The Different Girl Page 4

  “Except Robbert is also afraid of the water,” Isobel said. “He told me to stop at the end of the path, before I reached the dock.”

  “Did you see a boat?” asked Eleanor. “Maybe the two men in the picture have come looking for her.”

  Isobel shook her head. “I saw a storm petrel.”

  “Maybe the two men drowned,” said Eleanor.

  We turned at the wheeze of the classroom screen door. “Where is Caroline?” Irene called.

  We pointed to the beach. Irene went to the edge of the porch and craned her head, but you couldn’t see the beach path from there, so she came to us—none of us saying anything, since she wasn’t saying anything—and went on her toes. Irene dropped to her flat feet and frowned.

  “Go sit on the kitchen porch, all of you. Stay there.”

  The kitchen steps meant we still weren’t using the classroom, where the girl was sleeping. We got halfway to it before we realized Irene was gone. We stopped to watch her disappear, as if Irene’s leaving had become another problem we’d been set to solve.

  “Caroline is the parrot,” said Isobel. “And there’s something else on the beach.”

  “Or the beach is the parrot,” said Eleanor. “And something happened to Caroline.”

  We couldn’t know which until Robbert or Irene came back and told us.

  “Did you go to the cliffs?” I asked Eleanor.

  She told us what she’d seen: different colors of Styrofoam, plastic bottles, plastic bags, and one shoe, all floating near the rocks. Isobel asked about the shoe, but Eleanor said it was too far away to tell the size. She asked me about the trees, and I described going to the window instead, and the picture of bones.

  “Why did you go there?” asked Isobel, but then she answered her own question, both eyes blinking. “You decided the parrot was the girl.”

  When Robbert asked why I’d stayed at the dock instead of coming back on time, I’d known what I’d done, but not why. The why felt like a little hole somewhere inside, and now, even though I couldn’t name the feeling, it was happening again. The three of us ought to have been sitting on the steps, but we were all standing in the yard. Then, like three birds keen on the same crab, we turned to look at Robbert’s porch.

  “They could some back,” said Eleanor. “I’ll see them sooner from the kitchen porch.”

  As if this decided everything, Isobel and I crossed the yard. At the top of Robbert’s steps we looked to Eleanor, who stood on the kitchen porch, staring out. She shook her head—no one was coming.

  Very carefully, quietly, we pressed our faces against the screen.

  Right inside was the empty classroom. The room was dim, dotted with blinks and blips from different machines. The bed was against the wall, the shape upon it still. Isobel opened the door so slowly that the squeak turned to a long soft sigh.

  Bottles and wadded towels cluttered the table by the bed. The girl’s clothes were heaped on a countertop, and Robbert’s desk had been cleared to make room for books, left open next to the keyboard and big screens. On top of the books lay a glossy stack of dark pages, more bone pictures.

  We crept to the bed. The girl had rolled toward the wall, so we couldn’t see her face. Her breathing was a faint, clogged whistle. Her hair was damp on the nape of her neck. One arm lay flung out, wrapped round with white stripes of tape and gauze.

  “Zebra,” whispered Isobel.

  The girl’s breath caught, as if she’d heard. We didn’t move. The machines hummed quietly, hives of sleeping bees. We never woke up without Irene rousing us, and since this girl was so extra tired, we decided we were safe. But just then we heard Eleanor across the courtyard, high-pitched and shrill.

  “They’re coming back! They’re coming back!”

  The girl sat up at the noise. She looked right at us. We didn’t move, and for a moment neither did she. Then her eyes got wide. Her mouth shot open and she screamed.

  We got out of Robbert’s building as fast as we could, banging open the screen and racing down the steps. I expected more screams behind us, but we only heard Eleanor.

  “What happened? What happened?”

  Before we could answer, she pointed past us to the beach, where Irene’s and Robbert’s heads bobbed above the curve of the path. Then Caroline’s head was visible, too, walking hand in hand with Irene. Robbert had something heavy in his arms.

