Dead Beautiful
Page 11
“Hi,” I said. “I... I’m a new student.”
She nodded. “What is your name?”
“Renée Winters.”
She scanned the files with a long slender finger and handed me an envelope. I turned it over, not sure what to do. She seemed to know what I was thinking.
“Your schedule is inside.” She motioned toward the envelope. “Everything you’ll need is in your room, including your suitcases, which are being delivered as we speak. You’re in 12E, in the girls’ dormitory. Go straight out these doors and turn right. Follow the walkway past the green. When you get to the lake, you’ll see it on your left.”
I folded the envelope into my pocket. “Thanks.”
I walked down a cobblestone path through the campus, which was lined with oak and maple trees and small leafy shrubs. There were students everywhere. Girls in pleated skirts and oxfords, boys in collared shirts and ties loosened around the neck. I looked down at my cardigan and collared shirt, which I’d patched together from my mother’s closet, hoping my grandfather wouldn’t notice when I paired them with my cutoff shorts. It was the last time I could wear them, and to my relief he hadn’t said anything. But now I felt out of place. I picked up the pace, eager for the privacy of my own room.
As the path narrowed, I passed a large grassy area surrounded by trees, which I guessed was the green. Just past it was the lake, wide and still, expanding across the entire upper half of campus. The buildings reflected off the water, changing and distorting in its ripples. At the head of the lake stood a life-size statue of a bear on all fours, its face arched up toward the sky.
The girls’ dormitory was made of a soft gray stone. Even from the outside it looked clean, as if it were made entirely of bars of soap. Across the lake stood an almost identical building that was made of a slightly darker stone. It was shaded by a collection of oak trees and seemed gloomier. A few boys were walking toward it.
Inside the girls’ dormitory, the heat was on and everything had the calm coloring of warm milk. A wide stone staircase led upstairs, and I skimmed my fingers across the surface of the banister as I ascended.
My room was large and sunny with high ceilings and a fireplace. The walls were a welcoming yellow, and the sweet smell of yeast and baking bread filled the room, reminding me of home. On the far wall were two large windows overlooking the lake and the green. My suitcases rested beneath them. I bent down to begin unpacking when a cool gust of northern air blew in, followed by the sound of rustling paper.
On the desk was a large rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper. RENÉE WINTERS, it said in bold letters. Resting on top of it was a manual with the Gottfried crest embossed on the cover. I opened it. Gottfried Academy Code of Discipline. It was 157 pages long. How could there possibly be that many rules? I set it aside and tore open the parcel.
Inside was a stack of books:
Latinvs, by Evangeline Rhine
Mythology and Rituals, by Gander McPherson
Lost Numbers, edited by J. L. Prouty & Linus Moss
Soil, by Brenda Hardiman
Origins of Existence, by Paul F. Dabney
Metaphysical Meditations, by René Descartes
The Republic, by Plato
Beneath them was a series of other books by Nietzsche, Aristophanes, Aristotle, and other names that I couldn’t pronounce.
Confused, I pulled out the envelope from my pocket. Inside was a sheet of paper labeled: Second-Year Schedule: WINTERS.
Elementary Latin I
Ancient Civilization
Imaginary Arithmetic
Horticulture
Philosophy
The Arts
Crude Sciences
Horticulture? Imaginary Arithmetic? In California we studied normal things like English, Algebra, Biology, and languages that people actually spoke, like Spanish or French. What did Crude Sciences even mean?
I picked up Mythology and Rituals, which I assumed was my Ancient Civilizations textbook. Back in California, History had been my favorite subject. Out of my entire schedule, it was probably the only class I would really enjoy. But I guess I didn’t have a choice, which seemed to be a recurring theme in my life over the past few weeks.
The sound of footsteps broke my train of thought. They stopped in front of my door. Startled, I stood up and watched the knob turn and the door creak open.
A girl walked in, lugging two overstuffed duffel bags behind her. A mess of wavy blond hair was piled on top of her head, and her round cheeks were flushed from walking up the stairs. With a sigh, she let a bag drop from her shoulder. It fell to the ground with a thud.
“Who are you?” I asked, confused.
“Eleanor,” she said, fanning her face with her hand. “Eleanor Bell.”
She was carelessly pretty, with rosy skin and wisps of windblown hair framing her face in a way that made her look like she had just stepped off a private yacht in Nantucket.
“So why...what are you doing in my room?”
“What are you talking about?” she said, looking at me as if I were crazy. “I’m your roommate.”
“Oh.” I felt my face turn red. In my hurry to open the package, I hadn’t even noticed that there were two beds. I looked around the room more carefully and realized that it was true, there seemed to be two of everything: two desks, two chairs, two wardrobes, all divided by a fireplace. “They didn’t tell me I had a roommate.”
“They almost didn’t tell me either. My old roommate left Gottfried at the last minute, and I was set to have a huge single all to myself...until a few days ago.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Sorry.”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. It’ll be fun. Besides, living by yourself can get lonely.” She looked at my legs and frowned. “You know you’re not in dress code.”
I glanced down at my shorts and then at her outfit. She was wearing an impossibly short wool skirt, a perfectly pressed white collared shirt, and black knee-highs. I imagined that her parents were the sort of people who owned horses and played tennis on the weekend after hosting large brunches on their waterfront estate. “And you are?”
Eleanor ignored my comment. “No denim or clothes with writing on them,” she recited. “Only skirts, collared shirts, and stockings. And if you want to wear pants, you have to wear a blazer.”
I rolled my eyes. What was the point in getting so dressed up for school? “Well, I think I look fine.”
Eleanor scoffed at me, sticking her button nose into the air. “You look fine for going to the beach. We’re at Gottfried Academy! One of the oldest and most competitive schools in the country. Do you know how many people would die to be in your position?”
