Pearl in the Mist

4

My Sister's Keeper

On the first day school life at Greenwood seemed not much different from school anywhere else, except, of course, there were no boys in the corridors and classrooms with us. However, I was impressed with how clean and new everything looked. The marble floors in the corridors gleamed. Our desk tops had barely a scrape on them, and unlike most any other school, none of the chairs or other furniture had any scratches spelling out some cryptic graffiti or revealing some rage and disappointment.

Our teachers made the reason for that perfectly clear the moment we were all seated in their rooms. Each began with a short lecture about how important it was to keep our school looking tidy and new. Their voices boomed as if they wanted to be certain Mrs. Ironwood heard their performances. Almost every teacher wanted it made clear that it was his or her responsibility to keep his or her room looking good, and he or she meant to carry out that responsibility.

"If they don't," Jacki whispered to me, "the Iron Lady will have them whipped."

The lectures bored Gisselle, but even she was impressed with how obedient the student body was when it came to keeping the building immaculate. Whenever a student saw a piece of paper on the corridor floor, she would pause to pick it up. We found the same attention to cleanliness in the cafeteria. Although it was really too early to judge, it seemed like there was a decorum and an orderliness to school life at Greenwood that made our school life in New Orleans look like it had been on the verge of bedlam, despite the fact that we had attended one of the better city schools.

It was just the way my schedule worked out that after the first two periods of classes I had a study period. Gisselle, who had failed algebra last year, had to repeat it at Greenwood. When we first arrived at the main building, I had wheeled her about from homeroom to classes, but at the end of the second period, Samantha arrived on the scene almost by design and offered to take over.

"After this period, we have the next three classes together," Samantha said. Gisselle was obviously pleased with the suggestion.

"All right," I said. "But don't let my sister make you late for your classes."

"If I'm late because it takes me longer to do what I have to do, then they will just have to be understanding," Gisselle insisted. I saw she was already planning to loiter in the bathrooms, perhaps have a cigarette.

"She's going to get you into trouble, Samantha," I warned, but I might as well have been directing my words into the wall. Somehow my sister had quickly turned this naive girl into her trusted servant. I felt sorry for Samantha; she had little idea what she was in for before Gisselle was tired of her.

I left them and hurried off to my study hall. But just as I sat down to look over my new work, the study-hall teacher informed me that Mrs. Ironwood had asked to see me.

"Her office is right down the corridor to your right and then up a short set of stairs," he told me. "Don't look so worried," he added with a smile. "She often visits with first-time Greenwood students."

Nevertheless, I couldn't help being nervous about it. My heart was thumping as I hurried down the quiet hallway and found the stairs. A short, plump woman with gray-framed bifocals turned from a file cabinet when I entered the outer office. The nameplate on her desk read MRS. RANDLE. She peered at me for a moment and then went to her desk to look at a slip of paper.

"You're Ruby Dumas?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

She nodded, maintaining a stiffly serious expression, and then went to the door of the inner office. After a gentle knock, she opened it and announced my arrival.

"Show her in," I heard Mrs. Ironwood command. "Right this way, Ruby." She stepped aside and I entered Mrs. Ironwood's office.

It was a good-sized room, but very austere, with dark gray curtains, a light gray rug, a large, dark brown desk, two hard-looking wooden chairs, and a small, stiff-looking charcoal-black settee against the wall on the right. Above it was the only painting in the room, another portrait of Edith Dilliard Clairborne, and as in all the others, she was in a formal gown, either seated in a garden or in a high-backed chair in a study. The other walls had plaques and awards spaced out, awards won by the students of Greenwood for things ranging from debates to oratory contests.

Although there was a large vase of red and pink roses on her desk, the room smelled like a doctor's office, with a heavy scent of disinfectant. The office did look like it had been painstakingly cleaned to the point where the windows were so clear they looked wide open.

Mrs. Ironwood sat erect behind her desk. She lowered her glasses and gazed at me for a long moment, drinking me in as if she wanted to memorize every detail of my face and figure. If there was any approval, she didn't show it. Her eyes remained coldly analytical, her lips firm.

