Pearl in the Mist Page 6

  Then she looked up, seemingly turning our way and gazing directly at us. Even from this distance, I could see how steely cold her eyes were. She had thick eyebrows and a firm mouth set in a jaw that seemed made of granite.

  "I would like to begin by first welcoming all of the girls who are with us for the first time. I know that the rest of you will do whatever you can to make their arrival and familiarity with our school smooth and easy. Remember, once all of you were new girls.

  "Next, I would like to introduce three new faculty members. Teaching freshman English, Mr. Risel," she said and gazed to her right, where some of the faculty were seated. A tall, lean, blond-haired man of about forty rose and nodded at the assembly.

  "Teaching advanced French, Monsieur Marabeau," she said in a perfect French accent. A short, stout, dark-haired man with a dark mustache stood up and bowed to the assembly.

  "And finally, our new art instructor, Miss Stevens," she said with a little more sternness in her voice than I had detected when she'd introduced the previous two.

  An attractive brunette who couldn't be much more than twenty-eight or twenty-nine stood up. She had a warm, friendly smile, but she looked

  uncomfortable in her tweed suit and high-heeled shoes.

  "Wait until she hears about your paintings and finds out how talented you are," Gisselle quipped. All of the girls in our row turned toward her, but Mrs. Ironwood shifted her gaze our way too. I could feel the sting of her reproach.

  "Shh," Vicki warned.

  "Now to review our rules of behavior," Mrs. Ironwood continued, her eyes still fixed in our direction. My heart was pounding, but Gisselle just glared back.

  "As you know, we expect everyone to be serious about her work. Consequently, a grade-point average of less than C-plus will not be tolerated. If any one of you should fall beneath that acceptable threshold, you will lose all of your social privileges until you bring your average up."

  "What social privileges?" Gisselle asked, again a little too loud. Mrs. Ironwood raised her gaze from her folder and glared our way. "I expect you to remain quiet while I am speaking. At Greenwood respect for teacher and staff is required. We do not have time for, nor will we tolerate, insubordination in class or in any classroom situation. Is that perfectly clear?"

  Her words echoed in the deathly quiet hall. No one moved, not even Gisselle. Even though Mrs. Ironwood continued in a lower voice, her consonants were so sharp I thought she could slice the air between us with her words.

  "I would advise you all to turn to page ten in your orientation booklets and memorize the rules set down. You will note when you read the list that the possession of any alcoholic beverage or any drug on campus will result in your immediate expulsion. Your parents know that means they forfeit the tuition. Loud music, smoking, or any act of vandalism carries severe punishments and high numbers of demerits.

  "Last year I was a little more lenient than I should have been when it came to our dress codes. Unless you have prior approval, you are to wear our uniform, keep it clean and well pressed, and abstain from using cosmetics. Looking attractive at

  Greenwood means being clean and neat, not painting your face."

  She paused and smiled coolly.

  "I am pleased to announce that we will have as many dances this year as we had last. There were only one or two instances of inappropriate behavior, and those offenders were dealt with quickly before they ruined things for everyone else. We expect you to behave in a proper manner when you have guests visiting on visiting days. And remember: While your guests are on this campus, they are to obey our rules and regulations the same as if they were students here. That goes for the male guests as well as the female," she emphasized.

  "I remind you," she said slowly, pulling her shoulders back and looking toward the ceiling at the rear of the auditorium, "you are all Greenwood girls now, and Greenwood girls are special. To the newcomers, I recommend that you memorize our slogan: A Greenwood girl is a girl who considers her body and her mind to be holy, and a girl who knows that what she does reflects upon us all. Be proud you are Greenwood girls and make us proud you are one of us.

  "Those who have to be issued uniforms and shoes, proceed directly to the commissary in the basement. Everyone, study your schedule, note your times to be at class. Remember, one lateness is a single demerit. The second lateness is four, and the third is six."

  "I can't get demerits for being late," Gisselle muttered. "Not moving around in this wheelchair."

