Wayward Children 07 - Where the Drowned Girls Go, page 5
The girl didn’t look at Cora at all.
After breakfast came classes, all of them moving from room to room, learning facts and figures from one set of teachers, learning the way the world worked, learning the way to think and act and be.
It had been a shock for Cora, on her first day, when she’d walked into one of those classes and seen a poster hanging in front of the whiteboard, labeled the compass in large, stark letters. They named the dimensions differently, called Nonsense and Logic “Delusion” and “Compulsion,” called Wickedness and Virtue “Recklessness” and “Austerity,” but the pattern was the same. All the old familiar branches and divides, twisting out into infinity, like the branches of a tree. Somewhere in that pattern were the Trenches; somewhere in that pattern was her home, her promised place, where she would be able to sleep easy for the rest of her life.
But the Moors were there too. The Moors, and the reason she could never go home.
She hadn’t realized she was crying until the teacher had walked over and pressed a handkerchief into her hand. Real cotton, the edges expertly hemmed: no noses would be wiped on sleeves here, no twists of tissue tossed aside.
“It’s all right, Cora,” she had said, and her voice had been warm and kind, and her eyes had been so cold. “I know it’s a shock, but we’re here to help you through this. We’re here to make you well again.”
Cora had smiled hesitantly up at her, and hoped she was telling the truth.
After class came sport, which mostly meant running laps around the track, unless you’d been tapped for one of the various athletic clubs, and then it meant playing some game with complicated, tedious rules that never changed. Cora had managed to avoid the athletic clubs so far, largely by dint of not being allowed to swim, and no one believing she could be good at anything else. She was sure the headmaster would eventually order them to invite her, but for now, she was allowed to just run and run and run, sinking into the feel of her feet hitting the ground and the air in her lungs, and all the other aspects of land-life that kept her tethered far from the grasp of the Drowned Gods.
She had always loved to run. She had always been good at running. She was still good at running, even if there was nowhere left for her to run to.
On the day when Regan Lewis laughed over the intercom and everything changed, the schedule was still in effect. The sound of Regan’s laughter had barely faded before the door opened and one of the matrons stepped inside. Cora stiffened, trying not to show her fear.
The staff of the school—and how strange it was, to be at a school with an actual staff, instead of Eleanor and a few teachers who came during the day and left at night, preferring not to know too much about what went on at the mysterious boarding school full of artists and overdramatic weirdoes! How strange, and how honestly unpleasant—consisted almost entirely of alumni. They had all been through doors of their own, once upon a time. They had traveled to magical lands, places where the sky talked and the sea sang, and they had decided they liked this world better. More, they had decided that because they liked this world better, and because their parents had been sad when they were gone, that all the doors should be sealed and locked forever, to keep any more children from going missing.
This wasn’t the first time Cora had met people who thought their ideas about how the world should be were the only right ones. It was the first time she’d met them when they were in a position of clear, unquestioned power over her.
This matron, a stiff-faced woman who always wore the drabbest browns and grays she could find, like she was trying to vanish into the background, was one of the less forgiving. She looked around the dorm, nose wrinkling slightly when she saw Cora’s covers, which were still disheveled despite Cora’s best efforts to smooth them out. Aloud, she said, “I see an improvement, Cora. You’re beginning to take more pride in your things.”
“Thank you, matron,” said Cora automatically. Failure to thank a matron for praising you could result in demerits, and too many demerits would mean another trip to solitary, another spell spent sitting alone in a room with no windows and no distractions, to think about what she’d done.
Cora didn’t want to think about what she’d done. Sitting alone in silence just created more openings for the Drowned Gods to slither through, and they didn’t need the help.
The matron moved on, shifting her attention to Emily, who stood perfectly straight, perfectly mannered, her eyes fixed ahead of her and a pleasant, almost vapid expression on her face. If Cora hadn’t known what all the members of her dorm had in common, she would have thought Emily didn’t belong here at all.
