Casey
A funny thing about Catholic school: most of us aren’t even Catholic. Our parents dump us here for the structure or arguably “superior” academics. For the sanctity of an all-girls institution. In my case, it was a matter of geography, the result of my dad’s job landlocking us to Sandover and its immediate commutable radius. But then, there are the girls who genuinely hail from religious families. That’s how you get a girl like Jazmine. Her devout parents living the immigrant American dream, sending their daughter to an exclusive private school in the hopes it strengthens her faith and good, moral character.
So far, it doesn’t seem to be working.
Jazmine sits next to me in class now. After she witnessed me snipe at Ainsley in the hall last week, she decided we were fated to be friends, told me to call her “Jaz,” and is now my constant companion at school. I still don’t know what I think of her, but I can’t deny she’s fun to be around. She’s fluent in sarcasm. Smart as a whip. Her main goal in life is to become a famous actress, much to her parents’ dismay. They wanted an obedient Catholic girl who’d find a respectable job and husband, and instead, they got the total opposite. Jaz insists she’s moving to New York or LA after graduation and never getting married.
“Hey,” she greets me as she slides into her seat. “How’s Silver?”
I look up from my physics notes. We have a unit test this morning and I’m ill-prepared. It’s been an exhausting few days. “Still alive. Miraculously.”
When I brought the baby rabbit home four nights ago, none of us expected she’d live through the night. Sloane, who knows how quickly I get attached, keeps reminding me that something like less than 10 percent of orphaned rabbits survive. But my little gal has defied the odds so far. Well, I don’t know if she’s actually a gal, since it’s impossible to tell yet. I picked a gender-neutral name, but I like to think it’s a female.
“Has she opened her eyes?”
I bite my lip in concern. “No,” I admit.
Which tells me Silver couldn’t have been older than a day or two when I rescued her. Baby rabbits usually open their eyes when they’re about ten days old. Silver’s are still squeezed shut.
She’s fighting to stay alive, though. I feed her kitten milk replacer with a syringe twice a day. Keep her hydrated. Make sure she’s warm and cozy in her shoebox. But I know the chances of her surviving without her mother are slim.
Sister Margaret stands from behind her desk and claps her hands sharply. “Quiet down, ladies. Georgia, please pass out the test papers. And keep them facedown, everyone!” She points at the clock over the door. “Pencils cannot touch the page until the clock strikes nine.”
“Because God forbid someone gets a one-minute head start,” Jaz says under her breath.
The test is easier than I expected, and I turn it in to the sister with ten minutes to spare. Afterward, we head off to pre-calc where Jazmine gets detention after she cheerfully informs Sister Mary Alice that the next time the nun hits Jaz’s wrist with that ruler, Jaz is going to hit back. The sister is outraged, face redder than Jazmine’s sore wrist as she screeches, “Detention, Ms. Reyes!” while the class laughs into their hands.
When it’s time for lunch, we fall into step with each other on the way to the cafeteria, Jazmine’s obscenely short skirt drawing frowns from several girls, all of whom are wearing their skirts at regulation length. She remains oblivious to the stares as she tells me about some movie she watched last night.
Best thing about her is she sincerely doesn’t give a shit what people think about her, which is a valuable weapon when you’re a teenager. We were walking down the hall last week when some girl coughed the word “slut” under her breath. Totally unperturbed, Jaz stopped in front of the lockers and pretended to look devastated.
“Oh no!” she’d cried. “You found out that I lost my virginity in a threesome to those two seniors from Ballard? You’re right, Marissa, I am a slut, and I’m sooooo embarrassed and—oh wait.” Jaz grinned. “That was you.”
Then she took my arm and we left, leaving a stricken Marissa to backpedal with her wide-eyed friends. I asked Jaz if that story was true, and she’d nodded in confirmation, saying one of the boys in question was her older brother.
The girls at St. Vincent’s fear her. Funny enough, I think they’re also a little scared of me now. Ever since I snapped at Ainsley, I’ve heard the way their tone has changed in the cafeteria when they whisper about me. They’re not laughing anymore. They avert their gazes when I pass, and I’m not going to lie—I kind of like it. I didn’t know it could feel like this.
“Attention is a weapon,” Jaz tells me when she sees me noticing the change in everyone’s demeanor. “Girls like them…” She nods at Ainsley and Bree, who are walking up to the lunch line as we claim an empty table. “They always made fun of me too. There was this trio of witches at my old school who made my life miserable freshman year.”
“Really?” I can’t imagine someone as confident as Jazmine getting bullied.
