Outrun the Moon (12 page)

“No. I mean, not usually, ma'am.”

“Good. I would hate to think we have allowed a rabble-rouser into our institution. Assume the position.”

“The
 . . .
position?” I croak.

“Miss Quinley has already demonstrated. In light of the circumstances, you shall take the full four lashes yourself, Miss Wong.”

Katie scurries back to her seat.

“But, such things are not done in China—”

Headmistress Crouch's face goes absolutely still, and she seethes, “You will assume the position and let me do my Christian duty before I have you thrown out!”

Whack!
The ruler cuts across my backside, so sharp it feels like it reaches bone. I cry out and tears prick my eyes. Jesus, Mary, and whoever else is listening!

Whack!
Put your tongue to the roof of your mouth, girl, and don't cry, whatever you do.

Whack!
This one is so hard, I feel the ruler break on impact, and a piece of wood goes clattering to the ground.

The headmistress stares at the jagged tip of her ruler, then her eyes sharpen. “If you cannot behave like a St. Clare's girl, you shall not be given the privileges of one. As I am unable to carry out the full sentence, you will sleep in the attic for the next week. Judging by last night, you and Miss Du Lac could use a respite from each other.” Elodie's lips flex into a beatific smile.

A chorus of gasps erupt from all around.

The hairs on my arms lift. “The
attic
?”

I push myself up, head spinning and hull as topsy-turvy as a ship in a storm. My humiliation robs me of all poise, and I cannot bear to look at the others. Maybe Ba was right, and I should have stayed in Chinatown.

“Now, Father Goodwin awaits your confession in the chapel. Carry on, Mrs. Mitchell.”

Headmistress Crouch steers me by the elbow toward the door, and I am thankful for the small mercy of not having to sit through the rest of class with a fire burning on my face.

WE MARCH IN SILENCE TO THE CHAPEL through the garden.

Headmistress Crouch stops at the stone entryway. “I was told that you would not be difficult, that you are desirous of advancing yourself in American society. Yet, already you have given me much opportunity to question you.” She points her broken ruler at me. “First, that farce of a tea ceremony. I have seen how the Chinese take their tea, and it is
not
by brushing away ghosts, or drinking charred skin.”

My chest begins to cave like a catcher's mitt. I was reckless, and she smells a rat.

“And now this. Posture, Miss Wong.”

I snap to attention.

“I do not know what game you are playing, but I am watching you very carefully. I have sent correspondence to verify your attendance at this
Gwok Jai Hok Haau
American School, and I cannot wait to hear back from them.”

My heart grinds to a halt at the revelation. She remembered the false name I gave her? Her pronunciation wasn't bad, either.
What will happen when she receives the letter back as undeliverable? It will take a few months, but when the ax falls, my neck will be under it. I might have satisfied my end of the bargain with Monsieur Du Lac, but it seems my education here will never be secure.

“You will not make a mockery of my school, do you understand?”

“Yes, Headmistress,” I croak.

With that, she sweeps imperiously away.

The coolness of the chapel soothes my burning face, though not my pride, which longs for a hole to climb into. I hobble to the confession box, which is as near to a hole that I am going to find, and nearly collapse onto the kneeler.

Father Goodwin's well-drawn profile shows through the wood screen. Why bother with the divider? I am certain he's heard every word of Headmistress Crouch's tongue-lashing.

I cross myself. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“How long has it been since your last confession?” he asks in his soothing voice.

“About a year
 . . .
or two.” I decide not to compound the sins with more lies.

“And how do you wish to unburden yourself?”

“I snuck off the school's premises last night,” I say in a wobbly voice. “I knew I shouldn't have done it, but back in Chinatown—I mean China
 . . .
we often refer to China as Chinatown—I used to go wherever I pleased. I am used to my independence.”

“I understand. It cannot be easy coming here.”

“Yes.” I rest my head against the screen, thankful to find someone who understands.

“Do you know your Ten Commandments? Those are God's rules for keeping us safe and on the path. See the parallel?”

“Yes, but—” I bite my tongue. I should leave well enough alone. One cannot go offending a
priest
. He has friends in high places.

“But?” he urges me on.

But if I never ventured off the path, I would not be here today. “I don't wish to be impertinent, but sometimes I believe that staying on the path is easier for some than others.” I fear the tears coming again, and I dig my fingernails into my knees.

“How do you mean, child?”

