The Little Woods (3 page)

I had English first period. I didn’t like English. My English teachers always hated me, partially because I could be kind of obnoxious with my vocabulary, but mostly because I tended not to do the reading. They were also usually grizzly old men, so I was thrown off when I walked into junior English to find Ms. Harlow. In the morning light, she looked about fifteen with her white peasant top and her low-slung bell-bottoms.
She turned from erasing the blackboard and sat on the edge of her desk. She looked peaceful, ruminating, and I was pretty sure she had a belly ring. She was going to hate me even more than those grizzly old men did.

I was just settling into my seat when a distraction of monumental proportions walked in. He was pale and slight, with sable eyes and matching hair, and I thought I could just make out the slant of his hips above his trousers. If I couldn’t, it wasn’t for lack of trying. He was one of those boys who make you dizzy when you look at them, and when they smile, it feels like you’ve just stepped into a too-hot bath. It’s nearly unbearable, but then it feels good.

I was so taken with him that it was a moment before I noticed the girl at his side. She was black with a cherubic face and a statuesque body. She seemed to be all curves, and her hair poofed away from her head in a magnificent mass of black curls held back by an emerald-green band. Her eyes curved up at the corners like a cat’s, and her brows arched finely above them. The boy stroked her hand as he held it, and he stared at her like she was the answer to an impossible riddle. So that was kind of a buzzkill.

“Jack. Sophie.” Ms. Harlow smiled, jumped down from her desk, and sauntered over to greet them each with a languid sort of hug. “It’s so good to see you guys. How was your break?”

I tried to eavesdrop, but other students were filtering in now, and their conversation dissolved into murmurs.

Ms. Harlow started class with a freewriting exercise, which I’d always considered something of a cop-out; then she asked if
any of us wanted to read ours aloud. Unfortunately some of us did. A boy with bleached-blond hair and a puka-shell necklace read something about surfing. A girl with thick, pouting lips read a poem about suicide. I looked over at Jack and Sophie. They seemed to be playing hangman. Maybe they could be my friends.

When the readers had finished, Ms. Harlow clapped leisurely.

“Great stuff, guys. Great stuff. So I’ve got a question for you all. What makes some writing good and some writing bad? How do we take something that is essentially subjective and make it objective? How do you know if something is literature?”

Oh God
. Her eyes roamed the room and I could feel them settle on me.
Oh please, God, no
. I stared down at my college-ruled sheet of doodles and pretended to concentrate. What was literature?
Hmm. I am formulating my opinions, and I’m not quite ready to speak, so I hope no one calls on me yet
.

“Miss Wood?”

I looked up.

Pushing a blond ringlet behind her ear, she gave the impression she was at a Cat Power concert rather than standing in front of a classroom full of students. “Welcome, Cally. So tell us, what does literature mean to you?”

“Honestly …” I could barely hear myself speak over my heartbeat and I had no idea what I was about to say. “Honestly, like, this question is so important to me that I almost don’t even know what to say about it. I mean, what is literature? How
can we know, you know, because it’s, like, really super subjective. I mean, who am I to say I hate Shakespeare or whatever? I mean, who am I? And that is, like, the real thing, isn’t it? Literature makes us ask ourselves who we are and what we want to know or whatever. It’s all about identity.”

Oh my God. Had I really just said that? The room was completely silent until Jack fairly burst. “Did you just say you hate Shakespeare?” He laughed. Everyone else looked horrified.

Ms. Harlow wrinkled her brow, clearly disconcerted, and then searched the room for someone who wasn’t ridiculous. Her eyes settled on Sophie.

“Miss Taye?”

“Sure, um,” she said, her voice strong and clear. “I guess I agree with Cally. Identity is fluid. There’s a continuum, and however far away from a white patriarchal view you situate yourself on that continuum is going to influence your view of literature. Makes sense to me.”

My God, had she just taken what I’d said and made it sound cogent? I smiled at her, and she winked at me. When class ended, and Ms. Harlow called me up to her desk, I was sure I was going to be kicked out for being an idiot, but instead she handed me a copy of
The Odyssey
.

