The School of Nine Page 2

  “That’s enough, ladies,” Ms. Dashwood says. She claps her hands rapidly in an attempt to restore order to the room. Then, abandoning her critique of Bernadette Norcott’s posture entirely, she sets her sights on me once more. “Miss Harper, outbursts like that are hardly acceptable behavior for a Muse. A Muse is graceful and calm, and she exhibits refined manners.”

  “She or he, apparently,” I mutter under my breath, thinking of the boy behind me, as I resume straightening my gown.

  “What was that, Miss Harper?”

  There goes Ms. Dashwood’s eyebrow again. I wonder if she’s aware that doing so makes her look more like a bird-of-paradise displaying its feathers than an authoritative professor.

  “Nothing,” I say quickly.

  Shaking her head, Ms. Dashwood sighs. Her pursed lips jut out like a beak. How appropriate. But before she can scold me further, a series of chimes twitter over the speaker system. The tightness in my chest eases—I’m saved.

  The only thing better than having no Poise and Charm class is having only five minutes of one.

  There’s a rustling of dresses and chatter as the other girls rise from their chaises. We look like a room full of living doilies and flower blossoms. I expect the others to rush toward the door—that’s what I intend to do, at least—but instead, they move to the back of the room. To the new student. To him.

  Of course, they are. He’s a novelty. A shiny new toy wrapped up in a tuxedo instead of paper. It’s not often we get new students this late in the term—so close to graduation, no less—let alone a new student like him … a him.

  For a moment as I stand by my chaise, I watch the way everyone gathers around him. Fawning and fussing. The Dillard twins bat their eyes, and Juliette Atwell’s toe seems miraculously healed by his mere presence.

  “Where are you from, Sebastian? Oh, is it all right if I call you that?”

  “What was it like at your last academy?”

  “Do you like it here so far?”

  “If you need anyone to show you around, I’m free—”

  “Me, too!”

  Their questions fill the air like gnats on a summer evening. So thick that I can’t even see the boy’s face or hear his responses. Maybe Ms. Dashwood should inform these girls that drooling over and throwing oneself at boys is also unbecoming of a Muse.

  At least my path to the doorway is clear. No hems or toes to step on between me and freedom for the rest of the night. I gather up my skirts and hurry toward the door, already thinking about how I’ll meet up with Kash for dinner later, then head to the library to start a reading assignment for my Conversational Arts class. Maybe after that I’ll take a long, hot bath and try to steam away my memory of following the man with the green handkerchief earlier.

  But first thing’s first: I have to get out of this dress.

  “Bianca Harper, please report to the headmistress. Bianca Harper, please report to the headmistress.”

  Just as I reach the stairs to the elevator and dormitory levels above, a voice on the speaker system calls me right back down again. Ugh. I relinquish my grip on the ornate marble finial at the head of the staircase, and my shoulders sag. Not just because I’m stuck in this ridiculous dress and shoes even longer—but because I have a sick feeling that I know what this is about.

  A very sick feeling.

  Headmistress Fothergill has always reminded me of an old-fashioned pinup model. She’s curvy, with a round face and curled, bleached-blond hair that Marilyn Monroe would envy. As she shuts the door behind me and saunters back to her desk, she motions for me to sit down. I drop into my seat, and she stares at me a moment over the rim of her cat glasses, her lips pursed.

  “I suppose you know why you’re here, Bianca?” she asks. Her voice even has a throaty, breathy quality to it, like she’s trying to perpetually blow out a candle.

  “Not really, no,” I lie.

  Sighing, she lowers herself to sit, smoothing her sheath dress over her hips as she perches at the edge of her chair. “Ms. Dashwood tells me you were late for class today,” she says.

  Exactly what I thought. Add this to the list of reasons why I hate Poise and Charm: Ms. Dashwood is a snitch. This may even rank above the itchy dresses, scary shoes, and uncomfortable positions we have to practice in class. Still, I try to act normal. Natural. Unphased.

  “Was I?” I ask, batting my eyes in what I hope is a good imitation of innocence. If I’ve learned anything about charm, now is the time to use it.

