The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove (14 page)

Mrs. Monroe opened her hands, letting go of the book, and it fell with a

loud slap against the floor. Many of the girls jumped in their seats and several

laughed nervously.

Mrs. Monroe smiled and said, “Does everything that goes bump in the night

have a nasty bite?” and we laughed more comfortably.

“Why does every society, every culture have stories about monsters, such

as those that drink blood? The universality of these tales says something about

our own humanity, but what? Are we afraid of what is outside luring in the dark,

or do we fear the darkness of our own souls?”

Her comments made me think of the noises I heard at night. It was as if

something
was out there. Why wasn’t I afraid then?

We went through the poem line by line, and I discovered it was about a man

threatening to give a vampire’s kiss to a pure maiden. At the end, he cruelly

taunts her with her lost innocence.

I brooded on the poem through the discussion that followed about the

symbolism of blood in literature. When someone mentioned menstrual blood, I

expected giggling and rude comments, but the students were serious as they made

associations between fertility and blood, the penetration of a bite and coitus.

They even used that word, coitus, which I’d never heard anyone my age use.

“Thus, life, death, blood, sex, innocence and knowledge all come together

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

in these two brief stanzas,” said Mrs. Monroe. “Please read Johann Ludwig

Tieck’s
Wake Not the Dead
for our next class.”

The bell sounded and we began leaving the classroom. Mrs. Monroe

smiled at me as I passed her desk. “Did you like the class?” she asked.

“It’s definitely more interesting than Western Classical Lit.” I paused and

said, “The poem’s disturbing.”

“It is, isn’t it, even after more than two centuries,” she said cheerfully.

“I’ve always been fascinated in our perception of those things outside the norm.”

“Jack told me you read fairy tales to them every night.”

“Lucien wasn’t interested, but Jacob always loved hearing folktales from

the Old World about goblins, elves, will-o’-the-wisps, magical kingdoms...” Mrs.

Monroe handed me a few pages. “Here’s the syllabus, and you can pick up your

books for this course in the administrative office.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Monroe.”

During lunch break, I found Ms. Chu in her small office on the third floor

of Flounder.

“Hello, Jane. Did I convert you to journalism?”

“I like that it’s fact-based,” I said.

“Nice evasion, Jane,” she said with a wry smile and I smiled back. “Can I

help you with anything.”

“I was wondering what exactly you’d like us to write about for our

assignment.”

“Most students are happy to run off on whatever interests them,” she said.

I shrugged and said, “The academic year is so open-ended and I’m still

unfamiliar with so much here.”

“Well, our coaches are always happy to talk about their teams. Everyone’s

excited about varsity lacrosse this year since we’ve got a great goalie.”

“I’m not really into sports, ma’am.”

She tapped her short, rounded nails with their sheen of pale pink gloss

while she thought. “How would you feel about a piece on Birch Grove’s

scholarship program?”

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

I must have frowned because she added, “It doesn’t have to be personal. In

fact, it’s better if it isn’t. Do you know that twenty-eight percent of our students

receive some form of financial aid?”

“So many?” I said.

“Last year one of our students started writing an article about it, and then

she got the flu and we never ran it,” Ms. Chu said. “Your piece could mention the

tradition of our alumnae to donate to the scholarship fund. You can interview Mr.

Shaunessy, who manages the Birch Grove Fund. His office is in administration.

He can give you the names and contacts for an alumna who donates.”

At least it was better than asking a lacrosse coach stupid questions about a

sport I’d never even watched. “That sounds fine, Ms. Chu. Thanks for the help.”

After school, I found Mr. Shaunessy’s office and knocked on the door,

which was ajar.

“Enter!”

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Jane Williams and I’m writing a story for the Birch Grove

Weekly about the scholarship program. Ms. Chu said I should talk to you.”

The tall, balding man looked annoyed and said, “Ten minutes is all I can

spare. Sit and listen.”

I took one of the chairs by his desk and he began rattling facts and numbers

before I had my notebook out.

Although I was writing as fast as I could, my notes were a jumble of

unfamiliar words and phrases: fiduciary, funding, matching grants, unrestricted

bequest…

Mr. Shaunessy gave me names of three of the most generous graduates or,

as he put it, “our kind benefactresses.”

As he walked me to the door, he said, “A pity that Bebe isn’t here for your

story. She was on full-scholarship like you. Coming to Birch Grove was a

transformative experience for her.”

“I heard that she moved to Europe.”

“Quite unexpectedly.” He sniffed and raised his thin eyebrows. “I doubt

any European trip is worth abandoning a Birch Grove education.”

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Now run along, child,” he said as if bored with me.

“I’m not a child. I’m an emancipated minor and legally responsible for

myself,” I said.

Mr. Shaunessy met my eyes. His narrow lips pressed together, as if he was

trying not to smile. “My mistake. Forgive me. Then run along, Miss Williams.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Shaunessy.”

After I picked up my textbooks for
Night Terrors
, I walked into the

hallway, where Mary Violet was using her reflection in a framed portrait to fluff

up her silver-gold curls.

“Why are you looking vexed?” she said. “That’s what my mother always

says. She says, ‘Why is my family determined to vex me?’” Mary Violet

accompanied this statement by placing the back of her hand on her forehead.

I didn’t care what Catalina believed, Mary Violet wasn’t a snob. She was

fun and funny. I said, “I have to write an article for the paper on the student aid

program, and after I interviewed Mr. Shaunessy, he called me a child.”

“He’s a darling. My mother loooves him. She has him for tea, and they

lament and wail about how no one cares about culture anymore and Art with a

capital A, and then she gives him massive checks.”

