Isle of Night (2 page)

I thought of the crowd at Dale R. Fielding High School. A bunch of half-wits who spent their time going to the mall or making out, or doing whatever it is kids my age did to fill their time.

No,
I
was going to college, thankyouverymuch. Not that I'd ever tell them that. They'd just suspect me of embezzling tuition money from Dad's vast stores of wealth. Which was a laugh. If there was any money, it came from a disability check he'd probably drank away long ago.

No, I was going to college
tuition free
. It was one of the bennies of having a genius IQ and crazy-high GPA. My preference was to get the hell out of Florida, and though my guidance counselor said I could get a scholarship wherever I wanted, fancy private schools didn't take Needs Cases (gag) like me midyear. Graduating from high school one semester early was the best I could wrangle, and so it was state school for me.

“I suppose you think you're taking that car you've been driving.” The Yatch crossed her arms, believing she'd gotten one over on me. “But who do you think has been paying for your insurance?”

“
I've
been paying for my insurance, just like
I
paid for the car.” I glared, challenging her to just try to argue.

“Bea!” Daddy Dearest crowed from the other room.

My stepmother and I continued our silent stare-off. Finally she snarled, “You think just because you're smarter than the rest of us—”

“Bea! Get in here!”

God forbid the man got up from the Barcalounger to grab his own freshie from the refrigerator. He had no idea I was leaving, and wouldn't care if he did. I gave her my best saccharine-sweet smile. “I think Daddy needs another tall boy.”

The Yatch shot me a final scowl and bustled into the living room.

Out. Of. Here.
I heaved my duffel onto my shoulder, giving a farewell glance to the Einstein poster on my wall. He was sticking his tongue out at me, and I stuck out mine right back. “Ciao for now, Al.”

I snuck out the front door and was on my way.

CHAPTER TWO

F
lorida is famous for a variety of things:

A fan of neither princesses nor pain, it was number five for me.
Gator Nation
, God help me. But hey, say what you will—the University of Florida in Gainesville wasn't exactly Paris, but it was a start.

I drove my Honda carefully, winding through campus, goggling at all the crazy architecture as I went. I was hot and sweaty after three hours of driving with a broken AC and the sun broiling overhead, but still, nervous excitement surged through me. So what if the stately brick buildings were surrounded by spindly palm trees instead of ivy? This was
college
.

I popped a chocolate madeleine for courage.

UF had more than fifty thousand students. Surely there'd be some other misfits like me. Surely there was at least one other girl on campus not sporting a French pedicure (do girls
really
think we're fooled by the little white lines painted across their toenails?), who had some black in her wardrobe, and actually thought about things. You know, someone who knew the word
French
could imply more than just a way to kiss.

Surely I'd make a friend. Right?

I downshifted my little Civic, pulling into the parking lot off Museum Road. I didn't need to look at the campus map for directions—I'd already memorized the thing. In fact, the moment the school catalog arrived in the mail, I'd studied every single aspect, inside and out, up to and including the bedbug advisory.

Walking into the registrar's office, the blast of air-conditioning made my skin crawl. That was another thing that really freaked me out about this state: Cooling a room was one thing, but the compulsive need to superchill every indoor space to a brisk sixtythree degrees confounded me. It was January, for crissakes.

I shoved my favorite hat farther down on my head. It was a beige raffia fedora with a narrow brim, sort of like something you'd see on an old Cuban man. Mostly I wore it to tone down my conspicuously blond hair. But it wasn't without its practical applications—I was feeling a little less chilly already.

Once my eyes adjusted, I spotted the bouffy-haired receptionist. She sat in a little glass-fronted kiosk that made her look like one of those old-fashioned carnival fortune-tellers. She was greeting each new student with a forced, coral-lipsticked smile.

If you resent teenagers so much, don't work at a college, lady.
She caught my eye, and I returned her stiff smile.

But it froze the moment I saw
him
.

Tall, dark, and
hot
leaned against a pillar, watching me as I took my place in line. Tousled dark hair went every which way on his head. His eyes were slitted and intense, like he might need to have sex at any moment. Maybe even with me.

I had to look down, I was so flustered. I felt like
I'd
been the one caught staring.

But just as my eyes flitted away, I caught a glimpse of the tattoo peeking out from under his T-shirt sleeve. It was a quote.

Something niggled in the back of my mind and I looked back, feeling my cheeks blaze red with the fear that he was still watching me.

The first half of the quote was obscured, but the end bit was clear:
c'est le paradis perdu.

My breath caught. Goose bumps rippled across my skin in a way that had nothing to do with the excessive air-conditioning. I knew the line well.
Le seul paradis c'est le paradis perdu.

Wow. My first college boy, and he liked
Proust
. I'd found home at last.

Holding my breath, I forced myself to raise my eyes to his. His hair was dark but his eyes were . . . lighter. Green. They locked with mine, and the rest of the world fell away.

The receptionist called my turn and I stepped forward, a ventriloquist dummy's grin pasted on my face. I tried not to trip. God, I was such an idiot.

“Hi,” I said to the lady, thrilled that I'd managed to get a word out despite the college boy's laser-sex stare. “I'm here to . . . I'm here. I need to register.”

“Name,” she croaked, bringing me back to the matter at hand. I gave her my facts, wondering if the college boy was still watching me. Clenching my hands, I forced myself to stop fidgeting.

