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  When Meryl Lee finished, she said, “I’m going to go for a walk to explore.”

  “Don’t you have a duvet for your bed?” said Jennifer.

  Meryl Lee shook her head.

  “So your bed is going to look like that all the time.”

  “I guess so,” said Meryl Lee. She tried to say it with a little laugh.

  None of the girls said anything.

  “Anyone want to explore with me?” said Meryl Lee.

  “I’d—” Charlotte began.

  “I suppose not,” said Jennifer.

  “We’ve been at St. Elene’s together forever,” said Ashley. “Why would you think there’s any place left for us to explore?”

  “Maybe there’s something you haven’t seen before,” said Meryl Lee.

  “There isn’t,” said Ashley.

  Meryl Lee knelt and tried to slide her suitcase under her bed.

  It didn’t quite fit, and she felt their eyes upon her as she struggled, then forced it under.

  “Unless you find St. Elene’s Arm,” said Jennifer. “No one’s seen that before.”

  Meryl Lee looked up at her. “St. Elene’s Arm?”

  “It’s hidden somewhere on campus. Her mummified arm. Only the Knock knows where it is.”

  “The Knock?”

  “MacKnockater,” said Ashley, as if Meryl Lee was such a dope.

  “It’s not just her arm,” said Jennifer. “There’s a ring on each of her fingers: a diamond ring, a ruby ring, a sapphire ring, and a pearl ring. And whoever finds the arm gets to keep one of the rings. That’s the school tradition.”

  “So has anyone—”

  “No. I told you: no one has ever seen it. But maybe you’ll find it while you explore.”

  Ashley began to laugh.

  Meryl Lee’s face reddened.

  “I’ll keep my eyes open,” she said.

  “Do that,” said Jennifer. “And if you find it, maybe we can each choose one of the rings.”

  Ashley and Charlotte were both laughing now.

  Meryl Lee left. Laughter followed her under the dark beams and along the soap-smooth wood floor and down the white hall, where all the doors were open and all the rooms were filled with groups of girls on their beds and on their floors and on their window seats and on their toes, holding transistor radios and dancing.

  She walked past Greater Hoxne and Lesser Hoxne and past Sherbourne House, sometimes jostled by groups of girls who straddled the sidewalks and did not even see her, it seemed. She walked past Putnam Library, and past smiling Julia Chall and Barbara Rockcastle and Elizabeth Koertge—who probably smiled because they had been going to St. Elene’s together forever and who wouldn’t smile about that?

  Meryl Lee walked alone, without a whole lot of Resolution.

  Except she had resolved not to cry.

  She walked beyond Newell Chapel and past the commons behind Newell, and past three white barns and past a couple of sheds and through a line of shady maples, and suddenly St. Elene’s was all behind her and she was out by an open field, woods beyond, and between them lots of long painted fences. Unseen, a crow was cawing, cawing, cawing, but other than that, it was quiet and still. She walked past the long fences, then steeply down a footpath that led straight toward a stand of birches, as white as the fences. She ran her hands along their papery bark until she came into a grove of firs where thin branches brushed against her on both sides.

  And then, suddenly, the firs curtained open and revealed the blue waves and the green islands and the white gulls and that white and red sail scudding along and the gray rocks a-tumble down to the water and the bleached driftwood upon them.

  She sat down, and even though she could feel the Blank lurking behind her, it was a little easier without Jennifer and Ashley and Charlotte from Charlotte lurking in front of her.

  * * *

  Meryl Lee got back to her room just before dinner at noon; Jennifer and Ashley and Charlotte from Charlotte were gone. Quickly she knelt and dragged her suitcase out from under the bed. She looked into the closet and decided she wouldn’t hang up what was in her suitcase next to Jennifer’s blouses and dresses on pink plush hangers—even if there had been room. So she stuffed everything into her dresser drawers—including her Camillo Junior High sweatshirt—and tried to fill herself with the Resolution she knew she would need to face the meal.

