A Breath of Eyre (4 page)

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Authors: Eve Marie Mont

BOOK: A Breath of Eyre
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Mr. Gallagher ran a hand through his flop of dark hair. “That’ll do, Ms. Fairchild,” he said. “But let me remind you, a critical thesis doesn’t have to be negative. It simply must take a stand. And sometimes in the face of majority opinion, that’s a difficult thing to do. I will be asking some of you to submit your papers to the Middlebury Essay Symposium, held this spring. The deadline is January, so you’ll want to finish your drafts by December.”
And with that, the bell rang, and the ghastly week came to an end.
Everything was a competition at Lockwood. Sports, academics, music. If you were good at something, you better believe some teacher would be hounding you to enter a competition. And if someone else was good at the same thing you were good at, watch out. On the other hand, if you were mediocre at everything, people ignored you, and sometimes that was better.
I watched as students pulled out their cell phones, affixing them to their ears as if reattaching their limbs. “If he thinks I’m reading fifty pages this weekend,” Elise said, “he’s crazier than I thought. Hasn’t he ever heard of SparkNotes?”
Amber laughed absurdly and pulled four Blow Pops from her purse, passing them out to Elise, Jess, and Chelsea, and popping one into her mouth. Michelle’s eyes fluttered in disgust.
“What’s your problem?” I heard Elise say, and my stomach lurched down to my kneecaps. But Elise wasn’t talking to me; she was talking to Michelle. Becky Fulton’s departure must have left a vacuum in the power system, and somebody had to fill it. “Girls,” Elise said, “the new girl must be lesbo, because she can’t stop staring at us.”
They all launched into cackling hysterics and walked out of the room with their inner arms linked together, their outer arms juggling Prada purses and iPhones and Blow Pops, like they were some kind of hideous, social-climbing octopus. Michelle bit her lip, looking for the first time like that hardened exterior of hers was about to crack. She left before I could say anything.
I waited in the classroom long enough to be sure the ferocious foursome had gone, then glanced up to find Gallagher staring at me. It was a perceptive look, a look that suggested he could see right through me. I picked up my books and fled the room like it was on fire.
C
HAPTER
3
I
crossed the quad at a run, then headed down the hill to the stables, hoping to spend some time with Curry. Last year, that horse had been my only friend. Curry whinnied when he saw me, so I climbed the slats of his pen and gave him a firm nuzzle along his neck. “How you doing, baby? You miss me?”
Curry was the mellowest of the horses, with a sweet, compliant disposition and a desire to please. That was why Ms. Loughlin used him to train beginners. He was so gentle I sometimes forgot he weighed over a thousand pounds and could knock me flat with one careless toss of his head. Elise kept her own horse at the school, a sleek black Arabian named Odin. Odin was cruel, just like his owner. I’d heard that horses sometimes take on the personality of their trainers; if the trainer uses a prod and a bit in the mouth, the horse becomes hardened and mean and only responds to fear and pain. While I felt sorry for Odin, I still avoided him. He didn’t respond well to strangers and had been known to bite and kick when the mood struck him.
I sat down on one of the hay bales and took out my journal, its bright turquoise color putting me immediately in a better mood. I couldn’t help but think about Gray Newman, too, how he’d been so quick to remind me that this journal was his mother’s idea, not his. In my experience so far, all high school boys were immature and shallow, even the ones with soulful hazel eyes.
So I transferred my thoughts to a more worthy subject: Mr. Gallagher. Now here was a real man—mature, intelligent, and sexy in that brooding poet way. Like Keats or Byron. I imagined him in one of those billowy white shirts, his strong legs encased in leather breeches. Not a bad image, really.
Why had his wife left him? And what was she like? What had made Gallagher fall in love with her? And in what universe did I think he would ever look at me and see anything other than an unremarkable teenage girl?
I jotted down all the things I admired about him and contemplated writing a poem, maybe even a sonnet. I’d never tackled a sonnet before, but it seemed like the perfect form for a poem about one’s English teacher. I was completely immersed in the task when I heard a strange noise coming from the loft. At first I thought it was birds—last week I’d discovered a swallow’s nest in the eaves—but the sound was deeper and more guttural. I couldn’t tell if it was laughter or crying.
Setting my journal down, I made my way up the ladder, peering over the edge to find Michelle sobbing in the straw. It was such a personal, intimate moment that my first instinct was to climb back down and pretend I hadn’t seen her.
Then she looked up at me with fierce eyes. “What do you want? You want a piece of me, too?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. I finished climbing and went to sit down next to her. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you really not know?” she said. Of course I did. This place was toxic.
