“Yes.” I would have agreed to almost anything at this point.
“Any violation of rules would result in your immediate suspension.”
I told her I understood.
The headmaster furrowed her brow. “It’s a public relations fiasco. If you were me, what would you tell the parents?”
“That Holy Trinity is first and foremost a Catholic school. And that Catholic schools have to practice forgiveness. That you showed me charity when no other schools wanted me.”
Headmaster nodded. “Seems sensible. Don’t mention the donation at all.”
“Exactly.”
“Would you even want to come back here?” Headmaster asked me in a kinder voice than the one she’d heretofore been using. “These haven’t exactly been happy years for you, have they?”
I told her the truth. “I’m sorry if I ever made it seem otherwise but I love Holy Trinity, Headmaster. It has, despite everything, been the one good and consistent place in my life.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow, Anya,” Headmaster said after a long pause. “Don’t make me regret this.”
When I got back home, I called Mr. Kipling to find out if he’d made the donation to Holy Trinity.
“I don’t know anything about it,” Mr. Kipling said. “I’m putting you on speaker so Simon can hear.”
“How are you feeling?” I asked Simon Green.
“Much better,” Simon answered. “Did your headmaster say how big the donation was?”
“Only that it was sizable.”
“Anya, I would tread carefully here. Someone may have an ulterior motive,” Mr. Kipling warned.
I asked Mr. Kipling if he was advising me not to go back.
“The fact is, we still don’t have any other viable options.” Mr. Kipling sighed a hurricane wind. “No, I just want you to keep your eyes open for anything that might seem strange. Someone wants you back at Trinity, and it makes me more than a little nervous that we don’t know who or why.”
“I’ll be careful,” I promised.
“And it goes without saying that you should keep your distance from Win Delacroix,” Mr. Kipling added.
I swore that I would.
“Are you happy, Anya?” Simon Green asked. “You’ll get to graduate with your class.”
“I think I am,” I said. And, for the first time in a very long time, I allowed myself to be, if only just a little bit.
That night, I called Scarlet to tell her I was coming back. I had to hold the phone away from my ear. (Readers, I swear you could hear Scarlet’s screams all the way to Brooklyn.)
And then I was back at Trinity. Aside from the daily frisking—Mr. Rose and I were developing quite the intimate relationship—it was as if I had never been gone.
All right, there were a few changes, some for the better, others less so. Scarlet had definitely improved at fencing without me to lean on. Natty now took her classes in the upper-school building, so I got to see her several times a day. Win was in my FS III class, but his partner there, as everywhere else, was Alison Wheeler. He was friendly to me, but kept his distance. At lunch, I ate with Scarlet and Gable and tried not to feel like a third wheel. But, well, there were definitely worse things in life than being a third wheel. Mr. Beery announced that the school play would be Romeo and Juliet. When Scarlet suggested I audition, I was happy to inform her that the school had forbidden me to participate in extracurricular activities. It was no great sacrifice. Despite my triumph the prior year as chief witch in Macbeth, I was no actress and besides, I had had more than enough drama for one life.
I kept my promise to Mr. Kipling to be vigilant for evidence of conspiracy but I saw nothing. Perhaps I did not wish to see anything. I have, as you may recall, been guilty of such behavior in the past. I ignored messages from Mickey Balanchine that I probably should not have ignored. In my defense, I had missed a lot of work and my thinking was that there would be plenty of time to assume the mantle of my birthright.
I had been back at school almost two weeks when Alison Wheeler cornered me in the library, where I had been spending my lunch hour taking a makeup test. The library was one of the few places where they still had paper books, though no one ever used them. They were really there for decorative purposes.
Over the summer, Alison had cut off her red storybook hair and now she wore it in a pixie cut that made her green eyes look unnaturally large. She sat down in the seat across from me. In all the years we had known each other, I couldn’t remember us ever having had a conversation.
“That’s wrong,” she said, indicating a response I’d given on the test. (You may recall that she was ranked the number-one student in my class.)
Instinctually, I pulled my slate closer to me. I didn’t want to get thrown out for cheating.
“You’re hard to get alone,” Alison commented. “Always with Scarlet or Gable or your sister, or in the main office getting searched—that’s what they’re doing to you, right?”
I didn’t reply.
“What I think,” Alison Wheeler said to me, “is that sometimes the reason things don’t make sense is because they don’t make sense.” Her green eyes looked at me in a level way.
I turned off my slate and put it in my bag.
“I think Win and I should eat at your table with Scarlet and Gable Arsley. I think that is what we should do.”
“Why? So I can have a front-row seat to the boy I used to love with his new girlfriend?”
Alison cocked her head and studied me. “Is that what you think you’d be seeing?” she said after a moment.
“Yes, I do.”
Alison nodded. “Of course. I must be very cruel.”
I said nothing.
“Or maybe I think it good that Win should have his friends. His father’s campaign is very hard on him, Annie.”
I would rather she didn’t call me Annie. I was starting to really dislike Alison Wheeler.
The next day, I got a B on my test, and Win and Alison joined us at the table.
Though I had tried to discourage Alison Wheeler, lunch was livelier than it had been with just Gable and Scarlet. Scarlet was less boring, Gable less sullen. Alison Wheeler was odd but dry and smart, too. And Win, well you know how I felt about him as I have exhaustively and probably pathetically detailed those emotions. Suffice it to say, it was the closest Win and I had been since that day at the hospital, and you might think that would be torturous for me but it wasn’t. Seeing Win with his new girlfriend was easier than imagining it had been.
I did not even get him by himself until that Friday. Everyone else had left lunch early for one reason or another, and Win and I found ourselves alone, separated only by picked-over trays of lasagna and a gnarled wooden table.
“I should go,” he said, but he didn’t move.
“Me, too,” I agreed, but I didn’t move either.
“You must—” he began.
“How is—” I said at the same time.
“You first,” he said.
“I was going to ask about your father’s campaign,” I said.
Win chuckled. “That wasn’t what I was going to say at all, but since you asked, I think Dad’s going to prevail.” He looked me in the eye. “You probably despise him.”
My feelings about Charles Delacroix were nearly as complex as the ones I had for his son. On some level, I admired Win’s father. He had been a worthy adversary. But I hated him, too. That seemed a rude thing to say to someone’s son however. I decided to keep my mouth shut.