“Oh yeah. They trashed my fashion sense. My makeup. Kept telling me to get back on my raft and paddle back to Cuba.” She rolls her eyes. “We’re from Puerto Rico, assholes. Anyway, it got to me back then. I used to hide. I’d take my lunch to a bathroom stall or eat in the art room with my teacher because I was terrified of them.”
“Is that why you changed schools?”
“Fuck no,” she says adamantly. “I transferred here in sophomore year because my dad got a new job and had to relocate. But about halfway through that horrific freshman year, I had my come-to-Jesus moment. Which, ironically, didn’t happen at a Catholic school.”
Laughing, I set my tray down and take a seat.
“I realized I could keep hiding and let them make me ashamed for the rest of my life, or I could turn that attention against them. Become so conspicuous, they’d be afraid to look. The best defense is a good offense, Tresscott.”
“I’d say it’s working.”
“Damn right it is. And you know what? The moment I legit stopped caring what they thought about me, the better I felt about myself. Matter of fact, I love me a whole lot more.”
I’m starting to understand what she means. There’s real power in controlling our own narrative. So when Ainsley turns from the lunch line with her tray to stare at me, I stare back.
Why choose to be the wilting flower when I can be the thorn?
“Look at the freak table.” Ainsley wears a haughty smirk when she and Bree approach us. But there’s a slight shake in her voice. She’s unnerved by my eye contact. Good. “You two giving each other matching tattoos with sewing needles later?”
“Ew,” Bree groans. “That’s, like, how you get pink eye.”
Ainsley gets a laugh from the girls at the neighboring table, but it’s forced and hesitant and recedes as soon as Jazmine glances in their direction.
“We’d invite you,” I say apologetically, “but I wouldn’t want our plans to conflict with your dick-eating contest.”
The answering gasps and laughter from the cafeteria startle me. I notice the forks paused midair and phones raised. It’s a sick sort of endorphin rush, and I know I like it more than I should.
“What?” Bree pouts at Ainsley. “You said we were on a diet.”
“It’s keto,” Jazmine says, biting her lip to keep a straight face.
I almost snort.
“Speaking of dicks, Casey, how many of them did you suck when you were locked up in the mental institution?” Ainsley’s comeback silences the room.
“Just one,” I tell her. “It was the day your dad came to visit me.”
“What the hell, you stupid bitch!”
Ainsley launches her tray at me. I dodge, and her salad flies off her plate and onto the floor. Jaz and I take our cue to bolt among an eruption of noise and camera clicks. We dash out of there, nearly dizzy with laughter.
“That was fun,” Jaz says when we come to a skidding stop near our lockers. “Do it again tomorrow?”
I’m still giggling. “I think she wanted to hit me.”
“Would you hate me if I said it would have been kind of funny?”
I shrug. I’ve never been in a fight before. Fenn used to talk about them at Sandover, and it always made me curious what it feels like to throw a punch.
As if he knows I’m thinking about him, my pocket buzzes. He’s been texting all day, as per usual.
“What’s that face?” Jaz asks.
“Nothing.”
“Who keeps texting you? That guy still?”
“Yup.”
“And you’re still over it?”
“So over it.”
***
When I get to sixth period, the sister sends me out with a pass to the headmistress’s office before I’ve even sat down. A few minutes later, I’m looking into the stern eyes of the Reverend Mother, who points a bony finger and says, “Sit down, Ms. Tresscott.”
Her bleak, austere office offers two industrial metal chairs that look like they were pillaged from a prison dumpster. Her desk is an oppressive force in the room, like it was carved from a single massive trunk of an ancient redwood. In the dimly lit space, the deep wrinkles of her pale, hardened face play tricks with the shadows.
I take a seat in one of the uncomfortable visitors’ chairs and watch as she settles behind her desk.
“I feel remiss I haven’t spoken to you sooner,” she begins with no pretense of friendliness. The Reverend Mother is an intimidating presence, and she likes it that way. “How do you feel you are settling into St. Vincent’s?”
I should be terrified of her, so I don’t know why that question strikes me as funny.
Yeah, good, Reverend Mother. After two months of dodging near-constant harassment, I finally made a friend. But I keep that to myself.
“Fine,” I say instead.
“Are you certain? I thought that was the case too, as none of your teachers mentioned you were having any troubles. But there is some concern among the sisters that you’re beginning to present a disruption in class.”
“Weird. Because up until a week ago, I’m not sure I’ve said more than ten words at one time since the semester started.”
