Possessions Read Free Page A

wondered if Dr. Ehrlenbach could tell by looking that I wasn’t completely over my nervous breakdown.
    Yes, yes I am , I told myself.
    Then she blew me out of the water. “You know, you have such a pretty face. Maybe with a little grooming . . . ” She trailed off.
    I knew that one. It was the way people told you that something about your appearance sucked. She could be commenting on my crazy hair, which was a huge mass of ringlets that fell to my shoulders. Or the lack of makeup on my face, which my mom used to say was shaped like a heart. I was born on Valentine’s Day. “Grooming” in the current situation probably meant appropriate clothes, though. I felt like such a dork.
    “Thanks,” I said, which made me feel even dorkier.
    Then her face sort of . . . altered, and I couldn’t really tell if she was smiling more widely or experiencing intense pain. I didn’t know how to read her, but I had a sinking feeling that she was enjoying watching me squirm. How did a person become the headmistress of a very expensive private boarding school for girls? She had to have a lot of ambition, and cut-throat skills.
    I was suddenly very scared of her. We were up here in the mountains and she held my fate in her hands. She could make my life a living hell and—
    Stop it. You are falling into drama mode, I chastised myself.
    “All right, then,” she said.
    I knew I had stayed too long. I turned and fled, forcing myself to walk at a normal pace as I went back down the hall, past the receptionist, and out the front door.
    Then I was free, half-stumbling down the brick steps in a mild state of shock, shaking with cold and tension, and wondering if maybe I could whip out the old cell phone and request a rescue. But my dad was probably already halfway to the forlorn little town of San Covino, the closest outpost of civilization to Marlwood. San Covino was two hours away, and the winding mountain road back up to Marlwood had sorely taxed our old Suby.
    And I had just spent two weeks convincing him; my stepmom; the administration at Grossmont, my old school; and Dr. Yaeger, my therapist, that I was ready for this fantastic opportunity.
    Plus, I had no cell phone reception. No bars. No texting. Just . . . my thoughts.
    I was on my own.

three
    Julie met me halfway between the admin building and our door. Her cheeks were rosy from dashing all over campus, and I was grateful that she working overtime to make me feel welcome.
    “I’m on the red team,” she informed me. “In soccer. We’re gonna kill the blues. And here we are,” Julie announced all in one breath, as she pushed open the door to Grose Hall. The door itself was carved with the Marlwood crest—a capital M surrounded by ivy.
    The foyer was dark; on a half-circle table facing us, a foot-high statue of a guy in a robe raised a hand in benediction—speaking of St. Peter—and a jumble of letters was scattered in front of him. He was blessing the correspondence. There was a white board propped beside the statue. It said, “ At Stewart. Ida, eat lunch. ”
    “Ms. Krige is over at Stewart. There’s a meeting,” Julie translated. “Ida is one of our dormies.”
    I remembered that Ms. Krige was our housemother. She had nice handwriting. “Is this a Catholic school?” I asked.
    “Not that I know of,” Julie said, as she led the way down a hall paneled in nearly-black wood. Small chandelier-style light fixtures hung from the ceiling, which was made of some kind of embossed metal of little rosettes, painted burgundy. The light bouncing off it made Julie’s cheeks look sunburned. Or bloody.
    There were oil paintings on the walls, mostly of vases of flowers or bowls of fruit, and a few landscapes. The hardwood floor beneath our feet was highly polished, revealing our reflections like a shimmering pool would. I passed a watercolor painting of a girl’s head and shoulders. Unsmiling, she had a bizarrely wide forehead and her hair was pulled back tightly in a bun. Her eyes