The edges of the Blank blurred.
Rain misted around her, so that Meryl Lee almost looked as if she was crying.
Mrs. Kellogg finished winding her watch. She called from the steps of Margaret B. Netley Dormitory, “Miss Kowalski, being late for your arrival hardly grants you the privilege of being late for the opening ceremony as well.”
Meryl Lee took a deep, solidifying breath. One last look down to the main gate—just in case—and she turned to Mrs. Kellogg, who stood as straight as an exclamation point. Then Meryl Lee pushed back the Blank and walked up the porch steps, wishing beyond all wishing that she was not a new student at St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls, wishing beyond all wishing that she was at Camillo Junior High, wishing beyond all wishing that Holling, oh that Holling was coming up the main staircase with that worn-out black and white jacket he always wore and he would give that shy sort of wave he does—did—from his hip.
“Your luggage has already been taken to your room, where you should have been some time ago,” said Mrs. Kellogg. “Students—even new students—are expected and required to don the St. Elene’s Academy uniform for all school activities and events—especially the opening ceremony.”
Meryl Lee looked at the two girls standing under the porch roof, one still looking down, one now staring at Meryl Lee.
“Alethea,” said Mrs. Kellogg sharply.
Alethea looked down.
“Please follow me,” said Mrs. Kellogg.
Meryl Lee followed her.
But she had seen Alethea’s face before she looked down.
Alethea was not smiling.
Alethea was definitely not smiling. And somehow Meryl Lee knew that Alethea did not care at all whether Meryl Lee would be happy at St. Elene’s or not.
She went to don her regulation St. Elene’s Academy uniform.
Four
The soap-smooth wood floor of Margaret B. Netley Dormitory was to be trod upon only by the upper school girls of St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy; the boards resounded with every single step Meryl Lee and Mrs. Kellogg took. Above them, aged dark beams crossed the ceilings—“Norman abbots once walked beneath these,” said Mrs. Kellogg. On Netley’s first floor, doors to the kitchen—“The refrigerator is well provisioned with snacks: cheese rounds, cut vegetables, assorted fruit juices, and bottles of Coca-Cola, the last supplied only if each girl, on her honor, pays twenty-five cents per bottle”—and to the laundry room—“Locked after nine thirty p.m. and packets of detergent available upon request, but to use only if needed, in between regular laundry days, when soiled garments are picked up in the morning and delivered back to your room by four o’clock”—and to the telephone—“No calls after nine forty-five p.m.” On the second floor, doors to the girls’ rooms, which were all open. Mrs. Kellogg made introductions as they passed, and Meryl Lee tried to listen: “Here are Elizabeth Koertge from Los Angeles and Julia Chall from St. Paul. Here are Ashley Louise Higginson from Brooklyn, New York, and Charlotte Antoinette Dobrée from Charlotte, North Carolina. Here are Marian Elders from Manhattan and Barbara Rockcastle from White Plains. Here is Heidi Kidder from Rutland, Vermont. And here . . .”
Meryl Lee felt the Blank hovering.
“And here is your room,” said Mrs. Kellogg. “You will be living with Jennifer Hartley Truro from Truro, Massachusetts.” To make sure Meryl Lee understood, Mrs. Kellogg leaned down and said, “The town is named after the family.” This door was closed, so Mrs. Kellogg knocked and opened it. “Miss Truro? Here is your new roommate, Miss Meryl Lee Kowalski, from . . .”
She turned to Meryl Lee.
“Hicksville, New York,” said Meryl Lee.
“New York,” said Mrs. Kellogg. “Miss Kowalski, Miss Truro.”
Jennifer Hartley Truro slowly elevated from her bed, tossed her long blond hair back like a cape behind her, and floated cloudlike across the room. She extended her hand in a way that suggested Meryl Lee should bow down and do worship.
“Hey,” said Meryl Lee.
“Good morning,” said Jennifer Hartley Truro.
“Generally Miss Truro rooms with Stephanie DeLacy from Philadelphia,” Mrs. Kellogg said. “But Stephanie’s father is a United Nations diplomat and the family is living in Budapest for the next year. So the two of you will be rooming together. I’m sure you will get along well.”
The whole time Mrs. Kellogg was talking, Jennifer was looking at Meryl Lee as if she had completely blundered into the wrong room and there was no reason in the whole wide world that they would ever get along well.
Then Jennifer pointed to a corner of the room, beyond Meryl Lee’s bed and the mattress that lay naked upon it, where a suitcase held together with a leather belt and two wet shopping bags dripped.
“Those must be yours,” she said.
Jennifer had obviously been in the room for several days—and it looked like she had brought her interior decorator with her. A green satin duvet covered her bed, and gold satin pillows lay strewn over it, perfectly placed as if they had been tossed there so very carelessly. A paisley cloth covered her dresser and cushioned the tray that held her set of tortoiseshell combs. Above them, a gilded mirror hung. On the wall above the green satin duvet, framed posters of Ringo and Paul and John and George, all signed in big felt-tip marker. “Love and kisses to Jennifer,” said Ringo. “This night the stars were all in your eyes,” said Paul. In the closet, her hangers were pink and plush. Meryl Lee turned away before she could see what they were holding.
This isn’t going to work, she thought.
“You’ll need to change quickly, girls,” said Mrs. Kellogg. “The opening ceremony is in”—she looked down at her dangling watch—“eighteen minutes.”
“I’ll be ready,” said Jennifer.
Meryl Lee lugged her wet suitcase onto the mattress. She undid the leather belt. The first thing she took out was a dried rose. She laid it carefully on the desk beside her bed. Then she took out her regulation St. Elene’s uniform and looked around for the bathroom so she could be alone for a minute, just a minute, just one stupid minute—and then maybe she could hold back the Blank a little while more.
But there wasn’t even time for that, since Jennifer made it to the bathroom first. She took twelve minutes—mostly, Meryl Lee figured, with her hair. Meryl Lee took two—mostly with her eyes closed, breathing slowly. Then, one minute after that, Meryl Lee was walking down the hall, three steps behind the blond hair of Jennifer Hartley Truro, the flowing auburn curls of Charlotte Antoinette Dobrée, and the chocolate-colored locks of Ashley Louise Higginson. The three were all wearing their regulation St. Elene’s Academy uniform—except for Charlotte, who had substituted a blouse made of something that shimmered.
Charlotte’s shimmering blouse fit her perfectly.
The regulation St. Elene’s Academy uniforms that Jennifer and Ashley wore fit them perfectly too.
The sleeves of Meryl Lee’s regulation St. Elene’s uniform shirt—which did not shimmer—came down over her knuckles.
Of course.
“Maybe we can find some paper clips,” said Ashley, looking back.
They paused on the steps of Margaret B. Netley Dormitory. The rain had stopped and the sudden sun was already steaming the puddles. Across the commons, Newell Chapel shone brilliantly white in the clearing air.