"Sit down, please," she said, nodding at one of the hard wooden chairs. I moved to it quickly and held my books on my lap.

"I called you here," she began, "so that we could establish an understanding as soon as possible."

"Understanding?"

The right corner of her mouth dipped. She tapped a fat folder on her desk with a pencil.

"This is your file," she continued. "Beneath it is your sister's. I have reviewed them both carefully. Besides your school records, the file contains some important personal information.

"I should tell you," she said, pausing to sit back, "that I had a long, informative talk about you with your stepmother."

"Oh," I said, dropping my voice a couple of octaves. She knitted her dark, thick brows together. Since she had referred to Daphne as my stepmother instead of my mother, it was clear that Daphne had told her about my life as a Cajun.

"She told me of your . . . unfortunate circumstances and expressed her frustration over her failure to bring about the sort of changes required for your adjustment from a rather backward life to a more civilized one."

"My life was never backward, and there is much about my life now that is uncivilized," I said firmly.

Her eyes became small, her lips a bit pale as she tightened them. "Well I can assure you that there is nothing about life at Greenwood that is uncivilized. We have a proud tradition of serving the best families in our society, and I intend to see that continue," she said quickly and sharply. "Most of our girls come from the proper sort of background and are already schooled in how to behave and carry themselves in polite society.

"Now then," she proceeded, putting her glasses on and opening my folder, "I see from your schoolwork that you are an excellent student. That bodes well for you. You have the raw material to develop. I also note that you are blessed with some talent. I look forward to your developing it here.

"However," she said, "none of this will be of any good if your social skills, your personal habits, are lacking."

"They're not," I said quickly. "No matter what you might think about the world in which I grew up and no matter what my stepmother might have told you."

She shook her head and then fired her words like bullets.

"What your stepmother told me," Mrs. Ironwood said, "remains locked within these walls. That is what I have brought you here to understand. It is up to you to keep them locked. Despite the circumstances of your birth and childhood, you now come from a distinguished family, and you have an obligation to that family name. Whatever habits, practices, and behavior you engaged in prior to your life in New Orleans must not rear their ugly heads here at Greenwood.

"I have promised your stepmother to watch over you more closely than I watch over my other wards. I wanted you to be aware of that."

"That's not fair. I haven't done anything to deserve being treated differently," I complained.

"And I'm determined to keep it that way. When I promise something to a parent of one of my students, I make sure to keep that promise.

"Which brings me to your sister," she said, moving my folder off Gisselle's so she could open it. "Her schoolwork is disappointing, to say the least, as is some of her past behavior. I realize she has a serious handicap now, and I have made a few accommodations to make her life here comfortable and successful, but I wanted you to know that I hold you responsible for her success and her behavior."

“Why?”

She flicked her stony eyes over me.

"Because you have the full use of your limbs and because your father believes in you so strongly," she replied. "And because you are close to your sister and the most influential person when it comes to advising her."

"Gisselle doesn't take my advice or listen to me most of the time. She's her own person, and as far as her handicap goes, she takes advantage of it more often than not," I said. "She doesn't need accommodations, she needs discipline."

"I think I'll be the one to decide those things," Mrs. Ironwood said. She paused and stared at me a moment, her head bobbing slightly. "I see what it is your stepmother means: You have a strain of independence, that Cajun stubbornness, a wildness that must be kept in tow.

"Well, this is the place where it will be kept in tow," she threatened, sitting forward.

"I want you to maintain your good school achievements; I want your sister to improve her schoolwork; I want you both to behave and to obey our rules to the letter. By the end of this year, I would like your mother to be impressed with the changes in your character." She paused, waiting for my response, but I kept my lips sealed for fear of what might burst out of them if I began.

"Your sister's behavior during the orientation assembly was abominable. I chose to ignore it only because we didn't have this little talk first. Next time she behaves poorly, I'll have both of you on the carpet, understand?"

"You mean I'm going to be punished for the things my sister does too?"

"You are your sister's keeper now, whether you like it or not."

