Inside the Shadow City Read Free Page B

boring or completely ridiculous. Dylan Handworthy wanted to be a socialite. Rebecca Gruber, who had hair growing in unusual places, thought she’d like to be a bear trainer. I informed the class that I intended to be a marine biologist who studied giant squid, and received a nod of approval from the principal.
    The last girl to answer sat at the back of the class, hidden behind Lizzie Fitzsimmons, who was well into a growth spurt that wouldn’t end until she reached the eighth grade and a full six feet.
    â€œYou in the back,” said the principal. “Don’t think you can hide. Tell me. What would you like to be?”
    â€œDangerous,” said the hidden girl, without a second’s hesitation. Everyone in class spun around in their seats. There behind Lizzie was a tiny girl no one could recallhaving seen before. For a moment, I was certain I had misheard her.
    â€œI’m sorry,” said Ms. Jessel with a patronizing smile smeared across her face. “I’m not sure the principal and I understood you.”
    The girl held her ground. “When I grow up, I’d like to be dangerous.”
    The principal and Ms. Jessel exchanged a look. “What is your name, my dear?” asked the principal in a tone that indicated she’d be keeping a careful eye on her.
    â€œKiki Strike,” the girl responded matter-of-factly, and as if on cue, the bell rang.
    All it took was a single sentence, and Kiki Strike had me hooked. Who was she, I wanted to know, and where had she come from? Why did she want to be dangerous? And—most importantly—how had she managed to attend the Atalanta School without attracting anyone’s attention?
    The Atalanta School for Girls was the kind of private school where everyone knew everyone else. Not only that, they knew what your parents did for a living, how much money they made, what kind of house you lived in, and whether the shoes you wore were designer or knock-offs. As early as the first grade, each student was handed one of two labels: You were either a girl who had brains or a girl who had everything. The scholarship girls traveled to school on city buses that originated in parts of town you didn’t walk through at night. They were silent, studious, and clearly out of their element. The rich girls, on the other hand, had French au pairs, famous last names, and chauffeured cars that waited for them on the corner.Their tuition fees made it possible for the students on scholarship to receive a first-class education—a fact the rich girls were eager to point out whenever the opportunity arose.
    Of all the girls at the Atalanta School, I was the only one who couldn’t be labeled. My great-grandfather had invented control-top panty hose—a stroke of evil genius that could have kept my family fat and happy for generations. But having lived the life of the idle rich, he wanted something better for his only son. So he took his vast fortune and placed every cent into a trust fund that would provide each of his descendents with a top-notch education—and nothing else. Thanks to my great-grandfather, I could afford to attend the ritziest school in Manhattan, but I couldn’t pay for a decent haircut.
    That’s because the old man had outsmarted himself. Neither his son nor my mother, his only grandchild, inherited his love of money. They made no attempts to scale corporate ladders. They didn’t save their pennies and invest wisely. Instead, they simply took advantage of the trust fund and stayed in school their entire lives, accepting a few odd jobs here and there to cover the cost of food, clothing, and reading material. By the time I was twelve, my mother had three PhD’s, and my father was working on his second. As far as I knew, neither of my parents was employed.
    Given my unusual background, the other girls at the Atalanta School didn’t know what to make of me. To the girls who had everything, I wasn’t