Honor Code Read online

  The blonde prefect starts passing out packets of paper from a stack. She’s wearing a sticker name tag that says MANDA.

  “Faculty like to pretend that we’re all good boys and girls here,” Hayden says, “but we all know that’s not true. And if you’re going to do it, the organ room in Cath is your best bet for privacy.” A few nervous laughs from the assembled audience.

  The top sheet of the packet reads: Isabel House Rules & Suggestions. Below that is a long list of boys’ names, divided into two columns labeled Naughty and Nice.

  “Hopefully this list will save you some time,” Manda says, “so you don’t have to make the same mistakes we did. Stick to the ‘nice’ ones.”

  “Don’t complain to us later if you go out with a ‘naughty’ guy and it doesn’t go the way you want,” Hayden says.

  She points us to the Calendar of Events on the next page and launches into extolling the virtues of the upcoming Inaugural Mixer.

  “It’s a perfect way to get to know people,” she says. By people, I think she means boys.

  “Only the Third and Fourth Year boys can ask,” Manda says, “so don’t go getting cocky and thinking you can just walk up and ask some hottie Fourth Year to go with you.”

  A couple girls laugh. But I can’t imagine having that kind of gumption. Definitely not here, and not with those tall, grown-up-looking boys I saw at the opening ceremony in Cath.

  “Feel free to flirt,” Hayden tells us. “Let them know you’re interested. But be subtle!”

  Manda butts in. “You’ll notice the calendar contains a lot of other important events for Isabel House girls.” It’s an exhaustive list: Inaugural Mixer. Homecoming Water Polo Game. Home Weekend. Prefect Nominations. And those are just the big ones before the Christmas vacation. It’s a lot to remember, but it sounds like an exciting year. Always something to look forward to.

  “But most importantly,” Hayden says, reclaiming the spot in the middle of the floor, “the thing that will help you the most in getting adjusted at Edwards is the honor code. Next page, everyone.”

  The third page of our packet reads: The Edwards Academy Honor Code.

  “This is the most important text to know,” she says. “This wasn’t written by teachers or deans or the provost. The honor code was written by us.”

  “All of us,” Manda says, gesturing around the room. “Every Honor Code Committee for the last hundred and fifty years has edited and added to it.”

  A whole hundred and fifty years.

  “It’s evolved over time,” Hayden adds. “And of course, it has to be approved by the faculty every year. But get to know the honor code, and you’ll get it so much faster.”

  The way she says “get it”—like attending Edwards is a paradigm shift I have to reach the other side of before I understand what I’m even doing here. As I read through the honor code, I hope I can “get it” fast.

  We are all more than the shine on our shoes, or the pennies in our pockets. Our actions show who we are.

  Anyone can come to Edwards. What we must prove is that we have the heart, determination, and loyalty to stay.

  It’s not long, but it’s weird. There are a lot of expectations. Maybe “getting it” will be like the way I switched from thinking boys were gross when I was eleven, to having crushes on them when I was twelve and I finally “got” what all the fuss was about.

  “Okay now,” jumps in Manda, clapping her hands. “It’s time for the games!” She gestures at all of us to stand up. “Up, up, up!” she says, and I imagine we are about to do jumping jacks or maybe make a pyramid. Is that what private school girls do when left alone? Gracie and I exchange a baffled look as we get up. Manda grabs a pen and clipboard from a table and calls, “Clothes off!”

  What?

  I glance at the other First Years to see if I heard her right. They all look like deer staring into headlights.

  “We’re just conducting a quick survey,” says Hayden, gently pushing Manda aside. “As your house prefects, we’re here to mentor you, to offer experience and wisdom. Boarding school is different from what you’ve experienced before, and we know that.”

  She walks up to me so her face is right in mine.

  Oh, no. I’m first.

  She grabs the hem of my t-shirt and pulls it up over my inert arms, revealing my belly and chest and the ugly, nude-colored bra I never expected anybody to see when I put it on this morning.

