Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (17 page)

     A group of girls came into the parlor, led by a fourteen-year-old named Amber who had honey-colored hair, a large bosom, and a beautiful face. As
the girls passed through, Amber pointed to Christine and whispered something to another girl, who giggled. Christine felt her cheeks burn. It was not the first time Amber had done such a thing, pointing rudely at her and whispering to another girl, who then laughed. Christine wondered what it was that Amber always whispered that others found so funny. She looked down at her old-fashioned dress, which she knew did not disguise the fact that she was fat. The other girls all looked smart in their school uniforms, Amber in particular, tall and slender and already womanly, giving the white blouse and pleated navy skirt a kind of fashionable style.

     A nun finally came into the parlor, a long wooden rosary clacking among the folds of her voluminous black habit. When she saw Christine standing there all alone in the fading sunlight, the long shadows gathering around her, she said, "Dear oh dear! It's time to get ready for dinner, child. Come along now."

     Christine gave one final forlorn look out the window, where she saw the last of the visitors' cars leaving and the gates closing—a scene of brutal finality, she thought, as though she were being locked inside a cage. Then she released a sigh that was almost a sob, picked up her suitcase and coat, and followed the nun back into the convent.

     The dining room was a large hall with beam ceilings, tall stained-glass windows, and a stone floor. The resident girls sat at long tables running the length of the hall, while the staff sat on a raised dais at the head of the room, their tables facing out toward the girls. This was where Christine had been placed, at the end of the staff tables, next to an elderly nun who was almost deaf. While Mother Superior, in a white habit, led the students in grace, Christine peaked over her folded hands and saw Amber at the nearest table, watching her.

     Dinner was served by the novices, young women who were learning discipline and sacrifice; they did most of the work at the convent and ate their meals in the kitchen after all the tables had been cleared. When a plate was set before Christine, she stared glumly at the honey-glazed ham and candied yams.

     The food was one of the worst aspects of St. Bridget's. On her first morning there she had been expected to breakfast on hot chocolate and waffles
in syrup. While everyone else had seemed to regard this as something of a treat, Christine had known that to eat it meant that she would feel shaky and light-headed by midmorning. So she had pushed the food around her plate, arousing the curiosity of the elderly nun at her side, who had muttered something about sulking children not appreciating the good Lord's bounty. By noon, having not touched the breakfast, Christine had been very hungry and had been devastated to see that lunch consisted of a fruit salad and juice. With the elderly nun giving her a sharp look, Christine had forced herself to eat it. By afternoon she had been so sick and light-headed that she had almost fainted in chapel.

     It wouldn't be for much longer, she reassured herself. Her father would come soon and take her home.

     As she tried to swallow the sweet ham, Christine looked around the noisy dining room and saw Amber staring at her, and she was surprised to see a trace of hostility in those unsettling gray eyes. Christine sensed that the girls resented her, and she supposed it was because, as a temporary guest at the school, Christine didn't have to abide by the strict school rules. She also didn't have to wear the school uniform but was allowed her own clothes, had a private room instead of sharing in the dormitory, didn't attend classes, and sat with the staff at meals. She was clearly too privileged for the girls' liking. As if to confirm her suspicion, she saw Amber say something to the girl next to her, who then shot Christine a look.

     Please come for me, Daddy, she prayed silently. Take me away from here. I'll never be bad again, I promise.

     At the end of dinner, after the prayer of thanks, a nun came up to Christine. It was Sister Gabriel, who had admitted Christine into the school a week earlier. Christine liked Sister Gabriel, who seemed kinder and more understanding than the other nuns. She was also very pretty, Christine thought, despite the starched wimple that pinched her face.

     When she said, "Will you come to my office with me, please?" Christine's heart jumped. Daddy was here! He
had
come after all!

     But to her disappointment, Sister Gabriel's office was empty.

     "Please sit down," the nun said.

     Sister Gabriel's voice was lilting and melodious and seemed to match her lovely looks. "I asked you here, Christine," the nun said, "because we have received instructions from your father regarding your stay here. He has sent us payment for half a year's room and board, and he has asked us to enroll you in the school."

