Jemimah Calthorpe de Vyle-Hanswicke strode into the hallway of the art block, ramming straight into a freshman girl who was balancing a pot of paint in her hands.
“Shove off!” Mimah barked.
The girl dropped her cargo, splattering thick tendrils of orange over the linoleum tiles. “Ow! Help!” She screwed up her nose and took in shuddering gulps of air, the way people do when they’re about to lose their shit.
Mimah pulled her into a supply room and gave her a shake. The girl’s French braid flapped wildly against her back.
“What’s your name?”
“C-Camilla.”
“Listen up, Camilla. Don’t you dare cry. This is boarding school. It’s not a nursery. It’s not home. Your mummy isn’t coming to save you. Got it?”
The girl nodded tearfully.
“Good. Now dry your eyes and piss off. And not a word of this to anyone.”
There was no room for wimps at St. Cecilia’s, not even eleven-year-old ones. The sooner you toughen up, the better.
Mimah swept back into the corridor and up the light-filled stairway, whose walls were plastered with the charcoal portraits the juniors had drawn of one another. Miss Baskin required her Advanced Art set to do the “portrait project” every year. She always said that if you could draw someone’s character, you could draw anything. Most of the attempts hanging here had about as much character as leeches. That either said something unfortunate about the juniors’ artistic talent, or something even more unfortunate about their personalities.
Reaching the third floor—where she noted with satisfaction that she wasn’t out of breath from all the stairs, despite chucking lacrosse this term—Mimah heard strains of music. She traced the sound down the corridor until she came to the doorway of one of the smaller studios, half of whose roof was glassed over like a conservatory. It was empty except for one person: Dylan Taylor.
“Hey,” Mimah said, hovering.
Dylan didn’t turn. Probably because she couldn’t hear over the iPod speakers that Miss Baskin had allowed her students to hook up. Or maybe she was still ignoring Mimah after their fight at news hour yesterday.
Mimah watched her for a minute. The glass roof above Dylan’s head channeled the day’s gray light and illuminated the dust motes swirling round her as she worked. Mimah’s eyes widened when she noticed what Dylan was working on. All around her she’d pinned up dozens upon dozens of pictures of men. Or, to be more precise, of men’s six packs. She was hoarding tear-outs and postcards in every shape and size, ranging from Renaissance sketches to modern paintings to sex-crazed Dolce & Gabbana ads from Vogue. She was pasting some of them together into a huge collage, and every so often stood back, glue stick in hand, inspecting her design.
Despite the subject matter, for the first time since Mimah had known her, Dylan looked at peace. Mimah realized she was playing Wish You Were Here, the Pink Floyd album that Mimah had burned for her last week. Mimah was obsessed with rebellious music from the seventies and she was trying to convince Dylan of how awesome it was too.
Suddenly, standing there unnoticed, she felt a deep pang.
“Hey,” she said again, loudly.
Dylan looked up and stared at her. Then she turned the music down.
“Hey.”
“What on earth are you doing?” For some reason, Mimah always ended up being rude, even when she was trying to be nice.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m examining depictions of the male torso throughout history,” Dylan replied icily. “Then I’m going to create my own personal interpretation.”
Mimah burst out laughing. “What a load of shit. You’re using school supplies to take your porn collection to the next level.” She stopped herself. “Er, no, really Dill, I’m only joking. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Depends what you want to say.”
“Just that I’m sorry for cussing you yesterday. I didn’t mean to act like a bitch. I’m PMS-ing. You know how it is.”
Dylan sighed. She’d spent most of her free time here in the art studio during the past twenty-four hours, with only cutouts of people to keep her company. Headless people, more often than not. Spending time by herself was fine, if it was a choice. If not, it was the loneliest thing in the world.
“There was something else too,” Mimah went on. “I’d love you to teach me your dance routine—I really did think it was hot. We could use it in PTTR.”
Dylan smiled slyly. “Maybe. If you think you can do it.”
“Of course I can do it. You just swing your hips like you’re having sex, right?” Mimah gave her hoarse giggle. Then her face lit up. “Actually, why should we stop there? I vote we add even juicier moves and use it as our secret weapon.”
Dylan raised her eyebrows.
“Sonia wants to take all the credit for the show herself,” Mimah elaborated, “even though it was my idea. And she’s a bitch to you. We’ll totally upstage her with the Man Muncher. She won’t know what’s hit her.”
“What kind of ‘moves’ do you mean?” Dylan asked.
“Oh, I have a few ideas.” Mimah winked. “Just you wait.” She glanced back toward Dylan’s collage. “Can I see what you’ve made so far?”
“Sure.”
Finally stepping into the room, Mimah walked over to the easel. She shuffled through a pile of images and picked out an ancient black-and-white Calvins ad, showing Mark Wahlberg in tiny Y-fronts clutching his crotch.
“Whoa, where did you find this?”
“Just on Google. It’s so retro, isn’t it?”
“He is hot.” Mimah held it up. “Mind if I keep it?”