To the Steadfast (12 page)

I’m supposed to be repeating
chants, but I can’t keep up with the priest and lose
my spot in the book in front of me. The pew has caused my butt to fall asleep,
I’m sweating off all my makeup, and I’m completely uncomfortable. My roommate
Lydia elbows me in the side. When I look at her, she answers with a sharp
glare, but I can’t stop tapping my foot against the pew. I’m too anxious. Only
five more minutes to go before I have class and senior tea then I’m finally home
free. Well, kind of. St. Cecilia’s Academy has been my home for the past year
and after graduation last Tuesday this place feels more like home than Georgia
ever did. But it’s exciting to be going home for the first time since my
parents sent me away. I don’t know if anything will look the same. All my
friends back home have graduated as well. What all has changed? How is
everyone?

When the congregation
stands to leave, I follow along out of the narthex into the hot sun.

“I can’t wait for guys,
the beach, and a tiny red bikini,” Lydia says, hooking arms with me. “Hey, you
wanna skip out on last block and hang out in the dorms?”

It’s tempting. All
we’ve done in class is prep for college. Repeatedly, we study skills. Skills
for tests, skills for college, skills for life. We’re all expected to go to Ivy
League schools and according to the school brochure about 67% of us do, so we
prepare, prepare, prepare.

I’ve already gotten my
acceptance to Columbia, which is only a few hours away from St. Cecilia’s Academy
and far from my parents. I think they prefer it that way as well. How I got
into Columbia is beyond me, but I’m sure my father had something to do with it.
Ever since I got here, he’s been insistent that I follow his plan. Not my own,
not my advisor’s, but
his
plan for my future. I applied to no other
schools because this is what I’ve been preparing for. It’s what I was born and
bred for.

Lydia steps beside me.
“Are you salivating about that lovely acceptance letter you got last week?” she
asks with a wink.

“Possibly. I mean I’m
lucky I got in. What if it was a mistake? What if I get there and they turn me
away because I’m the wrong person? What if they meant to send an acceptance
letter to some other Dakota Lombardi?”

“Cody, really? You
penned an awesome essay. You really need to stop doubting yourself.”

 “I think I just got
lucky,” I mumble.

“You are completely
exasperating. Now come on. Let’s go do something fun because when you leave
tomorrow I’ll be inconsolable.” Her hands go over her heart and gives a fake
pout.

The corners of my mouth
lift. “You sure you can’t join me? My mom is off on some pleasure cruise and my
father has some condo near the city. I’ll be all alone in that big house.”

She pretends to think
for a moment though we both already know the answer. She’s going to be too busy
interning at a studio in LA, trying to further her acting career.

“I’m gonna sow my wild
oats with some hot actor before college. What are you gonna do back at home?
Sow wild oats, too?”

 “Um…I believe only men
can sow wild oats.”

“Really?” She puts her
finger to her chin quizzically. “Would it be proper to say I’d be the planting
ground for wild oats?”

“Ew.” I walk faster
toward the dorm.

Sometimes I forget that
Lydia Hansen has been at St. Cecilia’s since the ninth grade. She was a one-hit
pop star at thirteen, but after deciding Lydia needed to grow up away from the
spotlight, her parents tucked her away nice and neat here. She’s spent the past
four years being the model student. I guess it’s only fair she get a little
wild before college. Boy, will the real world will go gaga over her chestnut
hair and girl-next-door good looks.

“I’m going to visit
with my Nona and lay out by the pool. It will be nice to have time to myself.
No structure, practices, or activities.”

We make it to the dorm
and each fall down on our beds. Since we’re seniors, we have the biggest rooms,
but still have to share. Lydia and I have a special connection, one that Violet
and I never had. She’s someone I can open up to without feeling like such a
letdown.

 A minute later, she
asks the dreaded question. She’s the only one at school who knows my past. She
knows how I let all my dreams go out the window during one bad year, but as
soon as she says his name, it all comes back.

The parties. The
drinking. The one-night stands. The drugs. Mischa.

The guy who broke my
heart, I was sixteen then. Now I’m a week shy of eighteen and a hell of a lot
smarter.

“Are you going to see
him?” she asks, but her words go in one ear and out the other. I’ve worked hard
to get where I am. Life was miserable when I first got here. After a week of
sleepless nights, I decided to quit the bellyaching and make the most of my
situation. I spent the entire summer before my senior year retaking all my
classes so my GPA didn’t suffer. Luckily, all my honor classes kept my GPA from
dropping too much.

“I’m not going to see
him. I’m not going back for him.”

I’ve done my best to
keep myself busy. Anything to make sure I don’t think of home.

“Earth to Dakota!”
Lydia pushes me back against my bed and laughs. “I’ve been calling your name
for five minutes.”

“What? Really?” I grab
my head and groan. Sometimes that happens. Time slips away from me, and I
forget where I am.

She nods and puts her
cardigan back on. “We better get to the mess hall before Suzanne eats all the
muffins again.”

