The Cavendish Home for Boys and Girls (6 page)

“Such a nice girl,” Mr. Prewitt whispered to his wife.

Victoria pretended not to notice the goose bumps down her back. She tried not to think about how she had been afraid just then. She tried not to think about Lawrence. She thought only of her B.
Focus, Victoria
, she told herself over and over till her hands stopped shaking.
Focus.

Later that day, the lunch bell rang at eleven forty-five. Victoria rushed from biology to the restroom and waited for traffic to die down. Then she peeked out and snuck across the south courtyard to Building Five, where the music rooms were. This almost sent her into fits. Sneaking around during lunch was definitely not allowed.

Lawrence loved Building Five. He often said it felt more like home than his own home.

Victoria had always thought that a silly thing to say, but now it seemed strangely endearing. Lawrence’s face popped into her head—his lazy eyes, his messy hair, his crooked smile. She missed his humming.

At Building Five’s front doors, she said to herself, “What? I don’t miss his
humming
.” She tugged hard on the doors and stepped inside.

As she walked, she hid her report behind her back, even though the halls were empty. The idea of what she was about to do terrified her so completely that she couldn’t bring herself
to care about the scuttling black shapes following her in the line where the floor met the walls. The whole town could be infested with bugs and it wouldn’t matter. As long as she could get her A, she’d put up with a thousand bugs a thousand times over.

She knocked on Professor Carroll’s door. No one answered. Before she lost her nerve, she set her jaw and let herself in.

Sunlight streamed through dirty windows into the main classroom, where pianos lined the walls and stood in rows across the room—black baby grands, open and waiting, keys shining. Sheet music covered everything in teetering stacks, strewn across keyboards, trailing between bench legs.

Victoria wrinkled her nose at the unseemly chaos. After picking her way through fallen music stands and frayed violin bows, she found Professor Carroll in his office. The nameplate on his door hung crooked.

“Professor Carroll?” Victoria said.

He sat at his desk with his back to Victoria, facing a window overlooking the Academy lawn.

She tried again, her palms sweating. She hoped the report’s ink didn’t smear. “Professor Carroll?”

Professor Carroll turned slowly around in his chair.

“Miss Wright,” he said in a voice much cheerier than
Victoria had ever heard him use. “What can I do for you today?”

“Well, I—” began Victoria, but she had to stop and stare, because Professor Carroll’s too-wide, too-bright smile was just the same as the Prewitts’ too-wide, too-bright smiles. The smile had frozen with his teeth just slightly apart. His eyes gleamed like they had been freshly polished.

Beneath the reams of paper scattered across Professor Carroll’s desk, something rustled. Three pens rolled off the desk and hit the floor.

Victoria jumped back.

Professor Carroll’s hand whipped out and smacked the moving paper.

The paper fell silent.

“Well?” Professor Carroll said, tilting his head at Victoria. “Do speak, Miss Wright.”

Victoria leaned in closer for a good, hard dazzle. “Are you all right? Because you don’t seem like it.”

“I’m doing quite well, thank you, Miss Wright. What about you?”

Victoria thrust the report at him before she could talk herself out of it. “I got a B this quarter.”

Professor Carroll slowly looked down at the report. “Ah, yes, I see that.”

Victoria took a deep breath, ignoring the cold in the room and the papers on the desk, which had started rustling again and clicking and scratching.

“I was wondering if I could do any sort of extra credit to—”

“No need to worry about that, Miss Wright,” said Professor Carroll as he delicately took the report from her. He used the Academy deblotter to erase the horrid B and stamp an A in its place. He uncapped his pen and scribbled new comments about Victoria’s dedication to her craft.

“Such a good, well-behaved girl,” Professor Carroll went on. As he spoke, he changed her grade in his ledger from B to A. “Good girls who do as they’re told get all sorts of treats. Remember that, won’t you? Remember how I helped you.”

It seemed too easy, but Victoria didn’t dare interrupt. Staring at the A, she could hardly breathe. Her heart soared. It was done. She stared at the fresh black A. Everything should have been perfect. With this A, her future was now safe. She could show her parents a spotless report, and they would smile proudly and show her off to their friends, who of course had much less remarkable children. And best of all, Victoria could now look Jill Hennessey right in the eye and gloat—tastefully, of course. One mustn’t be obnoxious.

