Even now I wonder if I’d be able to tell. If she’d been possessed by the spirit of one of those dead girls, if she’d performed her own rituals in the dark, calling up spirits she didn’t understand, spirits that would never leave her alone, would I scent it in the air like fine perfume?
I claim a seat near the windows, sufficiently far from the center of the room that I hope to go unnoticed if this is one of those group projects that lets students pick their own partners. I’ll happily accept the dregs of who’s left after all the rich coven girls have been claimed.
I’ve just settled in and opened my laptop when I glance over and spot Ellis Haley sitting at one of the other desks, a plain black notebook in front of her and a fountain pen in hand. She must sense me watching, because she meets my gaze and one corner of her mouth quirks up before the instructor raps her knuckles on the chalkboard.
We begin inauspiciously, with a question—What is the history of art?—and a series of definitions. The project summary, when it’s distributed, isn’t as bad as I’d feared. There will be museum visits, even if most of them look as if they’re meant to be done independently. And the project isn’t due until the end of the semester.
“With your partner,” the instructor says, “you will choose two works of art, and collaboratively you will write a research paper comparing these two works, situating them in their respective historical contexts. This is not the kind of project you can put off until finals week. To get a good grade, you will have to do extensive reading and research both into the construction of the works as well as their artists’ biographies, the sociocultural issues of their time, and how the works entered into dialogue with their contemporary societies. My standards will be high.”
I wonder how broadly she has construed the term art—if I might be allowed to use architecture, or a book of George Eliot essays.
Or I could write about art and the destruction thereof. About my mother’s hand holding that knife, the sound canvas makes when it rips.
“I’ve randomly paired you up, with one group of three since we have an odd number…”
The instructor reads off her list. Ellis is teamed up with Ursula Prince, who has an expression on her face like she’s won an award; I’m assigned Bridget Crenshaw. The moment the instructor says my name, Bridget’s hand snaps into the air.
“I can’t work with Felicity,” Bridget says without even waiting to be called upon. “She makes me uncomfortable.”
That’s code for I won’t work with a girl who killed her best friend.
Under the desk, my hands clench into fists as every face in the room turns to stare at me. Bridget’s pink-lipsticked mouth is set in a mean smile, and no—I immediately know exactly what this is. It has nothing to do with Alex. It has everything to do with the fact that Bridget applied to Godwin House every year and never got in, and since Alex and I were the queens of Godwin House, that became our fault. As if we’d hoarded our popularity just to make sure Bridget never got any. Never mind that Bridget is part of the Margery coven; never mind that Bridget had doubtless been part of the decision to excise me from that club.
I’m not queen anymore. This is a coup.
“I’ll be Felicity’s partner,” a familiar voice says.
I look.
Ellis has one hand half raised, her pen thrust behind her ear. Ursula Prince, to her left, looks deeply disappointed.
The Art History teacher makes a mark on her clipboard. “Very well. Bridget, you can work with Ursula. Unless you have a problem with Miss Prince, too?”
A titter runs through the class, and Bridget’s cheeks darken; she says nothing.
It shouldn’t feel like a victory, but it does. If Bridget thinks less of me because of what happened, because I had to leave school, then I want her humiliated. If she’s afraid of me because she thinks I killed Alex, well, then my wishes for her become even more uncharitable.
After class I catch up to Ellis halfway across the quad, the September wind cutting through my thin linen shirt and making me shiver; I should have worn a sweater. Ellis, in a turtleneck that looks at least as flimsy as what I’m wearing, hardly seems to notice the cold.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell her.
“Do what?” She spares me a sidelong glance. “I don’t want to work with Ursula Prince. It’s as simple as that.”
As simple as that.
Somehow, I don’t think it is.
* * *
—
Fall deepens, that chill breeze turning to cold as the leaves go yellow and then scarlet. Only three weeks have passed since school started, but by October, knit tights and cashmere sweaters have made their appearance and I discover all my winter clothes are too large now. I head into town, accompanied by Kajal, of all people, to buy more. We try on tartan skirts and blazers, Kajal examining herself in the full-length mirror with one hand pressed to her flat stomach and her lips curving downward.