  I am standing only in my bra in front of every girl in Isabel House. My skin is ice cold. Then Hayden gestures to my pants.

  Oh, please, no.

  “Those, too.”

  My hands wobble wildly as I do what I’m told. Every undulation of my flesh, every one of my bumps and wrinkles and fat mounds, is now completely visible as I strip off my jeans and leave them in a pile on the floor.

  “Hmm,” Hayden says, crouching down in front of me like I’m a science experiment. She eyes my cleavage, then my belly.

  “Good tits,” she says. She plucks the strap of my bra. “But this is so old, it should be in a Goodwill box. Makes you look saggy. Shouldn’t have the boobs of a forty-year-old at your age.”

  I want to die.

  I want to become dust, and be blown away in a wind, and never, ever come back.

  “Survey says?” asks Manda.

  Hayden ignores her, pinching the fat around my waist, just over my hip bone. “This needs a lot of work. You know, Edwards has top-tier sports teams. You should sign up for one, get some cardio conditioning. Improve that bad posture.” I try to straighten my shoulders, but she’s already moved on, saying, “There’s soccer, racquetball, basketball . . .” She continues her way up my body, poking my fat, squeezing me like I am an avocado at the grocery store and she’s testing whether I’m ripe.

  I can’t speak. Everyone is staring at me. But I’m not the only one anymore, as the girls standing on either side of me have started taking their own clothes off. They are thinner, with fewer mounds for Hayden to squeeze. Next to me Gracie is skinny and stone-faced, staring straight ahead.

  “I’m waiting,” says Manda. “What’s the score?”

  “I do love this wild hair,” Hayden says, threading her hands through my auburn curls. “And your skin is all right. Take care of it, lotion every day.”

  “Still waiting.”

  Hayden keeps on. “But this flab,” she says, squeezing my stomach. “This muffin-top thing, it’s gotta go. No definition. A very roly-poly kind of look—no guy’s gonna want to get on top of that.” She sighs, as if my existence is a great disappointment. “Considering the hair and the nice tits, I give her a Needs Improvement.” Hayden finally steps away from me, and I realize I’m shivering. “Tame the curls, use better conditioner. And for god’s sake, relax. I’ll check back in with you in a few weeks and I expect you to have signed up for some kind of physical activity by then—and in the meantime, buy yourself some new clothes.”

  She wipes the hand she used to touch me on her pant leg, like I’m filthy. The First Year girl to my left has clearly tried to learn from my survey and is sucking in her stomach, straightening her shoulders, exposing her chest.

  Hayden stands in front of her, rubbing her chin. “Another good chest,” she says as I kneel down and pick up my shirt. It’s amazing I haven’t burst into flame yet from my humiliation. “You should get a professional bra-fitting, though, so you’re not popping out all the time. Gives an unappealing shape under the shirt when your bra is too small.” She pats down the girl’s sides like a security guard patting someone down to enter a concert. “And don’t do these empire waist cuts. They look terrible on girls with your shape.”

  I grab my t-shirt and put my arms through it, but my hands are shaking so much it’s hard to pull it back on.

  “And ditch the hip-huggers,” Hayden adds, dragging her foot through the girl’s jeans, which lie on the ground in a heap. “They’re giving you a muffin top, too. Waist-highs for girls like you who have big, high hips.”

 
; “Th-th-thank you,” the girl says, her eyes shining with unshed tears as Hayden steps back.

  “Just doing my job,” she says. Noticing the tears, she adds, “Don’t take it too hard. Everyone comes in with some work to do because Edwards has higher expectations than your average school. But I believe in you.” She turns to Manda, the scorekeeper. “Give her a re-dress. She needs a new wardrobe.”

  “Re-dress,” Manda echoes, scribbling on her clipboard.

  Next, Hayden turns around to face Gracie. Gracie’s eyes are obsidian—sharp and hard and black—as Hayden starts feeling her up.

  “You need some toning!” Hayden says, pinching the skin around Gracie’s middle and making her squirm with pain. “And maybe an extra portion at dinner? The guys here like a little bit of curve.”

