The Unseemly Education of Anne Merchant (2 page)

Stepping back from the mirror, I assess myself. Turn left, turn right. And give up. I shake my head at my uniformed reflection.

“You look like some sort of
anime
floozy.”

Everybody on earth has something they don’t like about the way they look; for me, it’s always been my one crooked tooth (which I’ve learned to mask with a closed-mouth smile) and my wildly curly blonde hair. That’s
usually
what I’m up against. But today, I’ve discovered two new problems that had never seemed like problems before: my breasts. It’s like they doubled in size overnight. This would not be a bad thing if I had a closet of clothes to choose from for my first day of school, but it is a significant issue given that I have only the uniforms that were waiting for me when I arrived here late last night. Uniforms that are decidedly form fitting. By which I mean they are decidedly three sizes too small.

Giving up, I button a cardigan over the shirt, trace my fingers along the golden Cania Christy emblem on it, mentally untie the knots in my stomach, and turn to fiddling with my wonky curls.

“Who would you like to be?” I ask myself lightly. “The daughter of a zillionaire turned yogi? The fabulously wealthy love child of a famous ballerina and a recluse artist?”

As if to drive home the point of who I really am and where I really come from—and the inescapability of both—a glint of sunlight shines through the attic window and reflects off my late mother’s barrettes, which sit atop my dresser, sending a beam of light at my eyes. As if my mom’s trying to get my attention from above. As if she refuses to be forgotten.

As if I could ever forget her.

It only takes the span of a breath, it only takes the lightest touch of my fingertips on those silvery barrettes, for visions of my beautiful mother’s last moments to come rushing at me. The quiet desperation in her glassy stare when I found her on the kitchen floor. Her frail body hanging loosely in my arms as I rocked her and begged God for her life. The dampness of her lovely face as my tears rained down on her. I discovered her body when I was fourteen—well over two years ago—but the pain is so raw and the ache in my chest feels so
bright red,
it’s as if she died yesterday.

My dad disapproves of my style of mourning. Particularly the length of time I’ve been in mourning and the life I’ve turned away from since she died. That’s why I’m here. Because I can hardly breathe when I think of her. And because he is so used to death, he can’t understand what’s taking me so long to get back to my old overachieving self.

I pull my hand away from my mother’s barrettes.

The sun disappears behind the clouds, leaving me to stare into the whiteness of the endless sea of fog separating me from the mysteries—the distant school, the sprawling campus, the teachers, the other students, the people on this island—that lie in wait.

Unlike rich people, poor folks know all about death. I know everything there is to know, from the temperature of the refrigerator they keep the bodies in to the weight of the thread they use to stitch eyelids tightly closed. I know that embalming fluid can be used for a cheap high. I know you instantly lose twenty-one grams of weight when you die. I even know the superstitions, like it’s bad luck to have a mirror in a funeral hall because it traps the spirit of the dearly departed. If anyone should be comfortable with the idea of death, it’s a mortician’s daughter.

But nothing can prepare you for losing your mother.

Nothing can prepare you for the suddenness of a constant source of love and support vanishing so quickly. And so permanently.

“Annie!” my housemother, Gigi Malone—who, may I add, is certifiably crazy with a certifiably crazy dog—shouts at me from the bottom of two flights of rickety stairs. My door is closed, but this teetering cottage is so old and flimsy, it sounds like Gigi’s standing right next to me and screaming into my ear. I can hear her little Pomeranian, Skippy, yelping wildly, just as he did the moment he met me last night. “You don’t want to be late for your first day of school!”

I march on the spot for a moment, and the floorboards squeal. That’s my way of telling Gigi I’m up without actually shouting back at her. You learn to communicate soundlessly under the constant weight of respectful silence in a funeral home. The year before my mom died, when she was in the hospital receiving treatment for what the docs called “rapid cycling bipolar disorder,” my dad and I had the house to ourselves for nearly three months, and we might have spoken a half-dozen words to each other. Since her passing, things have become even quieter between us. But my dad was never one for words.

I hear Gigi walk away.

Then I slip on my knee-high boots, straighten my tights, smooth my skirt, and make a last-ditch effort to keep my shirt from busting open. I’ve got time for one more pep talk before I head downstairs and this new life of mine truly begins.

