I Am Her Revenge

CHAPTER 1


            This land is barren. Windswept. A heavy mist hangs over the earth, shrinking the world to only a few yards of space. I feel as if I have entered an enchanted place. My home in upstate New York was filled with tall pines creaking up toward the sky, lush grass biding its time under blankets of winter snow, houses and concrete and people.

            Here, short clumps of green-brown heather cover the ground. Every so often, a tree ekes its way out of the soil, its trunk having curved back toward the land under the pressure of the wind until it stuck that way. It reminds me of a person hanging on to the edge of a cliff, this stubborn clinging to life.

            Madigan School, though, doesn’t look like it would bend to any force of wind. Its four buildings are clustered together in a square on top of a hill, surrounded by a high stone wall. The main school building stands tall and proud at the forefront, surveying the wild moors of Yorkshire, England, below it. It’s taller than it is wide, its windows piling on top of each other. The gray stone facade—Georgian, the catalogue called it—only grows larger and more intimidating as the cabdriver and I approach it. If I were to draw it in my secret sketchbook, it would tower over the viewer, immense and imposing.

            We wind our way up the hill to campus, and something feels like it’s flipping around in my stomach. This is the scenery of my new life, but it appears to be just as foreboding as my old one. I can picture Mother looking down at me from one of the windows, waiting for me. Lying in wait for me.

            The flipping in my stomach intensifies, and I close my eyes and picture myself hidden away in my bedroom at home, up in the attic where Mother rarely ventured. Breathe in, breathe out. I can do this. I have to do this for her. Mother relies on me.

            The driver passes through the imposing wrought-iron gate, emblazoned with Madigan School in twisty cursive across its top, and stops the car in front of the main building. He turns in his seat to look at me. “You all right back there?” he asks, his Yorkshire accent so thick that I can barely understand him. But I can still recognize the uncertainty in his voice. He doesn’t know how to deal with a hyperventilating girl.

            I calm my breath and put on a dazzling smile. “Just a bit nervous, that’s all,” I simper.

            He smiles, relieved. His watery blue eyes stare at me for just a touch too long, and I know I have him. I have nothing in particular to do with him, but this is still reassuring.

            There are people milling about the lawn, girls and boys about my age glancing at the car out of the corners of their eyes. As soon as I step out, all of the useless motion stops. People stare. I’ve engineered my appearance for this specific reaction, and Mother will be so pleased that it worked.

            I wear the uniform I was required to buy, but I know it looks nothing like anyone else’s. I shortened the red and black plaid skirt and ripped the hem, making it jagged and frayed. I paired it with black tights and sparkly gold ballet flats, to soften the edginess of the skirt. My white shirtsleeves are rolled up to my elbows to show off arms cluttered with bangles: gold and red and black. I’ve bared my throat, having unbuttoned my shirt until you can see just a hint of cleavage, though there’s not much there to show. The pale skin of my neck and the vulnerable cut of my collarbones will be the focal points. I painted on a thin dash of black eyeliner, making my deep blue eyes pop. I skipped the blush and added dark red lipstick to contrast with my pale skin.

            My hair, though, my best feature, I’ve left alone. It hangs long and black down to the middle of my back, a thick mass of glossy hair that tempts you to run your fingers through it.

            I am irresistible.

            And everyone notices it.

            As I pass my eyes over the crowd, a slow smirk on my lips, the buzzing starts. Kids turn to each other and ask who I am. I grab my bags from the driver as the girls begin judging my outfit and the boys make bets on who will get me into bed first.

            I’m used to it all. During my one year of public school, back home in upstate New York, I showed up as the sweet girl next door at first, the type who wore pale pink cardigans and pearl bracelets. This made some girls want to be my friend, but none of the boys seemed particularly interested. So Mother and I cooked up a new persona: the edgy confident girl. This girl was friendly enough and desirable, but unimpressed with boys who just assumed I would fall all over them. I wore clothes Mother could hardly afford along with my slash of red lipstick. And suddenly everyone was talking about me.