Chapter 5 - The Girl in Green

I followed Kimber down the broad stairway. At the bottom of the stairs, she turned to the left down a narrow hall. We stopped at a door with a brass plaque that said Headmaster. Kimber gave two sharp raps at the door.

“Come in,” a woman’s voice called.

Kimber ushered me into a large L-shaped dark wood office with walls of bookshelves on two sides. As I walked through the doorway, I passed a bar cart next to a table with six club chairs, a whiskey decanter and glasses, a plate with a few pieces of cheese and apple, and another with lime wedges. The crisp scent of apple filled the room, mingling with sharp, sweet alcohol. At the narrow end of the room was a desk and two chairs, near a fireplace.

Mom wasn’t there, but there were two whiskey glasses on the table. She had to be around somewhere.

“Here she is, Ms. Burton,” Kimber said. “I’ll be leaving as soon as I . . .”

“Fine, Kimber,” Ms. Burton said quickly. I was surprised to see that she was about the same age as Mom. She had shoulder-length dyed red hair that fell perfectly straight. Her dark red lipstick and squared-off jacket, nipped in at the waist, gave her an all business look.

Kimber eased the door shut behind me, and it clicked so quietly I imagined her placing her hand on the outside of the door, to stop the motion of closing from making any noise.

“Jess,” the headmaster said, extending her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Ms. Burton.”

I walked past the headmaster and stood next to the oversized fireplace made of smooth river stones. It was rustic cabin cool, completely at odds with the elegant feel of the rest of the room. I reached a hand out to touch the stone. Soothing. The fireplace was oddly deep, almost like a small walk-in closet.

“You like my fireplace?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s cool,” I replied. I tried not to be impressed by her office, but after my year of discussing my behavior in sad plastic chairs in fluorescent-lit hellscapes, it was hard not to be a little intimidated.

“Unfortunately, I can’t use it,” Ms. Burton said, sliding behind the desk. “This is an old building and the chimney leaks.” She grabbed ahold of the bottom of her jacket and gave it a slight tug, pulling an already perfect line even tighter before sitting down.

I turned away from the fireplace to face the desk.

“Would you care to take a seat,” she said. “I’d like to discuss—”

“Where’s my mother?” I interrupted. “Wasn’t she with you?”

Ms. Burton’s eyes flashed first with surprise, and then some darker emotion. She dropped her hand.

“Sit down, Jess,” she said firmly.

Ms. Burton gestured toward one of the straight-backed chairs across from her desk. She wasn’t the usual overworked gray lady, or paunchy nondescript middle-aged guy with a slight cruel twist to the lips that suggested a disturbing inner life. Her teeth looked sharp.

I wasn’t here by court order—I’d been invited. I still had no idea why.

I dropped into one of the chairs.

“Your mother isn’t here right now,” she said. “She was tired and she decided to turn in for the night.” Ms. Burton gave me a tight smile that was meant to reassure me. It didn’t.

It wasn’t like Mom to just . . . go to bed. Like me, she was a night owl.

I glanced around the room. The desk was old rosewood, with what looked like an embossed leather inset. There were two small brass candlestick lamps at either end of the desk, perfectly equidistant. I imagined if I bumped one of the lamps, she would straighten it reflexively. Between the lamps was a leather holster holding an ancient pair of scissors and what I imagined was a letter opener.

I looked over my shoulder, back to the table with the whiskey glasses.

Burton followed my gaze.

“Your Mom and I had a drink together,” she said brightly. “It gave us a chance to have a nice chat.”

“Where is she?” I said.

“She’s at the guesthouse.”

“Guesthouse?” I said. “What guesthouse?”

Guesthouse implied there was another building. I’d seen most of the front grounds on the way in, and then the back through my dorm room window while I tried to escape. I hadn’t seen anything that looked remotely like a guesthouse.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off here. Since I’d returned from the last school, Mom had hovered, just a little. She tried to be subtle about texting me when I was at work or out with friends, but I knew.

She would have texted me if she’d gone to bed.

Then again, I didn’t have my phone.

It made me more than a little anxious to be completely out of contact with Mom.

Ms. Burton leaned across her desk and steepled her fingers. Her fingernails were squared off, the same dark red as her lipstick.

“Jess, you are new here. I used to give new students a list of rules, but I’ve learned over the years to keep it brief. Your fellow students will bring you up to speed. But there are one or two things you should know before you start.”

