The Merciless II (3 page)

I swallow.
Group home
. I think of the stained mattress I slept on for two nights, the cold concrete floors, and girls with cruel smiles. I imagine eating Christmas dinner in that sterile cafeteria.

I push away my concerns about St. Mary's. I'm being stupid—just like a minute ago, with the sprinkler. I'm inventing things to be scared of.

“I'll go to the school,” I say. Wanda smiles.

“Oh, Sofia, that's great. I really think it's the right choice. Listen, I have some brochures and things in my car. Let me grab them for you.”

She slips out of my room, giving me one last grin before she pulls my bedroom door shut behind her. I stare at the door for a moment, listening to the sound of her footsteps on our stairs.

A strange emotion rushes through my body, and it takes me a long moment to recognize what it is.
Hope
. Since my mother died, I thought I'd never feel hopeful again, but there's no mistaking the fragile, feathery feeling in my stomach. St. Mary's Prep School. Maybe this is the sign I'd been hoping for.

Movement flickers at the corner of my eye. I jerk around, my hands groping for a weapon.

But it's just a cicada. The black bug crawls across my wall and disappears behind my dresser, wings twitching.

E
verything I own fits inside two olive-green military duffels and an oversized rolling suitcase covered in burgundy flowers. I packed the rest into cardboard boxes and sent them to our storage unit just outside Hope Springs. I'm giving the house one last walk-through when I spot my grandmother's needlepoint leaning against the wall in her now-empty room.
Jealousy is like a cancer,
it reads. Jodi and the others must not have seen it when they packed the rest of her things. I kneel on the floor and pick it up. The frame is smooth in my hands, the painted wood starting to chip. I think of my mom saying those words during our last phone call, and my chest twists.

I slide the picture into my suitcase. It fits perfectly in the front pocket.

A silver minivan pulls up as I'm lugging my bags to the side of the road. The words
ST. MARY'S PREP
stare out from the side door. A woman with a shaggy brown bob rolls down her window and sticks out her head.

“Sofia Flores, I hope?” she calls.

“That's me,” I say, struggling to drag my bags across the muddy yard.

“Let me help you.” The woman starts to open her door, but I pull my duffel over my shoulder, and shake my head. First rule of being the new girl—never show weakness.

“Nah. I got 'em.”

The woman hops out of the van anyway. The top of her head barely clears my chin, but she tugs my over-stuffed duffel off my shoulder and hauls it to the back of the van. She unlatches the rear door with one hand and tosses the bag inside.

“I'm Sister Lauren,” she says, reaching for my suitcase.

“Sister?” I glance down at her navy-blue St. Mary's sweatshirt and white sneakers. “You're a nun?”

She tosses her hair out of her eyes and shoots me a smile that wrinkles her nose. “Surprised?”

I shake my head—then cringe, wondering if God will smite me for lying to a nun. Sister Lauren just laughs.

“It's the clothes,” she explains. “Usually, when people think of nuns, they think of the penguin suit and funny hat.”

“You don't wear that?”

“Only during class and Mass.” Sister Lauren brushes her hair behind one ear, a strand of chunky brown beads dangling from her wrist. She catches me looking at them and thrusts her arm forward.

“They're prayer beads. From Uganda,” she explains. “I was a missionary there for a few years after divinity school.”

“They're beautiful.” I push the beads around her wrist, admiring the way the sunlight gleams against the wood.

“The women who made them were so inspiring. If you're interested in missionary work, let me know. We have some outstanding volunteer programs at St. Mary's.”

I've never considered missionary work before, but I try to picture it. Flying to some faraway place with all my possessions packed away in a single suitcase. Helping out at an orphanage or school. I smile at the thought. It's the kind of thing that would have made my mother proud.

“I'll definitely think about it.”

Sister Lauren loads my last duffel into the back of the van and slams the door closed. Her eyes flick to
the house behind me. “Is there anyone you want to say good-bye to before we head out?”

I look over my shoulder at the last place I ever lived with my mother. The windows are dark and a
FOR RENT
sign stands in the yard, swaying in the wind.

I square my shoulders and take a deep breath.

“Nope,” I say, blinking a tear away. “It's just me.”

• • •

The minivan crawls through the streets toward West 72, the only highway that leads out of Friend. We're traveling at ten miles below the speed limit and stopping at every light. At this rate, it's going to take three hours to get to Hope Springs. Pastel-colored houses and depressing strip malls creep past my window, then slowly give way to stretches of flat, dusty land and spindly trees. A headache pounds at the back of my skull. My eyes droop . . .

