Outrun the Moon(20)

Headmistress Crouch is simply another pan of sand, and I must keep shaking.

More disconcerting than a crotchety headmistress is the news that St. Clare’s isn’t on par with the Men’s Wilkes College, as the brochure had promised. Surely they learn more than how to tie their cravats and how not to make a buffoon of themselves while putting fork to mouth. I remind myself that even if I don’t learn much of substance, a diploma from St. Clare’s is still currency in the business world. I’ve sacrificed much to come here.

Tom slips into my head, and Ling-Ling materializes beside him. What if they are together right now in her bakery, where she is encouraging him to admire her fluffy buns? My scrawny self is a small-witch-meets-sorceress. Whereas her hair pours down her back like liquid onyx, mine barely grazes my cheek. Unlike my bossy bumps, her cheeks are moon-cake round. Her feet are lotus blossoms, and mine are lotus boats.

I am reminded of the proverb about the man with a single teacup to fetch water for his plants. In order to keep some alive, he had to let others die or run himself ragged. I have chosen to water this particular plant despite all its thorns, and I must simply hope my relationship with Tom can survive my absence.

On the bright side, I will be learning how to be a lady of good breeding, and if it’s a lady Tom wants, then a lady he shall get.

Someone knocks sharply. “Who’s in there?” says a girl with a deep and raspy voice. I pop up, for a minute thinking it might be a boy, and water splashes over the tub’s edge.

The doorknob jiggles insistently, and my heart sprints. Thank goodness I locked it. Awkward as a penguin climbing out of a laundry basket, I abandon ship, but in my haste, my feet slip from under me. In the split second before I land, an image of me lying dead, dressed in my most honest layer, flashes through my head. On my headstone: Mercy Wong, sunk by her own bath.

My bottom smacks the hard floor.

The doorknob jiggles again. “What’s happening in there?”

I clench my teeth. A building this size must have another washroom. “Only the usual. Give me a minute, please.” I find the towels in a basket.

“Only sophomores are allowed in this bathroom, you know,” says the voice.

Well, no one told me that rule.

Then I remember: I am a sophomore. I manage to get half of me dry and to Buddha’s foot with the rest. My dress sticks to me as I yank it over my head. In the mirror, I can see that my hair is as tangled as strained noodles. To Buddha’s foot with the hair, too, as I don’t see a brush.

Another knock feels like it’s banging directly on my rattled head.

“Hurry!” says a higher voice. “I have to make water!”

When I swing open the door, four faces peer at me: a petite redhead, a bespectacled brunette, and two girls with the same coloring who must be sisters. They have the same large ears peeking out from their wheat-colored hair like field mice. The smaller one shoulders past me, an enormous yellow hair ribbon flying like a kite tail behind her, and slams the door shut.

The petite redhead, who couldn’t be more than thirteen, exclaims in that raspy boy’s voice, “Harry, it’s the new girl.” Her eyes fall to my damp feet. “Look, her feet are normal.”

“My feet?”

The brunette, presumably Harry, adjusts her spectacles for a better look. Now everyone’s studying my anchors.

“Mr. Waterstone told us girls in China have their feet bound,” says the redhead.

“Oh.” I hadn’t thought of an explanation for why my feet were fancy-free. Ma told me not every woman in China was subject to the crippling practice, but most in the upper class were. Come on, Mercy, think like an heiress. “My father has always thought of me as the son he never had,” I say imperiously. “It is why my feet are not bound and how I’ve come to study in America.”

The redhead stares with her mouth exposed. Her friend Harry crosses her arms, her eyes receding deep into their sockets. People with deep-set eyes are naturally suspicious and hard to read.

“I am Mercy Wong.” My tone is polite but aloof.

“Harriet Wincher.” The brunette unfolds the words as if giving her name were a concession, then steps back as if I might be flammable.

The redhead sticks out her hand and gives mine a pump, stronger than I expect from a girl her size. “Katie Quinley from Red Rock, Texas.” Her face breaks out in dimples—signs of fire—not surprising given her hair color. Fire gives a person extra charm. “I’m the only Texan here, just like you’re the only Chinese person here, so I guess we have something in common.”

Harry whispers something to her that makes the Texan roll her eyes.

The third girl extends her thick and slightly moist hand. “I’m Ruby Beauregard of the South Carolina Beauregards.” Her Southern accent puts some curves in her words, but I like her genteel way of speaking. A sprig of rosemary is pinned above her breast. “Sorry about all the knocking. My twin, Minnie Mae, had an emergency.” The line that Ma calls the “hanging blade” appears between her strong eyebrows, an indication of underlying issues of frustration or worry.

Minnie Mae emerges from the bathroom. We give each other the once-over. She and Ruby must be a dragon and phoenix pair—usually boy and girl twins, though they can sometimes be the same gender. Ruby is a version of Minnie Mae that’s been soaked in water and expanded, with a wider face and thicker torso. While Minnie Mae’s eyes are close-set, indicating narrow-mindedness, Ruby’s are wide, suggesting the opposite.