Mrs. Smith's Spy School for Girls Page 3

  A small sampling of those rumors: She was abducted by aliens. She was bitten by a vampire. She became a zombie. She got the plague. She drank Coke and ate Mentos and exploded. She told Mrs. Cartwright, head of student affairs, to go bite it. She hit someone. She stole the bronze bust of Channing Smith, the Smith School founder, from the lobby. And, finally, my personal favorite, she dropped dead from the cafeteria food.

  So really we know nothing about Veronica.

  Chapter 5

  The Annex. Where Toby Steals the French Fries and the Other Shoe Drops.

  WHEN THE STUDY HALL BELL rings, we head to the Annex, the small, grungy snack bar where all Smith students congregate for the hour between evening study hall and lights-out. Seniors and juniors get the nice chairs and couches at the front of the Annex, while the rest of us fight it out for the uncomfortable wooden booths in the dark corners, where the smell of greasy food and old socks clings like fog.

  We manage a booth in the back facing the entrance, a tray laden with cheese fries, Cokes, and Snickers bars on the table before us. We haven’t planned to meet Quinn and Toby, both Middles, but it doesn’t matter. Sure enough, five minutes later, Toby and Quinn enter and make a beeline for our table.

  Quinn Gardener is a boy who can actually get away wearing pants with little whales on them without looking like a dork. Tall and lanky with a sweep of shaggy dark hair hanging in his face, he listens to retro eighties music like the band Talking Heads and wears docksiders with no socks. Plus, he hails from the preppy hamlet of Greenwich, Connecticut, and is a double legacy here at Smith, which means his mother and his grandfather both attended the school. With a pedigree like that, he would have to pee on the big ugly portrait of Channing Smith in Main Hall to get expelled.

  Unfortunately for my dizzy brain, he can’t keep his eyes off Charlotte, and I’m not a huge fan of rejection, so I keep my dizziness to myself. The boys slide into the booth, and Toby immediately dives into the fries.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “What?” Toby gives me a well-practiced look of innocence.

  “Charlotte, you look nice,” Quinn says. “That’s a great color on you.”

  “Ugh,” Izumi says.

  “Exactly,” Charlotte agrees. She doesn’t return Quinn’s affections. She says she can’t like a boy in whale pants. She likes Xavier, who’s an Upper Middle and doesn’t know she’s alive. Xavier doesn’t wear whale pants.

  “Buy your own fries,” I say, slapping Toby’s hand.

  “Grouch.”

  “Jerk.”

  “Can you two shut up?” Izumi asks politely.

  “Did you do something different to your hair?” Quinn asks Charlotte. I swear you can almost see the little stars and hearts twirling around Quinn’s lovesick head. Charlotte rolls her eyes. I eat fries.

  “Did you guys hear Ceci Lyons got busted in the catacombs last night?” Toby throws out. Toby Caine, usually found floating somewhere in Quinn’s wake, has chocolate-colored skin and brown eyes and dresses in a calculated disheveled way meant to imply he doesn’t really care about any of Smith’s nonsense. He’s never without his leather jacket. The story goes that his father, Drexel Caine, scientist, collector of weird things, owner of DrexCon, the most popular video game developer in the world, and Smith School board of trustees member, flat-out forgot Toby’s twelfth birthday. The very expensive jacket showed up six days later from some store in London, with no apology. Toby makes sure we know he wears the jacket ironically, and that is all he is willing to say about his father. More important, Toby seems to know things no one else does. And for us, these tidbits are catnip. We lean forward.

  “Ceci Lyons the junior?” I ask.

  “Yup.” Ceci Lyons is one of Veronica’s friends. These mean girls are dropping like flies.

  “No way,” I say.

  “Yes way,” Toby says.

  “How?” Charlotte asks. Toby shrugs. If he knows details, he’s not sharing.

  “And?” Izumi prompts.

  “She’s gone,” Toby whispers, eyes bright.

  “Wow, that was fast,” says Quinn.

