But even now, like this—shielded by the provost—someone’s watching me.
Are they waiting for me to fuck up and expose myself as the heretic I am?
Or are they intrigued by this stranger in their midst?
Well fuck them.
Whoever they are, they can go straight to hell.
Chapter Seven
Trinity
I don’t bother trying to find anyone to sit with at breakfast. I hadn’t even planned on going to the dining hall after the terrible time I’d had at the chapel. But on my way back to the main building, Sister Miriam makes a beeline for me and falls in step beside me.
“I trust you are keeping well, Miss Malone?”
Miss Malone.
A faint tingle works its way deep inside me. I don’t know why, but my entire body came alive when Brother Zachary had spoken my name yesterday. In fact, that had happened every time he’d looked at me too.
“Yes, thank you.” My voice is still thick with emotion. I don’t know how long Father Gabriel and I sat praying in the chapel. It felt like hours had gone by before he shifted in his seat and let out a soft, “Amen,” before excusing himself.
“What are you wearing?” Miriam asks, in exactly the same tone she’d used to greet me with.
“A uniform?” I look down at myself. My tie has shifted, exposing my cleavage.
I turn bright red. It must have been the run over here that did it. So was it like this the entire time Gabriel sat beside me in prayer?
Despite what I’d always thought, dying from shame is not only a possibility, but it seems destined to be Miss Malone’s fate.
“Come see me after breakfast.” She breaks away and heads for the classrooms.
Someone’s watching me again. I scan all around me.
There’s no one sight.
I stare at the distant trees. It’s so dark under that dense canopy, they could easily move around on the edges of the grounds without being seen.
Goosebumps break out on my skin.
I almost get all the way through breakfast without incident.
En route to the table to put down on my empty tray, I feel eyes on me again. This time I don’t hesitate—I immediately scan the entire dining hall to see who’s looking in my direction.
Quite a few of the boys still seated at the benches are looking my way, but they duck their heads when I make eye contact.
Except the pair at the far back of the room. There beside the table with hot water urns for tea and coffee is the same sandy-haired guy I’d seen outside the chapel.
This time there’s no mistaking the video camera in his hand.
Or the fact it’s trained on me. He’s not looking through it. He’s watching the little fold-out screen.
I hastily put my tray on top of the others. Time to get the hell out of here. My tray upsets the entire pile. I wince as the trays clatter to the floor by my feet.
Not all of them were empty.
My pants—Jasper’s pants—are now splattered with oatmeal and runny eggs. Some of it even got in my fucking hair. On instinct, those same disastrous words start playing through my head.
It can’t possibly get any worse than this.
It can’t possibly get any fucking worse than this.
But it does.
Everyone starts laughing.
“Gees,” someone says behind me. “Were you born under a ladder or something?”
I half-turn to Jasper, scared the ceiling might collapse on me if I make any sudden moves. “I’m sorry about your clothes.”
“Yeah, me too.” Jasper shakes his head. “But it’s kinda impossible to stay pissed off at you.”
I shake a glob of oatmeal from my hand with a sigh. “At least I got that going for me.”
“You gotta take a shower.” He makes to grab my elbow, but I’ve had about all the manhandling I can, well, handle.
I move away from him, lifting my hands. “Just tell me where it is.”
He stares at me for a second, and then laughs and shakes his head. “Bet I’ll hear about a busted water main in an hour or so.” He shrugs. “But hey, it’s your funeral.”
After using the restroom on the third floor, I’d assumed the bathroom would be one of many. A private room with a tub and a shower—possibly even a combo, for efficiency—and a basin for the boys to shave in. Maybe even some stalls.
How very naive of me.
Saint Amos was definitely a prison in one of its earlier incarnations. Church, prison, orphanage, boarding school. Isn’t that the natural progression of places like this?
Situated on the second floor, the bathroom looks more like a locker room. On the left, a row of basins and mirrors. To the right, a wall of showers. No shower curtains. A low wall separates every pair of showerheads from the next.
A long bench splits the room down the middle.
Because showering with your roomie adds to the fun.
I shudder at the thought.
Where the hell am I supposed to put in my tampon? Or do I go and squat next to the bench when no one’s looking?
I’m dimly aware I need to get a move on—Sister Miriam said to meet her after breakfast, and I think I have class with Brother Zachary first thing, but I’m so busy trying not to lose my shit all that stuff fades into the background.
I strip and hurry to the closest showerhead. I fully expect only cold water to come out, but after a few seconds I’m delightfully surprised by a lukewarm stream.
I slather no-name brand soap and shampoo—no conditioner, duh—over myself while I try not to think about athlete’s foot. The fact this feels so good is a dire testament to how shitty the past few days have been.
As much as I’d love to stand here for a few minutes and let the warmish water batter out some of my stress, I’m pretty sure I’m tempting fate. The longer I stay here, the higher the chance someone will decide they need to shower or shave or sit down on a bench for no reason.
I dry off and put on the dress I brought with me. It’s far from flattering—nothing in my sparse wardrobe can possibly be considered seductive—but I still feel overly exposed as cool air washes over my bare legs and arms. Even slipping on my cardigan doesn’t help.
I hesitate, and then toss Jasper’s dirty clothes into what I assume is the laundry basket in the corner of the room.
I wring out my hair and pat it dry with a towel as I hurry back to my room. Since I have no idea how long this thing with Sister Miriam will take, I’d rather fetch my notebook so I have it on me before Zachary’s class.
I don’t dare show up late to his class again.
There’s an envelope on my bed.
I tear it open and pull out a class schedule typed out on a typewriter.
TUESDAY
7:00am - Prayer
7:30am - Breakfast
9:00am - English
10:00am - AP Psychology
11:00am - Free
12:00pm - Lunch
On and on it goes, spelling out every minute of my day till the last bell—lights out. I’d literally been lights out when that one rang last night.
I haven’t had much time to consider how different things would be. I loved being homeschooled, but I’d never known anything else. Mother was an excellent teacher, but she’d also get into a mood sometimes and give me the day off to do what I wanted. Days like that I’d usually end up at the local library, reading whatever I could get my hands on.