  Some of the girls who overheard her glanced her way and then looked quickly at Mrs. Ironwood, who once again seemed to be fixed on us coldly, as a butcher bird in the bayou. The long pause caused a ripple of discomfort to pass through the assembly. I felt like I was sitting on a hill of ants and couldn't wait for Mrs. Ironwood to look in a different direction. Finally, she did.

  "Our enrollment has gone up, but our classes are still small enough for all of you to get the individualized instruction you need to be successful, if you work up to your full capacity. Good luck to you all," she concluded, then took off her glasses and closed her folder. She glared our way one more time and then marched off the stage. No one moved until she had left the auditorium. Then the girls, many of whom who had held their breaths, broke out in loud chatter as they got up to leave.

  "Thanks a lot," Gisselle said, spinning around on me, her eyes full of fire.

  "For what?"

  "For bringing me to this little hellhole." She spun herself around in her chair, pushing other girls out of her way. Then she looked back. "Samantha," she called.

  "What?"

  "Push me back to the dorm while my sister goes for her pretty new outfit," she ordered and laughed. Samantha jumped to do her bidding and we all left the auditorium, following behind her as if she had just been appointed queen.

  After Abby and I had been issued our uniforms and shoes, we returned to the dorm. On the way I told her the story of Gisselle's car accident and subsequent paralysis. She listened attentively, her dark eyes watering when I described Martin's funeral and Daddy's deep depression during the days immediately following.

  "So you can't say the accident made her this way," Abby said.

  "No. Unfortunately, Gisselle was Gisselle long before, and I'm afraid she will be this way for a long time yet." Abby laughed.

  "Don't you have any brothers or sisters?" I asked her. "No." After a long pause she added, "I wasn't supposed to be born."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I was an accident. My parents didn't want to have any children," she said.

  "Why?"

  "They didn't want any," she replied, but I sensed there were deeper, darker reasons, reasons she knew but couldn't voice. She had already been more revealing than she'd intended, which was something I attributed to our getting along so well so quickly. It was natural for Abby and I to want to be close. Except for Gisselle, we two were the only girls in the dorm to be attending Greenwood for the first time. I felt that, in time, I could tell her my story; that she was someone I could trust to keep it locked away.

  Back in our quad, we tried on our uniforms. Despite the sizes on the labels, they were big enough for us to swim in them. I decided these clothes were designed to keep our femininity a state secret. Dressed in a baggy blouse with a skirt that touched our ankles, we confronted each other in the sitting room and both fell into hysterics. Gisselle looked pleased. Our laughter brought the other girls out of their rooms where they had been organizing their things.

  "What's so funny?" Samantha asked.

  "What's so funny? Look at us," I said.

  "The Iron Lady designed these uniforms herself," Vicki explained. "So don't complain too loudly."

  "Or she'll burn you at the stake," Jacqueline added.

  "At least we can wear our own clothes on weekends, at the socials, and when we get invited to Mrs. Clairborne's tea," Kate said.

  "Mrs. Clairborne's tea?" Gisselle remarked. "I can't wait."

  "Oh, she always has the be
st little cakes," Kate said. "And pralines!"

  "A few dozen of which Chubs manages to shove into her purse and then hide somewhere in the room. I don't know why we don't have rats," Jacqueline said.

  "What is this tea exactly?" I asked.

  "It's not just one tea. It's frequent and by invitation only. Everyone knows who's been invited and who's not, and the teachers think more highly of you if you're invited more than once."

  "Three times makes you a Tea Queen," Jacqueline declared.

  "Tea Queen?" Abby looked at me, and I shrugged.

  "You keep your tea bag each time you're invited and you pin it on a wall in your room like an award or a commendation," Vicki explained. "It's a Greenwood tradition and an honor. Jacki's right. Those who are invited often are treated better."

  "She's saying that because she's a Tea Queen," Jacqueline quipped. "She was invited four times last year."

  "And what about you?" Gisselle asked.

  "Once. Kate was invited twice, as was Samantha."

  "All new girls are invited to the first tea of the year, but that doesn't count because it's automatic," Vicki continued. "Where are the teas held?" Abby asked.

  "At the Clairborne mansion. Mrs. Penny will take you up there and give you the history of the house. Here it's almost as important to know those facts as it is to know the facts in American or European history," Jacqueline said. Vicki nodded.