“We read it in the fall, and I don’t want you to miss out. It’s a yearlong syllabus, so you’re responsible for everything.” She smiled, pleased with herself. “I like to teach the books out of chronological order because I feel
The Odyssey
is easier for a high school student to penetrate.”

“Wait, I have to read
The Odyssey
and
The Iliad
?”

“I’m not asking anything of you I haven’t asked of your classmates. St. Bede’s is rigorous, Cally.” She gave me a treacly smile. “It’s best not to get too far behind.”

I nodded and left.

Outside, a gentle rain was falling, and the grounds looked ridiculously lush. Jack and Sophie walked ahead of me, linked arm in arm. With a shock, I realized I was following them, and I had no idea where I was supposed to be going. I reached into my bag and pulled out my schedule and map. It looked like maybe I was going in the right direction. Jack and Sophie stopped ahead where the path split. They embraced quietly and just stood there hugging. I walked past them and tried not to make myself noticed. Then I heard a scuffle of feet and a female voice.

“Hey, new girl,” I heard someone call, and when I turned, I saw Sophie coming toward me. “Wait up.”

She took my arm in hers like we were old friends.

“I’m Sophie. Are you going to Spanish?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“There’s nothing else down this way. I’m in that class too. We can sit together.”

We walked the rest of the way, arm in arm. She smelled like lilies.

“It must be scary,” she said, “starting midyear.”

“At least I’m handling it super well and not, like, making a fool out of myself or anything.”

She smiled at me. “That
was
some crazy stuff you said back there.”

“Thanks for saving me. I’m not great at talking in class.”

“If you don’t like talking in class, Spanish is going to be a doozy for you. I’ll try to run interference.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying not to blush. I wasn’t used to girls going out of their way to be friends with me, but then, Sophie clearly wasn’t your average girl.

“No problema,”
she said, laughing.

The rest of the morning was far from pleasant. It turned out that the Spanish teacher actually expected us to learn Spanish, and it seemed that most of the kids in the class already knew it. I’d spent the past few years quietly napping while my Spanish teachers played telenovelas on rolling TVs. It was clear I had a lot of catching up to do. I’d always relied on being competent without having to study, but if the rest of my classes were like Spanish, it was going to be a challenge to maintain my extraordinary laziness while at St. Bede’s.

When class was over, I felt like I might cry. Sophie put her arm around me and smiled.

“Welcome to St. Bede’s,” she said. “What do you have now?”

“Um. Chemistry.”

“Here, I’ll walk you. Jack has chem now too. You guys should be partners.”

“Is Jack your … your boyfriend or whatever?” I asked, trying not to blush.

“He’s not my boyfriend. He doesn’t date.”

“Oh,” I said, not sure I understood. “Do you mean he doesn’t date girls? Like he’s gay?”

“Not really. He’s sexually ambivalent. You know, like Morrissey.” Then she stopped and smiled, warm, friendly. She patted me on the back. “Have fun in chem. Just don’t let Jack handle anything explosive, and you’ll be fine.”

The all-American surfer guy from the dining hall the night before turned out to be my chem teacher. His name was Mr. Reilly, and I could tell right away that he was going to be an enormous douche bag. When I walked in, he was flirting with a skittish redhead who was clearly quarterbacking the St. Bede’s anorexia squad. He leaned into her and smiled, and she trembled, looking terrified and excited all at once, and then he flipped his head back and laughed.

“Shelly, we’re gonna get you out there one morning.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Reilly. I get really seasick.” She tittered.

When he saw me, he stepped away from the little redhead, a complacent smile playing on his too-full lips.

“Hey,” he said, strutting toward me. “I’m Mr. Reilly. You must be the much anticipated Calista Wood.”

“It’s Cally.”

“Ah. Kali, goddess of destruction.”

“No, just Cally. No destructive tendencies.”

“I feel you.” He nodded. “Take a seat.”

Jack waved and motioned to the empty spot next to him.

“Jack Deeker,” he said, extending his hand. “Glad to finally have some help here. My last lab partner went AWOL in October, and I suck ass at chemistry. You any good?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Wow,” he said, laughing. “Modest too.”

Up close, he was ridiculously toothsome, and he smelled
so good—like fresh cut grass mixed with the mating musk of some exotic ungulate—it made my face ache.

“You okay there?”