He was the kind of guy I dreamt about. At least he seemed like my ideal. Smart and worldly. He'd drink espresso with a twist, and do the Sunday crossword, and recite lines of intense and passionate poetry from memory. He'd appreciate a bright and quick-witted companion. He'd see
me
as a bright and quick-witted companion—not a weirdo with a freaky-high IQ. Just a girl who was really good at
Jeopardy!
and some of the more obscure Germanic languages.

I'd even do the whole French-manicure thing if it meant attracting a guy like him. Did sophisticated college guys think that was sexy? I stole a look at my chipped, stubby nails.

I was supposed to have a mom around who could give me advice. I'd always felt like the other girls had been issued some sort of Girl Handbook that I just wasn't privy to. How had my mother worn
her
nails? Long press-ons the color of berries, or short like mine?

“. . . I'm sorry,” the woman was saying. The smile on her face was almost real, and it alarmed me.

“Sorry?” My fake grin was back up like a photon shield. “Wait. What did you say?”

“I said, you can't matriculate until you've been issued a diploma.”

Did they need to see a piece of paper or something? I racked my brain, trying to remember whether I'd been given an official document among all the other reams of paper I'd received. “What are you talking about?”

“You need to finish high school before you start college.”

“But I did finish high school. I
graduated
.”

“Not yet, you didn't.” She gave me a condescending smile.

It made me want to smash her little windowpane. I gripped the counter. “I did. In December. I'm registered for the spring semester.”

Tap, tap, tap.
Those fuchsia nails flew over the keyboard. “I'm afraid the best I can do is defer your enrollment to the fall semester.”

“Wait.” I leaned my forehead against her window. “Are you sure you have the right person?
Annelise Drew?
Dale R. Fielding High School.”

“Yes.” Behind the glass, her eyes narrowed, making her look like a pinched, angry Muppet in some
Office of the Registrar
puppet show. “They haven't issued your diploma. We can't accept you without a full transcript. Officially, you're still in high school.”

“No.” Not possible.
Not effing possible.
I could
not
still be in high school. I thought I might vomit. “That's impossible.”

She tapped some more on her computer. Her fake smile crackled into a frosty glare. “You need to pass your swim test.”

“Swim test?” I practically shrieked the words, distantly aware that I was no longer conscious of the cute college guy. My dignity was shot, anyhow, if I wasn't even going to be recognized as a
high school graduate
. “Is this a joke? There's no swim test at Fielding.”

“I don't joke, young lady.” Mrs. Registrar was getting snippy.
Tap, tap, tap.
“Dale R. Fielding High School. New procedure.”
Tap, tap.
“A swim test will be administered at the end of each academic year.”
Tap tap tap tap tap.
“There was an endowment requiring all students to pass a swim test in order to graduate.”

“I'm still in high school,” I mumbled like a zombie. My head buzzed, and my fingers felt icy and thick as I shoved my paperwork back into my messenger bag.
Still a high schooler.

“You need to go back to high school, take the test, and return in the fall.”

I could only stare blankly. I'd rather die than go back to Christmas.

Trying to give me the hint, she looked to the person behind me in line. “Just pass the test, Miss Drew.”

Thanks, Sherlock.
“But I can't swim.”

Shock and pity dropped across the woman's face like a veil. Everyone in Florida could swim. They practically handed out droppers of Swim-Ear to newborns in the hospital. Everyone had a damned pool, every kid was on swim team, every Caucasian face was tanned, every body smelled of chlorine and snack-bar ketchup.

“I'm afraid you need to sort this out with your school. Perhaps we'll see you in September.” Her gaze went to the line forming behind me, her forced smile already back in place.
“Next.”

I mumbled something—who knows what?—and stumbled out of the registrar's office. At least the hot college boy was no longer standing there. Maybe he didn't witness my shame. I emerged from the refrigeration and somehow made it back to the car.

But there he was in the parking lot. The sight of Mr. Tall/ Dark/Tousled leaning against a very shiny, very expensive-looking sports car made my eyes burn with tears. As God was my witness, I would
not
be the
high schooler
who cried in front of the good-looking college guy.

I snuck another glance his way. Such an
adult
car. In a green so dark it looked black. Only someone as gorgeous as him could pull it off without irony.

Clumsily unlocking the door to my Civic, I dropped into the bucket seat, its cracked vinyl squeaking with my weight. I slumped close to the steering wheel.

I would get out of there with a modicum of dignity.

I would
not
cry.

Nor would I hit any person or thing on the way out of the lot.

Buckling my seat belt, I turned the key. There was a click and then nothing.

“No,” I whispered.
No, no, no.
I slapped my hands on the dashboard. “Wake up.”

It'd taken me
years
to save up for this hunk of junk. I'd endured hours of tutoring meathead boys who thought casting lingering stares at my almost nonexistent bosom would make me wilt with desire. I'd sold term papers on eBay. And of course there was Fuddruckers, which, BTW, falls in the same constellation of life experience as setting one's hair on fire or enduring an
America's Next Top Model
marathon.

My car would
not
die on me now, in the parking lot, in front of this guy whose half-lidded stare was boring a hole into the side of my head. Witnessing me, at the pinnacle of my loserdom. I beat my hands against the steering wheel for good measure.