Outrun the Moon(22)

At first, I think I’m alone in the sanctuary, but then I see a figure kneeling in the front pew. She turns at the sound of my footsteps, and I catch sight of her round face framed by mahogany curls. My skin tingles. It’s the waitress I saw at Luciana’s Ristorante the day we visited the Chocolatier. How could a waitress afford to attend St. Clare’s?

More important, does she recognize me?

Her dragon eyes linger on me for a moment, then she returns to her praying without a word.

I resume breathing. Surely if she recognized me, I would’ve seen some hint of it. Thinking back to that day, I don’t remember her noticing me. Or perhaps all Chinese look the same to her.

A man of the cloth glides in from a doorway behind the altar. He is trim with slicked hair, a prominent forehead anchored by dark eyebrows, and a strong nose suggesting an aristocratic bearing. His face wears the sad yet hopeful expression that must be a requirement of his profession.

He smiles at the girl in the front row. “Good morning, Francesca.”

“Good morning, Father.”

He lifts his gaze to me and nods. “I am Father Goodwin. Welcome. Please.” He gestures to the stained-glass-dappled pews.

“Thank you, Father.”

I slip into the back row and place my knees on the padded knee rest. I send up a prayer to Ba’s Christian God that He aids my deception. This is His place after all. We are all equal in His eyes, so why not at His school, too?

Girls begin to file in on all sides. The wiry Katie, bright hair neatly braided, gives me a half wave. She toes my direction, and I hope she’s coming to sit by me, but then Harry gives her a stern look, and Katie follows her to the other side of the room. Soon the pews are full, except for mine; wood bench stretches out for miles on either side of me. Faces peer back. The only face that looks sympathetic is the bigger Southern twin, Ruby. Perhaps I’m doing too good a job of being an heiress. Or maybe they just don’t like me.

I pinch myself for being so pitiable. What did I expect—to have a parade thrown in my honor? I can handle it.

After a brief service, we are blessed, then sent to the dining hall, where forty girls (ten per grade) gather around tables set with lace tablecloths. Now, this is a room Ma would like. Morning sun dazzles off the gold ceiling, and wood floors patterned with squares provide grounding energy to the space.

Without the restrictive silence, curiosity over me reaches new heights.

“—much cleaner than the ones who live in Pigtail Alley—”

“—and skin like a doll’s.”

“Women in China put silkworm cocoons in tea to make their skin like that. I read it in one of Mr. Waterstone’s books.”

“—and they get carried around in bamboo chairs. It’s not like here.”

Headmistress Crouch stands at the front of the room, head sweeping back and forth like the beam of a lighthouse searching for trouble. “Girls! Take a seat.”

I affect a regal bearing as I scan for somewhere to park.

“You suppose she speaks English?” The talk continues.

“The ones here hardly speak any at all. Mother says they’re not bright enough.”

Someone snorts. “The girls in Chinatown hardly need English. They’re all soiled.” The speaker lowers her voice, but I catch the word just the same.

That stops me in my tracks, and I turn to the nearest table. The girls avert their gazes, and I can’t tell who spoke, though I’m not surprised to see Elodie among the circle. Next to her, a chestnut-haired girl with a long and rectangular “wood” face casts me daggers with her eyes, and I make a guess that she is the best friend I displaced. People with wood faces can be defensive and possessive.

With my ears ringing, I continue past them. The twins Minnie Mae and Ruby sit with Harry and Katie. To my surprise, the girl I saw earlier in the chapel, Francesca, sits by herself reading. I wonder if she is alone because she’s Italian. Even whites have their pecking order.

Part of me warns against tempting fate by making contact. She might recognize me after all. But another part, probably the cheeks, tells me to grab the bullet by the teeth. I will be sharing classes with her, so why put off the inevitable? I weave my way over and slide into the adjacent chair. “Good morning.”

Her thick eyelashes flicker in acknowledgment, but she continues reading.

Headmistress Crouch snaps her fingers, and maids march in with platters loaded with eggs, bacon, and towers of buttered toast. I try not to swoon at the smorgasbord, in particular, the scent of coffee, which I am lucky to have barely once a year.

Francesca digs into her breakfast with gusto. Unlike the others, she has some roundness on her, but in the right places.

“Settle down,” says Headmistress Crouch in her no-nonsense voice as the chatter escalates. “We have a visiting student among us. Miss Mercy Wong. I trust you will show her the gracious hospitality we value here at St. Clare’s.”

The room erupts in whispers and more glances in my direction.

“In other news, despite last week’s caution, you are still not turning your clothes inside out for your laundry baskets. The next person who fails to do this will help the maids wash the clothes to remind you that rules must be followed.”

Several girls gasp.

Elodie gets to her feet. “Isn’t that a little harsh, Headmistress? Surely doing laundry is not the kind of education our parents are paying for.”