  I looked back to Robbert’s door, wondering if the girl had climbed out of the bed, if she was there looking out at us. “What happened?” whispered Eleanor, again.

  “She woke up,” I said.

  “Do you think they heard?” asked Isobel.

  “It was loud,” said Eleanor.

  Irene and Caroline waved and we all waved back. By now I could see that Robbert carried a big bundle of white cloth. He got to the middle of the yard and set it down and began to unwrap it, tugging and kicking at the roll. I didn’t see anything inside except sand.

  Caroline came up the steps. Irene called for us to go inside and wait. Then she walked to the classroom. Robbert said something to her as she passed, but we couldn’t hear it.

  “What are you looking at?” asked Caroline, who had opened the door and didn’t know why no one else was coming.

  “The girl,” said Isobel.

  “What about her?”

  “We went inside.”

  “Did they tell you not to?”

  “Irene said stay on the porch,” said Eleanor.

  Irene disappeared into the classroom. Robbert spread the last corner of cloth to dry. It covered half the yard. He saw us watching him.

  “Didn’t Irene send you inside?”

  We all went for the door, bunching up so no one could get through.

  “Wait!”

  We looked back at Robbert. He wiped his hands on his pants.

  “Did Irene send you inside or not?”

  “Yes, Robbert.” We all answered at once.

  “Then why aren’t you?” His voice was tired, but serious. This time no one answered. “Go. Sit on your cots and wait.”

  Isobel and I sat looking at Caroline, wondering what had happened on the beach. She was looking at us because Eleanor looked at us, too, which told Caroline something had happened that Eleanor hadn’t seen. Everyone wanted the others to talk, but we knew that when Irene got there she’d have us talk in just the way she wanted and we were supposed to wait. After not doing what she’d asked so many times, no one wanted to disappoint her. So no one said anything, except finally Isobel.

  “What if she tells Irene?” A clump of her yellow hair was out of place, flipped up, from hurrying across the yard.

  “What she?” asked Caroline.

  Irene came up the steps and in. She went to her table and poured a cup of tea. She sipped, then smiled, as if she’d just realized that she hadn’t been smiling and hoped we hadn’t noticed. Then she asked Caroline to tell everyone what she’d found.

  As Caroline talked, Irene watched the rest of us. I didn’t know if this was because she already knew the story and didn’t care, or something else, so I did my best to listen.

  Caroline hadn’t come back from the beach because she’d found too many new things washed up from the storm. The largest thing, now spread across the yard, was a sail, which Caroline knew could be useful in all kinds of ways and so she’d tried to drag it back. It had been heavier than she’d expected and her feet had become half buried in the sand from pulling. She’d been able to get free of the sand, but by that time she was late. When Robbert had found her she explained and pointed to all the other things still on the beach. Then Irene arrived, and she and Caroline looked at the beach while Robbert pulled the sail free of the sand and folded it up. What they’d found wasn’t so interesting after all—plastic bottles, plastic bags, coconuts, and more Styrofoam.

  Then Irene asked Eleanor about the cliff, Isobel about the dock, and me about the woods. I told her about looking at the circle of palm trees—which I had—but as if I’d done that for
the entire time. Was it because I wasn’t finished thinking about what I’d seen? Why did I care if those questions stayed mine?

  “Did you hear anything?” she asked. “Any animals?”

  I shook my head.

  “Not at all?” she asked.

  I shook my head again. “It was too windy in the leaves.”

  “Well. Another busy afternoon. I think it’s time for naps.”

  • • •

  When Irene woke me the other three were still sleeping on their cots. Irene was behind me, doing up the top tie of my smock. She patted my back, which was a signal to sit straight. She gently wiped my hair with a cloth and then walked around to pour another cup of tea.

  “How do you feel, Veronika?”

  “Very well,” I said. “Did you have a nap, too?”

  “No, I’ve been talking to the others.”

