Honor Code Page 4

  “That’s true,” Tai Chi Guy says, passing my sketchbook back. “Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for.” He extends a hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Scully.”

  “I’m Sam.” We shake, and his grip is warm and powerful.

  “Hey, Sam,” he says, and I can’t help thinking of the first time I met Gracie. His skin feels like lightning as he lets my hand go.

  I’m electrified.

  -----------------------

  I have to tell Gracie. Over dinner that night, I spill the beans that Tai Chi Guy models for Drawing Club.

  “You should join!” I tell her. “Come ogle him with me.”

  “Hand me that sign-up sheet and I’ll write my name in blood,” she says. “Did I tell you that I remembered where I know him from?”

  “Where?”

  “Some garden party when I was a little kid. I think we grew up in the same neighborhood.”

  Wow. It’s almost like they were meant for each other. I feel a little left out, but that’s nothing new.

  She gets into Drawing Club without even trying—her work’s probably even better than mine. We spend our days going to class, studying, and drawing. The exception is Sunday, which is divided between morning free time and a long, supervised afternoon study session. Every week we go to Drawing Club, hoping Scully will be there again, and try not to openly gawk at him when he does get on the model’s stool.

  I mark time by the meals they serve in Hamilton Hall. We’re always waiting for Wednesday: grilled cheese day.

  “Wednesday Best Day,” Gracie calls it.

  One Saturday, though, I get so tired of waiting in line for the standard buffet that I suggest we ditch the cafeteria and go to the Encore Grill across campus. There we can just order whatever we want, including grilled cheese. No need to wait for Wednesday Best Day.

  “Grilled cheese on Saturday?” Gracie asks, eyes sparkling. “I’ve never even been to the Encore. It’s a chore just not getting lost on this campus, and I try to minimize my risk by not broadening my horizons at all.”

  “We’ll go together,” I say. “Two heads are always better than one.”

  So we take a map and head toward the Conservatory, turning left for the Grill, and order up our perfect dinner. Sure, it takes twice as much out of my account as a buffet meal, but it’s worth it. I’ll skip lunch sometime to make up the difference.

  “Do you get the sense,” says Gracie over our sandwiches, “that you’re always being watched?”

  “It’s not a sense,” I say. “There is a pen-and-paper record of every single time one of us has checked in and checked out of Isabel House.”

  “You haven’t even tried to enter a boys’ dorm yet,” she says. “It was a police-level interrogation when I had to go to Ernest House for a group project. What are you studying? For how long? With whom? Leave the door open!”

  Ha. Like going into a boy’s dorm is anywhere on my to-do list. Even that one awkward Third Year guy known for wearing sweatpants around campus every day and never washing his hair is out of my league.

  Two Third Year girls at the table next to us are leaned in, talking in hushed voices. Gracie, in usual fashion, tilts her head to eavesdrop while she sips her slushie. Then she leans back to me.

  “God, no one will stop talking about this stupid Inaugural Mixer. What’s the big deal with dances? Why does everyone care so much?”

  “Jean made it sound like the Mixer is Edwards’s version of Homecoming,” I say. “You know how Homecoming is usually right after the first football game of the year?”

  “Sure.”

  “Except our football is water polo. I saw on the calendar that the first polo game’s the day after the Mixer.”

  “Who cares about water polo?” Gracie sighs into her drink, making it bubble up.

  “It could be fun,” I say. “I’ve never seen it before. We should go to the game and find out.” Maybe we’d make some friends. It couldn’t hurt for Gracie to try a little.

  “Hard pass,” she says. “So what if we don’t get a date to the Mixer? Do we just not go?”

  “I doubt ‘not going’ would go over that well with Hayden.”

  “So, what, we wallflower all night? We should make our own separate dance party. Except instead of dancing, we should stand around sipping spiked punch and snarking about everyone’s outfits.”

