Susan Wiggs - The Winter Lodge

She couldn’t believe it. Once a girl from the Upper East Side, she was now, in her last semester of school, a resident of Avalon, here in the heart of nowhere.

I really screwed up this time, she thought, feeling sick to her stomach.

Was it only two weeks ago that she’d been a senior at an exclusive prep school in New York City? That was a lifetime ago. Since then, she’d left school in disgrace and now this. Now her dad had forced her to move to Sleepy Hollow, and she had to finish her senior year here with the Archie Gang, at a public high school.

Of course, everyone said, in the most caring fashion, moving here and changing schools came about because of a bad choice Daisy made. Bad choice. What a riot.

So now she stood in the middle of the frozen tundra surrounding her, and she felt completely detached from the scene. It was like an out-of-body experience, where she was hovering unseen somewhere, gazing down at herself, a lone figure in the snow, with a kaleidoscope of babbling strangers circling around her, oblivious to her presence.

No. That wasn’t right. Not everyone was oblivious. A pair of girls spotted her, then put their heads together and immediately started whispering. A moment later, a pack of guys tossing a football back and forth checked her out with measuring glances. Their low whistles and apelike sounds rolled right over her like a bitter wind.

Let them whisper. Let them jeer. What the hell did she care about any of this?

She brought her attitude with her into the main office of the school. A blast of damp heat filled the room, redolent of wet wool and whatever else a public high school smelled like. Daisy undid her Burberry muffler and pulled off her Portolano gloves. People on the other side of the scarred wooden counter were busy on the phone, staring at computer monitors or sliding messages into a row of mailboxes.

A tired-looking woman at a desk marked Attendance Clerk glanced up at her. “May I help you?”

Daisy unbuttoned her faux fur-trimmed suede jacket. “I’m Daisy Bellamy. Today’s my first day.”

The clerk sorted through the stacking trays on her desk. Then she picked up a file folder and came over to the counter, moving with a pregnant woman’s waddle. Her stomach was enormous. Daisy tried not to stare.

“Oh, good,” the clerk said. “We’ve got all your records right here. Your father stopped by on Friday and everything is in order.”

Daisy nodded, suddenly feeling overheated and nauseous. Her dad would be here right now, except that she’d begged him not to come. Her brother, Max, was only in fifth grade, she’d argued. He needed their dad way more than Daisy did. Way more.

The clerk explained Daisy’s schedule to her, handed over a map of the building and traced directions to her homeroom. She also told her where her locker was located and gave her the combination. There was a complicated system of bells—first bell, assembly bell, lunch bell … but Daisy barely listened. She glanced at the room number on her pink slip, left the office and headed into the tile-walled halls of her new school.

The corridor was jammed with loud kids and the smell of damp winter clothes. The sounds of slamming lockers and laughter filled the air. Daisy found the locker assigned to her, dialed the combination and swung open the metal door. The former occupant had shown a fondness for hiphop, judging by the intricate, interlocking graffiti drawn inside.

She put away her jacket, muffler and gloves. It had been tempting, this morning, to wear something low-key, something that wouldn’t attract attention, but that wasn’t

Daisy’s style. The only possible advantage to changing schools midyear was that for the first time in her life, she would go to a school that didn’t have a strict dress code. She took full advantage of that and showed up today in low-cut jeans and a cropped argyle sweater that showed off one of her many recent rebellions against her parents—a belly-button ring. She had no idea if Archie’s Gang would appreciate her Rock & Republic jeans or Pringle of Scotland sweater, but at least she felt good in them.

She walked into room 247, strolled past the other students and found the teacher’s desk.

Was this guy a teacher? He hardly looked old enough, in slightly wrinkled chinos, a more-than-slightly-wrinkled blue oxford shirt and an adorable but crooked paisley tie.

“Daisy Bellamy,” she said, handing over the new-student folder the attendance clerk had given her.

“Anthony Romano,” said the teacher, standing up and favoring her with a warm smile. “Welcome to Avalon High.” He had a kind of puppylike charm, with those big brown eyes and that eager-to-please attitude. “You want me to introduce you to the class?”

At least he had the consideration to ask. And he seemed so chipper, she hated to burst his bubble. She nodded—might as well get this over with—and turned to face the busy, noisy classroom.

“Hey, listen up,” said Mr. Romano in a surprisingly authoritative voice. He punctuated the imperative by knocking on the blackboard. “We have a new student today.”

The words new student worked like magic. Every pair of eyes in the room turned toward Daisy. She just pretended she was in yet another school play. She’d been into drama since playing a Christmas-pageant cherub at age four, right up to playing Auntie Mame in last year’s spring musical. She simply treated the homeroom class like an audience, offering a hostess’s smile.

“This is Daisy Bellamy. Please make her feel welcome and show her around, okay?”

“Bellamy like the Camp Kioga Bellamys?” someone asked.

Daisy was surprised that the name Bellamy actually meant something around here. Back in the city, you had to be a Rockefeller or carry the name of a clothing label or hotel chain in order for kids to think you were anything special. She nodded. “My grandparents.”

The name Kioga conjured images of the family property high in the mountains outside of town that had once been famous as the summer watering hole of well-heeled New Yorkers. The camp had closed down a long time ago, but it still belonged to the family. Daisy had only been there once, last summer. She’d worked for her cousin Olivia, renovating the place for their grandparents’ fiftieth anniversary celebration.

“Daisy, why don’t you take a seat right here, between Sonnet and Zach.” Mr. Romano indicated a right-armed desk between a boy with light blond hair and an African-American girl who had supermodel cheekbones and a wicked manicure.

“Thank God,” Sonnet said. “Now I don’t have to look at him.”

“Hey,” Mr. Romano warned.

“Whatever,” Sonnet said, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms.

Daisy expected the teacher to eject her—that would have been the procedure at her old school—but instead, he turned his back on her and went to write some reminders on the chalkboard.

“Kolache?” asked the kid named Zach.

Daisy realized he was speaking to her and holding out a golden-brown pastry on a napkin. Its fresh, sweet smell made her slightly nauseous. “Oh, that’s okay,” she said, taken aback. “I’ve already had breakfast.”

“Thanks.” Sonnet reached across the desk and snatched it out of Zach’s hand.

“Oink, oink,” said Zach.

“It speaks.” Sonnet nibbled at the pastry. “Maybe it can do some other tricks.”

“I’m working on making you disappear,” Zach said.

Daisy felt as though she was at a Ping-Pong match, watching them trade insults back and forth. She cleared her throat.

“I work at the Sky River Bakery,” Zach said conversationally. “Early shift. So every morning for fresh pastries, I’m your man.”

“We’ve all got to be good at something,” Sonnet said with a pitying glance in his direction.