“Yeah. Just some, um, allergies. I’m Cally Wood. I’m new.”

“Yeah. I know,” he said. “We don’t get a lot of skate punks at St. Bede’s. You kind of stick out.” Glancing down at his book, he turned to the section we were supposed to be working on.

“I do?”

“Kind of. If you get a chance, you should let those shorts know it’s not 1987.”

I flipped him off and he grinned.

“Nah, I’m just messing with you,” he said. “How could I not notice you after what you said in English class?”

“That bad?” I cringed.

“Look,” he said, pointing to the book. “I know you’re supposed to be some kind of genius, but let’s just say the jury’s out until we see what you can do with my chemistry grade.”

After that he was all Erlenmeyer flask this and micropipette that until the bell sounded, and after packing up, he asked me if I wanted to walk to lunch with him. Bounding up the wide steps in the center of the school, he gave me the rundown on what to have for lunch.

“At first, things are going to look pretty good. Edible at least, but trust me, stay away from everything except the rice and the pasta. Even then it’s best just to go into the toaster room and make yourself a sandwich. Whatever you do, avoid the soup at all costs.”

Following Jack’s lead, I made a cheese sandwich. Bologna
would have to wait until I could ascertain whether it would be a controversial choice in my new environment.

“Let’s go to the balcony,” he said.

As I followed him, I caught sight of Freddy and Noel. Freddy waved, then seemed to take in my company. She pulled her hand back and just smiled in my direction. Noel laughed and Freddy kicked her under the table. I motioned that I was going out to the balcony, and Freddy nodded, clenching her teeth.

Jack hadn’t seemed to notice the girls, but once we got outside, he exhaled deeply and raised an eyebrow at me. “Don’t tell me you know those two already.”

“They were in my room last night when I got back from dinner.”

“I’d avoid them if I were you.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re overprivileged lame-asses.” He pulled his knees to his chest and bit into his cheese sandwich.

“Aren’t you privileged, though?” I asked. “I mean, you’re here, aren’t you?”

He shook his head. “Sophie and I are on full scholarships. She’s brilliant, and I’m just really really good at soccer. I end up on academic probation every semester. It’s really embarrassing. But hopefully you and that chemistry grade are going to turn things around for me.”

“I don’t know. I have a pretty bad work ethic.”

“But you transferred in midyear. No one does that.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

I liked Jack Deeker. He had a straightforward sweetness about him that reminded me of Danny, though Danny had a good 150 pounds of flab on Jack and definitely wouldn’t be caught dead playing soccer.

Just then Sophie came around the corner and gave me a little wink.

“I see you’ve met Cally. Isn’t she adorable?” She lifted a lock of my hair and showed it to Jack as if it were a new sweater. “This hair. Those eyes. It’s like a pixie mated with Anaïs Nin! I think we should keep her. Do either of you have a cigarette?”

Jack looked around, then slid a hand into his pocket, retrieved a cigarette, and slipped it to Sophie.

“What dorm are you in?” Jack asked.

“McKinley.”

“Mmm.” Sophie looked me over, then smiled to herself. “You’re taking Iris’s place, then.”

“She’s the girl that ran away, right?” I asked, and then took a bite of my sandwich.

Sophie and Jack exchanged looks.

“She didn’t run away,” Sophie said, her voice lowered to a discreet level.

“Stop being creepy.” Jack intervened. “She ran away last October. Everyone’s still a little freaked out about it, and Sophie’s convinced we’re in the middle of an Agatha Christie and we’re going to find her body in a dumbwaiter any day now.”

Sophie punched him on the thigh.

“If she ran away, then where did she go, Jack?” Sophie challenged him. “Why haven’t they found her yet?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Because she doesn’t want to be found.”
He turned to me. “Don’t let her freak you out. The police were all over here back in October, and they decided she bailed. She’ll turn up, probably on a fucking billboard hawking designer perfume. Sophie just likes the drama.”

“Have you met Helen yet?” Sophie cringed.

I shook my head. “Is she really that bad?”

Jack crinkled his nose. “You’re going to meet her fifth period and then you can decide for yourself.”

“How do you know I’m going to see her fifth period?”

“You have bio with her,” he said.

“But how do you know I have bio then?”