“Sure,” I said absently.

I spaced out during her rules—blah, blah, blah—thinking about Mom, trying to imagine where she was now. Face down on a bed in the guesthouse. Were there snacks and a bar? Fancy chocolate? Some of the kids here were rich, which meant rich parents with . . . expectations. I felt a stab of jealousy thinking of Mom in luxury accommodations, forced to abandon her socialist sensibilities for one night.

“. . . But before we get to that, I have one rule, and I can’t stress this enough.”

Ms. Burton leaned over the desk and locked eyes with me.

“Never. Interrupt me. Again.”

My mouth went dry.

I searched my mind for when I’d interrupted her and I couldn’t remember. But I couldn’t remember not interrupting her either.

“Are we clear?”

I nodded, unable to find my voice.

“Good.” Ms. Burton sat back in her chair, her voice warming a few degrees. “The second thing I want you to know is that you have a unique opportunity here. Most of our teachers have master’s degrees in their field, and some of them have doctorates. If you commit to doing the work, you’ll receive a college-level education here. You’ll find that a Danvers-Cutteridge education will open doors for you. You’ll really be able to make something of yourself.”

“When can I see my mom?” I asked.

She leaned back in her chair and inhaled slowly.

“Tomorrow,” she said slowly. “For now, it’s best you spend your time integrating here.”

I glanced over my shoulder, toward the door. I couldn’t help it. I remembered when I was first taken to Gardner-Betts. I’d wanted to see Mom—desperately. I felt that Mom could somehow explain everything away, but the matron kept saying, “You’ll see your mom soon enough.”

When the door had closed, it felt like I would never see Mom again.

“I just want to talk to her,” I said.

Ms. Burton’s eyes flashed with something like bemusement, but darker. It reminded me of the look a cat gives when a mouse decides to stop playing dead and turns to run instead.

“Trust me, it’s easier this way,” she said.

“You’re wrong,” I blurted out. “This is not easier for me.”

“Easier for your mother then,” Ms. Burton said. “She needs this.”

I shook my head in astonishment. She’d met my mom an hour ago. “How do you know that?”

“We had a long talk, your mother and I,” Ms. Burton said. “She told me how hard the last few years have been with you.”

The sour shock of betrayal roiled my stomach.

“What?” I stuttered. “I don’t . . .”

I stopped, mid-sentence, unable to put thoughts to words. I couldn’t believe that Mom had told her about all that I’d been through—all that we’d been through. Not with a stranger. All Mom’s brochure talk of “making something of myself” was an excuse. She was tired of me, tired of endless court dates and the parade of schools.

“She told me how the two of you have barely scraped by,” Ms. Burton said, her voice filled with the pretend sympathy of a court-ordered therapist. Her eyes told a different story. They were hard, like a judge who had seen my type too many times before. “Your poor mother. You’re sixteen, almost an adult, and what does she have to look forward to? Another decade of you sleeping on her couch, working a nothing job whenever you feel like it, and quitting whenever things get—”

I stood abruptly, in the grip of a white-hot rage, knocking the chair over backward. My eyes lighted on the leather holster with the antique scissors and letter opener. My hand was already on it when she spoke again.

“Go ahead,” Ms. Burton said. “I keep that letter opener sharp. Much sharper than the steak knife you used the last time you stabbed someone.”

I recoiled and dropped the leather holster on her desk. It landed with a dull thud. A knife in my hand, again.

A bloody steak knife, a pale cotton thread from a shirt stuck to the serrated edge.

She knew who I was, and what I’d done.

“I’m not a killer,” I said. My voice shook with disbelief, with curdled rage.

“Aren’t you?” Burton’s voice was silky smooth, not a hint of fear.

I was bigger, younger, and stronger, but thinking back, there had never been a moment of our interchange when she wasn’t in control.

I realized then that the letter opener–scissor combo had been carefully placed near me on the desk. As though she wanted me to grab it. The rest of the room was pin straight, except for the whiskey bottle, glasses, and the ready knife. As though I’d walked onto the set of a stage play.

All I had to do was go for the knife.

She’d wanted me to. Somehow, I knew this interchange had pleased her.

Ms. Burton stood, straightened her jacket, and walked toward the door. She opened it and motioned for me to leave. I did as I was told.

“I’m glad we had this chance to talk,” she said. “Sleep well, Jess.”