  The very first thing we, the student body of Smith, were told at our very first school meeting was Don’t go down in the catacombs. Naturally, I had no idea what this meant. Catacombs? Where are we anyway? Ancient Rome? I think not. I’ve been to Rome, and the people there don’t wear whale pants.

  Eventually, I discovered that the catacombs are actually a maze of subterranean, spider-infested, mostly uninhabitable space that run beneath the older buildings of the school. But I get that “catacombs” sounds way better than “scary basement.”

  If you’re caught in the catacombs, the penalty is immediate expulsion. Which means tomorrow at school meeting we will again be reminded not to go down there because bad things happen when you do. Ceci Lyons’s head on the proverbial spike.

  We’re having a moment of silence for Ceci Lyons when my smartphone pings. All our phones are laid out on the table, as if we’re playing a round of smartphone blackjack. Smartphones or any device more technologically advanced than pen and paper are prohibited during school hours, which is the reason we clutch them like life jackets on the Titanic from the minute classes end until we go to bed. Even though it’s obviously mine beeping, everyone simultaneously lunges for their phones in the hopes that the text is for them. But really, almost everyone we communicate with is crammed into the smelly Annex with us.

  “Not me,” says Charlotte, tossing her phone back on the table.

  “Me either,” Quinn says. “I like your phone case, Char.”

  “Ugh,” Charlotte says.

  “Not me,” adds Izumi.

  “It’s me,” I say, pulling up the text. And this is what it says.

  Disciplinary action for the following transgressions, including but not limited to: unauthorized absence from dormitory, presence in Main Hall after hours, eavesdropping, breaking and entering the headmaster’s office, violating the Student Responsibility Code as it is defined in the Smith Student Handbook, provided to each student at the beginning of term.

  “What’s wrong with you, Abby?” Izumi asks. “You just turned a totally weird color.”

  “Yeah,” says Charlotte. “Like, green.”

  Slowly, I turn my screen to face them. “The other shoe just dropped,” I moan. My friends pass around my phone, shaking their heads in sympathy.

  “Your mom’s going to go ballistic,” Charlotte kindly points out.

  “So what’s the actual punishment?” Quinn asks. “It lists the crimes but not the consequences.” As if on cue, the phone pings again with another message.

  Pursuant to section 11A in the Student Handbook, you will: serve sixty hours on work crew to include kitchen duty, bathroom cleaning, and tutoring Tucker Harrington III in Chinese History three times weekly until such time that he passes the final exam. Any grievances may be lodged with Mrs. Smith directly.

  There’s silence at the table. Quinn lets go a long low whistle. “Wow, that Tucker thing is just cruel.”

  Charlotte regards me with pity. “Yeah,” she says. “This might be worse than being expelled. At least with expulsion you can experience your humiliation in private. Tucker Harrington? Really? You should complain.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Toby says. “It could’ve been worse.”

  “How?” we ask in unison. Tucker Harrington has an IQ of twelve and a mean streak a mile wide. He’s only here because his grandfather built the ice hockey rink.

  “Well . . .” Toby shrugs. “I don’t actually know.”

  “Maybe I should have told her the truth,” I mutter. “The hitting-my-head story was not my best work.”

  Charlotte zeros in on me. “What did you say?”

  Oops. “Nothing?”

  “You clearly said something about the hitting-your-head story not being any g
ood,” she says. “Which is the story you told us.”

  “Yeah,” says Quinn, because he will take every chance to side with Charlotte. Toby looks utterly disinterested in this conversation. Instead, he licks the salt off his fingers one by one. Funny, because he never misses an opportunity to skewer me.

  “So what really happened?” Izumi demands.

  This is an all-around terrible evening. First Tucker and now this? Okay, so I lied. I’d rather be set on fire than admit this while sitting across from Quinn Gardener, but alas, I have no choice.