  But when she walked into Greater Hoxne, she knew that she would need a whole lot more Resolution than she had imagined.

  Orange and yellow floral arrangements. White linen tablecloths on round tables. White linen napkins. White china plates with a pale floral design. Heavy silverware. Heavier crystal. Bettye and Alethea lined the walls with other girls wearing bright white aprons over their black dresses—all of them looking down at the floor. The tinkling of glasses, the scraping of chairs. Warm Parker House rolls on the tables. Small square pads of white butter by each plate. Tiny bowls of salt with tiny silver spoons.

  Upper school girls on the north side. Lower school girls on the south.

  Meryl Lee sat beside Jennifer—because who else was she going to sit next to?—and Jennifer sighed and scooted her chair a little closer to Ashley and Charlotte. Jennifer wore a string of pearls. The kind of pearls that blond demigoddesses wear whenever they want. Their luster glowed like the luster of Jennifer’s blond hair.

  Meryl Lee looked around Greater Hoxne Dining Hall.

  Probably all the smiling girls here had sat beside all the other smiling girls for forever.

  Probably all their smiling mothers knew one another.

  And their smiling grandmothers, too.

  Then the double doors to the kitchen opened and Bettye and Alethea each pulled out a silver cart with chilled fruit cups on white linen cloths to serve the eighth-grade upper school girls of St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy.

  Ashley was the last one at their table to be served—by Bettye.

  “Town girls are so slow sometimes,” she said.

  Bettye leaned down and placed a chilled fruit cup in front of Ashley.

  “And they don’t even know to serve from the right,” said Ashley.

  Meryl Lee felt Bettye stiffen.

  “That’s because they grew up on farms,” said Charlotte.

  “I went down to the shore this afternoon,” said Meryl Lee.

  Bettye stood and looked at Meryl Lee.

  “You didn’t find St. Elene’s Arm?” said Ashley.

  Jennifer fingered her pearls. “I’m missing the spoon for my fruit cup,” she said.

  Immediately Bettye turned and went to fetch the spoon. When she brought it back, she did not look at Meryl Lee again. She didn’t look at anyone at the table again.

  And for the rest of the meal, Jennifer and Ashley and Charlotte talked about Stephanie DeLacy and how they wished she wasn’t in Budapest.

  Which was probably why Meryl Lee did not want to go back to Netley right away after dinner was finished, and the white china dishes had been taken away, and Mrs. Hannah Adams Mott, Associate Headmistress of St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls since Genesis, had given the announcements regarding the first day of classes on Monday. Arm in arm, the girls left Greater Hoxne Dining Hall in their smiling groups, but Meryl Lee wandered alone down to the main gate, walking on the loose gravel until she reached the gate and turned back toward the school; she was almost startled by how beautiful St. Elene’s looked in the long September light. The buildings glowed softly, their windows reflecting the solid yellow. Sunlight ribboned around the steeple of Newell Chapel, then bore off into the trees, where an early afternoon breeze was taking a few leaves off their branches to twirl down to the perfect trim of the green lawn.

  Meryl Lee wondered if there might come a time when she would feel a part of this school. Or if she even wanted to.

  And then, unaccountably, she thought of Bettye.

  Seven

  Three days after Matt’s lobster dinner with Mrs. MacKnockater, late at night, Matt found his
way to Captain Cobb’s shed, limping. His hand held his back, and his face was white enough to be seen even in the pale light of a quarter moon. He crawled inside. He pulled himself toward the water pump. Then he took two steps toward his bed. Then he fell to the floor, bleeding along the new slash that opened to his low ribs.

  His left arm twisted strangely beneath him.

  * * *

  When Matt woke up, he was bouncing up and down in the darkness.

  Bouncing up and down—and it hurt like hell.

  He tried to yell, but his mouth wasn’t working. His eyes either, or at least, his left eye. His right opened a little bit, and he could see he was moving past dark pines. He thought that it might be nighttime.

  “Georgie?” he got out.