  "I can't wait," Gisselle said. "Only I'm not sure I can take the excitement." Kate laughed and Samantha smiled, but Vicki looked shocked by what amounted to blasphemy at Greenwood.

  "So," Gisselle continued, "when's the first monthly social, the one with boys?"

  "Oh, not for nearly a month. Didn't you read the social calendar in your packet?" Jacqueline said.

  "A month? I told Daddy this was like being in a nunnery," she wailed at me. "What about getting into the city?" she quickly asked. The girls looked at each other.

  "What do you mean?" Vicki said.

  "Getting into the city. What's so hard to understand? You're going to be the valedictorian."

  Vicki blanched.

  "I . . well . . ."

  "None of us ever left the campus on our own," Jacqueline said.

  "Why not?" Gisselle demanded. "There must be places in the city to go where we can meet boys."

  "For one thing, you have to have a permission form on file to be able to leave the campus on your own," Vicki explained.

  "What? You mean I'm really a prisoner here?"

  "Just call your parents and have them file the form," Vicki said with a shrug.

  "What about the rest of you? Are you telling me none of you cared before?" No one spoke. "What are you all? . . Virgins?" Gisselle cried in frustration. Her face was as red as a steamed lobster claw.

  Samantha's mouth dropped open. Kate stared with a half-amused, half-amazed smile on her face. Vicki remained nonplussed, but Jacqueline looked ashamed. Abby and I exchanged quick glances.

  "Don't tell me you've been obeying all these dumb rules," Gisselle continued, shaking her head in disbelief. "Demerits can--" Vicki began.

  "Ruin your chances to become a Tea Queen. I get it," Gisselle said. "There are more important things to pin on your walls than old tea bags," Gisselle snapped, then rolled her wheelchair across the room toward Vicki, who stepped back. "Like love letters. Ever get one?"

  Vicki looked around and saw that all eyes were on her. She stammered for a moment.

  "I . . I've got . . . to start my assigned reading for European history," she said. "See you later." She turned and walked quickly to her room. Gisselle spun around and fixed her gaze on Jacqueline.

  "Last year a couple of the boys from Rosewood wanted to sneak into our dorm on a weekend night," she revealed. "And?"

  "We didn't have the nerve," Jacqueline confessed.

  "Well it's this year, and we have the nerve now," Gisselle said. She looked at me. "We'll show them how girls from New Orleans party. Right, Ruby?"

  "Don't start, Gisselle. Please."

  "Start what? Living? You'd like me to be an obedient little Greenwood girl and roll around quietly in my wheelchair with my mouth shut, my lap full of dried old tea bags, and my knees bound together, wouldn't you?"

  "Gisselle, please . ."

  "Who's got a cigarette?" she demanded quickly. Kate's eyes widened. She shook her head.

  "Samantha?"

  "No, I don't smoke."

  "Don't smoke. Don't see boys. What do you girls do, read fan magazines and masturbate?"

  It was as if thunder had shaken the dorm. I was so embarrassed by my sister's outburst I had to look down at the floor.

  "All right," Gisselle continued, "don't worry. I'm here now. Things will be different. I promise. It just so happens," she said with a smile, "I smuggled in some cigarettes of my own."

  "Gisselle, you'll get everyone in trouble, and the first day too," I protested.

  "You're not chicken, are you?" she asked Jacqueline, Kate, and Samantha. "Good," she said when they didn't respond. "Come into my room. You can help me organize my records and we'll share a cigarette. Maybe I'll get us something better soon," she added, smiling. She spun her chair around and headed for our room. No one moved. "Well?" she snapped.

  Jacqueline started after her first, and then Kate and Samantha followed.

  "Close the door," Gisselle ordered when they were all in our room.

  "I never thought twin sisters could be so different," Abby remarked and then realized what she had said. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . ."

  "That's all right. I never thought so either. Until I met her," I said and bit my tongue. But it was too late.

  "Met her?"

  "It's a long story," I said. "I wasn't supposed to tell it to anyone here."

