Pretend She's Here(38)
I shook my head. Nothing surprised me anymore.
“I’ll be right next door. That’s the middle school,” Chloe said, pointing at a low modern brick building across the parking lot. “We share the cafeteria, so depending on which period you get lunch, I might see you then.”
“Don’t worry, Chloe. I’ve got her back,” Carole said. I jumped hearing her voice. Had she been listening? No, she’d just circled back to walk me inside.
Chloe surprised me by giving me a quick, hard hug. Then she ran away, and I walked with Carole into Royston High.
I missed first period to fill out papers in the office, see the nurse, and make sure the Porters had sent in my medical records and immunization forms—filled out by James Renard, MD. Uncle Jim. I met the principal, Mrs. Amanda Morton, a small woman with wavy brown hair and friendly gray-blue eyes that reminded me of my mother’s. She wore a green tweed dress and one of those gold necklaces with birthstone charms, each representing a child. Mrs. Morton’s had three; my mother’s necklace had seven.
“I’ve seen your school transcripts,” Mrs. Morton said, “and I know you’ll have no problem catching up. If you need help, just ask. We’ll get you a tutor.”
“Thank you,” I said, wondering what records she had seen, how the Porters had managed to fill the gap and concoct report cards from the year after Lizzie had died.
“How are you feeling?” she asked. “We expected you at the start of school back in September, but your mother has been filling us in all along. I’m sorry to hear you’ve been so sick.”
September? Wait—if the Porters were already telling the school about me back then, it meant they had been planning to kidnap me for months. Was that why Mrs. Porter had been in the marsh in August? No wonder it had felt so strange to see her. Had she been waiting for me? Planned to take me if I’d walked closer? Had the kidnap plot already begun? A gigantic chill came over me, and I couldn’t even speak.
“Lizzie?” Mrs. Morton asked. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I managed to say.
“I hope you’ll tell us about your travels,” she said. “They sound amazing! My family went to Paris last year. Did you go there?”
“Um, yes,” I said.
“Your mother tells me you’re quite a poet. Living abroad must have inspired you. It would be fantastic if you could share some of your experiences with the school.” She smiled and explained, “Each month we have a program where students present topics and speak about their experiences. Perhaps you would be willing to do one of the next presentations. It would be a unique way for us to get to know you. A poetry reading, coupled with some thoughts about what it was like to attend school in Europe?”
Filled with panic, I could barely nod.
She walked me to my second-period class. Our heels clicked on the polished floors.
The walls were paneled in rich brown mahogany, carved with family crests and Latin mottos. There were no windows in the hall. The only light came from amber lamps on ornate brass sconces. All the classroom doors had intricately tooled doorknobs and stained glass windows, some set with crystal orbs. Beside each door was a painting of a cat—the same one in different poses. The plaster ceiling, at odd intervals, was inset with tiles of thistles and bundles of wheat. It felt spooky, more like a witches’ academy than a regular high school.
I wanted so badly to be back home, in my own school, the bright, cheerful, familiar corridors of Black Hall High, with the Apiary, where I’d study and get mesmerized by the dance of the bees. I wanted to look up and see Bea and Patrick and all my friends nearby, to hope that Dan would appear.
We walked past the library. Beside it, instead of a cat painting, was a gold-framed painting of a severe-looking, long-faced woman in a high-necked dress, her black hair held back in a tight bun and a cameo at her throat.
“That’s Sarah Royston, for whom the town and this school were named,” Mrs. Morton said. “She owned a large paper mill in the 1800s. It was very unusual at that time for a woman to be so independent—wealthy and powerful in her own right. She has a very interesting story. I hope you’ll want to learn more about her.”
“I do,” I said. I felt desperate to say something else, to beg for help, but what if Mrs. Morton didn’t believe me? She could call Mrs. Porter, and it would be all over. My chest nearly exploded, holding the words inside.
“Here we go, this is your English class,” Mrs. Morton said, stopping beside a door whose painting had the cat sleeping.
Just before we entered the room, I noticed Casey at the end of the hall, talking animatedly to the beautiful girl from his band. I held back, tempted to watch, but I had to follow Mrs. Morton inside.
“Ms. LeBlanc, students, meet Lizzie Porter,” Mrs. Morton said in a loud voice. “She is new to Royston, and I know you will make her welcome.”
Almost everyone smiled and applauded. I walked to a seat in back, shoulders hunched and my face bright red. Our principal in Black Hall would never have done that. He would have let the new students make their own way, take their time, not embarrassed them.
The worst part was wearing Lizzie’s sleek black clothes. They made me look as if I cared too much about fashion, as if I held myself above everyone else. Is that how I’d felt about Lizzie, deep down, put off by her obsession with style that veered into vanity? With a shock I realized it was, at least partly.