  Wheezing came back at him. Someone really old, wheezing.

  Not Georgie, then.

  He was being carried.

  His left arm lay across his stomach, sort of held against his body. His right arm hung down, and he raised it up to push against whoever was carrying him.

  “Lie still.”

  “Get . . .”

  “I said, lie”—there was a long pause, and more bouncing up and down, with lots of wheezing—“still.”

  Matt tried to open his right eye wider, but it hurt like hell too.

  “Where’s Georgie?”

  They were going slower. Uphill. More wheezing. Matt closed his eye. Uphill very slowly. They stopped, and Matt felt whoever was carrying him sink down. Kneeling, maybe.

  The breathing was so heavy.

  “For such a scrawny kid . . .” whoever was carrying him said.

  When he heard a car coming, Matt opened his eye and saw the headlights. And he saw who was holding him in his arms.

  “I can tie a buoy hitch,” he said.

  “Shut up,” Captain Hurd said. Matt heard the car stop. A door opened. He heard someone call, “Captain.” And he heard, “Help me. For God’s sake.”

  Then everything was dark again, and Matt felt himself falling into deep water, deep water, deep water, where only God could see him.

  * * *

  He woke up. He hurt. A lot. He decided that the deep water was better, so he let himself sink down. He looked around for whales and thought he saw one swimming toward him.

  Then it was dark.

  * * *

  He woke up again. He still hurt, but maybe not as much. Well, maybe as much. He could open his right eye most of the way, and without turning his head, he looked around the room, which was humming. Or something in the room was humming. Or maybe it was snoring—or both, since there was Mrs. MacKnockater, sitting perfectly straight in a chair—as she did—wearing her hair in a bun—as she did—except that the bun was mostly coming apart, which hers would never do. At least, it never did when Matt was around. She was sleeping. And snoring.

  The hum grew louder, sort of like the ocean when it was calmest and just swelling a little bit.

  He closed his eye.

  And it was dark.

  * * *

  He woke up again. He opened his right eye and let his head turn a little. A window, and the night sky. He let his head turn the other way. A lit hallway. He looked above him. A soft light—the humming he’d heard before, and now.

  He thought he should get up and pee. He wondered what he was wearing. He looked down.

  Oh, man.

  Then he wondered why he didn’t have to pee too bad, and he explored.

  Oh, God.

  He closed his eye.

  Dark.

  * * *

  The next time, his right eye opened, and some of his left. It took him a little while to figure out how to make the two of them work together, partly because someone was standing right over him and it was hard to focus.

  “Matthew,” the someone said, “wake up now.”

  He looked at Mrs. MacKnockater.

  “Wake up,” she said.

  He closed his eyes. “Why?”

  “Matthew, it’s time to open your eyes and wake up.”

  Eyes closed.

  “Listen, you scrawny deckhand. Open your damn eyes.”

  Matt opened his eyes.

  Captain Hurd stood next to Mrs. MacKnockater.

  “You . . . dotard. That language!”

  “It worked, didn’t it? He opened his eyes.”

  “This is a hospital. And he’s a boy.”

  “You think he’s never heard anyone say ‘damn’ before?”

  “Hurd!”

  “Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn.”

  Matt started to laugh. He was amazed at how much it hurt to laugh. He was amazed at how many places it could hurt when he laughed.

  “Matthew, are you awake?”

  “He’s awake. He’s laughing. You don’t laugh when you’re not awake.”

  “Matthew,” said Mrs. MacKnockater, “are you hungry?”

  “He hasn’t eaten in three days. Of course he’s hungry,” said Captain Hurd.

  “Will you shut up?” said Mrs. MacKnockater.

  Matt looked at them. He tried to keep his left eye open, but it was starting to close down again.

  “Three days?” he said.

  He felt Mrs. MacKnockater’s hand touch the side of his face. That hurt too, but it had been so long since someone had touched the side of his face like that, he didn’t say anything.

  “He probably has to pee, too.”