  "I understand," Abby said. From the way she looked when she said it, I believed she did understand.

  "But I don't mind telling it to you," I added. She smiled.

  "Why don't we go into my room," she suggested. I looked back at the closed door behind which Gisselle was holding court with her new protegees. It was a scene I wanted no part of at the moment.

  "Good idea," I said. "While we talk, I'll organize the things of Gisselle's you had to take. I'd better go through some of it too," I said, throwing a glance back at our room. "No telling what else she smuggled in here."

  A little over an hour later, Mrs. Penny came to our quad to see how we were all doing. If she had smelled any smoke coming from our room, she didn't reveal it. Frankly, I didn't see how she could miss it. The stench was on the girls' clothing and lingered in the air despite their opening our windows.

  "I'm also here to formally pass on Mrs. Clairborne's invitation to Abby, Gisselle, and Ruby to attend tea at her home on Saturday at two," she said. "You can wear what you wish, but you should dress appropriately," she added, winking. "It's a formal tea."

  "Oh no! And I left my formal tea dress home," Gisselle said.

  "Pardon, dear?"

  "Nothing," Gisselle said, smiling. I saw how Samantha and Kate were smiling behind Mrs. Penny's back. Jacki was wearing her usual smirk, but it was clear that all three were still in awe of my sister.

  "Good. Well then, dinner's in less than fifteen minutes," Mrs. Penny sang out. "New girls don't have chores until the second week," she added and then sauntered off.

  "What was that supposed to mean?" Gisselle inquired, wheeling herself into the center of the sitting room. "What chores?"

  "All of us help out in the dining room. The responsibilities are scheduled and posted on the bulletin board in the main lobby," Jacqueline said. "This week Vicki, Samantha, Chubs, and I have busgirl duties. We have to clean off the tables and bring the dirty dishes and silverware into the kitchen after everyone's finished eating. The girls in B and C quad are waitresses, and the girls in D quad set the table."

  "What?" Gisselle spun her chair around to face me. "You didn't tell me this."

  "I just found out myself, Gisselle. What's the big
deal?"

  "What's the big deal? I don't do maid's work."

  "I'm sure no one will expect you to do anything since . . ." Vicki started to say but stopped.

  Gisselle glared at her. "Since I'm crippled? Is that what you wanted to say?"

  "I was going to say 'since you're in a wheelchair.' You can't be expected to carry dishes into the kitchen."

  "She can set a table," I said and smiled at my sister, who, if looks were fire, would have burned me to a crisp.

  "What I can do and what I will do are two different things. If these other dopes want to pay all this money to go to a private school and work as maids as well, then let them," she said.

  "All the girls do it in all the dorms, especially the two big ones," Samantha said. Gisselle threw a glance at her that had the same effect a slap would have had. She bit her lower lip and stepped back. "They do," she muttered to me and Abby.

  "Why should any of us be afraid of a little work?" I said.

  "You would say that. You . . ." Gisselle stopped herself from revealing my Cajun background and glanced quickly at the others. "I'm hungry. Let's go. Samantha," she cried, and Samantha jumped forward to push Gisselle's chair.

  In the dining room we met the other girls in our dorm. With the upstairs quads, there were fifty-four in all. Three long tables were set up in the large room that was brightly lit by four big chandeliers. The walls were paneled in a dark wood, with framed prints of plantation scenes and scenes on the bayou evenly hung on each wall. Everyone was chattering excitedly when we arrived, but the sight of Gisselle in the chair quieted them down some. She returned every gaze with her own fierce look of condemnation, causing eyes to shift in every direction but hers. Vicki showed us to our places. Because of her wheelchair, Gisselle was situated at the head of our table, something she enjoyed and quickly used to her advantage. In moments she was determining the subjects of the conversation, ordering this be passed and that be passed and going off on long descriptions of her exciting lifestyle back in New Orleans.

  The girls seemed fascinated with her. Some, who looked even snobbier to me, gazed at her as if she were a ghost from the cemetery of bad manners, but Gisselle let nothing slow her down. She treated the girls who were serving our food as if they were no better than hired servants, demanding, complaining, and never once saying "thank you" for anything.