Meryl Lee wished she felt the same Resolution she had felt at the opening ceremony. But she did not. She had been rooming with Jennifer and her green satin duvet for four days now. It was hard to sally forth after rooming with Jennifer and her green satin duvet for four days.
And all that fresh grapefruit juice made her want to go to the bathroom.
Classes started right after Chapel, beginning in Lesser Hoxne Hall, which, though Meryl Lee looked very carefully, appeared to have no bathrooms on the first two floors. Which was annoying.
In fact, she thought the decision to place the only bathroom in Lesser Hoxne on the third floor—which she discovered after her first class—and at the extreme southern end of the hall, with a lock to which the key was kept in the administrative office on the first floor—to which Meryl Lee had to descend before she could rapidly reascend with the key hot in her hand—was inscrutable.
Talk about sallying forth!
Tomorrow, she would plan better.
* * *
In each of her classes, Meryl Lee knew at least one girl enough to say hello to—but this made her about as happy as not having a bathroom on the first two floors of Lesser Hoxne.
Meryl Lee sat next to Charlotte from Charlotte in American Literary Masterpieces for first hour, and in Life Sciences for second hour—right across from Marian Elders. Mrs. Connolly taught American Literary Masterpieces, and during that first class she asked them each to write a brief paragraph identifying the author whose work they would like to study on an independent basis during the coming school year in order to develop taste and discernment. Life Sciences was taught by Mrs. Bellamy, who smelled of formaldehyde, and who promised that before September was out, they would all smell of formaldehyde too. Charlotte from Charlotte raised her hand and said that she would not, could not, get formaldehyde on her pale skin—it was a medical condition—and Mrs. Bellamy said that perhaps her lab partner would take on most of the formaldehyde duties. When Charlotte from Charlotte asked who her lab partner would be, Mrs. Bellamy consulted her roster and announced that it would be Meryl Lee Kowalski.
Of course, thought Meryl Lee.
Rolling eyes from Charlotte from Charlotte.
In third hour, Meryl Lee sat in front of Ashley in Famous Women of History with Mrs. Saunders, who on the first day assigned ten-minute oral reports on famous women to be performed in pairs, and who chose Meryl Lee and Ashley to deliver the report on the Empress Joséphine, born Marie Josèphe Rose Tascher de La Pagerie. “Just saying her name will take up half the time we have for our presentation,” Meryl Lee whispered to Ashley.
Ashley lowered her face so that her chocolate-colored hair covered it.
Fine.
* * *
Dinner was precisely at noon, and while the girls ate in Greater Hoxne Dining Hall, mail was sorted into little mailboxes off Greater Hoxne Hall lobby. All the girls—except Meryl Lee—knew this was happening. So after dinner was done and Mrs. Hannah Adams Mott had delivered the St. Elene’s midday announcements, the girls processed out of Greater Hoxne Dining Hall in the calm and dignified manner that befitted their station in life—then took off at a sprint for the lobby. They mobbed the little mailboxes.
Blood could be spilled, thought Meryl Lee, who stood back for a bit, then made her way around the fringes and dove in behind Barbara Rockcastle, who was taller than most of the girls so able to navigate through the masses. Meryl Lee twirled the little knob on the little door into her mailbox and reached in sort of hopelessly. And she was right. Nothing.
But when Jennifer reached into her little box, she pulled out a letter. And Jennifer squealed a high squeal because she was holding another letter—she sniffed it—another scented-with-his-after-shave letter from Alden, dear Alden, and she wished she could read it out loud for everyone, she really did, but Alden, sweet Alden, would never want her to share their secrets.
All the girls who wanted to be Jennifer Hartley Truro more than they wanted their next breath began to squeal too, and wasn’t Jennifer lucky to have a boyfriend like scented Alden, and was it really true that his family owned estates and manors all over Scotland? And that they even had their own tartan?
But Jennifer only held her letter to her heart. She smiled and did not tell. Alden would never want her to share their secrets, she said. He’s that kind of a boy.
“Has he ever sent you flowers?” Ashley asked.
Jennifer looked at her with the disdain of a demigoddess. “Of course,” she said. “Roses. Dozens of roses.”
The Blank, immediately in front of Meryl Lee.
She tried to shake it away. She looked into her mailbox again. Perhaps she had missed something.
She hadn’t.
And as the girls gathered around Jennifer—wouldn’t she tell them just the eensiest, teensiest bit?—Meryl Lee went to her fourth-hour class.
By herself.
* * *
Meryl Lee sat behind Heidi Kidder and ahead of Jennifer in Algebra with Mr. Wheelock for fourth hour, and behind Jennifer and ahead of Heidi Kidder in Domestic Economy with Mrs. Wyss for fifth hour. Meryl Lee was not sure what Domestic Economy was supposed to be about, but Jennifer, who was still vibrating over Alden’s letter, seemed to know. She whispered to Barbara Rockcastle next to her that she did not need a class with Mrs. Wyss because someday she’d have a staff of Scottish maids and cooks and they could worry about stupid domestic economy for her.
Jennifer would not even look at her, so Meryl Lee did not ask why all the maids and cooks would be Scottish. She was afraid Jennifer would think she was such a dope.
And she still had no idea what Domestic Economy was about. Cooking? Then why didn’t they call the class Cooking?
She’d had a lot to figure out, and the day wasn’t even over.
* * *
After fifth hour, the girls of St. Elene’s were free to “engage in meaningful activity,” as Mrs. Mott put it. So Meryl Lee headed over to Putnam Library to find something about Empress Joséphine, born Marie Josèphe Rose Tascher de La Pagerie. The wind on the commons was swirling, stirred up, perhaps, by Mrs. Connolly, who was carrying a briefcase and strutting quickly along the sidewalk, parting girls from the lower school like Moses at the Red Sea. But when she saw Meryl Lee, she billowed sharply right to intercept her.
“Miss Kowalski,” said Mrs. Connolly.
Meryl Lee had already lived long enough at St. Elene’s to know how to reply.
She forced the Blank away from her—but it hovered nearby.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Connolly.”
“Good afternoon. I had hoped to see you after dinner.”
“To see me?”
Mrs. Connolly zipped open her briefcase and rummaged inside for a moment. She drew out Meryl Lee’s paragraph identifying her chosen author for American Literary Masterpieces. “You write here that you would like to study John Steinbeck to develop taste and discernment,” she said. “That is impossible.”
“Impossible?”
“Impossible. He has none.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Connolly. He has no what?”
“Taste and discernment.”
Meryl Lee’s eyebrows moved sharply upward and held steady—which is what they always did when she was surprised. Holling said it made her look like a startled chipmunk. Holling used to say it made her look like a startled chipmunk.