“Sometimes, when someone tells me I can't do something, it makes me want to do it more. My ma blames it on my bossy cheeks.” Not even being bitten by a lingcod could teach me. Ma told me to hold it by the tail, but I had no idea they could bite through a canvas sack.

“Well, it is good to be aware of our weaknesses.”

I sniff loudly and wipe my nose with the only thing I have—my sleeve. “Sometimes I don't see it as a weakness. Sometimes I see it as one of my finer qualities.”

When I applied for a job at the cemetery, Mr. Mortimer told me people did not want to see a yellow face while mourning, but I proved him wrong. Most found another human face comforting, and it didn't matter what color—yellow, brown, white, or indigo—only that someone cared.

Father makes a noise that sounds like a chuckle. “An American
poet, Ralph Waldo Emerson, wrote, ‘Do not go where the path may lead; go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.'”

“I like that one.”

“Yes, but I don't believe Emerson was talking about delinquency. Rules are meant to keep us safe. You must think of Headmistress Crouch as your protector. Am I correct in assuming you are repentant for your behavior?”

I slump to rest my backside on my heels. “Yes, Father.”

“I am glad to hear it. Is there anything else you wish to confess?”

“No.”

“All right, then. For your penance, I invite you to weed the herb garden adjacent to the chapel. While you weed, I would like you to think about uprooting the sins from your own life.”

“Thank you, Father.”

I could be weeding for a long time.

The late morning sun washes the herb garden with thin light. I am thankful to be spared returning to class, but my back is now drenched in sweat. My knees creak as I unfold myself from where I'm squatting by the parsley and move to the shade of a vast orange tree.

Girls have gathered around the goldfish fountain with plates of sandwiches and pitchers of tea. They are too busy, or hungry, to notice me. Except for one.

I see Francesca watching me. She looks as if she's about to come over, but then disappears into the group of uniforms huddled under the umbrellas.

Who knew it was possible for me to become even more unpopular than when I got here?

I kneel on the ground and poke my spade at a stalk with thin leaves. Is it a weed, or something more valuable? But what is a weed, other than a plant that's out of place through no fault of its own? Just like those buildings on Market Street, weeds are survivors. Long after all the other plants die, weeds live on.

But not this one. I dig out the stalk and jam it into a canvas sack with its brethren.

“Oh dear, I think you just pulled up the tarragon.” Francesca stands above me, holding two glasses of iced tea.

I rub my forehead with my apron. “Will it land me in the talk box again?”

“Hold these. This one's for you.” She hands me the glasses and kneels beside me.

“Thanks.” I take a sip. Ma says cold things sap energy from the spleen, weakening the constitution. But this tea, both lemony and sweet, feels so good on my throat that I down the whole glass in one draw.

“I might be able to replant it if the root structure is intact.” She locates the wronged plant in the sack and, using my spade, carefully replants the thing. “The French love this herb. They put it in béarnaise sauce.”

“Who's Bernie?”

She wipes her hands on my apron and takes back her glass. “Not Bernie. Béarn is a region in France. Here, smell.” She picks off an injured leaf and holds it to my nose. It smells like
grass to me, but she's beaming as if we just told each other our deepest secrets.

She runs her fingers through an overly pruned rosemary plant. “Looks like Ruby needs to cut back on her clippings.”

So this is where Ruby harvests her corsages. “Did someone close to her die?”

“I'm not sure. Girls sometimes wear rosemary to attract suitors.”

“But there are no suitors here.”

She shrugs. “We get customers at the restaurant who say they smell our cooking from Rincon Hill two miles away. Rosemary has a long reach. It's the secret ingredient in Luciana's minestrone.”

I remember well the eatery with the checked tablecloths and snowball candles but feign surprise. “Your family has a restaurant?”

“Yes.” She sips her tea. “In North Beach. But of course, you know that.”

“How would I know that?”

A smile spans her face as she watches my eyes expand. “I'm sorry about my brother vexing you. He owns the restaurant, but you would never know it by the way he conducts himself. He's a
fannullone
, a lazy bum. He was drunk that day, so I came in to help out.”

I don't know what astonishes me more. That the hooligan who tried to take my
chuen pooi
bulb is her brother, or that she knew I was from Chinatown all along. “You never said anything.”

“There was nothing to say.”

I fall back onto my haunches, gaping like an open jar. She always treated me as an equal. My gratitude of her kindness warms me from deep inside my belly. “Did no one ever tell you that, as a general rule, Italians and Chinese don't get along?”

“For every rule, there is a rule breaker.”

“Or a ruler breaker,” I mutter, and she nearly smiles again.

