Gilda Joyce: The Ladies of the Lake (5 page)

Brad frowned. “Oh, I think I know what you’re talking about. The little girl who fell through the ice, right?”

“All I know is that there’s a bridge dedicated to a girl who drowned in the lake.”

Brad nodded. “I remember now. It was colder than a witch’s
behind that year on Thanksgiving, and we were all glued to the local news.” Brad got a wistful, faraway look, as if he had just pictured something that made him sad.

“I wonder what she was doing trying to walk across the lake on Thanksgiving weekend?”

Brad gave Gilda a wry look and tapped the side of his head with his index finger. “Maybe this kid wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, if you know what I mean. Anyway, Shirley McCracken was one ‘Chatty Cathy,’ believe me, but a drowned girl was not the type of subject she wanted to discuss at the car dealership. She
did
go on and on about her dead husband and how he always drove a beat-up, used car. I said, ‘Shirley, when is it going to be about
you
? When is it time for the car of
your
dreams?
Now
—that’s when.’ And damned if she didn’t get herself one helluva car. At a bargain, too.”

Gilda felt irritated that Brad had managed to turn the conversation back to the subject of selling cars. “Mrs. McCracken is widowed?”

“That’s right.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Rather, it was uncomfortable for Gilda, but Brad seemed to feel right at home as he stretched his legs in front of him.
A little too at home
, Gilda thought. Why wouldn’t her mother hurry up? In the old days she would have run out the front door wearing sweats and not so much as a swipe of lip gloss. But over the summer Mrs. Joyce had started dating for the first time since her husband’s death and had rediscovered things like blush, lipstick, and hairspray. Gilda suddenly felt puritanical and
resentful.
Why am I the one sitting here, talking to my mom’s boyfriend? She should be sitting here talking to MY boyfriend—if only I had one
.

On the other hand, Gilda had to admit that talking to Brad had yielded some information. She now knew a bit more about Mrs. McCracken and the girl who drowned in Mermaid Lake—Dolores Lambert.

A
s she studied her reflection, Gilda felt that the Catholic schoolgirl she saw in the mirror—this girl who wore a school uniform and who obviously had no fashion sense—must simply be a character she was impersonating. She herself would never dress in such an uninspired outfit.

The uniform for sophomores, juniors, and seniors at Our Lady of Sorrows was “a light blue skirt and white polo top in fall and spring, and a plaid skirt in shades of burgundy and gray during the winter.
IMPORTANT: THE SKIRT MUST BE NO SHORTER THAN THREE INCHES ABOVE THE KNEE
!”

The freshman uniform was slightly different and distinctly horrid: a pink, pleated skirt with a matching pink, short-sleeved shirt. The color scheme was Mrs. McCracken’s idea: she wanted to give the freshmen a more “fun and feminine” outfit. As a result, the new girls looked more vulnerable and unsophisticated than ever.

At public school, Gilda had often dressed in expressive combinations of vintage clothing and costume jewelry. She created outfits to reflect every mood (her burgundy velvet “Bloody Mary” dress, worn with suede boots on test days, was among
her favorites). Now the full realization that she would have to wear the same clothes to school for an entire year made her feel itchy, as if she might break out in a full-body rash. As she practiced walking around the room in her school uniform, she felt exposed and drafty in the short skirt.

There must be something I can do to make this uniform look more interesting
, Gilda thought. She considered adding a jean jacket and black tights, but realized that this would be completely against the rules.
Mom will kill me if I get sent home from school on the first day
.

After digging through her wardrobe for several minutes, Gilda settled on an ironic heightening of her extremely girlie look with pink lipstick, a glittery rhinestone hair clip, and a
Little Mermaid
Disney Band-Aid, which she stuck on her bare knee.

She peered into the mirror one last time.
I look like the kid who’s going to get beaten up on the playground
, she thought. She removed the Disney Band-Aid and the hair clip.

“Oh, don’t you look adorable!” Mrs. Joyce clutched her cup of coffee and beamed at Gilda. “I should get a camera. Doesn’t your sister look cute, Stephen?”

Seized by a fit of laughter, Gilda’s older brother spit a mouthful of Cheerios back into his bowl.

“Don’t say anything,” Gilda warned him. “Not one thing.”

“I hope I have some film,” said Mrs. Joyce, rummaging through a kitchen drawer where things like scissors and tape were mixed together with old telephone bills and bank statements.

“Mom, there will be no record of this moment.”

“But you look so nice. Stephen, tell your sister she looks nice.”

“You look nice.” Stephen’s mouth contorted in a smirk. “I didn’t realize you were a figure skater.”

“I didn’t realize you were a doofus.”

“Maybe you should pay better attention.”

“You just burned yourself, you know.”

“I
meant
to.”