Tears burned beneath my eyelids. A kind of paralyzing numbness gripped me as I thought how pleased Daphne must be to know what she had prepared for me here at Greenwood. It seemed she was determined to put obstacles in my life no matter where, no matter what. Even though I had agreed to come here and to get myself and Gisselle away from her like she wanted, she was still not satisfied. She wanted to be sure she made my life miserable.

"Do you have any questions?" Mrs. Ironwood asked.

"Yes," I said. "If I'm the one who came from a backward world, why am I the one held responsible?"

The question seemed to throw her for a moment. I even saw a flicker of appreciation for my wit flash in her eyes.

"Despite your background," she replied slowly, "you appear to have better raw material, more potential. I am directing myself to that part of you. For now, your sister is still suffering from her accident and impairment. She's not ready for these sorts of talks."

"Gisselle will never be ready for these sorts of talks. She wasn't before her accident," I said.

"Well then, it will be part of your burden to get her ready, now won't it?" Mrs. Ironwood said, smiling coolly. She stood up. "You can go back to your study hall now."

I rose and left the office. Mrs. Randle glanced at me quickly as I passed her desk. Despite my brave facade, I was trembling so hard I could barely walk. I was sure Daddy didn't know the groundwork Daphne had laid here at Greenwood. If he had, he probably wouldn't have brought us. I was tempted to call and tell him, but I imagined Daphne would only find a way to blame me for being ungrateful for this opportunity and for messing up Gisselle's chances to improve.

Frustrated, a black cloud of despair shadowing me, I sank back into my desk in the study hall and pouted. Despite the excitement and the warmth of most of my new teachers, the dark mood the Iron Lady put me in remained with me throughout the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, only lifting when I walked into Rachel Stevens's art class, which was my last class.

My suspicion that Miss Stevens was uncomfortable dressed in that formal tweed suit and wearing high heels at the assembly proved true when I set eyes on her in our art room. Here she looked more like an artist and far more at ease, her hair loose and brushed down, an artist's smock over her shorter skirt and bright pink blouse. This art class was an elective and consequently had even fewer students in it than our required classes. There were only six of us, which pleased Miss Stevens.

I had no idea that, whereas Daphne had contacted the school and Mrs. Ironwood to reveal my past, Daddy had seen to it that the school and my art teacher knew of my little successes. Miss Stevens was kind enough not to embarrass me in front of the others, but after she had explained our curriculum and set up each girl with workbooks to peruse, she approached me and told me what she already knew.

"I think it's so exciting to have some of your pictures in a gallery already," she said. "What do you like to draw and paint the most? Animals, nature?"

"I don't know. I suppose so," I said.

"Me too. You know what I'd like to do—if you'd like—go down to the river on a Saturday and find things to paint. How would you like that?"

"I'd love it," I said. I felt the curtain of depression lifting. Miss Stevens was so bubbly and so full of excitement. Her enthusiasm inspired my own and revived my need to express myself through my drawings and paintings. So much had occurred in my life recently to draw my attention away from my art. Maybe now I could return with even more energy, more purpose.

While the others continued to look over our workbooks, Miss Stevens lingered to talk to me, quickly becoming the most personal of all my teachers.

"What dorm are you in?" she asked. I told her, and I told her about Gisselle being in a wheelchair. "Does she draw and paint too?"

"No."

"I bet she's proud of you. I bet your whole family's very proud. I know your father is," she said, smiling. She had the warmest blue eyes and the lightest freckles scattered over her cheeks, running up to her temples on both sides. Her lips were almost orange, and there was a tiny cleft in her chin.

Rather than say anything unpleasant about Gisselle or Daphne, I just nodded.

"I started the same way," she told me. "I grew up in Biloxi, so I used to draw and paint a lot of ocean scenes. I sold one through a gallery when I was in college," she told me proudly, "but I haven't sold anything since." She laughed. "It was then I realized I had better go into teaching if I wanted to eat and keep a roof over my head."

I wondered why someone so pretty, sweet, and talented wouldn't consider marriage as another alternative.

"How long have you been an art teacher?" I asked. A quick perusal of the others told me they were jealous of how much I was dominating our new teacher's time.

"Only two years. In a public school. But this is a wonderful job. I can give my students so much individual attention."