I must have fallen asleep because, a second later, I'm blinking my eyes open and wiping the drool from my chin. We're not in Friend anymore. Tangled tree branches drip over the road above us, blocking out the sky. A thick layer of moss covers their trunks and knotted roots creep up from the ground like huge, muscular snakes. It's like we've driven into a Gothic fairy tale.

Sister Lauren has the radio turned to some Christian rock station and she's singing along under her breath. She turns the volume down when she notices me stir.

“You awake?” she asks.

“Yeah.” I groan and roll my head, trying to stretch my sore muscles. The road has changed from paved cement to packed dirt, making the minivan rock. “How long was I out?”

“About an hour. We're getting close.”

I nod and peer out the window. Sunlight trickles through the trees like gold dust. It feels different than the sun in Friend. Softer. Like someone's found the dimmer switch. Wind moves through the trees, making the branches sway lazily.

We roll past massive houses with peeling painted and shuttered windows, and weave through a small business district. It's the middle of the week, but most of the shops are dark, and
CLOSED
signs hang in their windows. I frown and glance behind us. No cars on the street and no people on the sidewalks. The whole town has a dreamy, unreal quality to it. It makes me think of
Sleeping Beauty
. Not the Disney movie, but this older fairy tale my mom used to read to me before bed. In that version, the whole town fell asleep when Beauty pricked her finger. They'd slept for a hundred years before the Prince rode in to rescue her.

“It's pretty here,” I say. We pull off the main street and down another dirt road that's lined with twisted, dripping trees.

“Isn't it?” Sister Lauren says. “I'm still getting used to all the moss and weeping willows.”

“You aren't from the South?”

“Nope. I'm a new girl, just like you. I started at St. Mary's this year, actually. I almost missed the deadline to get my resume in for the job, but I guess the Big Guy was on my side, because I made it in just under the wire.”

Sister Lauren smiles and touches the tiny silver cross hanging from her neck.

“What do you teach?” I ask.

“English lit.”

I twist toward her in my seat. “That's my favorite subject. Or it was at my old school.”

“Yeah? What were you reading?”

“Lots of Shakespeare and Dickens. And we just finished a unit on
The Great Gatsby
.”

Sister Lauren places a hand over her heart. “Oh,
Gatsby
,” she says in a swoony voice, like she's talking about an ex-boyfriend. “That's one of my favorites. You're a junior, right? You're probably in Period 1 English with me on Mondays. I'll see you bright and early at seven thirty.”

“Seven thirty in the
morning
?”

Sister Lauren laughs. “Intense, right? Father Marcus runs a tight ship.”

“Sounds like it.” I study Sister Lauren's face. She has big eyes, and the kind of friendly smile that's almost familiar. “Is Father Marcus the principal?”

“He's the dean,” Sister Lauren explains. “He's been with St. Mary's longer than any other teacher. You'll meet him today.”

I knot my hands in my lap, trying not to show my nerves. Sister Lauren pulls up to a stop sign and glances over at me.

“Don't look so terrified,” she says. “None of the teachers at St. Mary's bite.”

An anxious laugh escapes my lips, and the sound is so unexpected that I flinch. I haven't laughed since Mom died. Heat rises in my cheeks. I'm not sure if I should feel guilty or relieved. It feels wrong to laugh now that she's gone—but also good. Like taking a drink of water after a long, punishing run.

Sister Lauren slows the minivan to a crawl and turns onto a wide, tree-lined road. A black iron sign arches above us. It reads:
ST. MARY'S PREP
.

“Home sweet home,” Sister Lauren says. My heart climbs into my throat. We crawl forward, and I scoot to the edge of my seat. Red brick and stained glass peek through the moss-covered trees. I spot circular windows that look like eyes, and tall stone pillars. An elaborate iron gate circles the school grounds.

To keep us from getting out
. I bite my lip, pushing that thought out of my head. If Dr. Keller were here, he'd say I was letting paranoia control me, and he'd make me do my breathing exercises. But I don't want to seem like a freak in front of Sister Lauren, so I just stare straight ahead, studying my new home.

St. Mary's Preparatory Institute is three stories high, and shaped like a giant U. The bricks are discolored from years of exposure to the sun and wind, and a white cross peers down from the school's highest tower. Fear prickles along my spine as we drive beneath the dark shadow it casts over the road.

