Wuthering high: a bard academy novel (9 page)

“Sports are mandatory,” Samir tells me. “We all have them. And most of them are coached by Coach H.”

“Wait? The guy who wears the baseball cap? The alcoholic?”

“Yep — that’s the guy.”

“Don’t talk back to him. He likes to make you run laps,” Hana says, looking like she knows about this firsthand.

I can’t help but wonder if this is my dad’s doing. He’s always telling me about the power of sports, and trying to get me to try out for them. He doesn’t realize that the only contact sport I’m interested in is fighting the crowds at the outlet mall.

“I wonder what sport Kate Shaw had to play,” Hana says.

“Probably Track and Field,” Samir says. “You know, since she did try to run away.”

“Bad taste, Samir,” Hana says.

“What? I’m just saying,” Samir adds.

“I wonder if I sent a copy of the newspaper article to my parents if they’d come and get me?” I ask. “The sort of place where fifteen-year-olds disappear probably isn’t the safest.”

“Only if your parents care,” Hana adds. “Mine don’t. They wouldn’t care if I was being taught by Saddam Hussein as long as I was out of their hair.”

“You’re lucky,” Samir says. “My parents care
too
much about me, which is why they want me to marry a girl who’s four feet tall and who I’ve known since I was six. I’d take parental neglect any day, thank you.”

“Well, lucky for us, we have mandatory counseling sessions,” Hana says, pointing to our schedules. “And looks like you’re first, Miranda.”

My counseling session happens that afternoon, after we’ve run through half the Sunday schedule (including breakfast, the nondenominational chapel service, lunch, and a trip to the bookstore to get our books for class). Honestly, I’m surprised they don’t just write in mandatory pee breaks. This place is more regulated than boot camp.

My assigned counseling session happens in Ms. W’s room at Capulet dorm.

“So your parents got divorced,” she says to me, as we sit in her room, a small, studylike space. I notice that there’s no bed visible. I wonder if this is why there’s a campus legend about the teachers around here never needing sleep. There’s just a desk, a love seat, and a couple of chairs. “How did that make you feel?”

“I don’t know. How do you think I feel?” I say.

I like Ms. W, but this sounds like a really dumb question to me. Ms. W doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me.

“Dad is a jerk, and Mom is a wreck. And it’s five years later,” I say.

“I’ve read your file. Why do you think you wrecked your dad’s car?”

“Because a tree got in my way,” I quip. This is, technically, true.

“Miranda, what’s the real reason?” Ms. W sounds like she’s starting to get annoyed.

“I was just picking up my sister, you know. She had this bully problem.”

“Why couldn’t your dad help your sister?”

“Please. He doesn’t even know our middle names.”

“And your mother? Where was she?”

I shrug.

“Does that happen a lot? Do you have to look after your sister because your parents don’t?”

“I dunno. I guess.”

I do feel like I’m the only one who seems to understand what’s going on with Lindsay, or really, with anything else. I’m the one who cooks dinner mostly (Mom can’t boil water, and if I don’t cook something then it’s order takeout). Dad’s MIA. At least half the weekends Lindsay and I are supposed to see him, Dad has Carmen take us and do something like shopping while he hits the golf course. His excuse is that we’d rather do “girly” things. I don’t call watching my stepmom snap at clerks at Saks Fifth Avenue girly. Neither is watching my college fund go down the drain.

“And if you’re taking care of your sister and your mom, and your dad is missing in action, then who’s taking care of you?” Ms. W asks me. “Did you ever think that maybe they’re the ones who are supposed to take care of you?”

I shrug.

“Can you see that maybe you were acting out to prove to them, and maybe yourself, that you
are
the kid. Not the adult.”

I think about this. Maybe she’s right. Maybe wrecking Dad’s car, charging up Carmen’s credit cards, and then going out with a known date rapist was my way of acting out. My way of saying, “Hey! I’m the kid — remember? You’re supposed to take care of me!”

Ms. W tells me I should think about writing out my feelings to both parents in a letter. My “assignment” for counseling is to have a letter written in a month.

“Anything else bothering you?” she asks me, before I go.

I pause a second. “Well, there is this other thing,” I say. I’m not sure how to tell her I think my dorm room might be haunted by Kate Shaw.

“Have you heard of Kate Shaw?” I ask her.

Ms. W looks startled, and then manages to put her features into a neutral expression. “Hers is a very sad story. How did you hear about her?”