  “Spiked punch?” I ask, laughing. We aren’t in college yet, where I imagine people get away with stuff like that. But I can picture us a few years from now, living together in Boston, me going to Harvard and Gracie at the art and design school nearby, sipping on coffees and snarking on all the too-hipster outfits everyone else is wearing.

  “What, you think someone would catch us if we did spike it?” she asks. “Just two harmless flowers on a wall?”

  “Maybe not,” I say. “They’re always watching us, but most of the time it seems like they don’t actually see anything. Definitely not me.”

  I didn’t mean for this conversation to turn into a pity party.

  “I do,” Gracie says, turning serious. “I see you, Sam.”

  And she does. She might be the only one, but she does.

  -----------------------

  So maybe we’re both invisible. But not to each other.

  At least I have my government class, and Women’s Art History after lunch always revives my spirit. We talk about all the famous—and often overlooked—great women artists and painters. I get to write my big paper for the semester on a Renaissance artist, Artemisia Gentileschi, whose work was usually attributed to her father. X-rays of her paintings have revealed that she often revised her pieces to be less violent and in-your-face, probably because her male colleagues criticized her for being too aggressive.

  I want to go back in time and slap them for her. Tell all of them they won’t be remembered even a fraction as well as my Artemisia. Some days I feel like her, studying and scribbling where no one can see, being overlooked, quietly yearning for some kind of truth.

  What is the right answer to all this? What’s the secret to belonging? She probably asked herself these questions every day as she toiled in the dark.

  On my way to class, my backpack loaded with books, I spot Hayden talking with some of her friends under an enormous oak tree. They look like something from one of my artist’s paintings—sunshine dappling their skin as it falls through the leaves; a gentle, caressing breeze giving their perfect hair just the right amount of movement.

  Just as I’m approaching them, Hayden’s gaze locks onto me. My heart starts pounding as she decidedly turns in my direction and starts jogging toward me.

  “Sam, right?” she says, smiling.

  I nod just as a spurt of adrenaline shoots through me. I can’t tell if I’m afraid, excited, angry—or all three.

  “Going to class?” she asks.

  I nod again, considering every possible reason Hayden would want to chat with me.

  “Can I walk with you?”

  “Uh, sure,” I say. I clench my hands into fists so she won’t see them shaking, and start walking again, quickly, because I’m going to be late. Hayden keeps up easily.

  “Have you thought about any of the suggestions I gave you?” she asks.

  She remembers that? I thought I was an inconsequential, blubbery stain on the Welcome Wagon’s opening night.

  Of course I’ve thought about her suggestions—they consume me. But I don’t want to play soccer, or racquetball, or any other stupid sport. I want to draw and go to my classes and eat grilled cheese whenever I feel like it. Except that attitude is probably exactly what’s holding me back.

  “I’ve, um, thought about them some.”

  Hayden makes a tsk sound. “I know you haven’t signed up for a sport.”

  How does she know that? Actually, no, it makes sense. It’s probably the Head Prefect’s job to check in on us, make sure we’re engaged in campus life. How well we do reflects on her as our prefect.

  “I join
ed Drawing Club,” I say, to show that I have been trying. “But none of the sports caught my interest—”

  “Have you thought about the Inaugural Mixer?” Hayden asks before I can finish talking. “I think I have a match-up for you.”

  “A what?” Is she running some kind of matchmaking service?

  “Go sign up for a sport, any sport, and we’ll talk more. Okay?” Hayden tucks her hair behind one ear and waves at me. “Bye, Sam!”

  Then she’s slipped off back to her friends.

  I walk briskly to Art History, backpack bouncing. I’m going to be late, but going any faster than a walk would be like a flashing neon sign over my head saying NOT IN CONTROL. And the one thing I do get about Edwards so far?

  Nobody ever lets it slip that they’re not completely on top of things.

  I make it to class just before the bell and take my usual seat at the round Harkness table, close to Dr. Winegard so I can hear. She talks so quietly that you have to strain to understand her. In Dr. Winegard’s class, we’re supposed to take ownership of the discussion and guide it ourselves. She gives us prompts and then it’s up to us to keep the conversation going.

