Ugh. The headmistress would not stop looking at her. The last time Grace had been in this office was two semesters ago when her art teacher had narced on her. The art teacher, who made all the students call her Julie. It was embarrassing when adults tried to act like people.
The problem hadn’t been the dwindling supply of muscle relaxers hidden in the lining of her Louis Vuitton change purse or the bottle of Belvedere stashed under her rainbow of cashmere sweaters. No, the bitchy art teacher, who was so nineties with her ugly dark lipstick and riot grrrl bumper stickers, had walked into the computer lab and caught Grace uploading a photo of herself. She’d been in one of her best morning outfits ever: black lace Wolford tights, navy blue school uniform skirt (hemmed way up), Saina’s beat-up old cowboy boots, a new Surface to Air button-down topped with one of her dad’s old paisley Hermès bow ties from the eighties, a pair of thick tortoiseshell glasses with fake lenses—which no one had to know about—and, holding together her deliberately messy hair, a bright yellow silk sash tied in a knot. So much cooler than that poseur VainJane.com’s outfits—Jane lived in Florida. How could anything really stylish ever happen there? How did every single outfit of Jane’s get so many comments, anyway? That girl thought that Louboutins were enough to make any outfit—so boring. Grace couldn’t understand it.
Anyway, Grace was sure that this outfit would be a hit, and she was about to post it to her blog, already anticipating the responses from her followers, when Julie had crept right up behind her, trying to be quiet. The teacher wasn’t even smart enough to realize that you couldn’t sneak up on someone who was using one of those computers because they’d be able to see the reflection of your stupid face on the screen.
As she’d reached out to tap Grace with one burgundy polished nail, Grace had turned and smiled.
And that was what she’d gotten a demerit for: Insubordination.
The ethics committee had decided that Grace’s blog was fashion focused and not about “exploiting herself and undermining her power as a young woman”—in other words, not about sex—but that she’d shown an unwillingness to accept guidance. It was a totally ridiculous thing to get in trouble for, but whatever. It didn’t matter anymore.
“Gracie, you pack your things up—but just the important things, okay? We be there in a few hours,” said her father
The headmistress cut in. “Grace, if you’d like someone to help you clear out your room, just ask. You shouldn’t be afraid to ask for help, alright, darling?”
Grace pressed the off button on her cell.
“Don’t call me darling,” she said. At least no one could give her demerits anymore. Ugh.
Sometimes she hated talking to her father. Was it possible to love someone and hate them at the same time? Or to love someone even if you didn’t actually like them? If her mother were alive, things would be different. Everyone she knew got along with their mothers and hated their fathers, but she didn’t have the luxury of a spare parent.
“So . . . we’re poor now.”
Grace’s roommate stared at her.
“It’s true, Rachel. We don’t have any money left. Nothing. I have to drop out of school, and my dad and stepmom are coming to pick me up, and we have to drive all the way to my sister’s house in some weird little country town in New York. Drive! I don’t know if we even have any stuff left. Don’t they take all of that when you’re bankrupt?”
“You’re bankrupt? Like, completely?”
“Well, my dad said he was, so I guess that means that I am, too.”
“Um, are you okay?”
“Do I seem okay?”
“I guess so . . . I mean, no one’s dead, right?”
“Except for my house. I was practically born in that house, and I didn’t even get to live there for long—I had to come live here. And now I’ll never even see it again.”
Rachel had heard about Grace’s family’s house even though she’d never once been invited over for break. There were secret passageways, and modern art, and once Johnny Delahari had taken a weird combo of E and H (everyone at school called it the Canadian Special, but no one else was crazy enough to actually do it) and passed out in Grace’s stepmother’s walk-in closet for hours with a silk camisole wrapped around his face.
“It smelled like lady pussy,” he’d told Rachel.
“But you said it was a camisole,” she’d said. “That’s like a tank top.”
“Okay, it smelled like lady boobs,” he’d replied, grinning, and then tried to reach up her shirt.
Now she wished that she had let him, because with Grace gone, he’d probably never come around to her room again.
Grace wheeled a desk chair over to the closet and balanced on it, pulling her luggage down from the top shelf. She jumped off the chair, launching it backwards towards Rachel, who stopped it with her purple ballet flat.
“Maybe you’ll get to have your own room,” said Grace.
“I think your roommate has to kill herself before they let you room alone.”
“Do you think it counts if it happens after they transfer?”