“Once, I helped Mrs. Tingle make minestrone, the good kind with oxtail and lentils. When she found out, Headmistress Crouch banned me from the kitchen. She said it's unseemly to mingle with the staff. But she is well-intentioned, even with all her prickles.”

“She didn't whip you, did she?”

“No. I think she enjoyed her minestrone too much.” She smiles, coaxing one from me. Then she gets to her feet and holds her hand out.

I think about the tarragon again, which narrowly escaped an untimely demise. To give up now would be premature, and as Ma always says, when men worry about the future, the gods laugh.

Maybe Headmistress Crouch's letter will get lost.

I take Francesca's hand.

AT BEDTIME, I CLIMB THE NARROW STAIRCASE to the attic with grim determination. My heart hammers in my chest as I stand before the door.

I don't believe in hungry ghosts. I don't believe in hungry ghosts.

I cautiously enter, holding my nightgown. The enormous space is mostly empty. A wooden chair faces one of the peek-through windows, and a simple mattress of horsehair occupies one of the corners. Were they set here for me, or was there a previous occupant—someone who might create late-night creaking?

I work my way around the rafters that extend to the shallow ceiling and switch on the lantern above the bed. A yellow parasol hangs on one of the posts. The bright fabric cheers me. Ghosts do not need parasols.

The attic is several degrees warmer than the rest of the house. I drape my shawl over the chair, then push open a window to feel the breeze fan my face. Maybe it'll be cozy here. At least I won't have to hear that insufferable Fancy Boots snore.

The sky is a brilliant peacock-blue that slips into orange at the horizon. It greets me like an old friend, the kind you don't realize you miss until you run into him again.

I wish you could feast your eyes on this, Black Jack. The view is fair from the top of this mast, softly lit houses strewn out like pearls, seagulls chasing around the clouds.

My mind wanders to Tom. Maybe he's a regular sea dog now. Maybe he'll join Jack and me on our voyages one day, and forget about gliders.

And maybe I'll grow antennae and start chirping.

“Mercy?”

I startle, surprised to see Katie standing on the narrow staircase, peering in.

She peers nervously around. “Is it
 . . .
safe?”

“Very. Come in.”

She glances down the stairs, then tentatively steps forward. There's a bulge under her shawl. “Are you sure there aren't any, you know—?”

I shake my head. “I think your ghost was someone who came to enjoy the view.” I project more confidence than I feel. “Would you like to sit?” I nod toward the chair.

She chews her lip, then shrugs, but instead of taking the chair, she settles onto the mattress. “I brought something from the kitchen.” She produces a paper-wrapped bundle.

“That was kind of you.” Ma says a thoughtful person makes a better friend than a person full of thoughts.

The tangy smell of cheese rises from her packet. Chinese people don't really eat cheese, but I feign delight. We pluck orange cubes from the pile. “I wanted to say thank you, and
 . . .
I'm sorry.”

“I only did what was right. But why did you follow me?”

“Harry thought—” She chews her lip. “She thought you were a spy.”

I almost laugh. If I were a spy, surely I'd find something more interesting to spy on than a bunch of girls perfecting their comportment. “So you decided to investigate.”

She nods, shame-faced. “Only to show her she was wrong. I never thought you were a spy.”

“You could make a good living as a mortician; you're quiet as fog. Did you follow me into the cemetery?”

“No way. I was too scared. Were you
 . . .
visiting someone?”

I smile, deciding not to tell her about Tom. “I love the views from the top of the hill. There's something about looking down at the world that makes everything less
 . . .
scary.”

“You don't seem to be scared by much. Not Elodie, not ghosts.”

“I'm scared of a lot of things. I worry about my brother all the time. He's only six, and he has weak lungs.”

“At least he's got you. If you've got someone worrying over you, you'll be okay. I have my gran.” Hugging her knees to her chest, she squints into a shadowy corner. “Harry doesn't have anyone but me. Her daddy never liked her because he wanted a son. When she was four, he made her mama leave her with the nuns.”

I wonder if Harry has trouble with fours as well. Being left by one's parents is a million times worse than the four stitches I got on my fourth birthday, or dropping Ma's four dollars down the sewer. “That's dreadful. Family's not supposed to give you up.”

“They weren't much of a family.” She steals a glance at me.
“Harry wanted to say she's sorry herself, but she's afraid of the ghost.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For thinking you were an upside-down six.”

“A what?” Maybe that's worse than a four.

“Someone who's pretending they're something they're not.”

