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"Me? You're calling me selfish?"
"You are." She pressed her hands to her temples. "Oh, my head. It feels like someone's playing tennis in it. Don't you have a hangover?" she asked.
"I didn't drink all that much."
"You didn't drink all that much," she mimicked. "Miss Goody Two-Shoes strikes again. I hope you're happy," she moaned. She spun around, but she didn't rush away. She had to walk slowly to keep her head from pounding.
I smiled. Just desserts, I thought; she'd been taught a lesson. Only I knew that whatever promises she had made and however she swore to repent, she would forget it all as soon as her pain subsided.
Two days later we had our things packed for the trip back to Greenwood, only this time the wheelchair was left at home. Gisselle wanted to bring it along, claiming she wasn't confident enough to walk all the time, but to Daphne's credit, she didn't buy the story. She wasn't going to let Gisselle revert to her former ways, drawing on everyone's sympathy, using her condition as an excuse for her bad behavior.
"If you can walk around here, dance and make a mess, you can walk to and from your classes," Daphne told her. "I've already called your
housemother and given her the good news," she added, "so by now everyone knows about your miraculous recovery. Now I hope your schoolwork undergoes a similarly miraculous recovery."
"But Mother," Gisselle pleaded, "the teachers hate me at Greenwood."
"I'm sure they hate you here as well," Daphne said. "Remember what I told you: If you misbehave there, it's off to a stricter school, one with barbed wire around it," she quipped, leaving Gisselle standing with her mouth open. That was Daphne's version of a motherly goodbye.
We rode back in funereal silence, Gisselle sniveling from time to time and sighing deeply. I tried to sleep most of the way. When we arrived at the dorm, it was as if we were homecoming heroines--or at least Gisselle was. For the moment it brought a blush of pleasure to her cheeks. Mrs. Penny was out front with the girls of our quad to greet Gisselle and witness the wonder of her miraculous recovery. The moment she saw them, her mood changed.
"Ta-da!" she announced, stepping out of the car. Mrs. Penny clapped her hands together and rushed down to hug her. All the girls gathered around, each firing question after question: How did it happen? When did you first realize? Did it hurt? What did the doctors say? What did your mother say? How far have you walked?
"I'm still a bit weak," Gisselle declared, and she leaned on Samantha. "Can someone get my jacket?" she asked weakly. "I left it on the seat."
"I will," Vicki said, hurrying to do so.
I raised my eyes to the sky. Why was it that no one but me could see through Gisselle's facade? Why were they all so eager to be taken in by her, fooled and made fools of by her? They deserved her mistreatment; they deserved to be taken advantage of and used and manipulated, I thought, and I made a promise to myself right then and there that I would close my eyes to everything but my art.
So it was with genuine excitement that I hurried to class our first day back. I was looking forward to my first session with Miss Stevens. I was sure she would ask me to stay after class and we would talk and talk about our holidays. In my mind and deep in my putaway heart, Miss Stevens had become my older sister. One day soon, I thought, I would even tell her so..
But the moment I entered the building and started down the corridor toward homeroom, I sensed something was wrong. I felt it when I observed the small clumps of girls whispering here and there, all of them appearing to gaze my way as I passed them. Without knowing why, my heart began to pitterpatter, and an uneasiness couched itself in my stomach, making it feel as if a hive of bees were buzzing around inside. I had come to school ahead of the others, so I had some time. It had been my intention to stop by and say hello to Miss Stevens before homeroom anyway. I hurried down to the art suite and rushed through the doorway, expecting to see her standing there in her smock, her hair up, her face full of smiles.
But instead I confronted an elderly man in an artist's smock. He was seated at the desk, sifting through some student drawings. He looked up, surprised, and I gazed around the room.
"Well, good morning," he said.
"Good morning. Isn't Miss Stevens here yet?" I asked.
His smile faded. "Oh. I'm afraid Miss Stevens won't be here anymore. My name is Mr. Longo. I'm her replacement."
"What?" For a moment the words seemed utterly ridiculous. I just stood there with this wide, incredulous smile on my face, my heart still racing.
"She won't be coming back," he said more firmly. "You're an art student, I take it?"
I shook my head.
"It can't be true. Why won't she be coming back? Why?" I demanded.
He sat up. "I don't know the details, Mademoiselle . . ."
"Dumas. What details?"
"As I said, I do not know, but . . ."
I didn't wait for him to finish. I spun around and ran out of the room. I ran down the corridor, confused, the tears streaming down my cheeks. No Miss Stevens? She was gone? How could she do this without telling me? Why wouldn't she tell me? My hysteria grew. I didn't even know where I was running; I was just running from one end of the building to the other. I turned a corner and headed back toward the front. When I was nearly there, I heard Gisselle's shrill ripple of laughter. More girls had gathered around her to hear the story of her miraculous recovery. I stopped running and walked slowly toward them. The group parted so that Gisselle and I faced each other.
"I just heard," she said.