     Christine stared at her. "What do you mean?" she said.

     "You are joining the school, Christine."

     "Oh, I don't think so. That's not what my father told me."

     "I have his instructions right here."

     "It's a mistake. My father said I would only be here for a little while."

     "I understand your confusion, Christine," Sister Gabriel said gently. "I know you weren't planning on staying with us for long. But here is his letter to us. And he sent a letter to you also," she added, handing her an envelope.

     Christine looked at her name written on the white envelope—it was in her father's handwriting. Inside she found a letter, two photographs, and a hundred-dollar bill. Through stinging tears she read his words: "...sorry to have to do this, Dolly, but it's necessary right now...Always remember that you are special. Hold your head high like a princess..."

     From far away she heard Sister Gabriel's voice saying, "You will be measured for a school uniform, and you will be assigned a room in the dormitory."

     When Christine could no longer make out Johnny's writing through eyes swimming with tears, she looked at Sister Gabriel, unable to speak.

     "I tell you what," the nun said as she came around the desk and placed a hand on Christine's shoulder. "We'll go straight to the dormitory and you can get settled in. The girls are at chapel, so this will give you a few moments to yourself. I'm sure you'll be happy here, Christine. I've decided to place you with one of the older girls, so that she can help you make the adjustment. Her name is Amber. Well, her name isn't really Amber, it's Alexandra Huntington, but a tradition was started in this school many years ago, a tradition started by the girls, of having everyone go by a nickname. I think it makes them feel more like sisters. I know you and Amber will get along just fine."

     Christine had just finished unpacking her things and placing them in the small dresser at the foot of her bed when she heard the girls coming down the hall. She froze.

     "Well!" came a voice from the doorway. "What have we here?"

     She turned and saw the girls standing there, Amber towering over them because she was the tallest, her honey-colored hair framing an arrogant, pretty face. The girls clustered nervously around Amber, excited, as if ready to imitate her every move and follow her every command. And suddenly Christine was afraid.

     "Who are you?" Amber said. "And what are you doing in
my
room?"

     Before Christine could reply, the older girl walked in, grabbed a slip out of Christine's suitcase, held it up, inspected it, then dropped it on the floor. "Looks big enough for an elephant," she said, and the others giggled.

     Amber faced Christine directly, hands on her hips, and said, "This is
my
room. I asked you what you're doing here."

     Christine searched for her voice. She had never been surrounded by so many girls before; she had no idea how she was supposed to handle a group. Martha Camp was one thing, but six or seven pushy girls was another. "I—" she said. "I—, I—"

     And Amber turned away, threw up her hands, and said, "Aye, aye aye aye aye." Her admirers burst into laughter.

     The fourteen-year-old turned and leveled her gaze at Christine. "Look," she said, "I know you've been assigned to this room. So you have to learn our rules. You see how many beds are in here? Four. That one over there, by the window, is mine. I run this room, understand? And I run this hall. I make the rules. And the rules go like this: You keep your garbage on your bed, you don't get any floor space, you can't use the closet, and the radio is off-limits to you. If you want to put pictures on the wall, you ask my permission first, and then
I
say what you put up. And if you go running to Sister Gabriel like a tattletale, you'll be dealt with most severely."

     Amber walked over to Christine's nightstand, moving with a swishy sashay that made her skirt swing, and she reached for the double photograph frame Christine had placed there. In one frame was her father's picture, in the other, her mother's.

     Amber's gaze settled for a long time upon Johnny, then she said, "Who's this?"

     "My father."

     "Hmp," Amber said contemptuously, dropping the black plastic frame onto the nightstand with a clatter. "What does he do?" she said.

     Christine gave her a baffled look. "What?"

     "What does your father do? How much money does he make?"

     "I...don't know."

     Amber turned to the others, pulled a face, and mimicked, "I don't know." She turned back to Christine and said, "Let me tell you something, Chubby; I don't like peasants. My mother is a countess. She's in France right now, vacationing with the king and queen of England. We're very wealthy and very important, so I can't be bothered dealing with people beneath me. Do you understand?"