  While she’s starting the discussion, Hayden pops back into my head. What did she mean by a “match-up”? Like, for the Inaugural Mixer? I’d thought the Third and Fourth Year boys would ask if they were interested.

  But . . . maybe not?

  Sign up for a sport and we’ll talk more. About what? My date?

  For some reason the guy from Drawing Club pops into my head.

  Scully.

  I clandestinely reach into my backpack and pull out the packet Hayden gave us the first day of school. I search for Scully’s name on the Naughty and Nice lists.

  But . . . his name’s not on here at all. I was sure that he was an upperclassman, with a body like that. But maybe he’s not?

  I put the packet away. As if Hayden would “match” me up with someone like that. Nah, it’s probably that guy who always walks around with greasy hair and sweatpants on.

  If I did go to the Mixer with Scully, though . . . I wonder what he’d wear. Maybe we’d color-coordinate. Which colors would he look even better wearing? Probably green or blue, to match his eyes. Everyone in the school would see our arms linked together when we walked into Hamilton Hall. It wouldn’t matter then how dumpy or frizzy I looked. People would be falling over themselves to talk to me and be my friend.

  “Sam?” Dr. Winegard calls my name. Twice.

  “Yes?” I say, shooting forward in my chair.

  “Sam, didn’t you choose Gentileschi for the topic of your research paper?” she says. “Do you have any insight on why she revised this painting?”

  I cough. “Oh, yeah.”

  I explain to the class how the women in the original painting are violently resisting a pair of creepy, lecherous men. But Artemisia Gentileschi’s colleagues didn’t like it. The male painters thought women should be complimented by the attention; they should just playfully bat away creepers who were attracted to them, not fight them.

  The class moves on and I sink back into my chair. Maybe Scully asked Hayden about me after seeing my superhero portrait of him.

  No. I couldn’t have made that much of an impression.

  But maybe . . . I mean, that sort of thing happens in books and romantic comedies all the time. The hot guy falls for the girl who Needs Improvement. He helps her get into shape, makes her beautiful, and shows her off at the big dance.

  The best stories are all based on real life, right?

  Chapter Four

  http://privateschoolnewb.tumblr.com

  Sept. 19, 2017

  What happens in boarding school . . . stays in boarding school.

  Today some First Years on our hall got caught smoking pot in their room. A Second Year noticed first, some goody-goody who throws her hand up at every question in the one class I have with her. She likes to talk over Firsties whenever she can, just to show us we’re trash.

  She was walking by a closed door and heard laughing. Nobody’s supposed to keep their door closed before lights-out, so she got suspicious. When the Second Year girl looked under the door, she found a wadded-up towel. It was a dead giveaway to Second Year Overachiever.

  Like the honor code says, though:

  We have no parents here, so we must parent each other.

  We vow to keep each other accountable, because we have no one else.

  So Second Year Girl knocked on the door like a Big Boss, and the laughing stopped.

  “I know what you’re doing in there,” she said. “Come out, right now.”

  She wasn’t a prefect, but she was a Second Year, and she was gonna throw it around.

  The girls went silent and pretended like they weren’t home, probably because they were stoned.

  “If you don’t open the door,” she told them, “I’m going to tell.”

  Still nothing. Second Year Girl decided she’d done her duty according to the honor code, and petulantly went to tell the House Mom.

  As expected, House Mom came to the room and knocked.

  “It’s me!” she said in that sing-song voice she uses when she’s trying too hard to be your mom. “Why don’t you open up?”

  At this point the girls gave up and opened the door, letting all their pot smoke out into the hall. House Mom took all the paraphernalia from them, reported them to the administration, and then gave them each a cookie from her stash to help quell their munchies. None of us could believe that part.

  I heard the First Year girls were punished with extra chores around the dorm, and detention for a week.

  But I bet not even their parents will hear about it. This story will never leave the school, except through this blog.

  Keep this community sacred.