  “So, what?” says Manda, laughing. “Some aren’t skinny enough, and now she’s too skinny?”

  Hayden flashes a wolf grin. “Like I said! It’s good to have some curves.” She pushes aside Gracie’s straight bangs. “And do something about this haircut. I can’t even describe how much of a turn-off it is.”

  “Verdict?” asks Manda.

  Hayden snaps Gracie’s bra strap. “Wear a push-up bra. You have good material to work with here—it just needs a little spit and polish.”

  “Spit and polish,” echoes Manda. “Is that your final score?”

  “That’s my final score.”

  After Hayden moves on, Gracie just stands there, her clothes in a puddle on the floor. I sit down with my clothes back on, wrapping my arms around my knees, and try not to listen to the rest.

  Chapter Two

  http://privateschoolnewb.tumblr.com

  Aug. 31, 2017

  Boarding school looks like:

  Cool morning walks in the graveyard—and spotting some marvelous wildlife.

  I couldn’t sleep after getting back to our room last night. Lying in bed, the sound of my own breath was deafening. I replayed what had happened over and over—standing practically naked in front of everyone, getting unsolicited advice about all the things that are wrong with me.

  It was like going to class in a nightmare, where my body was the final project waiting for a grade.

  I gave up on sleeping, packed my sketchbook, and went on a walk. Besides, I didn’t know if I could look my roommate in the eye after the body survey. Neither of us said a word to each other about it the whole night.

  Whatever, though. Like I’m the first person ever to get hazed. I just have to try to forget about it.

  Instead I focused on how beautiful the campus is, drenched in early morning sunlight. The towering old trees, the ticking white clock tower, the vines crawling up the sides of buildings. I walked all the way across campus to the famous old graveyard, thinking about what I wanted to draw. The graveyard isn’t too far from the medical museum. Are corpses buried here that were first autopsied by weird founder doctor-man himself? I heard people had to rob graves for science back in the old days.

  Graveyards are lovely. Nobody goes there because most people are creeped out. You almost never run into another person in a graveyard.

  Usually.

  But I did see someone. Deep down in the graveyard, there’s a gazebo that looks over a long, shallow reflecting pool.

  And a guy was standing in the middle of the pool.

  Must have been an upperclassman—he had clearly outlined pectoral muscles and drawn-on abs. He did these slow, graceful, purposeful motions, lifting his knee into the air, spreading his arms in front of himself, like a swan. Or an eagle. Some regal bird. I’m pretty sure it was tai chi.

  Then he turned his head and caught me staring. I couldn’t believe it. I thought about taking off, but he just kept doing his peculiar exercises as if I weren’t there.

  So I kept watching, as if I weren’t there, too.

  The morning sun lit his perfect profile. His flop of wheat-colored, wavy hair tilted forward and back as he moved.

  I’ve never seen someone so beautiful in real life.

  I wish I had thought to draw him so I could show you how magnificent he was. But this story will have to do instead, because I forgot to draw anything.

  -----------------------

  Gracie and I are both late to morning room inspection, returning from our showers just as Jean knocks on the door. She glances over the clothes on my side of the floor, then the unmade bed on Gracie’s side, and lets out a sigh.

  “A demerit each,” she says, marking something on her clipboard. I feel an almost physical pain. A demerit on my first day?

  “You both know the expectations for Level One, right?” she asks.

  We nod. No debris on the floors. Desks neat. Beds made. It’s supposed to teach us personal responsibility: if you’re good for one whole semester, you clear Level One and they leave you alone for the next three and a half years.

  I thought Gracie would be neater, but the body survey last night must have gotten to both of us. We didn’t mention it last night, and we don’t mention it now—almost like if we do, we’ve given it power. We’ve allowed it to be real. If we never bring it up, maybe we can pretend it never happened.

  Except I can’t pretend. I can’t forget.

  Hayden was right. I do have a muffin top. My hair frizzes out all over the place as soon as it dries, no matter what—I’ve tried. I’m not built like an athlete. Dad used to tease me and call me “The Brain” because I refused to go out for soccer when all the other kids did and asked him instead if I could try out for the Science Olympiad.