  I nodded. We preferred to be talked to all together.

  “And I’ve been talking to our guest.”

  Irene waited. I was supposed to say something. “Will she die?”

  “No. She should be fine.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Irene smiled. “I don’t know, yet.”

  “Be sure to ask,” I said. “We’re very curious.”

  “I will.” Irene went to pour more tea but the pot was almost empty. Usually one pot lasted to after dinner. “How would you feel, Veronika, if Caroline had found other things on the beach today, but hadn’t told you about them?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I asked her not to.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Can you answer my question first? How would that make you feel?”

  “It would depend on if it’s true.”

  “It is.”

  “Then I don’t understand.”

  “Are there things you haven’t told me?”

  I didn’t know what to say, but finally got to “There are things you haven’t asked.”

  “All right. What haven’t I asked?”

  My eyes were blinking. I was used to guessing why Irene asked questions—because we were learning how to learn—but I didn’t know enough to guess about the girl. Would she go home? Would she join us in the schoolroom? Or, even though Irene told me no, was she going to die after all?

  “About her,” I finally said.

  “Did you go with Isobel into Robbert’s building?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the girl see you? Think carefully. It’s very important.”

  “She did. She screamed out loud. But when we ran away she didn’t do anything, so maybe she didn’t.”

  Irene nodded, but I was blinking again and she waited for me to finish.

  “Why would she scream?” I asked.

  Irene took a moment to answer. “We don’t know what happened to her, or the people she was with.”

  “The men on the dock?”

  “Possibly. Or other people. Her family.”

  “Why would they teach her to scream?”

  “Not everyone is taught as carefully as you, Veronika.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s a good question, but it’s for later. Now, if I ask you something, will you promise to do it?”

  “Yes, Irene.”

  “I want you to stay away from Robbert’s building—not even going on the porch.”

  “What about the classroom?”

  “We’ll use the kitchen. Until I say otherwise. This is very important. Do you promise?”

  “Just me, or everyone?”

  “Everyone.”

  “I promise.”

  “Good.” Irene put down her empty cup and picked up a clipboard. She gave it a scowl, because she didn’t want to put on her glasses, then set it back on the table. “Now, let’s talk about why we make decisions.”

  • • •

  Whenever they talked to us alone we tried to decide why. Irene asked me questions for an hour, about my visits to the dock and to the beach, and then about Isobel and me going in to see the girl, especially about whose idea it had been and how we had decided. She never asked more about that afternoon, so I didn’t tell about looking in the window, because since all our talking was questions there wasn’t room. Irene made sure we answered exactly, and she’d repeat a question until we got it right.

  But maybe we’d spent too much time talking about the parrot to forget Robbert’s lesson about looking, because I saw how all of Irene’s questions pointed the same direction—how together they formed a cage and how behind them lay a thing that didn’t need saying to be felt.

  When I stretched out on my cot, I asked Irene where Robbert was sleeping if the girl was in his bed.

  “In the attic of the classroom,” she said. “It won’t be for long.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s only temporary. Now, while you’re asleep I want you think of something.”

  I nodded. Irene often gave us ideas to think about before falling asleep and asked us about them in the morning. Caroline always had an idea. Sometimes the rest of us had things to say, and sometimes we didn’t.

  “I want you to think about all the ways we could use the sailcloth Caroline found. Will you do that?”

  I nodded, but still had my question. “Irene?”

  “Yes, Veronika.”

  “What should we do if she comes to look at us?”

  Irene smiled at me. It was a nice smile, and all the answer I got.

  • • •

  I don’t know why I asked. Maybe at the chance we might get sick as well, that one of us could be tangled up on Robbert’s bed. But the next morning, while we helped with breakfast, I saw Eleanor staring at a floor tile near the door. On purpose I dropped the spoon I was holding and bent to pick it up, so I could look at the tile more closely. At Eleanor’s feet lay a fresh smear of dirt and grass, which might have come from Irene’s sandal or Robbert’s sneaker if it hadn’t been topped by the dusty dots of small round toes.