  -----------------------

  Every night from eight until nine is Twilight Study Hour, when we’re supposed to be doing our homework under the watchful eye of an assigned proctor.

  Yep, even our study time is supervised.

  Usually I spend Twilight Study Hour doodling. I don’t have any afternoon activities except Drawing Club on Tuesdays, and usually I’ve got my homework knocked out long before eight. So I come to Study Hour prepped with a textbook to slide over my sketches, in case the proctor decides to stroll the aisles.

  I’ve put off telling Gracie about my strange conversation with Hayden, because she’ll sneer down her nose. Or maybe she’ll be upset that she didn’t get matched, too. But I decide to tell her during Study Hour, and now I sort of hope she sneers so when I’m inevitably matched up with Creepy Sweatpants Guy, I can be like, Remember how we both thought this was really stupid? No way I’m going.

  But the news rolls off her like water off a goose. “Oh, right, the match-ups.” Usually I forget her dad went here, until she magically knows some insider information that I don’t.

  “Enlighten me?” I ask.

  “If you’re lucky, your prefect matches you up with an available Third or Fourth Year boy.” She tilts her head as she looks at me. “No offense, but, like . . . why’d she pick you?”

  Of course I can’t take offense. It doesn’t make sense that Hayden picked me out of all the pretty, popular First Year girls. Unless I’m really matched with Creepy Sweatpants Guy.

  Then it makes total sense.

  “I’ll try to get you a date, too,” I say, now that our wallflowering plan is under the rails.

  “I’ll pass on the misogynistic, older-men-only, boys-ask-girls 1800s throwback dance.”

  “No, please, Gracie.” I’m annoyed by how whiny my own voice sounds. “I can’t go to this thing by myself.”

  “Isn’t the whole point of this conversation that you got a date to the Mixer?” Gracie asks.

  Except that my date will be so disappointed when he talks with me that he’ll wander off to hang out with his own friends halfway through. Then I’ll have no one.

  “I’ll just find you a date, too,” I tell her. “Then w
e’ll both have reasons to go.” I don’t know how I’ll pull it off, but I need Gracie to be there with me.

  She gives me a look like she can’t tell if she finds me endearing or pathetic. “Okay. If you can pull that off, I’ll go.”

  The proctor raises his head and glares at us, motioning for us to be quiet. I pull out my Welcome Wagon packet again and look over the list of available sports. Gracie gives me a questioning look.

  “Hayden says I have to join a sport to find out who my match-up is,” I whisper. “So I looked at the list of everything available, and tennis should be the easiest.”

  “Fine,” Gracie whispers back. “You’ll like it. Tennis is all about coordination and you’ve got tons of that.” Then she girlishly cups her hands under her chin and raises her voice an octave. “But what sport should I do, Sam? You know, to get this imaginary, perfect guy you’ve picked out for me?”

  I laugh as quietly as I can.

  “You should do tennis with me,” I say. It would be way more fun with her. And besides, we need to get out more if we’re ever going to make new friends.

  “Hitting something hard? I’m no good at that.” Gracie squeezes her skinny, bony arms. “Maybe theater? I think I’d make a good actress.”

  “Theater isn’t a sport,” I say.

  Gracie crosses her arms. “Irrelevant.”

  I cough a laugh into my sleeve. “Well, whatever,” I say. “Hayden didn’t say you had to do a sport. She just told you to buy a new bra and put on some weight.”

  Gracie’s eyes meet mine and they are ice and stone. She doesn’t speak. Out of pure shame, neither do I.

  I can’t believe I brought it up. We’ve always acted as if those few hours of our lives were lasered off the face of the planet like unwanted armpit hair. Evaporated. Lost in the unclaimed airline baggage room of the universe.

  “You should join tennis with me,” I whisper, hoping to undo what I’ve done. But before she can reply, the proctor glares at us and says, “Shh!”

  We don’t talk for the rest of the hour.

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  The next day, I go by the administration office after class and write my name down for tennis.