  “She assures me you were,” Headmistress Fothergill continues. “Extremely late, in fact. And it’s far from the first time, I understand.”

  Ugh. Maybe I haven’t learned quite as much after all.

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Suddenly, I feel much more exposed in my thin-strapped ballgown than I care to be. “Well, Kash—I mean, Kassia Beckett—and I were out on a homework assignment for our Inspiration Practicum. I guess we got a little carried away and lost track of time.”

  Headmistress Fothergill isn’t impressed with my excuse, though. She shakes her head, but even as she scolds me, she seems more sad than angry. “I’m afraid Ms. Dashwood has serious doubts about your ability to pass Poise and Charm this semester, Bianca. She feels you don’t take it seriously and intends to fail you.”

  A wave of heat rolls over me, and my insides writhe like snakes in a box, turning and twisting over on one another. “Fail … me?”

  I must’ve heard wrong. Poise and Charm is a fluff class. Failing it would be like failing lunch break or study hall. I’d probably be the first student in Brightling history to manage this feat. Plus, the shock of it would likely kill my grandmother—one of the academy’s former headmistresses.

  But the headmistress nods. “Poise and Charm is a required course to graduate, Bianca. While you may not see its value, it is just as essential to the Muse’s toolkit as your other courses. You never know when you may find yourself at a gala or art show opening—perhaps even one attended by high society, world leaders, or royalty. It is essential you learn to conduct yourself appropriately so you can fit in seamlessly.”

  I could take this opportunity to remind her that creating beauty isn’t exclusive to those already successful and famous. I’m far more likely to be assigned to inspire a struggling artist living in an apartment the size of a tent than I am one already featured in galleries or textbooks. But by the way she continues to squint at me, I have a feeling it would be prudent not to bring this up just now.

  “It just seems so worthless,” I say instead. “What does a Muse need to know about wearing flouncy dresses and holding her head just so?” For emphasis, I pause to contort my neck and twist my chin in exactly the sadistic, spine-crunching position Ms. Dashwood taught us last week … And I promptly gasp and bring my hand to my shoulder as I pull a muscle in the process.

  Headmistress Fothergill sighs. “Believe it or not, I’m encouraged that you’re at least familiar with the Portrait Poses, even if you don’t care to use them.” She pauses, then takes off her glasses and rubs at the inner corners of her eyes. “Unfortunately, that alone is not enough for you to pass Poise and Charm, Bianca.”

  I look down at my hands in my lap. My gnawed-down fingernails against the elegance of my gown seem the embodiment of the exact problem at hand.

  “Your other teachers report that you’re excelling in your studies,” the headmistress continues to lecture. “High marks in Exotic Languages, Studio Arts, and Conversational Arts. And I hear from Ms. Applegate that you’re at the top of your Inspiration Practicum class. You are a bright young lady, Bianca, and your future is promising. I can see you having a great deal of influence over some of the greatest artists and intellectuals of our age. Maybe you could even make the Board. But you must pass Poise and Charm first. Without it, you put your diploma—not to mention your future—in jeopardy.”

  I may not be filled with poise or charm, but at least I can recognize defeat when I see it. My spine practically gives out, and I slump
in my seat. A decidedly un-Muse-like pose. I’m sure Ms. Dashwood would be thumping her knuckles against the back of my chair and scolding me on posture if she was here right now.

  “All right. What do I have to do not to fail?” I begrudgingly ask.

  “Well, to begin with, you can show up for class—and do so on time,” Headmistress Fothergill tells me as she puts her glasses back on. “And while you’re in class, I expect you to engage with the lessons and your peers. We also have a new addition to the academy, as I’m sure you’re aware—a young man named Sebastian Greenbriar. As a way to make up for your absences from class, I’d like for you take him under your wing a bit—help him to catch up on his studies so he can graduate with the rest.”

  No matter how hard I try to stop it, my nose crinkles with distaste, like I’ve just opened a bottle of vinegar. Any number of other girls in our class would not only do better—but also enjoy—this task far more than I ever could. “You mean, like extra credit?”

