Maureen Johnson - The Madness Underneath

“Have you talked to my parents?” I managed to ask.

“Not yet, no. And to be clear, this is not a punishment. This is just something very unfortunate, and I truly want what’s best for you. If you really feel you can handle the exams, then by all means, stay on and take them. But if you don’t…and there’s no shame…”

Funny there being no shame, because all I felt at the moment was shame. Shame is like melting. You can actually feel your muscles sag and drop, as if your body is preparing you to crawl, or possibly ooze, to the nearest exit.

“Think it over and let me know what you would like to do,” she said. “I don’t want to make this harder on you than it already is. How about we speak again tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” I said. “Sure.”

I pushed back my chair, and it scraped loudly on the floor and wrinkled the oriental rug. In the lobby, I paused by the pigeonholes and listened to some screaming laughter from the common room. Someone dropped something in one of the rooms overhead, and it made a loud thunk on the ceiling. Hawthorne was full of life.

I climbed the stairs slowly, past the dozen or so framed and all slightly crooked photographs that lined the entire stairway. Sports day photos and team photos and class photos. I would not be a part of this place. My image wouldn’t hang on the wall. Once the talk of the school, I’d quickly be forgotten, like Alistair, who died in his bed. The Ripper news wasn’t even the biggest story in London anymore. That was over. A political scandal had taken its place.

I stopped in between the fire doors on the second floor and stared at my hall through the glass window. Today was Sunday. We had “reading days” through Monday, which just meant study days. Then the exams were Tuesday and Wednesday. I wasn’t going to get anything accomplished today, and tomorrow wasn’t looking so great either. Exams on Tuesday, and then Tuesday night to scrape up whatever remnants of my brain were left and try to mold them back into a brainlike shape for the next two exams.

I stood there in the two feet of vestibule, the one that always stank so sharply of industrial carpeting. I probably would have stayed there all day, except that there were loud footsteps and Charlotte threw open the door behind me.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

That was all it took. I just started crying. Proper, full-on crying. I flowed like some kind of industrial hose. Charlotte instantly put an arm around me and walked me down to her room, pushing my face into her shoulder and her masses of red hair.

Charlotte had a single, much smaller than my room. But the smallness also made it feel more snug, and probably a lot warmer. Unlike me, she didn’t store her partially worn clothes on the back of a desk chair. I had seen her room from the hallway many times, but never from the inside. On the wall where the door was, the entire thing, floor to ceiling, was a collage. We were allowed to Blu-Tack things to our walls. She had a carefully curated selection of tear-outs from fashion magazines of models reading books, posing with books, or generally standing near or approaching books. Glamour and brains, all glossy, all perfectly arranged on the wall. It must have taken her a long time to put them up, to make sure they lined up just right, neat and square to the edges of the wall.

It took me by such surprise that I stopped crying. I’m not sure why it came as such a shock to see that Charlotte had decorated her wall in this way.

“I’m failing,” I said, wiping my nose with the sleeve of my fleece. There was a large floppy cushion on her floor, all ready to receive my butt, so I took advantage of it. “I missed too much. I’m too behind. Claudia said I could stay and take the exams, but there’s kind of no point…”

To her credit, Charlotte didn’t argue this. Nor did she try the Jazza way, telling me things would be fine when they clearly would not be fine.

“Have you discussed some other arrangement?” she asked. “Maybe you can take the exams at another time?”

“No.” I shook my head. “They’re sure I’m not going to catch up, not this year. And she’s right. I’m not going to catch up.”

“So you’re going back to Bristol.”

“I guess?”

“And go to school there?”

That’s what my parents said before I returned to Wexford in this little experiment. That was before the experiment totally failed, and my parents were about to be told that this whole year was basically a bust. God only knew what would happen now.

I leaned back against the radiator and banged my head against it gently. It was much too hot to be leaning against, but better burning hot than cold. I didn’t really care if it seared my back. I looked from picture to picture on her wall, my eyes twitching a bit as they took in the information. Books and brains. Successful girls.

I was not a successful girl.

“Jane,” she said, handing me a box of tissues. “I think you should go talk to Jane. Today. Right now.”

“There’s nothing she can do,” I said. “This is all academic stuff—”

“No,” Charlotte said firmly. “She can help. And I know she’d see you.”

There was a look to Charlotte—a bit of an evangelical glow. Jane was the magic problem solver as far as she was concerned. It must have been nice to have that kind of faith in therapy, or problems that could actually be solved.

“Jane’s dealt with all kinds of people in crisis. Loads of people who have been expelled. I know she could help. Let me phone her. Please.”

Charlotte made the call. I could tell from her end of the conversation that Jane was fine with me coming over.

This was one of those moments when I was excruciatingly aware that I was not at home. At home, I had friends at the other end of a phone, friends who were close by. I had friends here, but they were friends I’d been lying to almost as long as I’d known them. I’d had a boyfriend up until last night. He’d probably be glad this had happened…

No. He wouldn’t. That was worse.

I had Stephen. I could call Stephen.

Except my being kicked out destroyed everything . All his work. The squad. Me gone from Wexford meant no terminus, no squad, nothing. How had so much come to rest on me? Me, the one who, given the opportunity, would wake up at three P.M. every afternoon and eat Cheez Whiz twice a day. I was not the kind of person on which the fate of police organizations should rest.

I just wanted to go back to bed and wake up when I was twenty-five.

“She says to come right over,” Charlotte confirmed as she hung up. “I told her the basics. And don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. Not a word.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“You’ll figure this out,” Charlotte said. “It’s going to be fine, no matter what happens.”

Of course, Charlotte had a very limited knowledge of things that could happen.

18

JANE’S VIVID RED HAIR WAS ONE OF THE BRIGHTEST THINGS on the street. She was wearing an extraordinary dress—one with long flat shoulder pieces that raised up at the tips. The dress was both boxy, baggy, and form fitting and was made of an African-inspired print in orange and black and yellow.

“Cup of tea,” she said, ushering me inside. “And a little something sweet.”

“It’s okay. I don’t want anything.”

“I have to insist. I don’t problem solve on an empty stomach. Let’s perk up your blood sugar a bit. You’ve had a shock. You look peaky.”

It was very dim in the hallway. I caught just the tiniest glint of the strange silvery leopard over in the corner and the fans of gold on the wallpaper. She drew me deeper into the house, past the staircase, to the kitchen. The kitchen had a bit more light pouring in from the garden windows—not that there was much light to be had.