Each of the dorms was different. The students who’d gone to Logical worlds got waffles for breakfast and bedtimes that changed every night. They got socks that didn’t match and class schedules that shuffled around them like a deck of cards, trying to get them used to the idea that they were back to living in a world where things wouldn’t always, couldn’t always make sense. The students who’d gone to Nonsense worlds got stricter schedules and regimes than even the Wicked students, rules piled upon rules upon rules until the weight of it crushed the rebellion out of their hearts.
Once they were broken—once the Nonsense kids started following rules and the Logical kids started disregarding them—they could be moved to new dorms, to start unlearning other habits of behavior. To start allowing themselves to be ground down, disappearing back into the children they had been before they’d needed something different so completely that they’d summoned impossible doors to whisk them away to a place where they could be happy. Where they could be whole.
Emily shivered. The matron stopped in front of her, suddenly as attentive as a wolf scenting a deer in the still of the forest.
“Emily,” she said. “Where does your family live?”
“Dublin, Ohio, matron.”
“How many siblings do you have?”
“Two. One older, one younger.”
“Can scarecrows talk?”
Emily trembled.
The matron narrowed her eyes. “Can scarecrows talk?” she repeated, tone clearly implying that there was only one right answer, and it wasn’t the one she expected from Emily.
It hurt, to deny the things the heart knew were true. It hurt, and while Emily and Cora weren’t friends, Cora understood that the matron was holding out a razor and asking Emily to run it willy-nilly across her body, hoping not to hit an artery.
Silence and blending into the background were Cora’s forte. She was good at it. But she was also a hero, and heroes didn’t stand idly by while someone smaller was victimized.
“Scarecrows don’t talk,” she scoffed, loudly enough and clearly enough to guarantee she would be overheard. The matron stiffened. Cora acted like she hadn’t noticed, continuing blithely, “They’re just straw stuffed into old potato sacks. If scarecrows could talk, that would mean straw could talk, and if straw could talk, grass would be able to talk, and no one could mow their lawns.”
“Cora,” said the matron, through gritted teeth, “I don’t believe I was talking to you.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, matron.” Cora blinked at her, trying to look innocent and confused. “I thought it was a question for anyone. It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t,” said the matron, and moved on to the girl without a name. “You’ll be measured this afternoon,” and she said a word, her lips moved in a word, but all that came out was the sound of total, perfect silence. “I’m hoping we’ll see some growth, aren’t you?”
“Yes, matron,” said the dainty girl, voice small and tight with fear.
“If we don’t, we may have to take more extreme measures.” The matron looked around the room, seeming to weigh and measure every inch of it with her eyes. Finally, she sniffed and said, “There will be an assembly this afternoon, to discuss the unfortunate outburst during morning announcements. If any of you are feeling shaky or uncentered, you can request a counseling session after lunch. There’s no shame in seeking help, children. Seeking help is the most human thing a person can do.”
“Yes, matron,” chorused the girls, in unison—even Cora, who felt pride and shame warring in the center of her chest as she spoke, burning her with their fierceness.
“Breakfast will proceed as normal,” said the matron, and left the room.
All five girls stood perfectly still and stayed perfectly silent for a count of ten. Sometimes the matrons would close the door, take a breath, and then come back in to catch the girls doing something they weren’t supposed to. Seconds ticked by, and the matron did not reappear.
Emily burst into tears.
She cried noisily, messily, with the glorious abandon of a small child racing headlong toward something they weren’t supposed to touch. It was the most untidy thing Cora had seen her do so far, and for a moment she stopped and stared at her, even as Rowena and Stephanie rushed to try and calm her down. It didn’t work: Emily kept crying, eyes screwed up so tight that they seemed almost like they’d been painted on, black slashes against the dark chestnut brown of her skin.
“Make her stop,” snapped the dainty girl, emerging from her own fugue of shock and dismay.