I stare through my half-eaten cube of cheese as the guilt makes my throat constrict. How will they feel when they find out Harry was right all along?

Katie sucks one of her twiggy fingers. “Headmistress Crouch almost whipped me last year for brawling with a girl who called Harry snipper-witted. Harry ain't—
isn't
—she just gets nervous sometimes. But instead of whipping me, Headmistress Crouch bumped me up a level to be with the sophomores.”

No wonder Katie looks young for our class.

“I think she knew I would be happier in Harry's level. I think she did me a favor.”

The warning bell rings faintly from one floor down. With a sigh, Katie rocks forward onto her feet. “I better go. If the ghost visits, come down to our room.”

Her kindness warms me. “I'll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

If a ghost visits, I hope it likes cheese.

I sleep better in the attic than I've slept the entire week I've been at St. Clare's, with no creaking ceiling above me and no snoring locomotive. The hungry ghost stays away, too. Maybe it was tired like me. I pray it will not return.

The solid night's sleep fills me with renewed purpose, a determination to suck out the marrow from every bone chucked my way. And if I'm discovered, I will walk out with my head held high. All I wanted was a fair shot. Is that so wrong?

As the maids bring in the trays at breakfast, Headmistress Crouch arrives bearing a new walking cane with a shiny brass knob. I hope it's not a replacement for the ruler, one that can help her walk as well as whack.

She marches to the front of the room and stamps it on the wooden floor to snuff out any chatter. “Good morning, ladies. Auditions for the lead vocalist in our Spring Concert will be at noon. I hope some of you will use this opportunity to showcase your talents.” She looks at Harry, who seems to shrink into her uniform. “In addition, tomorrow the sophomores will host breakfast for the men from Wilkes College. All others will dine in the parlor.”

As a chorus of disappointed
aww
s is heard from everyone but the sophomores, a maid holding a uniform glides to the headmistress's side and whispers something to her.

Headmistress Crouch's face grows severe. “Well, it appears that despite my warning about turning your uniforms inside out, one of you still has not gotten the message. Whose is it, Beatrice?”

The room goes very still. I sure would hate to be the poor soul who gets to break in Headmistress Crouch's new cane.

Beatrice says in a clear voice: “M. W.”

I gasp as all heads turn to my corner of the room. My mind tumbles back to last night. I distinctly recall turning my dress inside out before placing it in the basket.

“Miss Wong, please stand,” says Headmistress Crouch, sounding not at all surprised.

I grimace as I get to my feet, already anticipating the sting of the cane. “Someone has played a prank on me,” I say, hating the quaver in my voice.

“Posture,” Headmistress Crouch barks. I pull back my shoulders and lift my head. She continues. “And who do you think has done that?”

“I can only guess.” I glare at Elodie, or at least her profile as she gazes serenely at a silver teapot in front of her. She has easy access to my basket, though anyone could've come in since our doors do not lock. Wood Face, Mary Stanford, and two of Elodie's other cronies also paste on neutral expressions.

Headmistress Crouch's hawk eyes swoop to Elodie. “Miss Du Lac?”

“Yes, Headmistress?”

“Do you know anything about this?”

“I cannot imagine any of my classmates pulling something so petty. I think Miss Wong was simply careless and now seeks to pin the blame elsewhere.”

Headmistress Crouch grasps the knob of her cane with two hands. Is that
conflict
I see in her expression? Perhaps thrashing the same girl twice in less than twenty-four hours tests even her iron conscience. Or maybe she knows that Elodie is a snake and can't be trusted.

Beside me, Francesca's mouth is a tight line. For the first time, I notice she is not holding a book.

Finally, Headmistress Crouch breaks the silence. “Since we
cannot agree on how this dress came delivered, the girls of the sophomore class will join Miss Wong tomorrow morning in laundering their soiled uniforms, and the maids can sleep in—”

“But we're hosting the Wilksies!” protests one of Elodie's cronies.

The headmistress glares at her interrupter. “If the laundry is not done before prayers at seven thirty, then I shall invite the members of the junior class to host the men of Wilkes College.” She knocks her cane twice on the ground like a gavel.

After a moment of shocked silence, the whispers start again.

“I've never had to do laundry in my life!” cries Elodie.

“What time does laundry start?” someone asks.

Headmistress Crouch looks to Beatrice, who responds, “Elma and I always start at four, but for greenhorns, maybe three.”

“In the
morning
?” several voices gasp.

Beatrice flashes a smug grin. “We've got to make the most of the day.”