     Christine didn't understand at all, but she said, "Yes."

     "What's your name?"

     "Christine Singleton."

     "We don't go by real names here, Singleton. We have nicknames. Mine is Amber. You'll need one, too."

     "Well," Christine started to say, "my father calls me Doll—"

     Amber's eyes turned hard. "You don't choose your own nickname, idiot," she said, and the others snickered. "
I
choose your new name for you. When I have decided, I'll tell you. In the meantime, you don't have a name, is that understood?"

     And again, although she didn't understand at all, Christine nodded.

     "And one more thing," Amber said as the bells chimed and the girls began to disperse to their rooms, "you put your garbage where I tell you to." And she reached into the dresser, pulled out Christine's neatly folded things, and tossed them onto the floor.

     Sister Gabriel handed out the last of the packages and letters in the parlor, and when she said, "That's all, girls," those who had not received mail drifted away silent and dejected. Christine was among them; she had been at St. Bridget's for one month, and she had not heard from her father.

     Unable to bear the laughter and excited chatter of those who had gotten mail, she went outside, where sunshine spilled over beds of bright pink petunias and purple pansies. Every day she went to mail call in hope, and every day she left in disappointment. But she did have that first letter, the one she had received in Sister Gabriel's office, and she would console herself with it now, reading it in privacy, pretending that it had just come today.

     She went to a small grotto that stood at the edge of the convent's perfect gardens; inside, a rose arbor enclosed a shrine to the Virgin. The white statue of Mary stood among moss and bougainvillea, and a trickling fountain created an atmosphere of serenity, repose, and forgiveness. Christine had come here often in the last three weeks, and she had always had the place to herself. But today she was startled to find someone else there, a girl she had seen in the halls and at meals, a short, chunky girl with freckles and a frizzy mass of hair that was such a deep red brown that it was almost the color of burgundy. She was sitting on the marble bench and she was crying.

     "Are you all right?" Christine said.

     The girl looked up. "Oh, yes," she said, running her hand under her nose. "I just got some bad news, that's all."

     Christine sat next to her, offering a clean handkerchief.

     "Thanks," the girl said.

     "Gee," Christine said. "I'm sorry about...whatever it is." She noticed the crumpled, tear-stained letter in her lap—a short sheet of paper, torn out of a dime-store pad, with just a few lines written on it.

     "It's from my mother," the girl said, drying her eyes and handing Christine's handkerchief back. "She says she isn't coming for my birthday after all."

     "Oh."

     "It's not my mother's fault, really. It's just that, well, after my father died she got married again, and her new husband, well, he thinks I'm in the way. That's why they sent me here. They live back east, and they don't come to visit much. I just get so blue sometimes, you know?" She managed a smile. "My name's Frizz, what's yours?"

     "Christine. Is your name really Frizz?"

     "No, that's just the name the girls call me here. You're new, I know. I've seen you around."

     "I've seen you, too. You're the one who got into trouble for goofing off in Sister Immaculata's history class."

     "Yeah," she said with a smile. "That was me. So why are you here? At St. Bridget's, I mean."

     "My father travels a lot, and I don't have a mother, so he thought it would be best if I was here. Why do they call you Frizz?"

     "Amber gave me that name because of my hair. She says it's ugly. She's right. I hate my hair."

     "I think it's a very pretty color. Mine is so ordinary. I wish I had your color."

     Frizz stared at her with swollen eyes, then said, "I don't have any friends here, do you?" When Christine shook her head, Frizz said, "Well, why don't you and I be friends then?"

     As they walked across the lawn toward the school, with the bells in the tower chiming the dinner hour, Frizz said with a sigh, "It's just as well that Mom isn't coming for my birthday, I suppose. She always depresses me when she visits, always talking about the fun things she and my stepfather are doing. I don't like him. He didn't even adopt me, so my last name isn't the same as theirs. He's such a jerk. And my mother's always criticizing me. I can't ever please her. I'm going to be thirteen next week. How old are you?"