But that same sick feeling churned in Victoria’s stomach
as she took the report from Professor Carroll. He sat there, staring at her and smiling. It wasn’t right, that smile. They weren’t right, those hard, gleaming eyes.

“Really, is something wrong?” she said.

“Now, now,” said Professor Carroll, “off with you. Leave me alone.” He turned back to the window, tapping his fingers on the papers, which rustled happily. He bobbed his head from side to side and hummed a minuet. It reminded Victoria of Lawrence, and she couldn’t seem to move her feet to leave.

Suddenly, Professor Carroll said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it!” His voice sounded more normal that time—not as cheery, and more like the professor who drilled them on scales. He jerked around in his chair and fell silent.

Victoria stared at him. “Sorry for what?” she whispered.

But Professor Carroll only smiled and sighed, much calmer now, and said, “Ah,” as if welcoming home an old friend. His smile stretched even wider.

Several sets of gleaming black feelers poked out of the rustling papers to curl around Professor Carroll’s petting fingers.

Horrified, Victoria turned and ran.

THAT FRIDAY AFTERNOON, WHEN THE LAST BELL
rang at three o’clock, Victoria rushed home through the beginnings of a storm, the sky tinged a sick, yellow color. She dodged piles of wet autumn leaves, slammed open the gate, and raced up the front steps of her house. With each step, she pushed the memory of Professor Carroll’s buggy fingers further out of her mind.
Don’t think about it, Victoria, don’t think about it.

“Victoria?” said Beatrice, from the kitchen.

“What’s all that awful noise?” said Mrs. Wright from her parlor.

But Victoria didn’t stop till she reached her bedroom. She shut the door, sat on the edge of her bed, and took out the report from her book bag.

She stared at it, breathing hard, her throat stinging from the stormy air. There it was: A. “Victoria is one of my best students” read Professor Carroll’s new, scrawled comments.

Victoria’s fingers trembled as she read those words over and over. They were a lie. She wasn’t one of Professor Carroll’s best students. Lawrence was.

Lawrence, who hummed while he walked. Lawrence, who laughed and told Victoria she was funny, even though she certainly never tried to be.

The words began to blur. Soon they were a soup of black and beige. Victoria let the report float to the ground and began to cry.

All her life, Victoria had never been one for tears. When people cried, it made her uncomfortable. People who cried couldn’t handle their lives, and Victoria could always handle everything. Plus, crying messed up your face. It was disorderly and inconvenient.

But she couldn’t help these tears. She didn’t miss Lawrence. She couldn’t. Victoria Wright had only one friend, and he wasn’t even a real friend; he was a project, someone to fix and whip into shape. Nevertheless, she could not stop thinking about him. Even with the beautiful A in her hands, which should have been all that mattered, Victoria could only wonder where Lawrence had gone and what those bugs had been doing on Professor Carroll’s desk and what the reason
for this insufferable feeling in her chest was, this feeling of everything being
not quite right
. She wiped her cheeks till they hurt and balled her hands into fists and dazzled the floor in front of her, but the awful feeling wouldn’t go away.

Someone knocked on the door. Victoria quickly cleaned her face with a blanket and smoothed her wrinkled uniform flat. She smiled brightly at the door.

“Yes?” she said.

“I’ve got your snack” came Beatrice’s voice.

Victoria hesitated. She hadn’t forgotten the little slip of paper Beatrice had left under her breakfast plate, days ago:
Be careful.
The memory sat strangely in her body after the events of the past week. Before, she hadn’t cared about Beatrice’s odd note; but that was before, and now she found herself wondering . . .

“Come in,” she said, tugging her shirt straight and tossing back her curls.

Beatrice brought in a tray with cut-up fruits laid out in a row—tomato slices, apple wedges, strawberry halves. She shut the door and put the tray on Victoria’s bedside table, chattering about her day.

