Unearthly Things Read online

  “Nice to meet you, Bob,” I croaked.

  Without making eye contact, Bob nodded and carefully closed the door behind me. The leather seats were stiff and uncomfortable. Georgina pulled a mirror down to check her makeup, then started reapplying lipstick. I wasn’t wearing any, because I never did. I wondered if that was just one more thing that would make me stick out like a sore thumb.

  The school was close by; probably near enough to walk, I couldn’t help thinking. It seemed silly to drive a few blocks, then edge forward in a long line of luxury cars that disgorged girls once they reached the entrance. But I kept my mouth shut and climbed out after Georgina, who trotted up the front steps without a backward glance.

  I paused, staring up at the building.

  My old high school had been a series of prefab trailers hunched on cinder blocks above a reclaimed lava field.

  The Hamill School was something else entirely. With enormous gilded windows and marble columns, the building would have been right at home on a college campus. There was even ivy snaking up the sides.

  I joined the stream of girls who chattered away as they bounded up the stairs. I’d never been the new kid before: from preschool on, I’d shared classes with the same fifty kids from our section of the island. I didn’t have a clue how to act or what to say. I couldn’t remember ever making a friend; they’d always just kind of been there. Kaila and I had learned to do everything together: walk, talk, surf. She was practically a sister. I felt a fresh pang of grief. What had my parents been thinking, choosing total strangers to be my new legal guardians? How could they have done this to me? That spurred a fresh wave of anger, followed immediately by guilt.

  I actually preferred the grief, all things considered. It was less messy.

  Ten minutes later I was squinting at a map. The day was kicking off with chemistry, my least favorite subject—not a good sign.

  “Lost?”

  I turned to find a small, pixie-faced girl smiling at me; in the uniform, she looked even more like a Girl Scout than I did. Her reddish hair was cut in a bob, and she was wearing glasses with thick black frames that looked like they belonged on someone much older. “Yeah. I’m new here.”

  “Sure, you’re the one from Hawaii. I’m Helen Leaven.”

  “Hi. Janie.”

  “Where are you supposed to go?” Helen peered at the map in my hands, which was already crinkled and slightly moist from my sweaty palms.

  “Chemistry 101, with Miss Scatcherd.”

  “Oh, she’s the worst,” Helen groaned. “Sorry. This way.”

  She walked me down the hall and up a flight of stairs, depositing me in front of a lab. Girls were already seated on high stools in front of long desks filled with lab equipment. “Thanks.”

  “Good luck,” she said with a grin. “See you around.”

  Helen scurried down the hall. Well, she seemed nice enough, I thought. I probably should’ve asked if we shared any of the same classes, or better yet, a lunch period. Too late now. Sighing, I shuffled into the room.

  A tall woman with gray hair wound into a tight bun stood in front of a Smart Board. As I entered, she threw me a disapproving look. “And you are?”

  “Janie Mason,” I muttered.

  “You’re late, Miss Mason. Please take a seat.”

  There was a single empty chair in the back. The class was dead silent as I made my way to it. A whisper to my left, then someone giggled in response.

  I could barely concentrate as Miss Scatcherd rattled off a series of formulas. My eyelids kept drooping, my head bobbed from lack of sleep. Halfway through, I nearly lit my hair on fire with the Bunsen burner.

  So all in all, a good start.

  The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Between bells I wandered the halls in a near panic, trying to locate my next class. Three times I was reprimanded for lateness. Apparently the Hamill School faculty, like the Rochesters, didn’t believe in cutting people slack on their first day.

  Lunch period finally arrived. My stomach growled as I waited in line. When I reached the front, I stared up at the menu—seriously, a menu, as if it was a restaurant—trying to figure out what to order.

  “Um, I guess I’ll have the tuna melt?” I offered, digging my wallet out.

  The woman behind the counter squinted at me. “Tuition includes lunch, honey. Put your money away.”

