Empress of the World (3 page)

When I get down to breakfast, I see that I’m dressed almost exactly like Isaac, which is embarrassing. The only difference is that he’s wearing sandals. I don’t see Kevin—maybe he sleeps late.

Battle’s in a sleeveless dark blue blouse, tan leggings, and brown leather boots. Katrina has a white dress with pictures of buildings and people silk-screened onto it in black—it’s like she’s wearing a silent movie—neon green tights, and purple combat boots. She has her hair up, clipped into several clothespins that she has spray-painted silver.

I am boring. They probably don’t even want to talk to me.

“Hey, Nic! Over here!” yells Katrina.

I can’t stop smiling.

 

Appropriately enough, the Archaeology classroom is in the basement. There are more desks than people; there are only about twenty of us in the class.

The teacher—professor, actually, which is a big deal because a lot of the other classes are taught by graduate students—is sitting on the edge of her desk with her legs crossed, holding a coffee mug from the dining hall.

Her name, which she has written on the board in large sloppy letters, is Ms. Fraser. She pushes her curly brown hair out of her eyes and says, “This is the Archaeology class. Anyone who’s here expecting anything else should leave now. Don’t be embarrassed, we’ve all gone into the wrong room at one time or another.”

No one leaves. She continues. “All right. So first off, we’re going to go around the room and you’re each going to say your name and why you want to study archaeology.”

Most people’s answers are boring: “It just looked like it would be interesting.” Two boys, Alex and Ben, are arrogant, too: “I wanted something challenging—I’m so far ahead of my grade level that there’s really nothing for me at my regular school.” “I was already studying Greek and Latin, so I thought this would make a good addition.” The only funny answer comes from a girl wearing all black in the back of the room: “I want to desecrate graves.” I don’t think she meant it to be funny, though.

I’m last, and I tell the truth, that I’ve wanted to be an archaeologist since I knew what archaeology was. “And when was that?” asks Ms. Fraser.

“When I read Come, Tell Me How You Live—it’s this book Agatha Christie wrote about going on a dig with her husband,” I say.

Anne, the girl next to me, says, “I read that too!” We smile at each other.

Ms. Fraser takes a sip of coffee, then says, “All right, people, now that we all know each other so intimately, I’m going to talk at you for a while. I don’t have very much time with you—this is a third as much time as I get when I’m teaching college—so I’m going to go fast.” She goes on: “I’m here to tell you the truth, and I’m telling you now so you can get out while you still can and sign up for English Lit or Political Science.

“Archaeology is garbage.”

She takes another sip of coffee.

“Let me say that again, in case you didn’t catch it. Archaeology is garbage. It is, to be precise, the art of sorting through the fragments that people have left behind, and trying to draw conclusions about their lives and their cultures based on those fragments.

“Your job in this class is to learn various ways to find the garbage, and then various other ways to classify it once you’ve found it. You won’t get a lot of hands-on in this course, and I’m sorry about that, but at the very least you’ll get to visit an in-progress dig, and you may get to do more than that—I’m still working out some details. Any questions so far?”

“Yes, I have a question. I want to know how you can call the promulgation of the whole human race garbage. I think it’s totally disrespectable and I’m surprised that you as a professor would indulge in such mockery.”

This comes from Alex, Arrogant Boy Number One.

Ms. Fraser blinks a couple of times, then laughs. “Thanks for raising that point, Alex. When I say archaeology is garbage, I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I’m a professional garbage collector, and I’m getting paid not very much money to entice you all to be garbage collectors too. If I didn’t love what I do, I wouldn’t be here.

“But I think it’s very important to impress on you from the beginning that glamour is not what this is about. You need to be able to do painstakingly detailed work, keep scrupulous track of what you find, be conscious of your own biases—and always be ready to be surprised. I’ll be preparing you for the ‘surprise’ part by giving some pop quizzes throughout the term.”

Everyone groans. She smiles.

“I’m looking forward to teaching this class. I always do. And I also think it’s important for you to know that I don’t stop being available to you when the class ends. I’ve written lots of recommendations, and I’m delighted to give feedback about archaeology and anthropology programs at various colleges and universities. I know lots of people in this field. And I do answer my e-mail, although sometimes it may take a while.”

