Gilda Joyce: The Ladies of the Lake (34 page)
Read Gilda Joyce: The Ladies of the Lake Online
Authors: Jennifer Allison
“I’m completely sure. I’ve been investigating this case since the beginning of the school year.”
Leah’s carefully groomed eyebrows arched. “Since the beginning of the school year?! Why didn’t you say anything about this before?”
“I tried, but a
certain individual
who works on the school paper wasn’t too keen about having me investigate the story, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh. I forgot you’ve been working with Danielle.”
“I knew I’d need to uncover all the evidence before anyone would believe me.”
Leah frowned as she reread a passage of Gilda’s article. “It’s still hard to imagine Danielle being involved in something like this.” She looked up and squinted into the distance, as if trying to see an image in her mind more clearly. “Although, now that I really think about it, those three did act very cliquish back in freshman year.”
Gilda nodded, eager to hear some firsthand recollection of the Ladies of the Lake.
“They were always whispering in this annoying way that made me feel like they were probably talking behind my back. And I remember seeing Dolores sitting at their lunch table, but they never seemed to talk to her. I just assumed Dolores was too clueless to take a hint and sit somewhere else.” Leah thought for a moment, then shivered as if suddenly chilled. “Wow. It’s weird to realize they were keeping such a huge secret.”
“It’s a pretty weird story.”
Leah looked at Gilda very seriously. “Gilda, this might be the first real investigative reporting anyone on
The Petunia
has ever done.”
Gilda couldn’t help but break into a goofy smile at the compliment.
Leah didn’t smile. “Unfortunately, there’s no way Mrs. McCracken is going to let us print this, so there’s not much point in including it.”
“But that’s censorship!”
“I know, but Mrs. McCracken has the final say in whatever
we print. She hates seeing negative, depressing stories in
The Petunia
.”
“That’s dumb. The more sordid the story, the more people love it.”
“Gilda, it’s senior year, and I can’t afford to get on Mrs. McCracken’s bad side right now. You wrote a good article, but it’s just not the sort of thing we cover in the school paper.” She held out the typed pages, expecting Gilda to reclaim her article.
Gilda merely stared at Leah. “A newspaper is supposed to cover
news
.”
Leah tossed Gilda’s article onto a chair. “Ah, to be a freshman. So promising, and yet so very naive.”
“So you’re saying we should just bury this story and replace it with another lip-gloss article?”
Leah sighed. “Gilda, what
good
will come of publishing this story? Don’t you think Danielle, Nikki, and Priscilla already feel bad enough about the situation they’re in? This would just be so embarrassing for them.”
Gilda felt divided. Was Leah right? Was her urge to publish the story of the Ladies of the Lake merely insensitive? “But what about Dolores Lambert?” Gilda heard herself saying.
“What about her?”
“Doesn’t she have a right to the truth? Ever since I first came to this school, I’ve been hearing that this place is haunted, and I bet part of the reason is that Dolores wants people to know what really happened to her.”
“How would you know what Dolores wants? She’s
dead
.”
“I just have a gut feeling, that’s all.”
Leah closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, as if attempting to quell a burgeoning headache.
“Besides, what if some
new
clique starts hazing people just like the Ladies of the Lake did? Maybe people need to know about this so it doesn’t happen again.”
Leah stared at Gilda wearily. “Gilda, I see your point. But it doesn’t even matter whether I agree with you or not. The
problem
is what I told you in the first place: there’s no way the headmistress will allow this article to run. I’m really sorry.”
Dear Dad,
I can tell the police investigation has started, because I saw a cop car in the school parking lot today. Also, every time Mrs. McCracken sees me in the hallway, she looks startled, as if she just spied a rat. Then she makes a big point of not looking at me at all.
My scholarship is supposed to end after Christmas. By then, I’ll be
relieved
to get out of here. Mrs. McCracken is doing her best to keep things quiet, but soon the news will be out. How? I just posted my article about the Ladies of the Lake on the school message board. Nasty rumors are already spreading, so I figure people might as well know what
really
happened. Within a
couple days, Mrs. McCracken will discover the story and delete it, but by then the news will be out.
A few kids (like Tiara) will be intrigued with the story, but a bunch of people will probably be mad at me and wish they had never heard anything about it at all. That’s one thing I’m learning: some people don’t
want
to hear the truth.
Dear Mr. Panté:
I’m guessing that by now you’ve made the acquaintance of a good friend and colleague of mine-Detective Latmos of the Bloomfield Hills Police Department. (Don’t let his smiling, pretzel-munching demeanor fool you:
He
means
business!)
I’m also guessing that Mrs. McCracken has held an emergency staff meeting about the “little situation” at school that will no doubt become public very soon. That must have been a little awkward for you, listening to the other teachers whispering in hushed tones about this “shocking news.” I mean, you must have felt just a
teensy
bit
uncomfortable,
knowing that one of your students had alerted you to this very same “little situation” some time ago. True, this student was less than reliable. Who could blame you for dismissing her ideas?
As often as not, her grammar homework remained invisible. Her overuse of adjectives was irksome, irritating, and tedious. As a dramatist, she was brazenly unsupervised. Why on earth would you believe that she would know anything about a secret club called the Ladies of the Lake?
Still, it must have been a little embarrassing and even kind of
annoying
to discover that this student’s “false accusation” was in fact the TRUTH.