  “Guess I should’ve ordered the lobster,” I said, taking the tray from her.

  She laughed and shook her head. “Just you wait for canapé day. That’s the one everyone loves.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not, so I offered a weak smile. Turning around, I drew a deep breath. The lunchroom was a long, narrow hall lined with family style tables and benches. Nearly every seat was taken. The sound of high-pitched chatter reverberated off the ceiling. Streams of light shone through windows that overlooked the city.

  Less than a month ago, I was sitting under a palm tree with Kaila and Taka, eating a bag lunch my mom had made.

  –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

  Spam sandwiches again, Kaila complained, curling her lip in disgust as she peeled up the bread. Seriously disgusting, Mom.

  Taka was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Seeing Kaila eye it, she sighed and handed half to her.

  Love you, mean it! Kaila said.

  You better, Taka snorted. That’s, like, the third time this week. You’re slowly starving me to death.

  Hey, what about me? I complained, holding up my turkey sandwich.

  Is it spam? Kaila asked.

  No, but it’s nasty anyway.

  Eating an animal is disgusting, Taka sniffed. In any form.

  Except burgers, Kaila joked. We’d teased Taka about being a vegetarian since she swore off animals in second grade, after we caught our class hamster eating its babies.

  Mmm, nice, juicy, burgers, I said, closing my eyes with fake relish.

  You guys are the worst, Taka said, reaching over and snatching the sandwich back. You seriously wouldn’t last a day without me.

  We could, but we wouldn’t like it, I acknowledged.

  C’mon, Taka. I’ll trade you my totally humane lemon cake, Kaila wheedled.

  Deal, Taka said, tossing the sandwich back. So are we going to the bonfire later?

  –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

  Once again I felt the pressure of unshed tears against my eyelids, but I was determined not to cry here.

  I searched the room for Helen, but there was no sign of her. I finally found a seat in the middle of the room, surrounded by much younger girls. They jabbered away as if I wasn’t there. I ate slowly, methodically chewing each bite without tasting it. After finishing my milk, I stood to clear my plate. A ping on my cell: opening it, I saw a text from Kaila; maybe she’d somehow sensed how much I’d been missing her.

  Hey girl. How was the trip? Love you, mean it!

  That nearly broke me. I managed to collect myself enough to return my tray to a window where a woman in a hairnet and rubber gloves took it from me. Then I rushed to the bathroom.

  I closed myself in a stall and sat down on the toilet seat, tugging at my hair until my scalp ached. Don’t cry, I admonished myself. Not here, not now. Wait until you get home.

  The door creaked open, and I stiffened. Two girls entered, chattering about a dance.

  “Oh, you should totally wear that,” one said.

  “I don’t know,” the other replied. “I’m seriously over DVF. You up for a trip to Saks after practice?”

  “Can’t, I’m meeting Jake at Tacolicious.”

  “Classy,” the other girl teased.

&
nbsp; “Shut up.” The sound of a faucet running.

  “Hey, did you see the new girl?”

  “God, yeah. What a hot mess.”

  I went rigid. Part of me wanted to block my ears, dreading whatever came next, but I couldn’t help myself. I leaned forward to listen.

  “I heard Georgie’s folks spent some serious cash getting her in.”

  A snort, then, “Please. Like they’d ever turn a minority away. Especially an Asian chick.”

  “I know, right? I swear, they don’t even have to be smart anymore.”

  Whatever else they said was cut off by the door slamming shut behind them.

  My chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. I remained bent forward, trying to get control of myself. It was so tempting to bolt out and call them a couple of ignorant racists. To scream that I was actually biracial, since my dad was white. But the truth was I had very little experience with this sort of thing. Where I grew up, pretty much everyone was a mix of something: Japanese, Hawaiian, Chinese, Korean, Filipino, white, black. Very few of my classmates could check off a single box under “race,” and no one had ever really seemed to care.