“I picked up your new tights for ballet tomorrow. I think you’ll like the penne with salmon I’m cooking for supper tonight. Did you have a good day at school?” said Beatrice, on and on, dusting off surfaces that didn’t need dusting. Between Beatrice and
Victoria, this room was always the cleanest in the house.

Victoria watched her but didn’t really pay attention. She chewed on a tomato slice. The skin tore and the meat melted on her tongue. As she chewed, she mulled over things: Professor Carroll and Professor Alban; Donovan O’Flaherty and Jacqueline Hennessey being absent for days; Mr. Alice and his rake; Beatrice’s note; Jill saying, “Be careful, Victoria.” Separately, they were little things; but put all together, they seemed somehow more.

“What did you mean by that note the other day?” Victoria said.

Beatrice froze. “Note?”

“The note that said, ‘Be careful.’ What does that mean? Be careful of what?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” said Beatrice. Then she knelt in front of Victoria and whispered, “I can’t say too much. I don’t want anything to hear.”

Victoria said, “
Anything?
You mean you don’t want Mother and Father to hear? Why not?”

Beatrice wiped her hands on her apron. It was the latest in housekeeperly fashion. Mrs. Wright made sure of it.

“Just go on about your business,” Beatrice said, looking around the room as though she expected someone to be there listening. “If we’re lucky, everything will soon be back
to normal. Sometimes it’s worse than others, you see. Like the weather.” Beatrice shook her head. “But you just have to pretend like nothing is happening.”

“But what
is
happening?” Victoria said. “Something is, isn’t it? The teachers at school are acting weird. And Lawrence—” She stopped, swallowing hard. “Lawrence is gone.”

“He’s not gone,” said Beatrice. “He’s visiting his grandmother upstate.” She didn’t sound like she believed her own words.

“Fine,” Victoria said. “I don’t believe you, but fine.”

“You have to believe me,” said Beatrice. “If you start misbehaving—” She cupped Victoria’s cheek. Her mouth trembled, making her look ancient and exhausted. Then her eyes went a little fuzzy, like something had wiped them blank. “I . . . I don’t . . .” She shook her head. When she opened her eyes again, they still had that blurry look about them. “Just do as you’re told. Please?”

Inside, Victoria’s heart hardened suspiciously into its own version of a dazzle. Outside, Victoria smiled and had a strawberry.

“I will,” she said, and after Beatrice left, Victoria paced her room for a long time and finally stopped at the window to look outside.

Mr. Tibbalt’s dog bounced at the corner of the street, yapping down Bourdon’s Landing, Lawrence’s street. Something about the sight of him stabbed Victoria with a
jolt of dread. For some reason, deep down in her stomach, she knew she had to follow him.

Victoria grabbed her coat and snuck downstairs. She almost made it outside, but then her mother called out, “Victoria? Where are you going?”

“Um,” said Victoria. She wasn’t used to lying. Lying meant secrets and things all out of order and possibly getting into trouble.

Beatrice looked at her from the kitchen and shook her head frantically, but Victoria ignored her.

“Mr. Tibbalt’s dog got out, Mother,” said Victoria. “I’m going to take him back.”

“Mr. Tibbalt?” said Mrs. Wright, her voice angry, but Victoria was already outside and didn’t hear.

She wanted to run but made herself walk instead, Victoria-style—with purpose, briskly, as if people weren’t in fact going crazy all around her. She didn’t know why it was so important to act normal, but she knew that it was. Walking instead of running, like she wanted to, made her skin feel like it would burst open.

When she reached Mr. Tibbalt’s dog, he stopped yapping and looked up at her. His tail wagged uncertainly.

Victoria wasn’t used to talking with animals. “Well?”

The dog tilted his head.

“I don’t know what I’m doing out here,” said Victoria, looking
around. The intersection pulsed with the oncoming storm—or was it going rather than coming, or had it always been there, stewing? In the yellow-green light, the cobbled streets shone. The air smelled bitter and sharp-sweet, like rotten food. Victoria’s heart pounded. “I should be inside doing my exercises, but I’ve got such a weird feeling all the time now. Like something’s not quite right.”