I Am Her Revenge (5 page)

The rest of
the day passes in a blur, until I find myself alone in my room before dinner in front of the laptop Mother sent with me. I need to give her an update. I can tell her about the outing last night, show her that I’m researching the school’s social spheres and have identified the girl who will become my enemy, as she requested. But I can’t tell her about Arthur, or Tom, or whatever he wants to call himself. And I can’t tell her how I’ve wasted my day, how I looked at Ben without seeing him when he teased me lightly in English class for staring out the window. Or, I can, but I’ll have to put a calculating spin on it.

I continue to engage Ben’s interest
, I write.
He seems fascinated by me. I have adopted a damaged, shy-girl persona to keep his attention.

Mother sends me a reply right away.
Fine. But begin to bend. Let him in a bit, then push him away. Then he’ll be yours for the taking.

I stare at her words for a long moment.

When I was growing up, there was a girl about my age who lived in another big house a few blocks away. Mother would take me for walks past her yard, and I would peer through the bars of the gate at her and her magical life. She spent her afternoons playing in the huge playhouse her parents had bought for her, one with real glass windows and lace curtains and flags fluttering at the top. From my vantage point, I could see that her world was one of big smiles and expensive toys.

When I was six, she got a new doll. Even through the gate, I could tell how special that doll was, with its long, wavy black locks like mine and pretty pink silk dress. It would cry if you tipped it over, which the girl did often, cradling it in her arms afterward like it was a real baby.

It was beautiful, and for weeks, I coveted that doll more than anything.

One day, we walked by and the girl wasn’t in her yard. But there, right by the gate, was her precious doll. Mother stopped when she saw the expression on my face. “Take it. Quickly, while no one’s looking,” she told me.

I remember looking up at her in confusion. “But it’s hers,” I said.

“If you want it, it should be yours,” she hissed. “You want it more than she does, right? Take it.”

I reached through the bars of the gate and grabbed the doll’s tiny hand with my own, pulling her through and hugging her to my chest. I remember the rush I felt, the elation.

“Some people get whatever they want, without even trying,” Mother told me as we hurried back home. “But if
you
want something, you’re going to have to fight for it.”

The next time we saw the girl, she was skipping around the yard with a new doll under her arm, smiling and carefree. Mother was right. I wanted her old doll more, so it was rightfully mine.

When the batteries ran out and the doll could no longer cry, I put it in a dark corner in my tiny closet and forgot about it. But I didn’t forget the lesson Mother had taught me.

Claire bounces into the room, and I shut my laptop quickly.

“I . . . hate . . . homework,” she declares, throwing her book bag on the floor. “This year is going to kill me.”

“It’s worse when you don’t get any sleep, huh?” I ask.

“True,” Claire says, smiling ruefully at me. “I usually don’t join the sneak-out, to be honest, but this is the last year. No time like the present, yeah? And, actually, it was a lot more fun than I remember it being.” Her eyes light up as she remembers the night before, when I saw her smiling, laughing, drinking long sips from the communal bottle of rum.

I shrug. “It was kind of boring.”

She settles into her desk chair and pulls out her laptop. “I guess.”

I decide to pry further. Claire is probably the best source I’m going to get, and my questions will seem like nothing more than the queries of a curious new student. “Arabella seems like the queen bee around here.”

Claire nods, not looking up from her computer. “She is. And she gave you the sign of her oh-so-glorious approval last night, if you want to join that group.” I learned a lot about sarcasm in my year at public school, and Claire’s tone seems to match it.

“You’re not a part of her group?”

“I like to think I do my own thing. I have plenty of friends, but I don’t limit myself to one clique, you know?”

I suspected as much. She and Arabella seemed friendly enough last night, but I didn’t see them talking much by themselves. And every time I saw Claire in the halls, she was chatting with someone new.

“Emily, my old roommate, was best friends with Arabella,” Claire offers, looking up from her computer. I try not to look too interested.

“What happened to her?” I ask. Mother never gave me details.

“She was expelled. Someone called the administration and said she was having an affair with her chemistry teacher in exchange for
A
s.” She sets her jaw.

“Was she?”

“No,” Claire says, shaking her head vehemently. “I don’t know who would lie like that. Emily was the smartest person at this school. She didn’t need to cheat. And she definitely wasn’t the kind to sleep with a teacher. I mean, she went to a lot of tutorials, yeah, but it was because she really liked chemistry, not because she liked Mr. Park! And they were always chatting and joking or whatever, but he was friendly with tons of other students, too.” I nod, though it seems like Mother picked the right teacher to accuse. Helper must have done his homework well. “They had this ‘official investigation,’” she says with sarcastic air quotes. “Emily said someone had planted these notes, like love letters, supposedly between her and Mr. Park, and one of them, one from her, said she would do whatever he wanted as long as he gave her an
A
. So he was fired, and she was expelled. It was so disgusting. There was nothing going on,” Claire continues, “no matter what Arabella says.”

“Arabella accused her?” I ask, surprised.

Claire shrugs. “I don’t know if she was the anonymous caller or the one who planted the letters, but she definitely believed the rumor. She stopped speaking to Emily and started spreading lies about how much of a slag she was, which I think hurt Emily more than being expelled, because she’d been friends with Arabella since primary school.”

“Arabella’s really concerned about her reputation, huh?”

Claire shuts her laptop and crosses her hands over it. “Emily told me once that Arabella’s parents were a lot like mine, like super disapproving? Her older sister got pregnant while she was here at Madigan and had to drop out. The father was some tosser who was way less popular than she was and refused to help with the baby. Arabella has to prove to her parents that she won’t turn out like that, that she’s got the perfect reputation, so she only dates, you know, socially acceptable boys, ones her parents approve of? Sleeping with a teacher to get a good grade is basically the opposite of that, and so Arabella decided she couldn’t be friends with someone who was accused of that. She totally ditched Emily.” Claire rolls her eyes. “Just be careful around her.”