  “All right. Maybe the thing in the office didn’t go down exactly like I said it did.” Charlotte raises her right eyebrow almost to her hairline. Izumi gives me the skunk eye. The boys pick bits of cheese from the cafeteria tray and ignore us. They don’t find the missing Veronica and our attempts to uncover the truth fascinating in the least. I launch into a retelling of my break-in. When I come to the Veronica-slash-passing-out bit, Toby laughs as if I’ve just said something hilarious. The laugh reminds me of something that feels important, but before I can place it, Charlotte leans across the table and punches Toby.

  “What was that for?” he asks.

  “You’re a jerk,” she says.

  “Me? What about her?” He jabs a finger into my bicep. I shove him away.

  Before we can start an all-out war in the booth, the bell rings, indicating it’s time to return to our respective dorms. As we make our way back to McKinsey, we pass Tucker Harrington and his posse of morons.

  “Hey, freaks!” Tucker yells with an evil grin. “Watch this!” He then shoves a passing Lower Middle into the partially frozen Smith School Cavanaugh Family Meditative Pond and Fountain.

  That’s it. I am so out of here.

  Chapter 6

  Escape from Prison. I Mean the Smith School for Children.

  JUDGING BY RECENT EVENTS, TWO a.m. is generally an hour when things go poorly for me. But I sling my backpack over my shoulders and cinch the straps snug anyway.

  “Are you sure running away is the best idea?” Charlotte asks me again.

  “You could talk to Mrs. Smith,” Izumi suggests.

  “Tucker Harrington the Third?” I say.

  “I see how Tucker might seem like an insurmountable obstacle,” she says. “Where will you go? Paris? Milan? Barcelona? Is there anywhere you haven’t been already?”

  “I have, like, ten bucks to my name,” I point out. “I’m going home to beg Jennifer to let me drop out. I figure with the Tucker thing, she might let me.”

  Charlotte double-checks my getaway supplies.

  “Money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Flashlight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Passport?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “You never know,” she says, wagging a finger at me.

  I leave out the window. It seems Mrs. Smith overlooked the fact that a girl can just as easily tie four sheets together as she can two. Of course, the probability of falling to my death increases exponentially with each sheet, but I choose not to think about that. I take a deep breath, grab hold, and start to shimmy down. My friends lean out the window and watch.

  “Good luck!” Charlotte yells.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t fall,” Izumi says.

  “I won’t.”

  “Concentrate!”

  “Stop talking to me!”

  “Call us from the bottom.”

  “No.”

  “Text us, then. This is freaking me out.”

  “How do you think I feel?”

  “Text us from the bottom.”

  “Fine!”

  “Shut up!” Charlotte yells. “Stop yelling! You wanna get caught?”

  By this point, I’m practically at the bottom, but I text anyway because I said I would. On the ground, I veer toward the senior girls’ dorm and, beyond that, the country road that lies on the other side of the tidy stone wall. It’s freezing out here. February is not the ideal month during which to run away from boarding school. As I pass the dormitory and traverse the small frozen brook behind it, I swear I hear footsteps a beat behind mine, like a fast returning echo. But when I peer over my shoulder, there’s nothing. I write it off as a product of my pounding heart and sweaty palms. I don’t even want to think about what Mrs. Smith will do if she finds me out here. She will have me scrubbing toilets by day and tutoring the whole demented ice hockey team at night for the rest of my life.

  I push this thought away and instead concentrate on how to get to New York City from the Smith School. I don’t have much money, and if I was going to call for a ride, I should have done it before I left school. There’s no cell service once you leave campus. There’s nothing but cows, and I can’t exactly go back now. At least I Googled the nearest bus stop before setting out, but that doesn’t make the two-mile trudge any more fun. Some people like the country. Usually, those people have driver’s licenses.

  I finally arrive to find a concrete bench next to a sign indicating this is, in fact, the bus stop. I sit in the dark and focus on not freezing to death. I work on the speech I’ll give Jennifer when I show up at our apartment for breakfast. I’m sure when I explain about Tucker Harrington she’ll take pity and let me stay.

  By three thirty a.m., I’m on the bus to Stamford, Connecticut. From Stamford, I’ll hop a commuter train to Grand Central Terminal, followed by the subway downtown, landing me at home with seventy-five cents to spare.