“Gilda, you’d better hurry and grab some breakfast or you’re going to be late on your first day. It takes almost half an hour to get all the way over to Bloomfield Hills from here during rush hour.”

“But you’re driving me, right?”

“I will this morning, but you’ll have to catch the city bus home after school. I’ll be at work.”

Gilda grabbed a bagel from the cupboard and slapped some cream cheese on it. She located her faded pink backpack in the closet and tossed it over her shoulder. Because the backpack was covered in graffiti, Gilda’s mother had urged her to purchase a new one for the school year, but Gilda had refused. The old backpack was simply too covered in history—an intricate pattern of phrases and doodles that she and Wendy had scribbled during dull moments in school.

Gilda smiled as she skimmed one of their exchanges:

“Okay, Mom,” said Gilda. “I’m ready to go.” She sighed and headed outside to make the journey to her new school.

Gilda and her mother were greeted by balloons, streamers, and toilet paper draped from the trees surrounding Our Lady of Sorrows. Suspended on the front façade of the Castle House was an ominous banner:

Mrs. Joyce gaped at the sign. “And I thought you were going to be hanging around some refined people for a change.”

“Everyone knows there’s nothing wilder than a Catholic schoolgirl.”

“Gilda, please don’t align yourself with the bad crowd, okay?”

“When have I ever aligned myself with the ‘bad crowd’? I realize Wendy Choy and I are wanted by the police and the FBI, but—”

“You know what I mean, Gilda.”

“Fine. I’ll only make friends with the nuns.”

“That would be perfect. Have a wonderful day, Gilda. Just smile and be yourself, okay?”

Gilda bared her teeth and waved at her mother in a hysterical parody of good cheer as she exited the car. She trudged through a parking lot teeming with new SUVs, many of which were adorned with heart-shaped bumper stickers that announced I L
OVE
O
UR
L
ADY OF
S
ORROWS
!

Inside the school, Gilda found pandemonium. Everywhere she looked, girls screamed with delight and hugged one another as if shocked to find their friends alive after a long summer of beach vacations. Gilda noticed a couple of prevalent characteristics: deep tans from outdoor recreation (Gilda herself remained pale with only a smattering of darkened freckles across her nose) and long, sleek hair worn pulled back in a ponytail and tied with a silk ribbon.

Among the giggling clusters of girls were a few young women who exuded superiority—girls who literally shimmered. Their suntanned skin glowed. Their hair, whether blond or brunette, glistened with subtle gold highlights. Instead of the regular uniform, they wore polo shirts with khaki pants and high-heeled sandals. Their accessories were small, whimsical purses, delicate necklaces from Tiffany’s, and lattes and frappuccinos from Starbucks. Gilda gradually realized that these girls were the seniors.

On the other end of the spectrum were the hapless freshmen who stood watching silently in their pink skirts. The few who knew one another from junior high gravitated together for safety. The others glanced around, shooting nervous smiles to anyone who looked in their direction—smiles that were calculated to appear delighted but instead looked like glassy-eyed stares of panic. Gilda hoped that she herself didn’t look quite
so overwhelmed.
I’m just here as an investigator
, she told herself.
I’m undercover, so I don’t have to fit in
.

She reminded herself of something she had recently read in a book called
The Spy Next Door
:

Gilda resolved that she would be one of the few who
could
go deeply undercover—a secret psychic detective in a Catholic girls’ school.

Without warning, someone clobbered Gilda. It took her a second to realize that she was actually being
hugged
by a short, stocky girl who had most likely mistaken her for someone else. Should she hug the girl back just to be polite? “I don’t think we’ve met,” said Gilda, fighting an urge to duck under the girl’s meaty arm to free herself.

“You
are
Gilda, aren’t you?” said the girl, abruptly releasing Gilda and peering at her through glasses that were too large for her round face. “Please tell me you are! Miss Underhill pointed you out to me.” The girl wore her hair in a puffy, hairsprayed bob that made Gilda think of a middle-aged politician’s wife.

“You’re right; I’m Gilda.”

“Whew! My name’s Marcie Dinklemeyer. I’m a sophomore, and—lucky you—I’m your big sister!” Marcie smiled at Gilda
with rosy anticipation, as if she expected Gilda to jump up and down with excitement. “My job is to help you find your way around. I’ll also point out the rules so you don’t get too many detentions and stuff like that.”

“Thanks.” Gilda already missed the freedom of being a completely anonymous stranger.

“Can I be honest?” Marcie looked at Gilda imploringly. “The truth is that most of the big sisters
ditch
their freshman little sisters after the first day of school. It happened to me, and it’s so
wrong
. But I’m not going to do that to you, Gilda. I
promise
I won’t!”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me.” Gilda instinctively recoiled from Marcie’s motherly attitude. For one thing, she hated being regarded as someone who needed help. For another thing, she had a gut feeling that Marcie was the type of person who would get in the way of a psychic investigation.