“Got it,” I say, trying not to let my satisfaction show. “So what are the other cliques at this school?”

Claire looks at me closely. “What kind of group did you belong to at your old school?”

I keep my voice casual. “No group, really. I was pretty much on my own.”

She narrows her eyes, considering that. “Why?”

Because I had no other choice
, I think. “Didn’t really find any friends,” I answer instead.

“I’d like to be your friend,” she says brightly.

Of course she would.

I give her a thin smile and nod. “That’d be nice.”

“So you’ve got Arabella’s crew,” Claire says, ticking off her fingers. “There are the hard-core jocks, who kind of belong to that crew, too. And then the super smart people, who pretty much live in the library. They’re harder to befriend, since you have to be quiet around them. And the slackers. And then just—everyone. I mean, I guess everyone can’t be defined by one thing? That’s what I like to think, anyway.”

In public school I learned that even if you don’t feel like you can be defined by one thing, in high school, that’s all anybody will do to you. Everyone wants to pigeonhole everyone else in one neat little category, because that makes them easier to dominate and destroy.

Still, I nod and smile at Claire now. “I like that idea.”

I guess I’ll have to discover the true social secrets of this school on my own.

After classes the next day, I put on a tight black sweater and a short black skirt, along with my ripped tights and poetic ballet flats, and head for the student lounge for the weekly Thursday meeting of
Open Doors
, Madigan’s literary magazine, just as I told Headmaster Harriford I would. But the main reason I mentioned my great passion for writing was not to win Harriford’s support; it was because Ben is the editor-in-chief.

Ms. Prisby, the faculty advisor, is waiting alone outside the door of the lounge, greeting everyone as they come in. Perfect opportunity.

When she sees me, her smile fades a bit but doesn’t disappear. “Vivian,” she chirps, “it’s so good to see you here.”

“Headmaster Harriford suggested I join the literary magazine,” I say, as if the entire prospect bores me.

Mother instructed me carefully on how to earn Ms. Prisby’s hatred, while hiding my provocation of her from Ben. “She’s his favorite teacher,” she told me. “You have to make her seem petty and mean.”

I didn’t understand how that would help me seduce Ben, but I knew better than to ask Mother any questions.

I watch Ms. Prisby struggle to decide how to respond. Finally, she nods, her smile dropping off her face completely. “We’re going over some submissions we received in the summer, if you would like to come in.”

I push past her and don’t take off my sneer until I’m past the threshold.

Ben is sitting at a round table in the middle of the lounge, and I feel his eyes on me. He, like everyone else at the table, has an impressively high stack of papers in front of him. As I take a seat across from Ben, Ms. Prisby enters the room and clears her throat. I meet her eyes, but she doesn’t meet mine.

“Well, okay, then,” she says, clapping her hands together as she settles into the seat farthest from me. “Let’s get started.”

Ben shoves a pile of papers toward me, and I look up at him. “Thank you,” I say softly. My eye contact catches him off guard, and he stares at me for a second. I hold his gaze, then drop my eyes like I’m confused. Like I don’t know exactly what’s going on.

We spend the first hour of the meeting debating themes for the next issue. Or rather, Ms. Prisby and the other students debate themes while I watch Ben as closely as I can without being obvious. I do catch his grimace when Ms. Prisby suggests, “What about Avas? You know, best friends from childhood, what’s digital versus what’s real, something along those lines?” Everyone glances at Ben to gauge his reaction, and he erases the grimace from his face, replacing it with a neutral expression that’s almost as good as mine. “I know my Ava was my best friend for years, and I’m sure other students have plenty of stories about theirs,” Ms. Prisby continues, oblivious.

Someone finally offers a hesitant “That sounds good,” and the theme is set.

After another hour of reading angsty poetry and simplistic stories, when it’s time for dinner, Ms. Prisby asks me to stay behind for a moment. “How did you like the meeting?” she asks. Her voice is not as bright, but she still tries to smile at me.

I shrug. “Fine.”

She nods slowly, watching me. “Well, I think this next issue will be great, and it will be wonderful to have you be a part of it.”

“I don’t know how much help I’ll be,” I say. I look right at her, my smile dripping with derision. “I was never so pathetic that I needed a digital doll to be my best friend.”

I stroll out of the room before she can respond.

I follow Ben and the others to dinner, my head high and my eyes carefully bored. I’ve mostly avoided the dining hall so far, only going in to grab a piece of fruit or a cup of cereal before everyone else arrives. Outsiders don’t eat with anyone in the dining hall, and I want to seem mysterious, so I usually hide in the lounge or my room with my stolen food. Now, though, I need to orient myself and study everyone when they are gathered in one place.

The room, with its three walls of dark carved wood and its one wall of windows, is a hotbed of student harmony and discord. The air is filled with bangs and shouts and laughter and the scents of rich sauces and spices. Everywhere, portraits of disgruntled men with white hair glower down at the people below. Over a dozen long rectangular tables cut up the space, and they’re filled with students gossiping and eating and strategizing. I spot Arabella at the farthest table, seated in the middle with her male and female admirers clustered around her. If the most popular kids sit at that table back by the windows, then the least popular must sit at the one closest to the entrance.

I grab a tray and covertly study the unpopular table from the food line. There are people sitting at its edges, not speaking to one another. Dark lipstick, ill-fitting clothes, and unwashed hair seem to confirm their exiled status. I let the serving lady fill my plate with fresh Greek salad and grilled chicken with rosemary—much more enticing than the slop at public school—and head for my target.