I start to tell myself, “You are a great artist,” but my voice cracks.

So I take a deep breath. And I push out the loud voices that would hold me back.
They’re all going to laugh at you. You’re never going to fit in. You’re still just Death Chick. Your dad can’t afford to send you here, and you’ll probably end up being shipped back to California when his check bounces.

Squaring my shoulders, I stare harder into the tiny mirror on top of the dresser and, making every effort not to groan at my Einstein-inspired hair or to mask my crooked tooth with a slanted grin, say in my most confident tone, “Anne, you are a great artist. You are as gifted as any other student here. This is your chance to get your life back on track.” Proving I’m not great at pep talks, I finish with, “So don’t blow it.”

As I open my bedroom door, leaving behind scents of shampoo and deodorant, and start down the creaky stairs, the smell of the sea—that slimy, green, salty smell—hits me with a wallop.
Welcome to Maine.
Small, square stained-glass windows line the narrow staircase that leads me down to the second floor, where Gigi’s bedroom, the bathroom, and a tiny guest bedroom are; the windows extend down the next staircase, which is the main staircase, which will bring me to the living room and kitchen. When I pause to peer through the stained glass just steps above the main floor, I find the bluish-gray landscape of Wormwood Island distorted by red, orange, and green triangles. A permanent mist hovers two feet over the ground, running through a world of overgrown ferns, clouding moss-covered tree stumps, and wrapping like a thick cotton scarf around the beech trees that line the shores. There seems to be no beginning and no end to the island. It’s as infinite as death itself.

“On the bright side,” I say, gazing through the multicolored glass until my breath steams it, “you can hear the ocean here.
That’s
like California.” The glass squeaks as I rub the side of my fist through my breath-mist and see a break in the fog not fifty feet from Gigi’s cottage. For the first time, I glimpse the outlines of a nearby row of houses and whisper, “Howdy, neighbors.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spy Gigi poking her head around the corner.

“You’re talking to yourself, kid,” she says.

Her voice sounds like a piano that’s been played too long without tuning. Skippy races around his master’s feet and barks at me with such force, his puffy orange body bounces a foot into the air; Gigi shoos him away.

Without looking at Gigi, I ask, “Who lives next door?”

“Don’t you mind who lives next door. It’s the Zins’ place, but don’t mind them.”

“The Zins’ place? It’s one house?” The fog rolls along, and I can make out the connection between what appeared to be multiple small homes. I count six chimneys on the mansion’s rooftop. “They must be rich.”

“Everyone here’s rich. Except you and me. But even I was rich once. Now I clean the Zin house and watch his kid when Dr. Zin’s away on business, and they let me stay in this cottage.”

“I wonder what sort of business he’s in to afford a place like that.”

“Not that you need to mind, but he’s the head of admissions for Cania.”

“Why’s everyone rich here?” I don’t know much about Cania or Wormwood Island—the decision for me to come here was made hastily—but I recall hearing something about the island once being a fishing village. Of all the wealthy people I’ve met, I can’t recall any of them being fishermen.

Flitting her hands, Gigi mutters something and turns away.

Passing a growling Skippy, I follow Gigi through the front room and into the kitchen, which might have been nice twenty years ago, where I watch her shimmy onto a hard wooden bench behind the table before shoving half a piece of toast into her mouth. Glancing around, I notice a whitewashed curio cabinet, which holds what remains of an expensive-looking teapot collection. An open case on a shelf displays the last few pieces of silver flatware. The fingerprint-smudged glass of two cabinets reveals a wide selection of half-f liquor bottles.

Trying not to think much of the missing items and the booze—and trying even harder not to mentally weave a sad story of Gigi Malone, crazed woman in a stretched-out homemade sweater—I pour myself a cup of coffee as she leans over her crossword puzzle. I offer her a cup, too; she scowls and grumbles that I ought not to go around stunting my growth with caffeine.

I’m just over five-ten. Not exactly a hobbit.

“So my dad never explained why I’m living with you instead of in the school dorms,” I begin, walking to the end of the kitchen and gazing out the garden window as I sip my coffee.

“Of course he didn’t,” she says under her breath.