Cora turned slowly to look at the dainty girl without a name, eyes narrowing. She was doing her best to follow the rules and fit in here. The school was cold and gray and sometimes terrifying, but she had come of her own accord, and that made anything she suffered here her own fault. It was a door she should perhaps have left closed, and would have, if not for the Drowned Gods dripping poison in her dreams. If opening this door let her close that door, then she was happy to have it open. She didn’t need to be a mermaid anymore. She didn’t need to be a hero.
But that didn’t mean she could abide a bully.
Cora stepped in front of the dainty girl, keeping her from reaching Emily. “If she needs to cry, she’ll cry,” she said. “Leave her alone.”
“I’ll tell the matrons,” said the girl, voice shrill and mean. Cora shrugged and started to turn away. The girl spat, “Whale.”
Cora stiffened and turned back. “What did you call me?”
“Whale,” repeated the girl, eyes on Cora’s own. “Fatty. Stupid pig. Emily’s not your friend. No one is. You’re too disgusting to have friends.”
Cora took a breath, preparing her rebuttal, tears threatening to overwhelm her. The dainty, nameless girl was right: Cora had no friends here. Her friends at Eleanor’s school had been incidental, accidents of place and time, and they were far away, and she was never going to see them again. She’d given them up for the chance of freedom. She was as worthless as this girl wanted her to be.
Before she could speak, the door opened again, and the matron reappeared. This was off schedule, and strange; all five of them turned.
Standing next to the matron in the doorway was a short, plumpish girl of Japanese descent, her long black hair tamed into a braid that fell down her back in a single inkslash line. She was wearing a Whitethorn uniform, hands folded demurely in front of herself and eyes cast toward the floor.
“This is Sumiko,” said the matron. “She will be taking your open bed. I trust you will all welcome her into our company.”
“Hello,” said the girl, raising her head and smiling a small, sharp-edged smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”
Cora, who had never been expecting to see Sumi again, could only stare in frozen silence as the matron pushed her and her suitcase into the room, then turned and closed the door, leaving the six girls alone.
8 OATMEAL AND OPPOSITION
AS SOON AS THE matron was gone, the other girls swarmed—the dainty, nameless one at the front of the pack. She raked her eyes up and down Sumi’s uniformed body, then sniffed.
“I don’t see why we should get saddled with another new fish,” she said. “We’re still not finished educating the old one.”
“Don’t be mean,” said Emily.
“Why shouldn’t she?” asked Sumi, with what sounded like genuine confusion. “I can tell by the sound of her voice that she’s good at it.”
The others turned to stare at her. Cora sighed.
“Sumi, why are you here?”
“Antsy can find anything,” said Sumi. “She told you so, remember? Well, you went away, and so she knew what she needed to find was you. And when she did, we all talked it over and decided I should be the one to come and get you, since I’m the only one who knows I get to go home when all this is over.”
“But you went to Virtue, not Wickedness,” said Cora.
Sumi waved a hand, whisking her objections away. “I told them I went to Prism, and Kade’s told me enough about that shitbox of a bad cocktail party that I was able to make my case. I’m a Wicked girl now, my admission papers say so.”
“Wait, you know each other?” asked Emily. “How do you know each other?”
“We went to school together until the mermaid got scared and ran away from the whispers in the dark,” said Sumi, sympathy in her tone.
The nameless girl stepped forward, expression suddenly furious. “You can’t be here and tell lies! Rules are for everyone!” She raised her hand like she was going to slap someone, and hesitated when she couldn’t decide quite who.
Sumi didn’t so much move as suddenly had moved, flowing seamlessly from her position near the door to one directly in front of the other girl, her fingers wrapped tight around her wrist. “Why do you get to decide that?” she asked, tone remarkably reasonable. “What’s your name?”
