The Unseemly Education of Anne Merchant. Joanna Wiebe
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stalls are for. “There was a situation,” Lotus whimpers, “and my dad was presented with an ultimatum concerning me. But he didn’t take it seriously. And so my parents ended up sending me here.” She drops her gaze and folds her hands. “It’s for the best, but I desperately miss home sometimes.”
Unspoken details hang in the air, details that would require a stealthy hand to grasp them without further upsetting poor Lotus. My hand has always been prone to shaking, so I don’t press. Not with Lotus sobbing like she is. No one else seems to care much, anyway. Maybe Lotus is known for emotional overreactions or maybe they’re as self-involved as all the richies I grew up with back in Atherton.
When it’s my turn to talk, I keep the details to a minimum and close off every emotion I have about the death of my mother. My story may have arrived on this island long before I did, but that doesn’t mean I have to confirm every suspicion these people have about me.
I begin, “I went to a regular school—”
“A public school,” Harper clarifies under her breath.
“Yes, a public school in California. It was good.” I pause as my brain skips past all the other stuff. “My dad thought it would be a good idea for me to come here because it’s sure to look great on my transcripts.”
Garnet half-smiles, but no one else reacts. The stories the rest of the kids tell are at least as vague as mine, but, unlike me, everyone seems to regard Cania as an undesirable last resort. Like Siberia for teens—somewhere they’ve been exiled to. Could it be that Cania isn’t the ultimate prep school, isn’t the sure way into the Ivy League? As if to solidify my suspicion, a guy with emo eyeliner tells his ill-fated story.
“My mom and the pool boy were vacationing in the French Riviera for the millionth time,” Emo Boy says with a forced lisp. He strokes his long bangs away from his face. “So, I mean, what would you do if your parents were always leaving you with the maids?”
“Easy. Go clubbing,” Pilot says.
“I know, right?” Emo Boy tugs his sweater cuffs over his thumbs and hunches into himself. “So I was at a rave, this madass club, and, yeah, I’d taken some E—hello, it’s a rave. And there was this bitchin’ dancer in a cage, just slathered in glow paint, right?” His voice becomes muffled as, endlessly fidgeting, he shifts his fists over his mouth. “So I climbed up on some speakers. And I leapt out onto her cage. And it, like, dropped from the ceiling. And my mom had to come home early because I was in the hospital. And she was so pissed. So, yeah, here I am.”
Harper’s Thai chum, Plum, goes next. She was a child actor-turned-singer in Thailand before Cania.
“I was doing lines of coke with my dad’s friend after some red carpet event,” Plum says casually, pulling a compact out of her bag and swiping red lipstick on. “That man was more a dad to me than my real dad. Anyway, I passed out in the VIP lounge. The effing paparazzi took photos and plastered them everywhere. Bitches. So, yeah, now I’m here. No life. No shopping. Nothing but the Big V race and a dance every now and then.”
Finally, it’s Harper’s turn. She openly shifts her bra to boost her cleavage and gazes at everyone but me, which is fine because it’s taking every morsel of my brainpower to sort out what she’s wearing. These uniforms are head-turning without modifications, yet she’s replaced her white shirt with a superlow V-neck tank, “forgotten” her tights, and hiked her skirt up wicked high. (I should not know she wears a red thong, and yet I do.) Sure, she has sleek hair, a cool Balenciaga blazer, and accessories that would make Rachel Zoe look like a pauper, but nothing can mask the truth: she’s over-the-top sleazy.
“This is my second year at Cania, y’all. My daddy said I should come here after last Christmas,” Harper says. Stroking a thick lock of red hair with both hands, she stares into space. “We had what you might call a falling out. I wanted Santa to get me a pink Hummer, but my stepmonster said if I wanted to get around so bad I should try riding our expensive horses for a change. So I thought of this great plan, y’see, to get back at her for it. And, sure, I admit I overdid it and my plan sort of backfired. But I blame her for that. Whatevs. No one was really happy with what I done. I had to come here, and that’s that.”
As I’m imagining Harper’s unspoken revenge attempt gone awry, her tone shifts. Her eyes narrow intentionally, like she saw someone do that on a bad TV drama once.
“But, well,” she continues softly, “y’know how they say you can cut off a dog’s tail, but you can’t sew it back on?” Confused silence. “I think you can. And with my plans to get the Big V, I’m gonna fix my mistakes.” She flicks a stern gaze at me. “Everybody best remember not to get in my way.”
That single comment starts an uproar with everyone but me and Pilot. He catches my eye and, smiling, mouths, “Get used to this.”
I stagger out of class and attend the rest of my orientation sessions, like Using the Dewey Decimal System (no Internet here) and Living Your PT. I survive lunch by avoiding the cafeteria; instead, I head down to the waterside, where I’m surprised to find dozens of kids sitting on logs and boulders up and down the water. Yet again, no one is talking to anyone else. No one.
The rest of the afternoon I notice that strangely cold behavior more. Everyone’s totally separated by this insanely tense isolation. I’d been worried about cliques I’d have to wrestle my way into via demeaning rites of passage—sleeping in a frozen bra or making out with, like, a rock—but that couldn’t be further from reality. Everyone here interacts formally. Coldly. Shaking hands when instructed but rarely meeting eyes. Twice, fights break out between kids who look so straight-laced and suburban—geeky, even—I have to hold my breath to keep from laughing. The only moments of relief come from Lotus, who happily pairs with me at one point, and Pilot, who seems to be smirking with me—like we’re in on some private joke—every time I pass him on campus.
“What’s so funny?” I finally ask him. It’s the end of orientation day, and we’re both leaving a workshop called Help Your Guardian Help You. Teddy was sitting next to me in the workshop; thankfully, Villicus called him to his office, and I haven’t seen him since.
“Funny?” he asks, but he’s smiling like even that’s funny.
“Am I missing something?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Do you only answer questions with questions?”
“Have you noticed that?”
Exchanging a smirk, we push through the doors. The air outside is like a wet slap.
“It’s like living in a raincloud here,” I say, buttoning my cardigan and longing for Gigi’s fish-stank coat. “Is it always like this?”
“You’ll get used to it.” Pilot halts in his tracks, forcing me to stop, too. “Listen, I’m not weird, if that’s what you think. I just wanted to talk to you more. Y’know, because it sort of feels like we know each other. Because of our dads and stuff.”
“Totally,” I say and watch my breath turn white before being absorbed into the misty air. “Your dad, like, got me in here.”
“From what I understand, your dad did that all by himself.”
“From what I understand, your dad is my benefactor.”
“Ha!” he scoffs. Pilot and I start to stroll again. We meander across the quad, heading toward the dorms and passing grumpy kids accompanied, at times, by stone-faced Guardians. “That’s the first and last time my dad will ever be called bene anything. I should’ve recorded it for posterity.”
“Well, it was awesome of him. I can’t say that I’d pay some random kid’s tuition to a place like this, even if I had the money and thought her art was half-decent.”
“Pay your tuition? Is that what you think my dad did for you?”
We stop again.