Alex raises his hand again. Ms. Fraser nods. He asks,

“Do you think the program at Harvard is worth anything these days?”

Good God, what a putz. He makes my stomach hurt. I always get embarrassed when I’m around people who have no idea how annoying they are. Ms. Fraser says, “You can come to me with questions about specific programs outside of class. We’re too pressed for time as it is.”

Nicely done! I smile at Ms. Fraser. Then I whisper to Anne, “Can you believe he even asked that?”

She whispers back, “Yes, unfortunately. He’s from my school. We rode up together.” She makes a face.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Anne adds, “His dad is just like him, only worse. I wanted to have my boyfriend drive me up, but John had to work. He’s a lifeguard.”

I immediately conjure up a mental picture of a beefy tanned guy with a whistle around his neck and a baseball cap on backwards, zinc oxide painted on his nose.

“Do you have a picture of him?” I ask, and Anne beams. I think I’ve just scored several points. She opens her neat gray leather purse, removes a matching wallet, and flips it open to reveal a picture of her in a severe black dress with her hair up, next to a guy in a white tux and black cummerbund. I would have thought he was her brother if I didn’t know already that he was her boyfriend John the lifeguard.

“I miss him so much already,” she whispers. “This was at Homecoming last fall.”

I smile, deciding not to tell her that I think school dances are some of the most outrageous wastes of time and money that I can imagine.

Ms. Fraser clears her throat, from directly behind me. “Any other questions?” she asks. Anne and I blush and stop talking.

Ms. Fraser passes out the syllabus and tells us that she has a few extra copies of each book in case we didn’t get a chance to order them before we got here, “or if you put them in that suitcase that got sent to Belize by mistake.”

It’s going to be more reading than anything else, and then discussion of what we’ve read. Good—I was nervous about the idea of actually digging up anything. I’m so clumsy that I’d probably end up falling into the trench onto some incredibly valuable artifact. I wonder if part of the training to be an archaeologist involves learning how not to do stuff like that.

“That’s all I’ve got for you today. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, and we’ll talk about the first reading. Any general questions?”

I raise my hand.

“I don’t know if you want to answer this, but what’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever dug up?”

“You want me to give away my secret this early?” asks Ms. Fraser.

“Am I not supposed to ask until the fifth week?” I only talk like this to teachers when I’m very sure I’m going to get along with them. I’m kind of impressed that she caught us talking, actually. Teachers usually don’t notice me doing anything besides raising my hand. Sometimes not even that.

“Well, maybe the fourth week. But I’ll tell you part of the secret now: I haven’t dug anything up, out of the ground—but I’ve discovered some fascinating artifacts. Bonus points to anyone who can figure out how I’ve done that. Tell me your guesses tomorrow.”

 

Since Ms. Fraser let us out early, what I should do is start the reading for tomorrow. What I want to do is look for Battle and Katrina, but I think that would make me an eager little puppy dog tagging along after them. So I decide to practice viola instead.

I’m not that good of a viola player. I don’t think there are many good viola players. Most of the ones I know are ex-violinists who weren’t getting anywhere. I am the only person I know who wanted to start as a violist. That’s probably why I’m first chair at school.

My viola feels warm when I take it out of its case, and I regret leaving it so close to the light from the window. I’ll have to start keeping it under my bed. It takes forever to tune, and it will only get worse when it gets more humid. I jam the A-string peg as far in as possible, but I’m afraid that it’s going to slip out of tune as soon as I let go.

As I’m struggling to tune the other strings, I look out of the window at the courtyard, which is full of trees, with a couple of benches at each end. There are some people I don’t know playing Frisbee, and I think I see Kevin with some other guys playing Hacky Sack.

I turn away from the window, open my scale book, and start to play.

 

“Carl Sutter is a god in human form,” announces Katrina at dinner, which is soggy but not entirely awful-tasting pizza. I wonder if I’ll get so used to this swill that I won’t be able to recognize good food when I get home.

