in a week. He tasted like menthol cigarettes and overripe fruit. Not a romance worth talking about. As always during these conversations, I felt like I was missing some key hormonal confluence that would allow me to identify with the others. I'd never felt that way about some guy, never thought I'd die without him, never wanted to pull my hair out by its roots if he didn't touch me again. I just didn't get it.

I could see that I wasn't the only one bowing out of the discussion. Across from me, Gia sat quietly, her long legs stretched out in front of her and crossed at the ankles. She was still wearing her jacket, which must have been made in the seventies or early eighties: light brown distressed leather, with so many zippers running up and down its front that I imagined hidden pockets, secret stashes. A half smile played across her lips. She seemed mildly entertained, like she was watching a PeeWee Baseball game. Her thoughts were as obvious and familiar to me as though they were my own.
Bullshit
.

I watched her cautiously for a while until I became aware that someone else was watching her too. I can't say how I knew, but I did, and I looked around the room for the reason. Boone was leaning forward, her eyes fixed on Gia. She wasn't trying to be subtle. She was staring at Gia like she was just waiting for the other girl to look back. But Gia didn't meet Boone's gaze.

I looked at Boone and Boone looked at Gia and Gia looked at no one in particular until the hour was up and Amanda told us we were free to leave.

I rose quickly from my chair, hoping to get out of the Rec Lodge before anyone tried to talk to me. Amanda walked out and I followed her, as the rest of the group slowly got up and chatted with one another. I'd made it to the porch of the lodge before I heard someone near me say, “Here it goes,” and I turned and looked behind me.

Boone was standing next to Gia by the doorway, her hand out with its palm turned up, as though she was waiting for Gia to put something in it.

“I wonder if you'd let me try it on,” she was saying. “Walk around with it. Just for a few hours.”

This was a change. As I understood it, Boone's “welcomes” were accomplished while the new girl was asleep or otherwise occupied. This was more direct. I wondered why Boone was playing it this way.

Gia glanced down at the jacket she was wearing. Then she looked up at Boone, her bleach-blue eyes calm and noncommittal. “I'd prefer to wear it myself,” she said in a strange accent that was somewhere between Britain and Baton Rouge. Her gaze traveled up and down the length of Boone's body before she added, “I'm not sure it's your style.”

It happened before I had time to imagine it happening. Boone slammed Gia up against the door frame, her ear just inches from a rusted old nail that was protruding from the wood. Boone held her there, the pipe bone of her arm pressing into Gia's neck. Boone's voice was low, but I could still hear her even as she leaned in and locked eyes with the other girl. “Prep school reject.” She leaned in closer. “East Coast whore.”

Like I said, it happened so quickly that no one had time to act. And it was over as soon as it had started. Boone stepped back politely and shook her arm out while Gia felt at her throat with delicate moth-wing fingertips. Then Boone asked for the jacket again. She said she felt sure that Gia wouldn't mind giving up her
accoutrement
for the sake of friendship.
Accoutrement
. A French word, naturally.

One finger still on her neck, Gia stroked the hollow of her throat as if restructuring it, and then she smiled. She shrugged the jacket off like a kimono, like she was practiced at letting things slide off her. It fell to the ground behind her. Without a word or another glance at Boone, she adjusted the sleeves of her shirt so that they came evenly to her wrists, and then she turned. She stepped heavily on the sleeve of the jacket, leaving a dark, almost black smear of dirt in the form of a footprint. She didn't look at any of us, but she threw back her shoulders a little as she walked away.

No one picked up the jacket. Boone just stared down at the ugly smudge curving down the sleeve before wiping her nose with the back of her arm and walking away too. Nobody said anything as the group slowly dispersed.

I knew one thing, though. From then on, I would always glance at that rusted, protruding nail in the door frame whenever I passed by it. I would glance at it like I wasn't really looking, but I would memorize every shadow on its sharp, jagged end.