The Good Sister Page 10

  The sight of her alma mater has always filled her with fond nostalgia. But seeing the school for the first time since she learned what’s been happening to Carley there, she feels sick to her stomach.

  Especially today, seeing the brick-pillared signboard that lists events for the month of March. Prominently featured in big black block letters alongside next Saturday’s date on the glass-fronted panel: “42ND ANNUAL SPRING FLING.”

  Carley has to look at that every day. Why, oh why didn’t she agree to switch schools? Why didn’t Jen insist?

  It’s still not too late to pull her out of Sisters; not too late for her to make a fresh start far from the girls who tormented her. But now that Nicki is gone, Jen can’t bear the thought of transferring Carley to Woodsbridge. There are plenty of other private schools around, though . . .

  The last time she brought that up to Thad, he said they can’t afford to pay additional tuition this school year. He said that if Carley is willing to stick it out at Sisters, they should support her decision.

  With a sigh, Jen turns into the parking lot and pulls up alongside the walkway to the main entrance, putting the car into park. Glancing at the dashboard clock, she sees that she has at least another five or ten minutes before Carley gets out of math class.

  Seized by an impulsive idea, she shifts the car back into drive and pulls back around, into an empty parking spot marked “Visitors.”

  Before she can change her mind, she steps out and hurries toward the door through the falling snow, her somber black pumps tapping hollowly along the slush-slicked concrete.

  13 + (b × 12) – 18 = 271

  Staring blankly at the algebraic equation, pencil in hand, lump in throat, Carley can’t stop thinking about Nicki.

  About what she did.

  It’s impossible to imagine Nicki even holding a big, sharp knife, much less . . .

  The Nicki that Carley knew was always squeamish about—well, everything. When they were little, she cried when she lost a tooth or scraped her knee because she couldn’t bear the sight of blood. Even as a teenager, she shied away from the vampire books and dark movies the other girls loved.

  Had she changed so much in these past few months that she had been able to take a sharp blade and press it against her own skin, pressing, cutting, slicing . . .

  That’s what Carley heard: that she slit her wrists.

  Mom and Dad didn’t tell her that part. She saw it on Peopleportal, the social networking Web site more commonly known as Peeps. Not on Nicki’s own page, because Nicki removed Carley from her connections list and blocked her when they had their falling out.

  But all Carley had to do was search the social networking site for Woodsbridge High School students, scanning through the wall posts on the pages of Nicki’s classmates who didn’t have their settings set to private.

  Carley’s own page is private, of course. She’s not one of those girls she and Nicki used to call “connection collectors” because they gauge their own and others’ popularity by the number of Peeps connections they have. Collectors write public, provocative posts solely to attract attention and accept Peeps requests from total strangers just to send their number of connections into the desired thousand-plus range.

  Carley, who has less than fifty, knows better than to post provocative thoughts or personal business on the Internet for anyone to see—not unless she’s guaranteed some kind of anonymity.

  That’s why her user name on the bullying forum is QT-Pi—a tribute to Cutie Pie, the beloved kitten she had to give up thanks to stupid Emma and her stupid allergies.

  On Peopleportal, she’s just Carley Theresa. No last name.

  “How are people supposed to find you that way?” asked her sister, who recently created a Peeps page—without private settings—under her full name, Emma Sue Archer.

  “That’s the point. I don’t want anyone to find me—including Mom and Dad.”

  Her parents had never specifically forbidden her from online networking, but something tells her they wouldn’t approve.

  “You shouldn’t use your name, either,” she warned Emma. “They would kill you if they found out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s dangerous. Everyone knows that. You have to be really careful what you put out there.”

  “You’re so paranoid, Carley. And anyway, I am careful.”

  “Really? You posted the other night that you were psyched to have the house to yourself while I was babysitting and Mom and Dad were out. That’s like an open invitation to any creep: Here I am, all alone—come and get me! If Mom and Dad found out you did that . . .”

  Emma shrugged. “They’re not going to find out because they’re not on Peopleportal, and you’d better not tell them I am.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

  That day, Emma changed her Peeps settings so that her sister could no longer see her page. Whatever. Carley had other things to worry about.

  She still does—now more than ever.

  Nicki . . . oh God, Nicki . . .

  How could she have done it? Especially knowing she wasn’t going to go to heaven . . .

  Mom had tried to convince Carley that wasn’t true, but she’s not a nun or a priest or God Himself.

  Mom’s just doing what she always does, trying to make things easier by saying things she doesn’t know for a fact. Like when she tells Carley that the trouble at school will blow over, that things will work themselves out, that she’ll eventually have plenty of friends and be able to put all this behind her . . .

  Yeah. Right.

  Tears flood Carley’s eyes and she wipes them on her sleeve, hoping no one noticed.

  “Ladies, please keep an eye on the time.” Strolling up and down the aisles, Mr. Sterne cuts into Carley’s reverie.

  Never was a person’s name more suitable than his. Tall, dark, and gaunt, Mr. Sterne has thick black eyebrows that always make him look as though he’s scowling, even when he’s smiling. Which Carley has seen him do maybe a couple of times all year—most memorably, when he announced that there would be a major test on the first day back after Christmas break.