“It's . . . old,” I say. A statue of the Virgin Mary stands in the courtyard between the school's two wings. Mary bows her head, her arms open and welcoming. Rust stains the white stone of her dress. It looks like blood winding down her legs and pooling at her feet.

“I know it's a bit spooky,” Sister Lauren says, “but you'll get used to it. That's our chapel over there.” She points to a small, whitewashed building to the left of the main school. “It's the only one on campus, which means the boys use it, too. But you go to Mass at different times, so you won't see them.”

I nod. Ivy snakes over the chapel's white walls and stained glass, practically obscuring the colorful images of Jesus and the saints. A window on the highest floor is
boarded up. It's like the building has turned wild. Like the woods are trying to reclaim it.

Sister Lauren pulls the minivan to a stop next to the tall iron fence surrounding the school. A priest in black robes waits at the front entrance. He climbs down the steps, his hem trailing in the dirt behind him. Metal clinks against metal as he unlocks the padlock and drags the gates open.

“Listen, Father Marcus can be . . . intense,” Sister Lauren says. The quality of her voice has changed. She sounds younger, less sure of herself.

“Intense how?” I ask. Sister Lauren flashes a stiff smile.

“You'll see.”

We drive through the gates and park the van near the steps. As I get out of the car, I study Father Marcus's deeply lined face and hooded eyes. He doesn't look mean, exactly. But he's not someone I'd want to cross.

“Thank you for your trouble, Sister.” Father Marcus's voice is strong and deep, made for leading prayers and reciting announcements at the front of a packed auditorium. Wispy, dandelion puffs of hair form a halo around his bald head. “If you'll take the van back to the garage, I can handle Miss Flores from here.”

“But the bags—”

Father Marcus raises a hand, cutting Sister Lauren
off. His eyes fall on me. The effect is similar to being hit with a spotlight. I feel exposed. Naked. I glance at my shoes, my cheeks growing hot.

“Miss Flores looks perfectly able-bodied. I'm certain she can manage them. You'll meet us at the entrance to the girls' dormitories so you can show Sofia to her room.”

“Of course,” Sister Lauren says. She climbs into the van while I wrestle my bags out of the back. The grounds are strangely silent. I can't even hear the distant drone of insects that I've grown accustomed to since moving to the South. I strain my ears, listening for voices, or a car engine, or wind rustling through the tree branches. There's nothing.

Sister Lauren whispers “good luck” as I walk past her window. She winks and drives away, the van's tires spitting up rocks and clouds of dirt behind her.

“I'm Father Marcus,” the priest says once we're alone.

“Sofia,” I say. I pull a duffel bag over my shoulder, trying not to grimace at its weight. “But I guess you knew that already.”

“I'm the dean of St. Mary's Preparatory Institute,” Father Marcus continues, as though I hadn't said anything. “Please, follow me.”

He turns and starts down the path toward the school at a steady clip. I hurry to keep up with him, tugging my suitcase along behind me. One of the wheels gets caught
on a rock and the duffle topples over, spilling its contents onto the ground. Father Marcus stops walking and waits for me to gather my things, but he doesn't offer to help.

“The boys' dormitories are located in the East Wing,” he explains once I pull my suitcase upright. “You'll find the girls' dormitories located in the West. Girls are not allowed anywhere near the East Wing and vice versa.”

I balance the duffel bag back on top of my rolling suitcase. “Yes, sir.”

Father Marcus cocks an eyebrow, nose wrinkled in distaste. “The main building holds all classrooms, the school's auditorium, as well as my offices and your teachers' sleeping quarters. It also acts as a buffer between the two wings to prevent any . . . fraternization. You are not allowed in the main building outside of school hours without written permission from an instructor. Is that clear?”

Heat gathers in my face. “Yes, sir.”

Father Marcus narrows his hooded eyes. “In this institution, we believe that unnecessary contact between the sexes prevents students from realizing their full relationship with the Lord.” He pauses and presses his dry lips together. Then he turns, black robes billowing behind him. “This way, please.”

I struggle up the stairs, following Father Marcus through heavy double doors that open onto a dimly lit
hall. I stop in my tracks as soon as the door slams shut behind me. My other duffel bag slips from my shoulder.

An arched ceiling soars overhead, crisscrossed with ancient wooden beams. Chipped frames line the walls, each holding a faded oil painting of some long-dead saint. Their eyes stare out at me. Watching. Sunlight streams through the stained glass, painting the creaky wooden floorboards red and blue and gold. The school is somehow beautiful and terrible at the same time. Like an extravagant mansion left to decay.