“There are just rumors about her. The students talk about her. Did you know her? Were you here when she disappeared?”

“I was, yes, and I did know her. She lived in this dorm,” Ms. W says. “She was a very bright girl. But she had terrible taste in boys, you know. She went for the disreputable ones, and I think that may have had something to do with why she disappeared.”

“Really?”

“It just goes to show that you should be careful with who you date,” Ms. W says, looking at me as if she’s trying to give me some advice.

“Do you think I look like her? Like Kate?”

Ms. W looks down at the notepad on her lap. “I think maybe this place can make you see things that aren’t there. We’re isolated, and the campus is old, and it’s a fertile ground for ghost stories.”

“I suppose, but — this is going to sound crazy — but I think her ghost is here. You know, in this dorm.”

“I wouldn’t worry about ghosts,” Ms. W says. “I mean, do
I
look like a ghost to you?”

I look at her and giggle a little.

“No,” I say.

“Then you have nothing whatsoever to worry about,” she says, and gives me a small smile. “Because I’m the scariest thing you’ll find here.”

Eleven

“So Ms. W
knew
Kate?
That is whacked,” Samir says at dinner. I’m sitting with him and Hana and I’ve filled them in on the session with Ms. W.

“She thinks some stalker boyfriend killed her,” I say.

“That’s really sad,” Hana adds.

“Maybe that’s just something Ms. W says to girls so they don’t date,” Samir says. “Maybe she’s an abstinence freak.”

“There’s nothing wrong with abstinence, you perv,” Hana says.

“Sure, if it’s voluntary,” Samir says. “Mine is forced.”

“Ignore him,” Hana tells me. “He’s just mad because his counselor — Mr. F — made him do ‘the chair’ today.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s when you sit and talk to an empty chair and pretend it’s whoever is really messing up your life at the moment,” Hana says. “And Samir had to spend an hour talking to an empty chair and pretending it was his mom.”

“At least I didn’t pull a Parker Rodham,” Samir says. “She got so mad she actually split the chair in half.”

“Seriously?”

“The girl tried to kill her mom, remember? She has more issues than
Vogue
,” Hana says.

I’m thinking about this when I look up and see Ryan Kent. He’s just finished dinner and he’s headed right for me.

I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. It dawns on me that with my haste to go find Samir and Hana this morning, I ran out of my room without makeup or a single accessory. I’m not even sure if I remembered to comb my hair. This is so not the first impression I need to make on the hottest guy in class.

Then again, he probably doesn’t even remember me. We had yearbook together last year. I took the opportunity to stake out the territory of platonic friendship. I knew I could never be girlfriend material (Ryan typically rotates through the school’s most
YM
cover-ready girls, almost all of them with two-syllable names ending in “y” — like Britney, Jenny, Mandy), so I decided to go for the friends-only approach.

Ryan seemed to appreciate the fact that I didn’t drool over him, like some girls, or stutter when he came into the room. You should see his effect on most girls. It’s like instant lobotomy. Not that I don’t find him attractive. I do. But I’m not about to lose my crap just because he has washboard abs. (Yes, I’ve seen them on that rare occasion when he takes off his basketball shirt on the bench and changes into a new one. I’m not blind.)

“Oh my God — Miranda, is that you?” Ryan says, his face breaking out into a smile that deserves to be on the cover of an Abercrombie catalog.

“Ryan,” I sputter, not sure what to say. Am I supposed to acknowledge the fact that he was in a car accident that killed his girlfriend (he passed an alcohol test, but word was he was still at fault)? Or do I just pretend like nothing happened?

“God, it’s good to see a friendly face,” he says, and he hugs me. No kidding.
Hugs
me. Puts his beefy triceps around me and squeezes.

Next to me, Hana goes stock-still and loses her ability to form words. I’m sure she, like every other girl in this school, has a minor crush on Ryan. Honestly, you don’t even really have to have a crush on Ryan to go all to goo in front of him. Just two X chromosomes and a pulse, really. But I’m not going to melt into a puddle. He’s just a boy. Even if he is a really good-looking one.

Samir, for his part, ignores Ryan altogether, and focuses hard on his own pancakes.

“What’s up with those shoes?” I ask him, looking at his feet so as not to become distracted by his very fit arms, chest, and stomach. He’s wearing Converse low-tops, which are flawless except for one scuff mark on the right toe.