She turned to face the others. "We're all going to have a great time," she declared. "I don't mind if you girls want to bring in some music to listen to while we work, as long as we don't play it too loud and disturb the other classes."

She flashed another welcome smile at me and then went back to describing her goals for our course and how she planned to take us from drawings to watercolors and oils. She described the work we would do in clay, our use of the kilns and the artwork she hoped we would produce. She was so enthusiastic that I was disappointed when the bell signaling the end of the day rang, but I knew I couldn't linger. Gisselle would be waiting at her classroom for me to wheel her back to the dorm. We hadn't made any other arrangements.

But when I arrived, she was already gone. Abby waved from the end of the corridor and hurried to join me. "Looking for Gisselle?"

"Yes."

"I saw Samantha wheeling her out and Kate and Jacki following. How was your first day?"

"Great, except for a meeting I had with the Iron Lady." I told her about it on our way back to the dorm.

"If I were called to her office I'd be terrified, expecting it would mean only one thing: She had discovered my family background."

"Even if she did, she wouldn't dare—"

"It's happened to me before," Abby said confidently. "It's sure to happen to me again."

I wanted to say optimistic things to her and reassure her, but the Iron Lady had put me into a dark mood too. As we continued down the walkway toward our dorm, we were both silent until we heard the sound of a lawn tractor and looked to the right to see Buck Dardar. He saw us too and slowed down to gaze our way.

"Mr. Mud," Abby said. It brought smiles back to our faces and a spirited energy back to our gait. Risking a reprimand, we both waved at him. He nodded, and even from this distance we could see the whiteness of his teeth when he smiled. Laughing, we clasped hands and broke into a trot all the way back to our dorm..

We arrived only ten or so minutes after Gisselle and the others, but Gisselle acted as if I were an hour behind her.

"Where were you?" she complained as soon as I walked into our room.

"Where was I? Why did you rush out so quickly after the last period? I told you I'd be there."

"You kept me waiting and waiting. How do you think I feel sitting there in this dumb chair while everyone else rushes out to relax? I won't be kept waiting like a piece of furniture."

"I came as soon as the bell ending the period rang. I only spent a moment talking to my teacher."

"It was a lot longer than a minute, and I had to go to the bathroom! You can get up and go whenever you like. You know what it's like for me to do the simplest things now. You know that and yet you dillydally with your art teacher," she said, wagging her head.

"All right, Gisselle," I said, exhausted from her constant badgering. "I'm sorry."

"Just lucky for me I have other friends now to look after me. Just lucky."

"Okay."

The truth was that I never realized how lucky I was back in New Orleans, having my own room, with walls to separate us. "How were your classes?" I asked, to change the subject.

"Horrible. They're all so small, the teacher hovers over your shoulder and watches every little thing you do. You can't get away with anything here!"

I laughed.

"What's so funny, Ruby?"

"Despite yourself, you will likely do a lot better with your schoolwork," I said.

"Oh, forget it. There's no sense in talking to you," she said. "You'll probably sit down and start your homework right now too, won't you?"

"Abby and I are going to do our work now and get it out of the way."

"Peachy. You'll both soon be Greenwood honor students and go to dozens of teas," she quipped and wheeled herself out and into Jacki and Kate's room.

Mrs. Ironwood had said I was to be responsible for Gisselle and her behavior? I might as well try to change the habits of a muskrat or tame an alligator, I thought.

Our first week at Greenwood flew by quickly. Tuesday night I wrote letters to Paul and to Uncle Jean, describing everything. On Wednesday night Beau phoned. We had the use of a telephone in the corridor just outside our quad. Jacki came to our room to tell me I had a call.

"If it's Daddy, I want to talk to him too," Gisselle demanded, eager to continue the flow of her stream of complaints.

"It's not your father," Jacki said. "It's someone named Beau."

"Thank you," I said and rushed out of the room and to the phone before Gisselle could make any of her nasty remarks in front of Jacki.

"Beau!" I cried into the receiver.

"I thought I'd give you a day or so to settle in before I called," he said.

"It's so good to hear your voice."