  Thinking back on my classes that morning, I realized that they’d all been a sea of white faces. It was jarring, like I’d stumbled across a clone army comprised of girls with hair highlighted identical shades of blonde. Well, with the exception of Helen, of course.

  Did they really think I’d only gotten in because I was half-Asian?

  Worse yet, were they right?

  I wasn’t sure if the payoff Georgina alluded to made it better or worse. One of the things that had been drilled into me from an early age was to never, ever accept charity. Whenever tourism declined and my dad’s helicopter business took a hit, we’d just eat a lot more rice and beans. My dad never asked his parents for help, even though judging by overheard scraps of conversation, they could have afforded it. And I’d been fine with that, since based on what little he had said, they sounded like jerks.

  So I really didn’t want to end up indebted to the Rochesters for the dubious privilege of attending this miserable school.

  I left the stall and splashed some water on my face, then bent forward to examine myself in the mirror. I had my mother’s coloring and hair, so yeah, I could pass for full Filipina. But I had my dad’s blue eyes and chin, too.

  They don’t even have to be smart anymore echoed in my ears. I stormed out of the bathroom like I was heading off to war.

  My next class was English class: finally, something I could at least be competent in. I was developing a rough sense of the layout of the school, so I managed to find the room right as the bell rang. I grabbed a seat in front and ignored the whispers, fixing a glare on the chalkboard.

  A young woman came in, probably not much older than we were: Ms. Temple, according to my schedule. That was weird, too; at my old school, we just called our teachers by their first names. Dressed in khaki pants and a button-down shirt, with auburn hair piled messily on top of her head, she almost looked like a normal human being—at least compared to the battle-axes I’d been dealing with all morning. She dumped a stack of ratty paperbacks on her desk, then straightened. Seeing me in the front row, she blinked and said, “Oh, hello. Are you new?”

  “Yeah, hi. I’m Janie Mason.”

  Pursing her lips, Ms. Temple shuffled through a stack of papers on her desk while I tensed, inwardly braced for more of the cold welcome that seemed to be a Hamill School specialty. Pulling out a ragged form, Ms. Temple squinted at it for a minute, then her eyes widened. “Is your middle name really Eyre?”

  I cringed, inwardly cursing my parents for the gazillionth time. Their little joke was both the bane of my existence and the delight of every English teacher I’d ever had. “My mom and dad were big readers. That was their favorite book.”

  “Jane Eyre!” Ms. Temple actually clapped her hands together, like a little kid. “I’ve waited my whole life to meet you!”

  The class tittered. I winced; apparently my day wasn’t improving after all.

  “It’s Janie,” I muttered. “And I’ve never read it.” Silently, I added, And now I never will. It would only remind me of my parents.

  “No? That’s such a shame. It’s one of my favorites. Brontë’s views on social hierarchies and the limited options for women in that era were really quite groundbreaking.” Apparently noticing my discomfort, Ms. Temple added more kindly, “It’s a lovely coincidence regardless. We’re currently reading Wuthering Heights, by her sister, Emily. Do you know it?”

  I shrugged. “Sure. We studied it last year.”

  “Wonderful. Then you’ll be all caught up in no time.”

  English class turned out to be the high point of my day. Ms. Temple was, at least based on initial impressions, a great teacher. She led an animated discussion on whom Heathcliff’s modern day counterpart might be, and whether or not the relationship would’ve been easier or harder. I didn’t participate, but managed to stay awake, so that was something.

  By the final bell, my feet were covered in blisters from Georgina’s shoes, my eyeballs felt like they’d been dipped in sand, and my head was throbbing. I collapsed in the car, inordinately grateful to be driven the five blocks home.

  “Where’s Georgina?” I asked as Bob pulled away from the curb.

  “Miss Rochester has riding lessons after school most days,” he said, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “Thank God,” I muttered. Bob flashed me a small smile but didn’t say anything. I slid down the seat and closed my eyes.