“I’m,” said the girl, and her mouth moved, and nothing came out, not a sound, not a whisper, not a hiss. Just a sudden, profound silence, like something had been sliced neatly from the world and tucked aside, where it wouldn’t bother anyone. She struggled against Sumi’s grip. “Let me go.”
“I don’t want to,” said Sumi. “None of this matters. You know that, right? I fought a woman who wanted to have my bones hollowed out so she could store spices inside them, who wanted to make a whole world over in her image, and that mattered more than this, because things made the right kind of nonsense there. I buried my past under a tree with cookies for leaves, and my friends buried me in a garden of bones, and both times I got back up and kept on going, but it wasn’t as hard as it is here. I only just got here, but I can already tell this place is … it’s small. It’s hard and it’s small and it’s mean. It knows what’s true for you isn’t always true for me, and it doesn’t care, because it wants to make us all have the same kind of truth and believe in it the same kind of way. It’s a bad place. It thinks it’s helping and it isn’t. So I guess what I wonder is why you’re trying to make it even smaller than it already is. They don’t like you either. You’re not standing outside the cage looking in; you’re right in here with us. Why are you like this?”
“Because I’m not like you,” snarled the dainty girl, twisting free of Sumi’s grasp. “Let me guess. You went to a magical world of rainbows and pixies and talking horses, and you had adventures and you saved a kingdom, or maybe a whole bunch of kingdoms, and everybody loved you, because you were a hero. You were made to be loved. You were perfect. And then you fell through another door and wound up back with your family, the people who actually cared about you, who didn’t just think of you as a magical arm to swing a prophesized sword around, and you didn’t know how to love them anymore. You didn’t know how to be a person anymore. That’s why they sent you here. So you could remember how to be a person.”
“Is that why your family sent you here?” asked Sumi.
“Sent me?” asked the dainty girl, disbelievingly. “No one sent me. This old lady dressed like a circus clown tried to talk me into going to her school, and I would have had to be stupid not to realize she was talking about a place where everyone was going to wallow, forever, in how sad it was that their doors went and closed, even though that was the best thing that could have happened to them. I told her no, and Headmaster Whitethorn showed up the next day. He said I could come here and forget. He said I could be free. So yeah, this place is mean, but it’s mean because it has to be. If someone doesn’t want to wake up, you have to shake them.”
She stuck her nose in the air, like she thought it would somehow make her taller, and stalked out of the room. After a moment’s apologetic pause, Rowena followed her. The sound of the door closing behind them was very loud.
Sumi shook her head, looking after them. “That’s a girl with a whole lot of angry where her heart’s supposed to be.” Then she turned back to Cora. “I’m very mad at you, you know. But you need hugs more than you need yelling at, so: hugs?”
Arguing with Sumi was like trying to fight the wind: frustrating, endless, and ultimately pointless. Cora wrapped the smaller girl into a hug, and asked, “Are you the only one here?”
“Of course, silly,” said Sumi. “Confection wants me to come home, so this is almost safe for me, or safe as anything gets. Everyone else is back at school, waiting for me to bring you safely back.”
“I’m not coming back,” said Cora.
Sumi pulled back and stepped away, looking at her with wounded confusion. “But we miss you! You have to come back.”
“The Drowned Gods still whisper to me in the night,” said Cora. “I have to stay here if I want to be free of them. I can’t come back to school.”
There was a small cough from the side. Sumi and Cora both turned. Emily was standing there, a faint, almost hopeful smile on her still only half-familiar face, like she thought she might see someone she recognized, like she wasn’t entirely sure.
“Do you really think your door’s still there?” she asked.
“I know it is,” said Sumi. “I’ve met my daughter, and she hasn’t been born yet, and that means Nonsense is going to take me home when it’s ready for me.”
“The matrons…” Emily grimaced. “They want us to say things we know were weren’t, and things we know weren’t were. They say it’s how we break our dependence on delusion. I asked once how it could be a delusion when every one of them knows it really happened, when we were recruited to attend here because of where we went, and they said … they said…”