"And good for me to hear yours. How's it going?" "Rough. Gisselle has been making life miserable from the moment we arrived."

"I can't say I'm not rooting for her," Beau said, laughing. "If she gets you both kicked out, you'll be back here."

"Don't count on it. If we don't last here, my stepmother will surely find somewhere else to send us, and maybe next time it will be twice as far away. How's school for you?"

"Boring without you, but I keep busy with the football team and all. What's it like there?"

"The school's nice and so are most of our teachers. I'm not fond of the principal. She's a tyrant made of cold stone, and Daphne has already filled her ear with tales about my evil Cajun background. She thinks I might be Annie Christmas."

"Who?"

"The flatboat bully who could chew off a man's ear." I laughed. "She just thinks I might be a bad influence on her preciously perfect young Creole ladies."

"Oh."

"But I am enjoying my classes, especially art."

"And what about . . . boys?"

"There are none here, Beau, remember? When are you coming? I miss you."

"I'm trying to work it out so I can get there weekend after next. With these weekend football practices and all, it's hard."

"Oh, please try, Beau. I'll be half mad with loneliness if you don't come."

"I'll come . . . somehow," he said. "Of course, I've got to do it on the sly, so don't let anyone know . . . especially Gisselle. It would be just like her to get it back to my parents somehow."

"I know. Her mean streak has gotten even thicker since the accident. Oh, I've made friends with one of the girls in my quad, but I'm not sure I want you to meet her."

"What? Why not?"

"She's very pretty."

"I have eyes only for you, Ruby," he said. "Hungry eyes," he added softly.

I leaned against the wall and cradled the receiver against my ear as if I were pressing a precious little baby to my cheek. "I miss you, Beau. I do," I said.

"I miss you, Beau, I do," I heard Gisselle mimic, and I spun around to see her behind me in the corridor with Samantha and Kate at her side, all of them smiling.

"Get away!" I screamed. "This is a private conversation."

"It's against the rules to say sexy things on the telephones in our dorm," Gisselle quipped. "Read page fourteen, paragraph three, line two of our handbook."

Kate and Samantha laughed.

"What's going on?" Beau asked.

"Just Gisselle, up to her usual self," I said. "I can't talk anymore. She's determined to spoil it."

"This is too much of a tease anyway. I'll call you again as soon as possible," he said.

"Try to come, Beau. Please."

"I will," he promised. "I love you and miss you." "Same here," I said, flashing a look of anger toward Gisselle and the girls. "Bye."

I hung up the phone sharply and spun around.

"Just wait. Just wait until you want some privacy," I told her and marched passed the three of them.

Being angry at Gisselle did little good. If anything, she enjoyed seeing me upset. It was better to simply ignore her. She didn't mind; she had the girls in our quad, who seemed just as comfortable spending most of their time around her during the times before homeroom, between classes, and in the cafeteria. Rushed along by Samantha, with Kate and Jacki at her sides, Gisselle and her entourage quickly became a separate entity, a clique that moved so tightly through the building they all looked attached by invisible wires emanating from Gisselle's wheelchair.

The chair itself metamorphosed into a rolling throne from which Gisselle issued her requests and commands and pronounced her judgments about other students, teachers, and activities. After school the three girls would obediently follow Gisselle back to the dorm, where she continued to hold court, tutoring them in misbehavior, describing her exploits back in New Orleans, getting them to smoke and neglect their homework. Only Vicki, driven by her desire to excel academically, remained aloof, which was something for which Gisselle did not forgive her.

Gradually Gisselle turned the other girls against Vicki. Even poor little Samantha, who was quickly evolving into Gisselle's alter ego, spent less and less time with her roommate and began to mimic Gisselle's contempt for her to her face. On Thursday night as a practical joke, Gisselle had Samantha steal Vicki's first research report for European history, a report about which she was very proud, since she had gotten right to it and completed it a week ahead of schedule. The poor girl was frantic.

"I know it was with my books in the closet," she insisted, pulling on her hair and biting her lip. Gisselle and the girls sat in the sitting room, listening to her turmoil as she recalled and reviewed her actions, trying to figure out where she could possibly have misplaced it. I took one look at Samantha's face and realized what Gisselle had talked her into doing.