It’s rich of them to pin the problem on me when Ainsley and her copycats have been the instigators to every interaction. Short of throwing myself out a window, how was I supposed to avoid that?
“Sister Katherine informed me of an exchange between you and two other students in class last week. And I’m told there was an altercation in the cafeteria today. Evidently, in both instances there was some disturbing language involved.”
For fuck’s sake.
“Well, for the record,” I say calmly, “Ainsley was the one shouting slurs.”
I can’t remember if I called her a cunt out loud, or if that was just in my head, so I keep it to myself.
“Perhaps you have an impression of devout women as delicate things, but I assure you, Ms. Tresscott, the women here are not fragile. And we do not tolerate disobedience. If your outbursts continue, you will find yourself in front of me again. That’s not something you should look forward to.”
I give a sarcastic laugh. “So Ainsley gets to keep being a heinous bully, and I’m supposed to shut up and take it, right? That’s how this goes?”
“If you don’t wish to have me call your father,” the Reverend Mother says flatly, “I suggest you take our conversation to heart and return to class.”
I go back to class, where I stew for the rest of the hour, wondering how it is that the bully walks away scot-free while her victim is chewed out for finally showing a backbone. After the bell rings, I head to my locker, where Sloane is on me before I’ve had a chance to switch out my books for sixth period. Pouncing like a cheetah and digging her teeth into my ankle.
“You got sent to the office?” she demands with that strained tone of frustration she inherited from Dad. “I just heard some chicks whispering about it at their lockers.”
“So?”
“So? What the hell, Case?”
I slam my locker shut and walk away, only to have her chase me.
“Would it kill you to spend some time in your own life instead of hitching a ride on mine?” I ask with an irritated sigh.
Her eyes flash. “Okay, you know what? You’ve been a fucking brat lately, and I’m sick of it. What’s your deal?”
“Oh my God, Sloane. You’re not Mom, and I don’t need a keeper. I’m fine. Also, you don’t need to wait for me after school today. Jazmine’s driving me home.”
Before she can stop me, I dip into my classroom and shut the door in her face.
I can’t be responsible for Sloane’s savior complex anymore. If she wants to martyr herself on the tombstone of our mother, that’s her damage. She can leave me out of it from now on. Maybe at one time I needed to lean on her, but it’s become suffocating. Not to mention exhausting, dragging her guilt around on my back. Everyone keeps telling me I have to get past what happened, but then they won’t let me heal. It’s become part of them, like they need me to stay sick so they can congratulate themselves for being so selfless and supportive. If I refuse to be their burden, what will they have to complain about?
At the end of the day, I find Jaz waiting for me outside on the front steps, drawing in her sketchpad. I flop down beside her and fill her in on my lashes from Reverend Mother.
“Also, have you seen her office?” I ask, shivering.
Jaz grins. “Once or twice.”
“It’s terrifying. What’s with that weird cabinet?”
“You know she’s got like an altar to some ancient demigod in there.”
“Right? I don’t know why she gives me serious American Horror Story vibes. And I can’t help thinking under those robes she’s sporting some seriously fucked-up tattoos.”
“The perfect cover,” Jaz says solemnly.
“Hey, do you want to do something this weekend?” I ask, slightly hesitant. It’s been a while since I had a friend to hang out with that wasn’t Fenn, and I’m sort of nervous I might be jumping the gun. “My sister’s being a pain in the ass, and I can’t spend another weekend locked in the house with her hounding me.”
“Yeah, okay. I’m down.”
As we’re talking, I notice a very conspicuous car pull up in the loop where parents and hired help wait for students. It’s a silver Porsche, sleek and disgustingly expensive. Sunlight sparks off Lawson Kent’s signature sunglasses when he steps out and comes around to lean against the passenger side.
Then I notice a smiling Ainsley jump up from the top step where she’d been waiting. Beaming, she starts to stride toward him.
It gives me a terrible idea.
“You know him?” Jaz asks, admiring Lawson’s tall, muscular frame.
“Gotta go. I’ll text you.”
“What—”
I’m already gone. I have to take it at a jog to beat her there, but I succeed, running up to Lawson just as Ainsley gets within spitting distance. Without missing a beat, I reach up and throw my arms over his shoulders.
“Hey, handsome,” I greet him.
Ignoring his bewildered expression, I lay a kiss on him.
With tongue.
“What are you doing?” he whispers when our lips part, those light gray eyes dancing with intrigue.
“You complaining?” I whisper back, then nip at his bottom lip.
Lawson chuckles. “Never.”
“Good.” I pull back with a mischievous smile. “Now how about you give me a ride?”