Outrun the Moon(42)

“I can only guess.” I glare at Elodie, or at least her profile as she gazes serenely at a silver teapot in front of her. She has easy access to my basket, though anyone could’ve come in since our doors do not lock. Wood Face, Mary Stanford, and two of Elodie’s other cronies also paste on neutral expressions.

Headmistress Crouch’s hawk eyes swoop to Elodie. “Miss Du Lac?”

“Yes, Headmistress?”

“Do you know anything about this?”

“I cannot imagine any of my classmates pulling something so petty. I think Miss Wong was simply careless and now seeks to pin the blame elsewhere.”

Headmistress Crouch grasps the knob of her cane with two hands. Is that conflict I see in her expression? Perhaps thrashing the same girl twice in less than twenty-four hours tests even her iron conscience. Or maybe she knows that Elodie is a snake and can’t be trusted.

Beside me, Francesca’s mouth is a tight line. For the first time, I notice she is not holding a book.

Finally, Headmistress Crouch breaks the silence. “Since we cannot agree on how this dress came delivered, the girls of the sophomore class will join Miss Wong tomorrow morning in laundering their soiled uniforms, and the maids can sleep in—”

“But we’re hosting the Wilksies!” protests one of Elodie’s cronies.

The headmistress glares at her interrupter. “If the laundry is not done before prayers at seven thirty, then I shall invite the members of the junior class to host the men of Wilkes College.” She knocks her cane twice on the ground like a gavel.

After a moment of shocked silence, the whispers start again.

“I’ve never had to do laundry in my life!” cries Elodie.

“What time does laundry start?” someone asks.

Headmistress Crouch looks to Beatrice, who responds, “Elma and I always start at four, but for greenhorns, maybe three.”

“In the morning?” several voices gasp.

Beatrice flashes a smug grin. “We’ve got to make the most of the day.”





18



I CAN THINK OF A HUNDRED WORSE THINGS than early morning laundry, but you’d think Headmistress Crouch was sending these girls to the military prison at Alcatraz by the way they bellyache. The only other girl who doesn’t seem fazed by the extra work is Francesca.

We trudge through the garden at three a.m. carrying lanterns. Unlike the others, I am not in uniform, preferring to do laundry in the more comfortable getup of my quilted pants and jacket.

Nobody speaks. Katie marches with grim determination, as if we were headed off to war. Harry is on her heels, and Ruby shepherds a sleepy Minnie Mae, who can barely stand straight. She has wrapped her yellow ribbon around her head to keep her hair out of her eyes. No one has bothered to wear a hat.

We crowd into the laundry room. A stove stands on the far end next to a door that must lead to the courtyard I saw the other night. Someone has lit the fire. A mountain of navy blue dresses hogs most of the concrete floor, which features a drain in the center like Ba’s shop. The solitary window is doing its best to carry away the sour reek of soiled laundry, though it’s a losing battle. The stench must have soaked into the walls, and it cannot be blown away.

Wood Face looks like she’s coming undone. Her fingers paw at her neck, and her tiny feet carry her around the four washtubs, each containing a washboard. That pesky number won’t leave me alone. “I need breakfast before I do anything or I’ll faint.” She peers inside one tub as if she might find something to eat at the bottom.

The girls shift their gazes between the mountains of laundry and the small tubs, and I’m tempted to laugh out loud. They think those tubs are for washing, even though they are hardly big enough to hold a single dress. They don’t know about the courtyard.

Elodie turns to me, eyes full of reproach. She opens her mouth, an accusation lodged like a sesame seed between her teeth. I meet her gaze, daring her to throw the first stone. Her prank got us in this stinky hovel to begin with.

“Let’s not stand here like a bunch of stupid cows,” she says at last. “We have four dresses apiece. We should all do our own rather than have someone else mess them up.” She gives me a pointed look, then sweeps her hands at the mountain. “Allez, pfft.”

We sort the dresses, and Elodie tosses one of her own into each of the four small tubs. “Letty, you’re in charge of this tub. India, Violet, and Mary, you take these others. I shall direct.”

It’s amusing to watch Elodie get her friends to do her share of the work, especially knowing these aren’t the tubs we’re supposed to use. I decide to watch how things play out. Mrs. Lowry says silence is wisdom’s best reply.

Wood Face wipes her nose on her sleeve. “Mother will pull me out of this school when she hears about this. I’ll never have the chance to give my handkerchief to a Wilksie.”

“Pull yourself together,” Elodie says crossly. “Your mother won’t find out unless you tell her.”

A pair of kettles begins to whistle. Mary Stanford chews the end of her braid. “At least we can make tea.”

“Don’t be daft,” snaps Elodie. “That boiling water is for washing. Minnie Mae, Ruby, pour the water into the tubs. The rest of you will have to wait until we finish.”

Ruby frowns at her sister, but they do as Elodie asks, using thick pads to move the kettles off the stove plates.