  “Hurd, if you won’t stop . . .”

  “Don’t you?” said Captain Hurd.

  Matt shrugged. That hurt too.

  “We’ll go get the nurse,” said Mrs. MacKnockater. And with his right eye, Matt watched them go off together, and he wasn’t at all sure what it was he felt then. Whatever it was, it didn’t hurt.

  But he fell asleep before the nurse came back.

  * * *

  Over the next two days, Matt’s hospital room was filled with Captain Hurd and Mrs. MacKnockater—mostly Mrs. MacKnockater. Matt figured the Captain had to be out in Affliction during the day, probably needing him. But, as the Captain pointed out, what with Matt’s left arm being in a sling, he wasn’t going to be tying buoy hitches and laying traps anytime soon. Mrs. MacKnockater, meanwhile, was reading him The Jungle Book, which, she said, was a whole lot better than Mr. Disney’s cartoon—which Matt hadn’t seen anyway, so it didn’t matter.

  The Jungle Book was okay.

  But there were a lot of other people in the room too.

  The nurse who kept waking him up to change the dressings on his face, his chest, his back, and who kept reminding him that he really needed to be resting on his side—which, if you do that for a couple of hours, is really hard to do.

  The cop who had lots of questions, like “Who did this to you, kid?”

  Matt didn’t say.

  “You trying to protect someone? Who are you trying to protect?”

  Matt didn’t say.

  “He could have killed you, you know.”

  Matt let his left eye close.

  “Did you get a shot at him?”

  “I broke half his ribs,” said Matt.

  The cop looked at Matt’s left hand. At the split knuckle there. “That why he broke your arm?”

  Matt let his right eye close.

  “I’m just trying to help you, kid. All I got to go on right now is a guy with some broken ribs.”

  Matt snored.

  The cop wasn’t the only one who wanted to help. Miss Phyllis, a social worker, wanted to help too.

  “Matthew, we need to contact your family. Can you tell us where they are?”

  Nothing from Matt.

  “Can you tell us their names? Do they live in Maine? In New England?”

  He had no idea.

  Matt didn’t even try to keep his eyes open for those questions.

  Two days of all that, until his doctor—who was a good guy and only asked where it ached and who always told him when he was about to do something that he knew would hurt—told him he could go home on Sunday.


  Miss Phyllis was in the room when the doctor told him that.

  “We still haven’t found a placement for him,” she said.

  Mrs. MacKnockater was in the room too.

  “He’ll come to live with me,” she said.

  “We are legally required to send him to an approved placement,” Miss Phyllis said.

  Mrs. MacKnockater allowed her considerable bulk to arise.

  Miss Phyllis said that exceptions could be made on the occasion of an emergency.

  * * *

  When the doctor and Miss Phyllis left, Mrs. MacKnockater sat down to read. “We’ll finish these last few pages, then pack everything up so you can come home in the morning,” she said.

  Matt looked at her a long time.

  “Okay, Long John,” he said.

  Mrs. MacKnockater looked at Matt a long time.

  “That reference,” she said, “is both to the wrong novel and of the wrong gender.”

  Matt looked at her again, his left eye only a little closed. “So maybe something from The Jungle Book, then. Like Bagheera.”

  “That would be unnecessary,” said Mrs. MacKnockater.

  “Bagheera. Bagheera works.”

  “Bagheera is a black panther, which I am not. And the gender referent is still incorrect,” Mrs. MacKnockater said.

  But she smiled and began to read.

  Eight

  The next Monday, after a weekend of enforced bonding activities that would have left Holling rolling in laughter on the ground and that exhausted Meryl Lee in her fight against the Blank—really, a fashion show by the senior students? really?—classes at St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls began.

  Meryl Lee—who had lived eight minutes from Camillo Junior High if she walked and four and a half minutes if she ran and so had been used to getting up eleven minutes before she had to be at school—found out that a lot happened at St. Elene’s between waking up and sitting in a classroom.