  “This ugly nickel I found for your thoughts?” Gracie asks, as we walk across campus to Morning Prayer. She holds out what is indeed an ugly, flattened nickel, like somebody ran over it with a truck.

  I take the nickel and shake my head. “My only thought right now is that I don’t want to be late . . . and I’m wondering where the heck you found this.” I toss it into the bushes.

  She snickers. “Such a square. We won’t get a demerit for being a little late on the first day.” A look of doubt crosses her face. “Actually, I wouldn’t put it past them, after that run-in with Jean earlier.”

  We get to Cath just in time. I almost fall asleep during Morning Prayer despite the swelling organ and the eerie, echoing voices of the choir.

  Then it’s on to breakfast. I slouch in the buffet line behind Gracie, feeling bulldozed. Last night was the worst night of my life. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop thinking about it and feeling humiliated all over again.

  Once we have our food, it’s time to figure out where to sit. We could join a table of kids we don’t know and probably look pathetic, or sit by ourselves and . . . well, also look pathetic.

  Gracie takes the initiative and heads for a table that’s half empty, down from some other girls who look like Firsties but aren’t in Isabel House. Thank god.

  Gracie looks over her schedule while I push around the hard, dry scrambled eggs and burned bacon, and nibble on my toast.

  Needs Improvement.

  That means improvement is possible, right?

  Then I’ll commit to improving. Commit like I committed to coming to Edwards Academy. I put down the buttered toast I’m halfway through eating, thinking of Hayden squeezing my “muffin top,” and just drink some orange juice instead.

  Soon a bell rings. Time for my first class.

  I am upbeat, I say to myself.

  Actually, no. I tell myself.

  I am more than upbeat. I am excited. I am ready to learn.

  Besides, this is what I’m here for. A good education. That’s why Dad cashed out part of his 401(k), and I convinced Mom it wouldn’t be so bad that she couldn’t help me pick out my dress for Homecoming, or bake brownies for school fundraisers.

  “Complete academic saturation,” the website had said. And that sounded perfect. Not like my middle school, where people in the back whispered over the teacher and everything was a competition for who could act like they cared the least.

  My first c
lass is in Mackenzie Hall, but I can’t figure out the map. Gracie and I pass an exhibition hall, an observatory, an art studio. Science buildings. Humanities. A music conservatory. The medical museum, which I hope to never enter. Mom and I went to Body Worlds once and I almost fainted at the first exhibit.

  It feels like this school goes on forever. Still no Mackenzie Hall.

  “There,” Gracie says suddenly, looking at her map and pointing to a building on the other side of a huge lawn. “That’s you.”

  I groan with relief. “Thank god somebody can read this thing.”

  “See you after class,” Gracie says, waving goodbye to me in an exaggerated fashion. She smiles that weird half-smile of hers. “If you don’t get lost first.”

  -----------------------

  Finding Room 105 is a lot easier than finding Mackenzie was. Inside, I slide into an open desk and try not to look obvious admiring the new chairs, or the solid wood teacher’s desk, or the big touch screen hanging at the front of the room.

  Other kids arrive, but it seems like they already know each other. I took a bunch of tests to get placed into my classes, and I got put with Second Years. I thought that would be cool . . . except that it means nobody here is out to make new friends.

  They’re not talking about fancy cars or vacations—the kind of stuff I expected from rich kids. And they don’t really look like “rich kids,” if rich kids have a look. On TV shows it’s real obvious. But everyone here is wearing t-shirts and jeans, cardigans, tunics over leggings. Standard fare. Okay, so they have nicer backpacks, use better hair products, generally look more fit. But that’s it.

  Then the kid next to me pulls a mechanical arm out of the side of his own desk. A tablet folds out and he starts playing around with it right away.

  Whoa.

  There’s an arm inside my desk, too. But I don’t understand the mechanism for releasing it, and I frantically pull at it before our teacher comes in.