  The headmistress is thoughtful a moment, considering. “If it’s easier for you to think of it that way, then yes.”

  My eyes roam the room, and I nibble on my fingernails as I mull over the request. I can still hear the sarcasm in Sebastian’s voice as he mocked me. Graceful, he’d said. As if I wasn’t already mortified enough. It’ll take a lot more than well-chiseled features, broad shoulders, and oceanic eyes for me to forgive him for his rudeness.

  But maybe that’s part of the point. If our short time together earlier today is any indication, Sebastian may be the one student in Poise and Charm who’s less of a delight than I am. We’re two hopeless cases reliant on one another for survival. This sounds like a recipe for disaster … or a perverse social experiment orchestrated by the faculty. Either way, I have to swallow my pride if I’m going to graduate.

  “If I do this, you won’t tell my parents or grandma about my grade in Poise and Charm?” I ask.

  Visions of how my mom will sigh and my dad will lecture play through my mind. What I really can’t stand, though, is picturing how my grandma—with her tiny, frail figure—will react. She won’t yell. She won’t scold. She won’t even bat an eye. She’ll just stare at the gold-framed painting of Brightling Academy that hangs on the wall in her library, and I’ll know enough from the quiet, sad look on her face that she’s disappointed. Profoundly, irrevocably disappointed.

  “No, Bianca,” Headmistress Fothergill says, sighing again. “As long as you uphold your end of the bargain and pass, I won’t tell them. Your grandmother was my mentor. I don’t want to upset her any more than you do.”

  I nod. “Okay, then. I’ll do it. I’ll go to class, I’ll do the assignments, and I’ll tutor Sebastian Greenbriar—or whatever it is you want to call it.”

  Starting tomorrow, I add silently in my head.

  3

  “Evangelina—oh, good, you’re here—”

  Ms. Westbrook, one of the Exotic Languages teachers, nearly knocks me over as I open the door to leave Headmistress Fothergill’s office. She stops short, her face falling when she sees it’s just me in the doorway, but she’s not quite quick enough. Her attempt at forced entry leaves me little room to maneuver, and I slam my elbow against the doorframe. A quick reminder that there’s nothing humorous about a blow to the funny bone.

  “Oh, Bianca, it’s only you,” Ms. Westbrook says, as though seeing me is a supreme disappointment. Like I’m leftover meatloaf on her dinner tray.

  “I was just leaving—” I start to say as I rub away the tingling in my arm.

  She’s already looking past me, though, toward the headmistress. She reminds me of the maracas in the music room: her large, round body balanced atop oddly slender legs. Her hands perpetually shaking and moving with nervous energy, just like they’re doing right now.

  “It’s all right, Gloria,” Headmistress Fothergill tells her, standing up again behind her desk and waving her in.

  Ms. Westbrook nods, and her hand-wringing subsides—just a little—as she enters the room. “It’s about the matter we discussed earlier.” She gives me a sideways glance, carefully selecting her words in my presence. “I’m afraid there’s been a development.”

  The headmistress frowns. A deeper, more serious kind of scowl than she gave me a few minutes ago when she told me I might fail Poise and Charm. It makes her lips even more pouty than usual. “Yes, of course, come right in, then.”

  I slip away while they start talking, closing the door behind me. Grateful to be forgotten. Gone, before Headmistress Fothergill can change her mind about giving me a second chance to graduate … or telling my parents.

  A moment later, I find Kash waiting for me in the hallway around the corner from Headmistress Fothergill’s office. She stands by the community bulletin board, rereading the same notices that have been there for weeks.

  Seniors: Cap and Gown Fittings, May 10, Harper Auditorium.

  Exotic Languages Tutoring Now Available! See Ms. Westbrook for Details.

  Spring Music and Dance Recital, May 25.

  “Bee! Are you okay?” she gasps when she sees me weaving through the wall of chattering girls between us. “I was worried when I heard your name announced on the speaker. You didn’t get in trouble for being late to Poise and Charm, did you?”

  She’s doing it again: bouncing. Her curls dance like silken springs against her shoulders as she bobs subtly up and down. Part of me wonders if she and Ms. Westbrook, both with their nervous twitches, might be distantly related.