“Who the hell’s Carl Sutter?” asks Isaac.

“He’s a genius, a snappy dresser, and, it just so happens, also the Computer Science teacher. You should really all drop what you’re taking while there’s still time to get in on the power and the glory that is Carl.”

I say, “Hey Battle, my teacher said something in class today about discovering artifacts without digging them up out of the ground. Is she some kind of weird archaeological psychic?”

“Oh, she is the same one! She used that line last year, too.” Battle looks pleased. She continues, “What she’s talking about is a kind of archaeology—I don’t remember the name—where you use metal detectors and other equipment to see what’s in the ground at a site, but you don’t disturb the artifacts.”

“What’s the point of that?” I ask, disappointed that the explanation isn’t more exotic.

“Well, if you dig everything up and take it away, it’s not a site any more. There’s no context,” Battle explains in her slow sweet voice.

“Oh, like a crime scene. If you disturb the body, you won’t be able to solve the murder,” says Isaac, taking his glasses off and rubbing his nose.

“Yeah, but that seems excessive. I mean, everything I know about archaeology is about people digging things up!” I say.

“This must be the politically correct kind of archaeology. You don’t cut down the rain forest, so you don’t dig stuff up, either,” Katrina guesses.

“Speaking of politically correct, my teacher is Mikhail Gorbachev,” says Isaac. “Just kidding. Actually it’s Ralph Nader. No, honestly this time—it’s Richard Nixon, raised from the dead and ready for action!”

I laugh, but nobody else does. “Who is it really, Isaac?” I ask.

“Oh, some guy. I forget his name.”

“So, not that good, huh?” I ask.

Katrina puts her hands over her mouth to make a megaphone. “Act now! Learn to make the computer obey your every command!”

“You’re really into computers,” says Isaac, with a note of wonder in his voice.

“You have a problem with girls being into computers?” Katrina demands.

“Uh oh, watch it, she’s gonna take you out, man!” says Kevin in his deliberate way.

Kevin has spent the entire meal up to this point composing. At least, that’s what I assume he’s been doing, although it looks more like he’s making a connect-the-dots version of a Jackson Pollock painting.

“No, I don’t have a problem with it. I just think computers are boring. I don’t know why anybody’s into them.” Isaac pulls all the cheese off his pizza and stuffs it into his mouth. Yuck.

“Well, you’re an infidel,” says Katrina, but she doesn’t sound angry any more. She starts explaining to him why he should care about computers, and I turn to Battle and ask, “So, what about your teacher?”

Battle says, “She’s fine,” as though I’d asked whether or not she was sick.

“Fine? Just fine? That doesn’t sound very exciting. Are you going to get to study cool stuff, at least?”

“I like history,” she says. It’s not really an answer, but I don’t seem to know how to ask her the right questions.

One of the Goth girls walks past our table. She’s wearing an amazing black satin dress with a dark red velvet vest and incredibly high-heeled black leather boots. I smile at her to show my appreciation for the outfit.

“What the fuck’s so fucking funny, bitch?” she says, and stalks off without waiting for me to reply.

Battle says, “Don’t let her get to you. The Angst Crows are like that.”

“Angst Crows?”

“That’s what I called them last year. They were in Archaeology. All they ever wanted to talk about was burial practices.”

“Oh, I think we have one of them this year, too. Do they like anybody?”

“Each other,” says Battle.

“All I did was smile at her,” I say.

Battle shrugs. “Some people think everyone wants to screw them over.”

They’re taking us on a Hike today, I guess so that we don’t shrivel up and die from studying too much. I love hiking, but I hate Hikes.

Katrina looks as though she’s on her way to the electric chair. She is wearing a T-shirt with a smiley face on it, except that the face is frowning, and black leggings with a small white repeating pattern which, up close, is revealed as the word “Fuck” in tiny type.

“It’s not as bad as it could be, y’all,” says Battle. “They could be making us do one of those nasty trust things where we have to fall into each other’s arms.” She puts a hand to her forehead and pretends to swoon, catching herself right before she loses her balance.