I sat in silence, wondering what I could say to make her feel better. “You realize they’re all a bunch of spoiled brats with nothing better to do than mess with everyone else’s lives. Why do you even care what they think?” I said. But I knew why she cared. It was impossible not to.
“How do you stand it?” she asked with an abruptness that startled me. “These people. This school. Being here on scholarship and having everyone look down on you?”
“I stand it because I have no choice,” I said. “My dad and stepmom want to make a young lady out of me. Even though I haven’t met anyone here I’d consider a young lady.”
Michelle laughed and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “They think they’re so superior just because they have money. I don’t know why I left my old school.”
“Why did you?” I asked.
“That’s the funny thing. Lockwood approached me. Someone from the school board contacted my guidance counselor and said there was an open scholarship here and that my grades qualified me. My guidance counselor told me if I wanted to go to MIT, I should take the money and run. So I did. But I don’t know if it was worth it. I feel like I sold my soul, you know? I hate the students, and the teachers aren’t much better.”
“Gallagher’s all right, don’t you think?” I said defensively.
“At least he’s not bad to look at. I like that he’s letting us do some actual research. What book are you going to read for your project?”
“I’m thinking of
Jane Eyre
.”
She shook her head. “I haven’t read it. What’s it about?”
I tried to summarize what I had read so far. “At first, there’s all this tension between Jane and Rochester since they’re from different worlds, but then they get to know each other, and they realize they’re more alike than they thought.” I was getting excited just talking about it. “There are these long passages where all they do is stare at each other in the firelight and talk, and you know they’re falling in love even though they won’t admit it to themselves.” Michelle looked at me like I was pathetic, which I totally was. “Anyway, I’m not finished yet, so I don’t know how it ends. What about you? Which book did you choose?”
“Frankenstein.”
“Really?” I said, scrunching up my face. I hadn’t read
Frankenstein,
but it seemed pretty dark and morbid. “Why?”
“I like that it explores the possibility of bringing people back to life. Cheating death. My mother died. In case you hadn’t heard.”
I was shocked she’d shared something so personal with me. “How did she die?” I asked.
Michelle’s eyes widened in surprise. “You know, it’s weird, but hardly anyone ever asks me that. They just say sorry and get all funny and quiet. It’s like they’re afraid it’s contagious.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “My mom died, too.”
Michelle’s face brightened for a moment, like she was happy to hear it. I knew she was only expressing relief at having found someone who might understand what she was going through. “When did she die?” she asked.
“Eight years ago.” It amazed me how that knot of pain kept coming back, even all these years later. “What about yours?”
“Last year. She was thrown off a horse while riding. Broke her pelvis and died three days later.” She said the last four words with a bubble of grief in her throat. “I haven’t been able to ride since.”
“So you used to ride?” I said.
“Since I was six.”
“I thought serious riding was just for the elite of the school, not for us charity cases.”
Michelle gave me a bitter smile. “My mother grew up in Haiti, riding horses on the beach. When she came to the States, she worked as a maid for this wealthy family, and the husband sort of ... took a liking to her. He let her ride his horse on weekends. Among other things.” My eyes popped when I caught her meaning. “Yeah, well, when his wife found out, my mom got fired. She had to move in with my aunt, and after she had me, she worked three jobs so I could have every opportunity she didn’t have. For some reason, it was really important to her that I learn to ride.”
“And what happened to the guy? To ...”
“My father? I have no idea. He used to send my mother a check every month, but she’d always refuse them. Now he sends them to my aunt. She claims she doesn’t know who he is or where the checks come from, but I think she’s just afraid I’ll go looking for him. Which I won’t. If he’s such a coward that he won’t acknowledge his own daughter, I don’t want to know him. If it were up to me, I’d send the checks back just like my mom did. But my aunt needs the money. She just started her own business.”
My eyes roamed to the floor, then back to her. “If it was so important to your mom that you learn how to ride, why don’t you compete?” I asked. “I’m sure she would want you to.”
“Not gonna happen,” she said, shaking her head.
“Why not? You could probably place.”
“After what happened to my mom, I can’t do it.”
“Look, I almost drowned this summer at the beach, and I’ve been scared to swim ever since. But I know I’ll get over it eventually. And you will too.”
“Even if I wanted to, my aunt has forbidden me from riding. She thinks it’s too dangerous. Besides, how would I get the money?”
“Aha,” I said, grinning. “So you were considering it?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were. I saw that glint in your eye when Loughlin mentioned it.”