"It was my only copy. I spent hours on it, hours!"

"Knowing you, you probably have it memorized anyway," Gisselle said. "Just start writing it over."

"But . . . my references . . . my quotes . . ."

"Oh, I forgot about quotes," Gisselle said. "Anyone have any quotes?"

I pulled Samantha aside, pinching her upper arm roughly. "Did you take your roommate's report?" I demanded.

"It's just a little joke. We're going to give it back to her soon."

"It's not funny to put someone through so much pain just to get a laugh for yourself. Give it back to her right away," I commanded.

"You're hurting my arm."

"Do it or I'll go get Mrs. Penny, who will have to tell Mrs. Ironwood."

"All right." Her eyes were filled with tears of pain, but I didn't care. If she was going to be Gisselle's little slave, she was going to pay for it too.

Vicki went back into her room to tear everything apart again.

"This wasn't funny, Gisselle," I said.

She looked at Samantha and at me. "What wasn't funny?"

"Getting Samantha to take Vicki's report."

"I didn't get her to do anything. She did it herself. Didn't you, Samantha?" Gisselle's fixed gaze was enough. Samantha nodded.

"Give it back to her this minute," I said. Samantha reached under the sofa to pull out the report. There was a look of shock on her face. She knelt down and searched.

"It's not there," she said, surprised. "But that's where I put it."

"Gisselle."

"I don't know anything about it," she said smugly.

Suddenly we heard a scream from Vicki and Samantha's room. All of us rushed in to discover Vicki sitting on the bed, bawling. In her lap was her report, soaked.

"What happened?"

"I found it like this under the dresser," she cried. "Now I'm going to have to copy it all over." She looked at Samantha hatefully.

"I didn't do that," Samantha said. "Honest."

"Someone did."

"Maybe you did it yourself and you're trying to blame it on one of us," Gisselle accused.

"What? Why would I do that?"

"Just to get someone in trouble."

"That's ridiculous. Especially when you consider that I'm going to have to copy it over!"

"Then you'd better start before too much of the ink runs," Gisselle suggested. She turned her chair and the girls followed her out.

"Abby and I will help you, Vicki," I said.

"Thanks, but I’ll do it myself." She wiped her cheeks.

"Sometimes, when you rewrite, you make corrections anyway," Abby said.

Vicki nodded. Then she fixed her eyes on me coldly. "We never had things like this happen before," she said.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'll speak to Gisselle."

Later that night we had an argument about it. Gisselle insisted that she hadn't dipped the report in the toilet and even pretended to be hurt that I would accuse her of such a thing, but I didn't believe her.

The next day Gisselle surprised me with a suggestion.

"Maybe we shouldn't room together," she said. "We don't really get along all that well, and we can't really get to know other people if we see only each other most of the time."

"We don't see each other. I've hardly seen you all week," I said. "But that's not my fault."

"I didn't say it was. I just think it might be better if you roomed with Abby, who you've become close with, and I room with someone else."

"Who?"

"Samantha," she said.

"You mean Vicki doesn't want to room with her since the practical joke, don't you?"

"No. Samantha can't stand rooming with Vicki, who is so involved in her schoolwork, she doesn't even pay attention to personal hygiene."

"Now what are you saying?"

"Samantha said Vicki got her period two days ago but hasn't taken the time to get herself any sanitary napkins. She stuffs her panties with toilet paper," Gisselle replied and grimaced.

"I don't believe it."

"Well, why should I lie? Go ask her yourself. Go in there and ask her what she has in her panties. Go on!" she shrieked.

"Gisselle. All right, relax. I believe you."

"Just don't blame all this on Samantha," she said. "Well?"

"What?"

"Do you want to move in with Abby and let Samantha move in here or not?"

"But what about your special needs?"

"Samantha is willing to do everything I require her to do," Gisselle said.

"I don't know. Daddy might not like this."

"Of course he will like it. If it makes me happy," she added, smiling.

"I don't know how Abby would feel about it," I said softly, secretly loving the idea.