Gigi’s cottage may be old and small and the kitchen may be lined with plates commemorating the Reagan administration, but it has one redeeming quality: it’s just feet from the edge of the east side of the island, giving a spectacular view of the endless Atlantic (when the fog breaks, at least). The lush land drops off sharply, suggesting a cliff. My gaze follows the island’s dark green border as it runs mere steps from where I’m standing, behind the Zin mansion next door, and gets lost in the dense woods, only to appear again high in the distance, where the black slate rooftops of Cania Christy rise like the pointy teeth of a saw. There are no gentle slopes into the water, at least none that I can see from my vantage; there are just towering rocky cliffs, abused at their bases by hungry waves. It’s rugged and harsh and absolutely perfect looking.

“You’ve only been here since last night,” Gigi continues, “and already you don’t like it.”

“I like it. I’m just surprised. Does everyone live off-campus? I mean, there are dorms, aren’t there?”

“You and the Zin boy are the only students living off-campus.” Gigi shuffles her crossword around. “There are dorms, yes.”

Her watery, drooping gaze rolls my way then trails out to the whitecaps of the ocean. A spot of toast with strawberry jam is stuck to her lip.

“But the dorms are full,” she explains, chewing out each of her words in a slow, deliberate manner. “Headmaster Villicus approved your application a mere two days ago. You should be glad I opened my home to you.”

“I
am,
Gigi.”

“Because not many would do what I’ve done,” she finishes sharply.

Our gazes meet and stick. To look in her eyes, you’d think she could be a hundred years old or five; she is at once a wise old woman and a lost child. The combination is, I have to admit, frustrating—the condescension of her wisdom fused with the weakness of her vulnerability. As if I should revere her and protect her at once. Either she’s going to be a pain in the butt to live with, or I’m in a bad mood thanks to my intense jet lag. Or both.

She is the first to drop her gaze.

“Well, maybe something will open up at the dorm soon,” I say. “In the meantime, Gigi, thank you for taking me in. It’s—” I start looking around but stop quickly, which is the only way to keep a hint of believability in my tone “—nice here.”

She doesn’t look up. “You’ve got orientation today, right?” She scribbles over her crossword. I’m not even sure she’s putting letters in the boxes. “Big day for you, between getting your Guardian and choosing your PT. Big day.”

“Sorry?” This is the first I’ve heard of a
Guardian
or a
PT.
“What are those?”

Still staring down, her eyes dart left, right, up, and down. “Oh, pish posh,” she sings, getting chirpy suddenly. “It’s not my job to walk you through your whole orientation day in advance, is it? No. I’ve got strict orders from Headmaster Villicus. Let you bunk here. Stay out of it. And get paid.”

“Is there something in particular you’re staying out of?”

“Oh, what do I know? Your life! Your school! All of the above.” Her expression can only be described as panicked when she looks up at me. “You’re the first student I’ve had stay with me. Don’t pay any attention to me.”

With an odd smile, she shakes her stringy hair. Then she’s on her feet, shoving me toward the front door, where Skippy has resumed bouncing and barking madly at me; this dog hates me. And I’m getting the sense that Gigi feels the same way, but she opts to growl and wave away topics rather than bark and bounce. After rummaging through the front closet, Gigi pivots on her heels and pushes a thick fisherman’s coat at me. It smells like old fish carcasses. I take it and stop to look her in the eyes again, forcing her to look at me.

“Are we cool?” I ask.

“This is just a business arrangement,” she says. Then her voice softens ever so slightly. “I can’t say if it’s a good thing you’re here. But here you are. And I can’t change that.”

As I stumble out of Gigi’s, a frigid breeze blows over my back, but I toss the fishy coat behind shrubs—I don’t need to replace my
Death Chick
moniker with
Stinky Salmon
or something worse—and wrap a scarf around my neck. It’s far too cold for September, but I have to remind myself I’m not in California anymore; beyond the fuzzy-looking trees and wide fern fronds is the cold Atlantic, not the warm Pacific. Breaking into a trot to keep from freezing, I dash up Gigi’s gravelly walkway to the main road and tell myself not to run too hard or I’ll show up at school sweating like the devil in a church.