  I lean my head against the bus window, suddenly tired. After a full day of classes, I had mandatory volleyball practice today for almost two hours. Everyone has to play a sport at Smith because it builds character. They tell us it’s important to be a team player. Honestly, I don’t see how getting all sweaty while frantically lurching around for some stupid ball makes me a better person.

  As sleepiness creeps in, a man takes the empty seat beside me. He wears a dirty tweed overcoat and a dark wool watch cap. Sweat dots his nose and upper lip, which makes me wonder why he doesn’t shed the hat or the coat. He smells musty, like he’s been sleeping in a hay bale.

  As my seatmate crosses his arms against his chest, I catch a glimpse of a tattoo on his forearm. It’s a thick triangle with each segment a different color. I’ve seen something like this before. I rack my brain trying to remember where; tattoos aren’t allowed at Smith, so maybe back home in New York?

  As I churn through possibilities, I wiggle my elbows. Logic says if I poke this guy hard enough, I’ll create an awareness of his body crossing the invisible line into my personal space and he’ll move. Except . . . nope. Instead, he throws me a cold curious stare and twists his extralong legs into lotus position right on the bus seat. He then props his hands into prayer pose, effectively pinning me to the window. I let loose a loud fake cough and jam my elbow deep into the guy’s ribs.

  “Problem?” he snaps. His frosty eyes and perfect teeth are all wrong for a coat that would work better with rotten teeth and rheumy eyes. The effect is supercreepy.

  “No?” I say.

  “So what, then?” He has an accent. British? Swiss? Jennifer would know. She can call an accent at fifty yards, blindfolded.

  “I sneezed,” I explain. “Sorry.”

  The man nods slightly in response. He doesn’t seem surprised to find me alone on a bus in the middle of the night, a bus full of empty seats. Which makes me wonder, why is Lotus Man sitting next to me?

  His manicured fingernails sparkle in the harsh fluorescent lighting as he strokes his chin. My heart speeds up. Everything about this man—his clean-shaven face, his perfect sideburns—is wrong.

  “Where are you headed?” he asks. The intensity of his gaze makes me squirm. I feel examined. Stranger danger times ten. The bus pulls into the bay in front of the Stamford trai
n station, the darkness cut just barely by weak streetlights.

  “Excuse me,” I say, standing. “This is my stop.” I throw my backpack on and attempt to step over the contorted man to the aisle. But nighttime doesn’t seem to be bringing me luck lately. The man unfurls a leg, raises it up, and blocks my way.

  “Where is it?” he growls. “We know she has it. Now, what did she do with it?” Without a second thought, I give his leg a swift kick, pushing his knee outward at an awkward angle.

  “Ow!” he bellows. “You little . . .”

  I jump over him and land in the aisle. He grabs me around the waist with both hands. I sink my untrimmed fingernails into his flesh. He howls again, loosening his grip just enough that I can break free. I run up the aisle. The driver, wearing earbuds and singing, doesn’t appear to notice the maniac chasing me.

  I sprint by her and fling myself to the sidewalk. Lotus Man follows close at my heels. I dash into the Stamford train station. My backpack smashes me in the spine, but there’s no time to adjust it.

  Across the wide, deserted waiting area is the ladies’ room, the door propped open by a yellow cleaning sign. I run for it. Lotus Man follows. Kicking the yellow sign aside, I charge into the bathroom and slam the door. There’s a weak lock that won’t hold my guy for long, so if I’m going to do something I’d better do it fast. I spy a small window that faces out of the station and onto the platform, where a handful of people wait for city-bound commuter trains. It’ll be a tight fit, but I have no choice.

  The restroom door rattles. I climb up on a sink and throw my pack out the window. I hear an immediate thud, so I’m probably not high up enough to die when I jump out this window. Maybe just break an ankle or two. The door strains under the pressure of Lotus Man shouldering it. I wedge myself in, appearing to the outside world as if I’m being born through a tiny window.