"Of course she'll love it. You two have become like . . . sisters," Gisselle said, her eyes fixed on me sharply. Was that jealousy and envy in her eyes or just plain hate?

"I'll talk to Abby," I said. "I suppose I could always move back if it doesn't work out. But what about all your other things, the things you insisted on bringing here? There might not be room enough for my things in Abby's room now."

"I'll have Mrs. Penny put some of it in storage just as she originally suggested," Gisselle replied quickly. Obviously, she would overcome any obstacle to get what she wanted. "Besides, you don't have that much anyway."

"I know why you want to get rid of me," I said sternly. "You don't want me nagging you about your schoolwork. Well, just because I'm in a different room, it doesn't mean I won't try to make sure you do well, Gisselle."

She sighed deeply.

"All right. I promise to work harder. Samantha happens to be a good student too, you know. She's already helped me with math a great deal."

"Did your homework for you is what you really mean. That won't help you learn it," I said. Gisselle rolled her eyes.

I had never told her about my meeting with Mrs. Ironwood on the first day of school. I thought that if she knew what had been said and how I had been given the responsibility of watching over her, she would go into a rage and demand to go home. But I was tempted to tell her about it now.

"If you do poorly, I’ll be to blame somehow," I said.

"Why? You'll do well. You always do well," she muttered.

"It's expected of me," I said, coming closer to describing my meeting with Mrs. Ironwood. Of course, Gisselle didn't understand.

"Well, I don't expect it! See, you do nag! I need a break. I need to be with different people too."

"All right, Gisselle. Calm down. You'll have all the girls in here."

"Are you going to go ask Abby?"

"Yes," I said. Maybe I shouldn't have given in so easily, but the prospect of escaping from her looked too good. I left and discussed the proposal with Abby, who was very happy about the idea.

That night we made the moves. Vicki, rather than being insulted, was obviously pleased to have a room all to herself. She even helped Samantha carry out her things. Of course, we had to inform Mrs. Penny, who looked very troubled about it at first, but she quickly changed her attitude when she saw how happy Gisselle was.

"As long as you girls all get along, I suppose your private arrangements don't matter," she concluded. "But don't forget, Gisselle: You, your sister, and Abby are going to Mrs. Clairborne's for tea tomorrow. We'll leave the dorm at one-fifty sharp. Mrs. Clairborne likes everyone to be right on time."

"I can't wait," Gisselle said. She flicked her eyelids and turned her shoulder. "I've already picked out my formal afternoon dress and matching shoes. Is light blue an acceptable color?"

"Oh, I'm sure it is," Mrs. Penny said. "Isn't this wonderful? How I wish I were a young girl again, just starting out, just experiencing everything. I suppose that's why I love my work. It gives me an opportunity to be a young woman over and over through you delightful girls."

The moment she was out of earshot, Gisselle slapped her hands together and began to imitate her, performing for her clique.

"How I wish I were a virgin again," she cried, "so I could experience lovemaking over and over."

Gisselle's fan club, as I had soon begun to label them, laughed and encouraged her. Then she drew them all into what had been our room to spin another tale of promiscuity to her faithful audience. I was glad to shut the door and retreat to the quiet of Abby's room, which had now become mine too.

That night we lay awake for hours, telling each other stories about our childhoods. She loved to hear about Grandmère Catherine and her work as a traiteur. I explained what a healer was to the Cajuns and the magic Grandmère could work to cure people of their minor ailments and their fears.

"You were very lucky to have a grandmother," Abby said. "I never knew any of my grandparents. Because of all the moving around we've done, I haven't had much contact with any of my family. Gisselle doesn't know how lucky she is," she added after a moment. "I wish I had a sister."

"You do now," I told her.

She was quiet for a long moment, swallowing her tears back, just like I was swallowing mine.

"Goodnight I, Ruby. I'm glad we're roommates now."

"Goodnight. Me too."

I was happy, very happy. I was just worried that Daddy would be upset and that everyone would blame me for being too selfish. But I half-expected Samantha would be overwhelmed by Gisselle soon anyway and would beg to go back to her old room. I might as well enjoy this as long as I could, I thought, and fell asleep contented for the first night since we'd arrived.