  4.

  That morning our class was in the kitchen. Irene had us study temperature and the barometer and the satellite map on Robbert’s notebook, so we could carry numbers in our heads to compare with how things would feel outside later on. After helping her make lunch—miso soup, from a waxed paper pouch instead of a can—the five of us took the red gravel path to the dock. We listened to the wind and the water, and peered at the seaweed and mussels and barnacles. We measured the speed of the wind and the position of the absent moon and the exact point the tide would turn. That these were questions we could answer—that the answers were numbers—made a change from the walks about deciding what to say, walks where we had too many answers and had to find, like guessing a bird from its shadow, a question that fit them.

  Yet, especially since I’d found the girl, we had become more used to stories and guessing, like we’d turned a page in a book, so when this walk with Irene seemed like everything we’d almost stopped doing, we were confused. But doing numbers instead of stories was just another parrot in a cage: while part of me tracked the moon, another part saw it as one task I did instead of another and then, because this was our new habit, I asked myself why. So there were always two questions, or always one question more—since sometimes Irene’s problems got complicated—than we’d been directly asked.

  We didn’t mention this out loud. That was a test, and to ask Irene was either to pass or to fail. The true test was knowing before you asked what the answer would be—and since we couldn’t work it out, none of us said a word.

  Caroline and I walked back on either side of Irene, holding her hands, since Isobel and Eleanor held her hands on the way down. Holding Irene’s hand was different every time: her skin was soft, but also just a little loose, so exactly where it would wrinkle and where it would stretch was always special. Sometimes we squeezed too much and she would ask us to be more gentle, but usually she just held out her hands for us to take, and one of us would say “And no pinching!” Irene would always
smile and reply, “That’s right” to whoever had spoken.

  The path back climbed a small hill before the rocks changed to scrub and grass—just before you could see the kitchen roof. Irene released our hands and told us to wait, then kept walking for another thirty yards, until the top of her head disappeared. Then we saw Irene’s hand in the air, like a moth flapping back and forth. She was waving to Robbert.

  I looked at Caroline. “Irene said you found something else on the beach that you’re not supposed to talk about.”

  Caroline only nodded, as if answering out loud would be against Irene’s instructions.

  Eleanor tugged on Caroline’s smock. “What was it?”

  “What was it?” echoed Isobel.

  “I can’t say,” whispered Caroline. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” asked Isobel.

  “We have to guess,” said Eleanor. “Was it alive?”

  Caroline shook her head, but before we could ask more questions we saw Irene coming back.

  Caroline and I took her hands again. Robbert waited on the kitchen steps, and even held the door open as we went inside. Across the yard, the classroom door was closed.

  • • •

  For two days we worked on numbers, preparing in the morning and then walking one day to the beach for waves and the next to the woods to study palms. Both days, on our way back, Irene left us at the spot on the trail just before we could see the buildings and went ahead to wave. It was only returning from the woods, when I saw where I’d stood behind Robbert’s building, that I understood what she was doing. We knew we weren’t supposed to see the girl, but the girl was being kept from us as well. We hadn’t noticed that our singing on the steps had been skipped three nights in a row—we’d all just gone to bed early. Eleanor and I had told Isobel and Caroline about the footprint. We knew the girl had seen us twice—us by her bed, and her standing over ours. We would have mentioned the footprint if Irene or Robbert had asked, but for those days it was as if the girl didn’t exist, and we were just too good at focusing to talk out of turn.

  But that night, after the woods, we were helping Irene with dinner—folding napkins and setting out chopsticks and spoons—when Robbert came in. Irene said everything was almost ready, but Robbert just poked his chin up at Irene’s room, then climbed the stairs ahead of her. Irene sighed and turned down the burner flame and wiped her hands and followed. Since there was no door, we could still hear, even though they spoke quietly.