I apologize for rubbing it in, Mr. Panté. As you can probably tell, this is a letter written by someone who has nothing to lose.
Mr. Panté (if you’re still reading and haven’t yet tossed this note into the paper shredder), I also want to apologize for one thing: I know you helped me get my scholarship in the first place, and I know I didn’t live up to your expectations in terms of classroom work. I’m truly sorry about that. It’s not that I didn’t
want
to learn about gerunds and infinitives and dactyls and pterodactyls! Believe me, Mr. Panté, you know your stuff! I just got a little busy with the demands of my career this fall. (You must know the feeling. I’m sure there are many evenings when you’ve just gotten an inspiration for a sonnet that will blow old
Shakespeare out of the water–but alas! A festering pile of adolescent, plagiarized homework demands your attention. By the end of the night, you find yourself sobbing into your handkerchief, and no poems have been written!) This scenario is just sad, Mr. Panté, and I like to think that in my little way, I helped you prioritize that epic poem.
Thanks for all the good times, and see you at the Oscars,
Gilda Joyce
Dear Gilda:
Yes, I was wrong not to take the story you told me more seriously, and I sincerely apologize for that.
Since you seem to feel that I have been too critical of you (which I did not intend), I would like to tell you a couple things I have appreciated about having you in class:
- So far, you’ve never asked, “Do we have to know this for the test?”
- You think for yourself. When something captures your interest, there’s no stopping you.
- You’re a risk taker in the best sense of the term, and I admire that about you.
Indeed, I would have appreciated it if you had spent more time on your homework, etc. It’s hard to strike a balance between things we have to do and things we want to do; that’s one of the ongoing challenges of life. I now realize that you have a true passion for investigative work; because of this, there may be
many times when you’ll face a conflict between following the rules and breaking the rules. Of course, sometimes the cost for breaking the rules is high.
You’ll be missed, Gilda. I have no doubt you’ll distinguish yourself no matter where you go. Keep writing.
Fondly,
Mr. Dudley Panté
G
ilda and Wendy leaned against the railing of the bridge overlooking Mermaid Lake. Only a few dried leaves remained on the limbs of tree branches, quivering in the cold air. A weak sun shone above, but there was a biting chill in the wind; the first stage of winter was descending fast. Overhead, ducks flew in a V-shaped formation. Something about seeing ducks fly away always made Gilda feel melancholy, as if she were being left behind.
“What’s the matter with you?” Wendy asked, noticing Gilda’s uncharacteristic silence. “You’re the only person I know who gets sad when she has a half day of school.”
“Because it’s the half day before
Thanksgiving
.” Holidays always reminded Gilda that her father was not at home—not there to carve the turkey or flip pancakes at breakfast; not there to make his “secret pumpkin pie recipe”; not there to make jokes about Mrs. Joyce’s lumpy mashed potatoes; not there to take everyone to the ice-skating rink on the day after Thanksgiving.
“I wish I could fly south with the ducks,” said Wendy. “I’m so sick of winter.”
“It’s only November.”
“And I’m already sick of it!” Wendy leaned back and tilted her face toward the sun. “TAN ME NOW!”
“Shh!”
“Don’t shush me.”
“You’re supposed to keep your voice down on this bridge.”
“I thought you didn’t believe that story anymore.”
“Once you hear a story like that, it always stays with you.” Gilda still held her breath when passing the cemetery on Woodward Avenue. When she was five, Stephen had warned her that zombies would get her if she didn’t hold her breath when passing a graveyard, and to this day, she never took chances.
Wendy cupped her hands around her mouth. “HEY! DOLORES!”
A crow sitting in a tree nearby gave a scornful reply. In the chilly sunlight, the lake rippled in shades of blue, green, and black.
“That was disrespectful to the dead,” Gilda whispered.
“You sound like my mother. I was trying to explain to her what happened at your school, and she told me we should drop a map of Hawaii into the lake.”
“Why?”
“How else is Dolores’s ghost going to find her way to her mom’s new house?”
Gilda imagined a girl who wandered the neighborhoods surrounding the lake, always lost and alone. She wondered if Dolores’s ghost knew that her old bedroom was gone—that her mother was now far, far away. “Maybe your mom is right.”
“While we’re at it, we should drop an airline ticket and a bikini in the lake, too.”
“Ha-ha.”
“And some suntan lotion and sunglasses for ghosts. Spirit shades!”
“Okay, Wendy.” When Wendy found something funny, she had a way of continuing the joke for several minutes.
“Hey, maybe you and my mom could form a travel agency for ghosts!”
“I’ll start working on our business plan.”
A tall figure emerged from the ruins: it was Keith. He carried something over one shoulder—a rake with a piece of pink cloth tied to one end. Spying Gilda and Wendy on the bridge, he waved.
“That’s the guy I told you about,” said Gilda. “The one who says he saw Dolores’s ghost.”
Keith disappeared behind one of the crumbling walls and began to rake dried leaves from the interior of the ruins. As he worked, he reflected that it was odd to see three freshman girls sitting on the bridge after school on a half day. There was something strange about the one with long, tangled blond hair; he didn’t recognize her, but she looked eerily familiar. He rubbed his eyes and turned back to his work, grateful that his broken rake still worked pretty well bound together with the pink silk scarf he had found at the edge of the lake three years ago.
