The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove (10 page)

who went there and he told crazy stories.”

“They’re true,” I said.

“Of course, my high school in Aurora, I’m from Illinois, was like that, too.”

“Do you like Greenwood?”

“
Chica
, this town gives me the creeps, but I get paid real good and just got

a bonus. But the people are all so aren’t-we-special.”

She shuddered dramatically, and I laughed and said, “It’s pretty though. I

didn’t know there really were places like this.”

“Compared to the hood, for sure. But everyone here is all up in everyone

else’s business and everything is so damn old. Greenwood’s like being in a time

warp.”

“Are there any stores that have things that are more affordable?” I asked.

“Nah, the whole town is expensive. Rich people don’t care about prices,”

she said. “Doesn’t the school freak you out a little?”

“You mean how hard it’s going to be? Yes, I’m a little freaked out about

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that.”

“Nah, if they brung you here it’s because you’re a brainiac. I meant the old

buildings and the trees. You know what they call Birch Grove? Bitch Grave.”

“Any reason for that?”

“People say the place is haunted. Which is totally stupid, I know. It’s hard

not to hate on the rich.”

“Crappy schools have nicknames, too. My last one, City Central, was

called Penitentiary Prep, no explanation needed.”

“That’s a good one! At Bitch Grave there was that lady that died a couple

of years ago. Is it okay if I leave you at the gate?”

“Sure. Who died?”

“A teacher or maybe a counselor?” Ornetta said. “She jumped from the

main building. See you around.”

“See you. Thanks for the lift.”

Although I knew that rich people committed suicide, too, I simply couldn’t

comprehend why they couldn’t use their money to get away from their misery, or

eliminate the cause of it.

As soon as I got in my cottage, I locked the door and looked around for a

place to hide the cash I’d gotten for the clothes. I felt stupid hiding money in my

own place, but I would have felt stupider just leaving it anywhere. I put the

money in an envelope and slid it in a narrow space behind the washer/dryer, then

covered it with lint from the dryer.

That afternoon, I read the student handbook front to back including all the

weird provisions about computers and cell phones, which couldn’t be used during

the school day. There was a whole list of rules about social networks and online

photos.

When evening came I found myself hoping that Jack would visit again and

maybe bring his brother. He didn’t, of course. I heated up the leftover pizza and

ate in front of the television.

That night I dreamed that I running away from something near the

amphitheatre. I tried to scream, but no sound came out of my mouth. Suddenly

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the branches of a birch reached down and wound tightly around me and pulled me

off the ground and away from the danger. The wind blew and the trees spoke in a

rustling, soft voice:
Jane, Jane, you belong to us!

I awoke tangled in the sheets, my skin damp with sweat, and I wasn’t able

to sleep well for the rest of the night.

Exhaustion added to my anxiety about starting school, and Sunday lasted

forever. Occasionally I went outside and looked up the hill toward the Monroes’

house. I tried to fill my day with books and television, but I wasn’t used to be

alone.

On Monday morning, I was so nervous that I couldn’t eat breakfast. My

uniform felt uncomfortably snug. “Discreet use of make-up” was allowed at

Birch Grove and but I was going to see what other girls wore before wasting

money on makeup.

At 8:15, I walked slowly through the grove. The soft rustling of the grove

soothed my nerves. I walked along the drive to the school. A stream of

expensive cars dropped off girls, and the previous hush of the school was replaced

with their excited chatter.

I didn’t see any extreme piercings, wild hairstyles, doorknocker earrings, or

protruding bellies. “Discreet make-up” seemed to be mascara and lip gloss,

although some girls wore more and some wore none at all. Most had their hair

down, but there were ponytails, short cuts, and braids.

The students’ talked excitedly, but they didn’t shriek and scream. The

uniforms made everyone blend in, a herd of blue-blazered girls moving in concert

to the school entrance.

I followed them into the building and to the gymnasium, which was set up

with tables around the perimeter. I stood in line at the W-X-Y-Z table. I got to

the front and was about to give my name when the woman there said with a smile,

“You’re Jane Williams, right? Good morning, Jane!”

I was instantly wary. “How did you know my name?”

“We study all the new girls’ files and photos so we can make them feel

welcome.”

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I didn’t feel welcome. I felt exposed.

The woman’s nametag said
Mrs. Danielson, Parent Volunteer
. She

shuffled through a file box and pulled out a glossy navy folder with the school

crest on the cover and a sticker with my name.

“Williams, Jane. These are your classes for the first term and here’s

today’s schedule and a map. After you sign up for your extracurriculars, you can

have your photo taken for your student I.D.,” she said. “We have a Refreshment

Break in the cafeteria, and the headmistress will give her welcome speech in the

auditorium. Well, it’s all here if you forget.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Certainly, dear. Next!”

I found a clear space against one wall and leaned there to read the contents

of the folder. My schedule listed Honors Chemistry, Trigonometry, Western

Classical Literature, Latin IV, and Western Culture and Civilization. There was

also something called Z Block which I could fill from a variety of courses.

I scanned the optional courses and eliminated all the ones that wouldn’t

work for me. I didn’t have a camera for photography, couldn’t act for drama,

didn’t play an instrument for band, and had never learned to draw well for art.

I decided to take Expository Writing so I could polish up my essay writing

skills for college. I wove through the crowd to the sign-up table. A poster board

displayed the school newspaper,
The Birch Grove Weekly,
and cheesy photos of

students busy in a classroom.