The mess hall is on the
other side of campus. By the time we get there, the entire rest of the senior
class—all 50 of us—is already eating. Senior tea is a weekly Friday privilege
where the graduating class can relax and chat amongst themselves with no
academic pressure. 

One of our classmates,
Suzanne, our valedictorian with a loud mouth, waves us over to her table.  I’ve
actually known Suzanne since I was three. Our parents used to go on vacation
together, and the two of us would make sand castles. That was a long time ago,
but it was nice to sorta know someone on my first day.  I sit across from her
and immediately begin helping myself to the array of brunch type foods sitting
in the middle.

“You’ll never believe
what I heard!” Suzanne says, buttering a biscuit while waving one hand around
excitedly.

“I’m pretty sure we’ll
believe it,” I mumble under my breath.

Suzanne is too busy
chatting to hear me. She’s the ideal student at St Cecilia’s, this blonde
bombshell that everyone strives to be like. I like her, but she’s a little too
perky to stand for more than a few hours at a time. Oh, and she’s super smart.
My mother would kill for a daughter like Suzanne, who does everything she’s
told.

“I heard it on good
account from Annabelle, who relayed it from Melissa, that some girl was trying
to get in to see you this morning.”

She points her butter
knife in my direction. Lydia stops eating to stare.

I raise an eyebrow. Who
on earth would be coming to visit me here? No one knows where I am except my
parents and Nona. Mom and Dad refused to let me speak to anyone from my old
high school, and after a while, I stopped trying.

“No one knows I’m
here.”

Suzanne wipes her
dainty little mouth with a white napkin and leans forward. “She said the girl
was a total reject. I mean purple hair and everything.”

I swallow even though
my throat feels like it’s closing up. “Purple hair?” I know only one person
back home with purple in their hair. Violet.

“That’s what I said.
You didn’t hear it from me, but Headmaster Kinslow had to have security escort
her from the premises. She wasn’t taking no for an answer.”

Both girls eye me with
curiosity like I should explain the story or give them something juicy to
gossip about for the next few weeks. I won’t do that. I don’t want questions
being brought up.

“I don’t know who it
is. Maybe it’s a townie.” I stuff my mouth with watermelon so I don’t have to elaborate.

“You hardly go into
town, Dakota,” Lydia points out. “Except when you—”

 About to betray my
biggest secret, she shuts her mouth and looks at her plate. The only time I
when into town is to attend my once a week substance abuse program. Something
my Dad has insisted upon. Suzanne wasn’t privy to that information.  It’d be
all around school in a week if I told her.

Giving Lydia a warning
glare, I keep on eating. Suzanne opens her mouth to keep on pestering me but
she’s interrupted by a guy with a camera.

 “Picture for the
school website on the seniors’ last official full day of school?”

We all scoot in
together and smile. I’m sure we look picture perfect, just like all the parents
want to see. Three pretty, privileged girls with bright futures and long
skirts. Brochure appropriate.

“I’m glad we don’t have
to attend mass anymore. If I have to stare at St. Cecilia one more time,” Lydia
says with a wink. St. Cecilia’s Academy requires all the students to attend
Catholic Mass every Friday and Sunday. While only about half of the student
body is Catholic, the rest, like me, come from families that want the Catholic
upbringing. Strict as Roman rule for their unruly daughters. If the faculty
only knew what went on in the third-floor bathrooms.

Suzanne tosses her hair
behind her shoulder and gives a haughty laugh. “You mean you don’t enjoy the
statue of the woman that our dear school is named after?”

I can’t tell if she has
really taken offense to Lydia’s comment or if she’s only joking.

“St. Cecilia just
wouldn’t die,” I say, running my butter knife along my throat. I finish
buttering a muffin and smile at my friends.

Suzanne gives a
sickened groan. We’ve all heard the tragic story of St. Cecilia at least once a
week from each teacher.

“They tried to kill her
by locking her in the baths,” Suzanne whispers, fanning herself like she’s hot.
Her voice mimics one of our older professors, Dr. Hartville, who has an thick
Australian accent.

“Then,” Lydia adds,
mimicking another professor. “They tried to cut off her head. Three times but
they could not decapitate her.” She lets her head roll to the side and makes a
sickening crunching sound. We all try to hide our giggles.

“She died eventually,
as all the greats do,” I tell them, shaking my head in embarrassment. People have
begun to stare, but since Lydia is the drama geek of the school, no one looks
too surprised.

When it’s quiet again,
we all exchange a small glance.

“This is the last time
we’ll be together!” Suzanne cries out. Her big blue eyes fill with tears as she
leans forward to put her face in her hands. “I’ll be in Princeton. Lydia will
be at Juilliard, and you’ll be at Columbia. At least you two will be in the
same city.”

“Don’t cry,” I tell
her. “Maybe we can try to get together one last time before school begins in
the Fall? And you can come up every weekend and we’ll have dinner. Just like
the girls on
Sex and the City
.”

This seems to settle
Suzanne a bit, but she still covers a small sniffle in her napkin.