She nodded. “What is your name?”
“Renée Winters.”
She scanned the files with a long slender finger and handed me an envelope. I turned it over, not sure what to do. She seemed to know what I was thinking.
“Your schedule is inside.” She motioned toward the envelope. “Everything you’ll need is in your room, including your suitcases, which are being delivered as we speak. You’re in 12E, in the girls’ dormitory. Go straight out these doors and turn right. Follow the walkway past the green. When you get to the lake, you’ll see it on your left.”
I folded the envelope into my pocket. “Thanks.”
I walked down a cobblestone path through the campus, which was lined with oak and maple trees and small leafy shrubs. There were students everywhere. Girls in pleated skirts and oxfords, boys in collared shirts and ties loosened around the neck. I looked down at my cardigan and collared shirt, which I’d patched together from my mother’s closet, hoping my grandfather wouldn’t notice when I paired them with my cutoff shorts. It was the last time I could wear them, and to my relief he hadn’t said anything. But now I felt out of place. I picked up the pace, eager for the privacy of my own room.
As the path narrowed, I passed a large grassy area surrounded by trees, which I guessed was the green. Just past it was the lake, wide and still, expanding across the entire upper half of campus. The buildings reflected off the water, changing and distorting in its ripples. At the head of the lake stood a life-size statue of a bear on all fours, its face arched up toward the sky.
The girls’ dormitory was made of a soft gray stone. Even from the outside it looked clean, as if it were made entirely of bars of soap. Across the lake stood an almost identical building that was made of a slightly darker stone. It was shaded by a collection of oak trees and seemed gloomier. A few boys were walking toward it.
Inside the girls’ dormitory, the heat was on and everything had the calm coloring of warm milk. A wide stone staircase led upstairs, and I skimmed my fingers across the surface of the banister as I ascended.
My room was large and sunny with high ceilings and a fireplace. The walls were a welcoming yellow, and the sweet smell of yeast and baking bread filled the room, reminding me of home. On the far wall were two large windows overlooking the lake and the green. My suitcases rested beneath them. I bent down to begin unpacking when a cool gust of northern air blew in, followed by the sound of rustling paper.
On the desk was a large rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper. RENÉE WINTERS, it said in bold letters. Resting on top of it was a manual with the Gottfried crest embossed on the cover. I opened it. Gottfried Academy Code of Discipline. It was 157 pages long. How could there possibly be that many rules? I set it aside and tore open the parcel.
Inside was a stack of books:
Latinvs, by Evangeline Rhine
Mythology and Rituals, by Gander McPherson
Lost Numbers, edited by J. L. Prouty & Linus Moss
Soil, by Brenda Hardiman
Origins of Existence, by Paul F. Dabney
Metaphysical Meditations, by René Descartes
The Republic, by Plato
Beneath them was a series of other books by Nietzsche, Aristophanes, Aristotle, and other names that I couldn’t pronounce.
Confused, I pulled out the envelope from my pocket. Inside was a sheet of paper labeled: Second-Year Schedule: WINTERS.
Elementary Latin I
Ancient Civilization
Imaginary Arithmetic
Horticulture
Philosophy
The Arts
Crude Sciences
Horticulture? Imaginary Arithmetic? In California we studied normal things like English, Algebra, Biology, and languages that people actually spoke, like Spanish or French. What did Crude Sciences even mean?
I picked up Mythology and Rituals, which I assumed was my Ancient Civilizations textbook. Back in California, History had been my favorite subject. Out of my entire schedule, it was probably the only class I would really enjoy. But I guess I didn’t have a choice, which seemed to be a recurring theme in my life over the past few weeks.
The sound of footsteps broke my train of thought. They stopped in front of my door. Startled, I stood up and watched the knob turn and the door creak open.
A girl walked in, lugging two overstuffed duffel bags behind her. A mess of wavy blond hair was piled on top of her head, and her round cheeks were flushed from walking up the stairs. With a sigh, she let a bag drop from her shoulder. It fell to the ground with a thud.
“Who are you?” I asked, confused.
“Eleanor,” she said, fanning her face with her hand. “Eleanor Bell.”
She was carelessly pretty, with rosy skin and wisps of windblown hair framing her face in a way that made her look like she had just stepped off a private yacht in Nantucket.
“So why...what are you doing in my room?”
“What are you talking about?” she said, looking at me as if I were crazy. “I’m your roommate.”
“Oh.” I felt my face turn red. In my hurry to open the package, I hadn’t even noticed that there were two beds. I looked around the room more carefully and realized that it was true, there seemed to be two of everything: two desks, two chairs, two wardrobes, all divided by a fireplace. “They didn’t tell me I had a roommate.”
“They almost didn’t tell me either. My old roommate left Gottfried at the last minute, and I was set to have a huge single all to myself...until a few days ago.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Sorry.”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. It’ll be fun. Besides, living by yourself can get lonely.” She looked at my legs and frowned. “You know you’re not in dress code.”
I glanced down at my shorts and then at her outfit. She was wearing an impossibly short wool skirt, a perfectly pressed white collared shirt, and black knee-highs. I imagined that her parents were the sort of people who owned horses and played tennis on the weekend after hosting large brunches on their waterfront estate. “And you are?”
Eleanor ignored my comment. “No denim or clothes with writing on them,” she recited. “Only skirts, collared shirts, and stockings. And if you want to wear pants, you have to wear a blazer.”
I rolled my eyes. What was the point in getting so dressed up for school? “Well, I think I look fine.”
Eleanor scoffed at me, sticking her button nose into the air. “You look fine for going to the beach. We’re at Gottfried Academy! One of the oldest and most competitive schools in the country. Do you know how many people would die to be in your position?”
