The Dolls(19)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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7


I’m nervous the next morning as I get ready for my first day at Pointe Laveau. Even with Aunt Bea’s tailoring, my uniform looks terrible. My white oxford shirt is boxy, my maroon plaid skirt comes down just past my knees, and my white socks and black oxfords make me look suspiciously like a seventy-five-year-old orthopedic patient.

“You sure these are the shoes we have to wear?” I ask Aunt Bea as I round the corner into the kitchen.

“That’s what the school guidebook said,” she tells me apologetically. “For what it’s worth, I think you look cute in a retro kind of way.”

I text a photo of my uniform to Meredith, hoping she’ll make me feel better, but she doesn’t reply. It takes me a few minutes to remember that Louisiana is an hour behind New York, so she’s probably already at school with her phone off.

At breakfast, Aunt Bea seems even more nervous than I do. She spills her coffee, knocks over her juice, and drops her toast on the floor twice.

“You’re going to have a great first day!” she tells me with a smile that looks as fake as it probably is.

“You’re acting a little weird,” I say. “Everything okay with the bakery?” Her grand opening party is scheduled for Wednesday night, and the closer it gets, the more scatterbrained she’s becoming.

“It’s you I’m concerned about; I remember how tough first days are. But you’re going to do great.”

“Sure I am,” I reply drily. “What could possibly go wrong in a school full of beautiful rich people?”

“Stop worrying,” she says, but she’s chewing her lip the way she always does when she’s uneasy. I’m relieved when she drops me off in front of the school twenty minutes later because her nerves are rubbing off on me.

Pointe Laveau Academy must have been built right around the same time as my house, because it has the same kind of dramatic, neo-Gothic construction. The main building has narrow, arched windows, steep gables, and a bell tower, and the outlying buildings, which are clustered around a green space I can barely see from the street, are flatter versions of the same design. The complex looks like a cross between a church and an old prison. I shudder as I walk up the front steps and lose the sunlight.

Just before I enter the building, my phone dings with a text message. It’s from Drew.

Sorry, he says, but I won’t be at school. Woke up sick this morning. Hope you didn’t get my germs. Have a good first day!

My heart sinks. He’s my only friend here, and now I’ll have to brave my debut alone. I text him back Aw, feel better!, then I switch my phone to silent and head inside to start my new life.

“Eveny Cheval,” the pudgy school secretary says flatly as I enter the front office, which is decked out in regal-looking furniture with eggplant-colored cushions.

I nod, wondering how she knew it was me.

“We never get new students here,” she remarks, answering the question I haven’t asked. She fluffs her bleached-blond curls and purses her bright pink lips at me. “Except scholarship kids from out in the Périphérie once in a while. But I know all of them in advance.”

“Oh, do you live out there, in the Périphérie?” I ask, trying to be polite.

“Are you being smart with me?” She glares back.

“What? No, of course not.”

“Well, last time I checked, I wasn’t sitting on a mountain of gold coins in a mansion like you people,” she says. “But I’m certainly not from out there.” I just stare at her, wondering how I’ve managed to piss off the first person I’ve encountered. “Now go on,” she says, handing over my class schedule. “Your books are in your locker.”

I take a deep breath and head into the main hallway, which is teeming with students. The first thing I notice is that although all the girls are wearing the same uniform I am, every single one of them is pulling it off way better. None of them are in clunky loafers; they seem to be wearing everything from ballet flats to cowboy boots to strappy heels. My heart sinks as I realize the first impression I make here will be one of dorkiness.

The guys are all wearing pressed khakis and pale purple oxford shirts with the initials of the school emblazoned on their left breast pockets. They, too, seem to have skipped anything resembling an official dress code. I spot a few purple and gold letter jackets, but most of the guys are dressed in pieces that smack a bit more of individuality—leather bombers, a few suit jackets, a handful of hoodies.