“Your mom donates money to the school?”

“Oh, oodles, as fast as Daddy makes it, she gives it away.”

“Do you think I could talk to her for my assignment?”

“Sure. You can come to my house if you promise not to laugh at Mom’s

paintings. They’re
scandalous!
”

“Sure. I promise.”

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

“The role of parents is to promote Birch Grove’s philosophy, support our

policies, and ensure that students have moral and ethical guidance.”

Birch Grove Academy Handbook

MARY VIOLET
lived nearby and we walked to her house on narrow streets that

didn’t have sidewalks. Often a car would slow down and the driver would call

out a hello to her or a kid on a bike would wave and shout to her.

“It’s a bitsy, pocket-pal little town,” Mary Violet said. “Everyone knows

everyone, which is tragic because there’s no mystery. That’s why I was ecstatic

that you came to Birch Grove. Of course, it would have been more fun if you

were secretly a hot guy dressed in girls’ clothes and hiding out from the Mafia.”

“I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

“Oh, I’m already over it! Not everyone be a hot guy on the run from the

mob.” She sighed. “There isn’t any interesting new talent in Greenwood.”

“Talent?”

“You know, guys. You go to pre-school and primary school with these

boys and you can’t even think of them
that
way. It’s like incest without the

thrilling wrongness. It’s boring wrongness. Brongness.”

“I used to feel that way about the boys in our group home. Really, you

can’t even think of a guy that way if you have to share a bathroom with him. It’s

way too much information.”

“Was it a horrible orphanage? Did you eat thin gruel?”

“We ate stuff that came in giant cans from the dented warehouse store and

could be microwaved. It was a group home, not an orphanage.” I told her a little

about the ramshackle house and the rules.

“That sounds hideous! I could never ever get up that early every day. I’m

sure it’s child abuse. How did you get to be so smart?”

“A bunch of smart students got stuck with me and took me over as an

experiment, which is why I freaked out when we had to read
Flowers for

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

Algernon
in class. I was afraid that I might revert back to the feral kid I was.”

“That book is freaky anyway. I swear, the people who pick assigned

reading must be high.
The Stranger
, ugh.”

“We always got stuck reading books about teenagers who got pregnant or

jailed and that was supposed to make us feel better because we could ‘relate.’”

Mary Violet grinned. “I’m glad you didn’t revert. You must be special or

else Mrs. Monroe wouldn’t have brought you here to replace Bebe. Not that

you’re anything like her. She was big and strong, like a female wrestler. She

pretended to be innocent around Mrs. Monroe, but she was a bit wicked,” Mary

Violet said as she turned toward a gate in a hedge. “Home sweet home.”

The rectangular two-story house was painted taupe and the multi-paned

windows had snowy white trim. Ivy grew up to the second floor balconies, which

had black wrought iron railings. A brick path led through a green lawn to the

glossy grayish-blue front door.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“It is, isn’t it? You wouldn’t guess that inside is my mother’s exhibition of

vulgarity.” Mary Violet walked to the side of the house saying, “My mom says

children should use the back door because we are too messy even through I’ve

explained to her that I am a mature young lady now.”

Mary Violet opened a side door that led to a big laundry room. She

dropped her bag and book satchel on the floor beside the coat rack. Through an

open door, I saw a garage. On the other side of the laundry room was a small

bathroom. Though the doorway ahead, I glimpsed stainless steel, an expanse of

pale stone countertop, and a huge butcher block island.

“I’m home, Teresa!”

A short, dark woman came to the kitchen doorway. She wore high-waisted

mom jeans, a pink sweatshirt, and white tennis shoes. She glanced at the floor

and said, “Hang up your bag, baby.” She spoke with a Spanish accent.

“Yes, boss.” Mary Violet sighed loudly and turned back to pick up her

things. “Teresa, this is Jane. Jane’s new at school.”

“’ello, Yane.”

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

“Hello, señora,” I said as I followed Mary Violet. I suddenly remember

something. My mother had cleaned houses. The image of yellow gloves and a

bucket of soapy water came and went as quickly as a billboard sighted out of

moving bus.

As I looked around sun-filled room, I hoped my mother had found a place

as nice as this.

“Teresa thinks she is the boss of me,” Mary Violet said.

The woman made a face and then tapped her own cheek.
“Besito,”
she

said, and my friend gave her a hug and kissed her cheek.

“Who’s home?” Mary Violet asked.

“Mama is in her studio and Bobby is upstairs. The baby is at practice.”

Had my mother been on such affectionate terms with any of her employers?

I felt an ache inside. I knew nothing about her and I’d never know anything about

her.

Mary Violet said to Teresa, “Okay. We’re going up to my room for a

while.”

On the other side of the kitchen was a narrow staircase that we took to the

second floor. “Teresa’s from El Salvador,” she said. “Her kids are still there

because she wants them to be with their family.”

I was sure the reasons were far more complicated and painful.

Mary Violet led me down a hallway decorated with framed family photos

and children’s drawings. She saw me looking at the pictures and said, “Behold,

the family gallery. Thank God my mom hasn’t put her paintings here. Yet. We

live in terror.”

An Oriental rug in shades of blue and green cushioned our steps. We

walked by a bedroom with an open door and my friend called out, “Hey, Bobby,”

and then said to me, “That’s my little brother, and he’s a pestilence upon this

earth. If you ever want a brother, you can take mine.”

“That’s for the offer. I don’t have room for one at my cottage,” I said as we

walked by the stair landing, and I caught a glimpse of an expansive living room in

blues and white.

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

“My sister, Agnes, is okay. She’s always off doing one of her sports