  “Yeah, I did, actually,” I sigh as we start toward the stairs.

  Kash’s eyes widen. “It’s my fault—I’m so sorry. If I hadn’t taken so long to find a subject for Inspiration Practicum—”

  “It’s fine,” I interrupt, shaking my head and forcing a smile. “You’re not the one who stole from a street musician or decided to chase the thief down after. Besides, it’ll be okay. I have an extra credit assignment.”

  “What kind of extra credit?” Kash asks.

  We push through the cluster of girls still standing outside the Poise and Charm classroom. There are so many of them, still dressed in their gowns, that they partially block the stairs leading to the dormitories above. I can guess what—or who—they’re still crowded around. It must be none other than Sebastian Greenbriar.

  But then I feel the warmth of a hand on my back, lightly brushing against the top of my dress, where satin meets skin. I whirl around to see a pair of bright, sea-swept eyes and a tangle of dark hair, like he just washed up on the sand. Sebastian isn’t submerged in the cluster of fawning girls after all. He’s headed toward the safety of the steps, just like me.

  “What’re you—” I start to gasp.

  He’s already moving past me, though. “See you tomorrow,” he whispers in my ear as he walks by. “We can spend more time not-flirting then.”

  My cheeks burn, and I scowl as I watch him start up the stairs. He takes something small from his pocket as he walks—a butterscotch candy, I think—and pops it in his mouth, crinkling the wrapper in his palm. A strange action made even stranger by the coolness with which he does it. He doesn’t look back at me. There’s no waiting for my reaction, to hear what I have to say. It’s like he already knows. He’s probably got a smirk on his face this very instant, guessing how he’s made me blush. I bet he likes it. He probably finds power in it. Well, I won’t give him the satisfaction. Quickly, I turn away. I won’t follow him up the stairs. I won’t let him see me like this.

  “Wait … who was that?”

  Kash’s voice brings me back to reality. She must not have heard yet. Brightling Academy—although technically not a girls-only school—just went coed.

  “My extra credit assignment,” I grumble.

  I see the questions forming on Kash’s face. Shock in her eyes. Disbelief in the paleness of her cheeks. Bewilderment in the sag of her chin. But I don’t have the strength to clarify. Plus, there’s no time to. Harmony Dillard’s voice cuts through the air. A gasp—no, make that a sh
riek.

  “Oh, noooooo,” she wails melodramatically.

  Kash and I glance over to see her in the epicenter of the crowd beside us, her hand draped over her brow like an overacting soap opera star.

  “Harrison was supposed to take me to the museum this weekend to see that exhibit!” she moans. “It’s our three-month anniversary, and he promised.”

  She turns, lips pouting, to look at her twin. A mirror’s reflection of her own oval face and sleek, auburn hair. After almost four years of studying with them at Brightling, I still have a hard time telling them apart. If it weren’t for the freckle on Melody’s cheek—high on the right, beneath her eye, like a star without a constellation—I don’t think I’d succeed at all. Some of the teachers still get it wrong. It’s a fact the twins have used to their advantage occasionally when one hasn’t studied enough and needs the other to stand in for her on a test.

  “It’s all right, Harmony,” Melody coos sympathetically, patting her sister on the arm. “Maybe they’ll catch the thief by the weekend—this could all be behind us by then. And if it’s not, I’m sure Harrison will have something else just as amazing planned for you.”

  “But why—and how—would someone do it?” Ellabelle Cranshaw chimes in.

  Ellabelle’s brow wrinkles as she stares at the screen in Georgiana Sutton’s hand. Stepping closer, I see that it’s Georgiana’s cell phone that the group is clustered around—not the Dillard twins. They’re reading something. News, maybe. And I have a feeling that whatever they’ve learned is much more serious than a spoiled, teenaged Muse not getting to see an exhibit at a museum with her latest boyfriend.

  “And who would do such a thing to begin with?!” Ellabelle continues to sputter.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  A dozen eyes turn toward me—even Harmony glances up after she wipes away a forced tear from the corner of her eye.