“Let’s just drop it,” she said. “I don’t ride anymore, and that’s that. You lost your mother, so you of all people should understand.”
I did understand, but I still thought it was sad that death could paralyze a person like it had Michelle. Like it had my father.
We were sitting in silence when we heard footfalls on the loft ladder. I was scared we were going to get in trouble for being here, but Michelle looked ready for a fight. She stood up, took a step forward, and peered over the edge.
Slowly a brown head emerged, followed by a lanky body dressed in a Gumby T-shirt, cargo pants, and Converse sneakers. It was a boy—a rather cute boy—with soft brown eyes fringed with darker brown lashes and messy hair that flopped charmingly onto his forehead. His shirt had little flecks of hay stuck to it, and his pants were filthy. “Oh, hey,” he said. “There
are
people up here.”
“Yeah, there are,” Michelle said. “Who the hell are you?”
“Sorry,” he said, brushing his hands off on his pants and reaching out to shake her hand. Michelle refused to take his hand, possibly on the grounds that it was dirty or possibly because he’d offered it. “I’m Owen. Owen Mabry.” The way he said it sort of reminded me of 007 saying, “Bond. James Bond.”
I shook his hand since Michelle wouldn’t and introduced myself. He smiled, and two enormous dimples emerged.
“What are you doing here?” Michelle asked, finally.
“I work here. I go to school at Braeburn.”
“Oh,” Michelle said, “you’re a Braeburn boy. I’ve heard about you guys.”
“And I’ve heard about you Lockwood girls. That doesn’t mean I believe everything I hear. Actually, I thought you were going to be Elise Fairchild,” he said.
“You know Elise?” I asked. An unwelcome vision of Gray Newman and Elise popped into my head, giving me an irrational shudder of jealousy.
“Yeah,” Owen said. “She and her friends come here to smoke.”
“I know,” I said. “I used to see them here last year.”
“They think they’re alone, but I hear everything they say.”
Michelle narrowed her eyes, like she was sizing him up to see if she could trust him. “If you go to Braeburn,” she said, “why do you work here?”
“Braeburn doesn’t have an equestrian center, so I work here and Overbrook lets me ride for free.”
“You ride?” Michelle said. Owen nodded. “Hey, you said your name was Mabry. Is that the same Mabry who invented the Blue Flame?” Blue Flame was the electronic reader everyone was buying that year.
“Well, not me personally. My dad did.”
“So your family’s, like, loaded.”
“Don’t hold it against me.”
“It’s hard not to when a millionaire takes one of the few jobs on our campus when some of us actual Lockwood students could use the money,” Michelle said.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think Lockwood girls needed the money any more than I did. If it makes you feel any better, I’m trying to save up to go to Europe. Just because my dad’s loaded doesn’t mean he’ll buy me whatever I want. He only pays for the things he thinks are worthwhile. Piano lessons, math tutors ... entrepreneurial camp.” He said the last two words like they tasted sour in his mouth.
“Entrepreneurial camp?” Michelle said.
“I know, right? My dad thinks I’m going to end up like my older brother. MBA from Harvard, 3.9 GPA, blah blah blah. He hopes I take over the business some day. He hasn’t quite accepted the fact that I don’t want to go into business.”
“What do you want to do?” I asked.
He glanced at me thoughtfully. “I don’t know—join the Peace Corps maybe. Or roam the country singing songs like Woody Guthrie.” We both gave him blank stares. “Don’t tell me you don’t know who Woody Guthrie is.”
Michelle shrugged her shoulders.
“He’s only my personal hero and the greatest folk singer who ever lived. ‘This Land is Your Land’ ring a bell?”
“Oh, yeah,” we both said.
“He used to travel around with farmers during the Depression, singing folk songs to give them hope. And he had this really tragic life. He lost a sister and a daughter in a fire, his father drowned, and his mother was put in an insane asylum.”
“And this guy’s your hero?” Michelle said.
“Well, him and Bob Dylan. If I could write songs like Dylan, I’d die a happy man.”
“Oh, so you’re a hippie?” Michelle said.
“I draw the line at Joan Baez,” Owen said, laughing. “But yeah, I wish I’d gone to Woodstock. I’m not ashamed to say it.”
We hung out for another half hour or so, talking about our music tastes. Michelle said she liked classic rock—the Beatles, the Who, the Stones. This was true, but more often than not when I came back from class, Michelle was listening to Rihanna, Lady Gaga, or Timbaland, sometimes even dancing in her bathrobe. I could tell she was trying to impress him.

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