“Hello, Joan, right?” said the teacher at the table. She was almost as small

as me, dressed in black slacks and a pale blue cotton button-down shirt, and a

bright turquoise scarf. She wore a daring slash of ruby red lipstick.

“Jane Williams, ma’am.”

She laughed a little and said, “I have the
worst
time trying to remember the

names of all the new students. I’m Ms. Chu, the journalism teacher.” “Are you

interested in our newspaper?”

“I thought this was expository writing.”

“Yes, that’s what journalism is: expository writing. We’d be happy to

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have you on staff. Have you ever worked on a newspaper before?”

I’d barely even read one. “No, ma’am.”

“Then you’re in for a treat,” she said, flashing a smile that didn’t convince

me. “Our girls become a real team here.” Ms. Chu handed me a pen and the

clipboard.

I took them without signing. “Maybe there’s another class that will help me

with essays.”

“There are creative writing classes, but you sound like you’re interested in

something more practical,” she said. “What are your career plans?”

“I’d like to go into forensic science,” I said.

“Really?” Ms. Chu smiled and looked interested. “Which field of forensic

science? Are you interested in being a medical examiner? That can be gruesome,

not to discourage you, but I can’t deal with anything gory.”

“No, I’m thinking about being a crime lab analyst. It would all be lab work,

but I’d have to write reports, too.”

“Journalism and forensic science have things in common. You’ve got to be

objective and accurate and present facts,” she said. “Reporting has tighter

deadlines, but it’s exciting to put the paper to bed! That’s what we call it when

we meet our deadline and go to press.”

I didn’t see how there could be anything to write about at Birch Grove. Ms.

Chu seemed nice enough, though, and none of the other options interested me, so

I signed the sheet.

“See you soon, Jane!”

“Bye, Ms. Chu.”

Next I needed to get my photo for an I.D. I blinked when the camera

flashed, and the photographer said, “Let’s take another.” In fact, everyone here

seemed unnaturally
nice
. I couldn’t tell if it was good manners or if people were

just happier when they didn’t have a lot to stress about.

I had almost half-an-hour before the welcome speech. I went to the

restroom to delay having to face other students. After washing my hands for too

long and smoothing down my hair, I forced myself to the cafeteria for

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

Refreshments Break.

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“Students are expected to behave in a manner that honors Birch Grove’s

standards: to treat their peers with kindness and understanding and to offer

support.”

Birch Grove
Student Handbook

The cafeteria was entirely different from the rundown, sprawling chaos at

City Central. It was much smaller and tables were arranged in clusters. At one

end was lounge with rugs, potted plants and sofas. Between old black-and-white

photos of the school were student-made posters extolling excellence, honor and

duty.

Girls mingled in groups and I felt their eyes on me. I almost wished a big

jerk would assign a seat to me.

Tables with food and drinks were set along a wall. Another table had real

glasses, real plates, and pitchers of juice. I got a plate of fruit salad and a glass of

juice.

“Hi, Jane.”

I turned to see a brunette girl smiling at me.

She was the one who’d been at the drugstore wearing the long skirt. Her

shining brown hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and small pearls shone

in her earlobes. Her pretty hazel eyes were framed with long, dark lashes.

“Hello,” I said.

“We met when you were in town with Mrs. Monroe. I’m Hattie, Harriet

Tyler” she said with a smile. She was much taller than me, about 5’8, and

slender, but with curves. “I’m third year, too, and Mrs. Monroe asked me to

show you around. Come meet the crew.”

I followed her reluctantly to the lounge area, where older girls were

hanging out. Hattie introduced me to a circle of girls, who were vaguely polite.

The only one who seemed curious was a beautiful, plump girl named Mary

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Violet, who asked, “Are you living in the gardener’s cottage?” Her hair was a

cloud of silver-blonde curls that looked striking against her golden tan skin.

“I moved in last week.”

“It must be fabulous to live in your own place,” she said. She turned her

blue eyes toward the ceiling and said, “If I lived alone, I would have many

passionate affairs with mature
men
!”

The other girls laughed and someone said, “You’d have a short commute.”

“Yes! I would rise from my lush silk sheets late after a night of untamed

sexual coitus, bid my lover adieu, and then I would rush breathlessly to class as

the last bell rang. My hair would be tousled beautifully.” Mary Violet waved her

arm, sloshing juice over the rim of her glass.

“You mean you’d be a disaster and wouldn’t have the common courtesy to

shower,” said a lean girl with coffee-dark skin and huge glasses that magnified

her almond-shaped eyes. Her voice had a pretty lilt, and I wondered where she

was from.

“My hair would look sexy and why would I need a shower?” Mary Violet

asked innocently. “Bebe said she got up only ten minutes before class. She was

hardly ever a mess. Well, there was that time—”

The group was suddenly quiet and Hattie shot a look around at her friends.

“We don’t need to gossip about her.”

Mary Violet pouted. “Why can’t I mention Bebe? She’s the one who

ditched us after promising we’d all graduate and go to the Ivys together.”

“We don’t want Jane to feel like a replacement,” Hattie said with a calm

smile and then she turned to me. “Bebe was also a scholarship student here. She

moved overseas at the end of last year.”

So I was brought in as a replacement for another junior.

“And she’s never written to one of us, not even me!” Mary Violet said.

“That is utterly rude. All our slumber parties and cram sessions meant nothing,

nothing, nothing to her. She was all, talk to you never!”

“Stop being so self-centered,” Hattie said. “Bebe’s too busy. Mrs. Monroe

said she’s heard from her twice this summer and she really does miss us.”