  The house was quiet when I entered. “Hello?” I called out, letting my new Hamill School backpack slide off my shoulders and drop to the floor.

  No answer. Not that I was really in the mood to talk to anyone, but still. I was seized again by loneliness.

  Go upstairs and call Kaila, I told myself. That’ll help.

  I dragged myself upstairs and dialed: it went straight to voicemail, and I remembered belatedly that Kaila was two time zones behind me. Right now she was sitting in American history, probably staring longingly at the back of Tommy Oliver’s head. After that, she’d be surfing until dinner.

  Closing my eyes, I could practically feel my longboard beneath me, rising and falling on the swell. Another lump rose in my throat; when would I get a chance to do that again? My board should arrive in the next few days, but I had no idea how close a surf-able beach was, or how hard it would be to get there.

  One thing at a time, I reminded myself, echoing the advice Kaila’s mom had given before I left. Just get through today.

  Thanks to Hamill’s “stringent academic standards” (their words, not mine), I had hours’ worth of homework ahead of me anyway.

  I flipped open my chemistry book, determined to get the worst of it out of the way. But my attention kept wandering. The crimson bedroom looked better by daylight, but not by much; even with the curtains open, light barely penetrated the gloom. Would it be too pushy to ask if I could paint the walls a different color?

  I pictured Marion’s expression at breakfast that morning; she didn’t seem like the type to welcome constructive criticism of her decorating skills.

  Sighing, I shoved aside the textbook and flopped down on the pillows, staring up at the red ceiling. I’d left my door ajar, and the sound of muffled conversation drifted in from down the hall. I debated whether or not I was up for human interaction; but with every passing moment, my bedroom felt more like a cell. I pushed off the bed and wandered out, following the sound.

  Around the corner, I spotted Nicholas. He was sitting in front of a closed door, staring at it as if it were a portal to another dimension. His bunny Bertha was propped up beside him, facing the same way. Nicholas was speaking in a low, urgent voice. As I approached, he said, “No, you’ll like her, really. You don’t have to be so angry about it.”

  Seein
g me he fell still, a grave expression on his small face.

  “Hi, Nicholas,” I said.

  “Hello.” His eyes flicked to the door, then back. “How are you?”

  I laughed at the formality in his voice. “I’m cool. You?”

  “I’m cool, too.” He said the word cool as if he were tasting a new dessert, one that felt strange but sweet on his tongue.

  Something about his quirkiness reminded me of Kaila, oddly enough. The Eliza thing was weird, but then I’d been acting pretty strangely since my parents died, too. I wasn’t exactly in any position to judge.

  I settled on the floor beside him and crossed my legs. “So. No playdates today?”

  His brow furrowed and the corners of his mouth turned down. He drew Bertha onto his lap and said sorrowfully, “I never have playdates.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “You go to school, right?”

  He nodded solemnly.

  “So do you have friends there?”

  His eyes shifted back to the door, then he slowly shook his head. In a whisper, he said, “She doesn’t like it when I make friends.”

  Something in his tone made my skin crawl. The lights in the hall were dim, and shadows crept along the walls toward us. I inched closer to him. “Who doesn’t? Your mom?”

  He just sat there, mutely staring at me. Finally, I said, “Well, then I guess we should have a playdate.”

  Nicholas’s face lit up. “Really?”

  “Really. What should we play?”

  He glanced around as if checking for spies, then said in a low voice, “Eliza and me always play the same game.”

  Referring to his dead twin as if she was sitting there with us was creepy as hell, but I tried not to let it show on my face. “All right,” I said. “How do we play?”

  Nicholas took me by the hand and led me to his room. Along the way, he eagerly explained what sounded like an extraordinarily complex game set in an imaginary world. I tried to focus, but most of what he was saying blew past me. I eventually gathered that my primary role was to move figurines of knights on horseback around the castle in the middle of his bedroom. Apparently my knights were trying to rescue a princess from an evil sorceress.