“What’s wrong with my shoes?” Ryan asks me.

“I think I can see your big toe.”

“Cannot,” he says, giving my arm a playful push. “They’re comfy. I like them.”

I can’t help but tease him. He’s so tease-able, in large part because no one ever dares to make fun of him. But teasing him helps me remind myself he’s just human, and not Heath Ledger’s long-lost twin. If I didn’t, then I’d turn into an ice statue like Hana sitting next to me. She practically has her fork frozen in the air on the way to her mouth. She’s about to start drooling.

“They’re three steps away from being sandals,” I tease.

“Nice try, Ms. Fashion Police, but these have a few miles in them yet,” he says, still smiling. He always takes my ribbing in good fun. After all, I’m the only girl in school who ever dared tell him he’s not drop-dead gorgeous. Honestly, he probably likes to hear something different now and again. I like to think I’m doing my part to prevent his ego from spiraling out of control. One day, he’ll thank me. And, hopefully, confess his undying love while he’s at it.

“So why are you here? Are you going to give everybody a makeover? I have a feeling you have your work cut out for you.”

“I wish. I wrecked my dad’s car,” I say. “But if I would’ve known he’d send me here, I would’ve done something really bad, like break his new golf clubs.”

Ryan barks a laugh. His grin gets bigger.

“Well, really good to see you. I guess I’ll see you around then,” he says, and smiles.

“Yeah, uh, definitely,” I say a little too eagerly.

I watch as Ryan and his perfectly toned butt walk away from us. Hana, who has been frozen in lust or shock, I can’t tell which, gurgles to life next to me.

“He’s so c-c-c-cute,” Hana stammers. She’s still somewhat under the influence of Ryan. Like alcohol, he can make you slur your speech. “I don’t know how you can actually carry on a conversation with him.”

“He’s not so great,” Samir grumbles.

“It’s mind over hormones. Mind over hormones.” I pause, letting out the breath I’d semi-been holding since first seeing Ryan. “Besides, he’s not my type anyway.”

“Not your type! Only if you’re dead,” she says. “Uh-oh, don’t look now, but Ryan isn’t the only one giving you some attention.”

I follow Hana’s eyes and see that at a neighboring table, Parker Rodham, the Queen Bee, is glaring at me. I can feel the hostility rolling off her in waves. Both she and her posse are staring at me. If they had laser vision, I’d be a Pop-Tart by now.

“I think that’s a new record,” Hana says. “Fastest time someone has made an enemy of Parker Rodham.”

“My mom always says I’m good at making new friends,” I say, beginning to wish that I was back to just dealing with ghosts.

Twelve

Back in my room,
my window is miraculously fixed, although there’s no explanation for it. Blade said she didn’t see any workers come in to replace the windowpane, but there it is, brand new. I would’ve thought I’d imagined the whole thing, except that Blade saw it, too.

That evening, I drift into another fitful night of sleep. Cue ghost - floating - outside - my - window nightmare. I’m beginning to think that the ghost in my dream is Kate Shaw, since she does look like me. This doesn’t change the fact that it is still scary, and I wake up feeling like I didn’t really sleep at all. Even worse, after I get up, I discover I have an even bigger problem than no sleep. Namely, a zit the size of a Hummer.

I could’ve predicted it.

This always happens to me on the first day of school, without fail. I have to have some mortifying skin problem just because the first day of school isn’t hard enough all on its own.

The thing is, it’s all about timing. It’s not like I have breakouts all the time. Just at key moments. When I’m on vacation with Lindsay and Mom where no one sees me and I spend the entire time in yoga pants with my hair in a ponytail — well, I have flawless skin. Not a breakout in sight. But give me a date, a dance, or an oral report and it’s like a lost ridge of the Rocky Mountains decides to erupt on my face. That’s because the Clearasil gods hate me.

When emergency concealer doesn’t work, I hide my face with a newsboy cap. When biology fails you, you can always count on ingenuity.

I’ve fooled around too long. I’ve already missed breakfast and if I don’t hurry, I’m going to miss morning assembly, too.

Morning assembly (which is sort of like morning announcements) is directed by Headmaster B, and held every morning before class at the campus chapel. This is the first day of classes, and the first morning assembly, but according to Samir and Hana it’s more important to be on time for this than for your own class. Headmaster B doesn’t tolerate tardiness, and the last student to assembly on the first day of class spent the first week cleaning dishes every night and every morning.