  “You’re in high school now, ladies,” he said in response to the groans after that announcement. “You don’t want to leave your brains to idle thought—or worse—for two weeks.”

  “Worse . . . like what?” Kendra Hyde, who sits across the aisle, leaned over and whispered to Carley.

  She shrugged. “Sex, drugs, rock and roll?”

  “I know, right? It’s like he thinks we’re all wild, partying sluts or something. Speaking of which . . . want to come to my New Year’s Eve party?” Kendra grinned.

  Carley was surprised—and pleased—to be invited.

  Kendra doesn’t talk much, and she’s not cliquish like the other girls. When she found herself invited to her party, Carley thought they might wind up good friends.

  “I can’t,” she told Kendra reluctantly. “I already have plans for New Year’s Eve.” She didn’t specify that they were the same plans her family always had: to ring in the holiday at her grandparents’ house, surrounded by family and a couple of priests from the neighborhood parish. That suddenly seemed lame.

  “No big deal. Some other time,” Kendra said with a shrug.

  But there would be no other time. After the others started ganging up on Carley, Kendra stopped talking to her, just like everyone else.

  Now, whenever Carley is in math class, she keeps her head turned straight at the board, or bent to focus on her work. She doesn’t dare look to the left, at Kendra, or to the right, at Melissa Kovacs, queen of the mean girls, or at any of the others. She knows they’ll only glare, or smirk, or mouth nasty things.

  “You have fifteen minutes left,” Mr. Sterne announces, strolling up the aisle, his scuffed black shoes making squeaking noises on the tile floor. “If you�
�ve finished, use the remaining time to double-check your work.”

  Finished?

  Carley has barely begun the test.

  Miserably, she tries again to concentrate on the algebra problem before her.

  13 + (b × 12) – 18 = 271

  While math has always been her most difficult subject, she’s managed to stay on top of it by working extra hard. Ever since all the trouble began with the other girls, though, she’s had a hard time focusing on schoolwork at all. She told her mother she has an 87 so far this term, but that was before she missed three homework assignments—all resulting in zeros—and failed a quiz last week.

  She really needs to get a decent grade on today’s test. It’s the only reason she’s here at all. Mom told her to stay home and not worry about algebra, but . . .

  Mom doesn’t understand that it’s not just about that. She doesn’t understand the seriousness of her situation, or that if Carley makes things easy on herself even just this once, she’ll be tempted to do it every day.

  That’s what Angel said.

  force urself to keep showing up evry day becuz if u dont then they winnnnnn

  Angel was talking about the other girls, of course—the ones who have been tormenting her.

  When Carley told her about Nicki, and about Mom wanting to let her skip school today to go to the wake, Angel didn’t think that was a good idea, either.

  u dont want to fall behind what if u flunk mathhhhhh

  Angel was right, of course. Carley told her so last night.

  im alwys rite listen to me and u will b fine lolololollllllll

  “Ten minutes, ladies,” Mr. Sterne announces.

  Carley chews the eraser tip and stares miserably down at the problem.

  13 + (b × 12) – 18 = 271

  A teardrop splashes onto the test paper. And then another.

  Again, she wipes her eyes.

  Maybe, just this once, Angel was wrong. Maybe she should have stayed home.

  Something hits her on her leg beneath the desk. She looks down to see a piece of paper folded into a triangular football.

  Uncertain where it came from, she looks around. The other girls are studiously bent over their work. Mr. Sterne is at the board, writing out a series of problems for his seventh period juniors.

  Glancing down again at the wad of paper, Carley sees that her name is written on it.

  Certain it’s some kind of trick, she reaches out her leg and is about to kick it away when Mr. Sterne suddenly turns around and looks right at her.

  “Carley? Is there a problem?”

  “No. I was just . . . trying to figure something out.”

  “You have nine minutes and thirty seconds to do it.” He turns back to the board.

  She thinks better of kicking the note away. Who knows what it says? The last thing she needs is for Mr. Sterne to come across it later and find a reason to dislike her even more.

  Surreptitiously, she bends to pick it up instead. She’s about to put it into the pocket of her skirt when curiosity gets the better of her. Instead, she quickly unfolds it on her lap.

  It takes her a moment to realize that the rows of numbers and letters are the answers to the algebra test, complete with the equations that show how the problems were solved.

  Why would anyone want to help her?

  Maybe because you’re sitting here crying, and someone in here heard what happened to Nicki and actually has a heart?

  Could it be Kendra?

  She no longer makes conversation with Carley, much less invites her to anything, but she’s not one of the mean girls.

  But even if it came from Kendra—why would she assume Carley would want to cheat?

  Maybe that’s no big deal to someone like her. Maybe she’s just trying to help.

  So now what?

  Would Carley cheat?

  Absolutely not, she reminds herself firmly.

  She glances up at the clock just in time to see the big black minute hand jump to the next notch.

  She looks back down at her nearly blank test page, and then, reluctantly, at the unfolded paper in her lap.

  The drafty corridors of Sacred Sisters look exactly the same as they did decades ago: beige and black speckled tile floors, yellow-painted interior concrete block walls, rows of tall, narrow, battleship gray lockers.

  If Jen had walked in while classes were changing, those locker doors would be slamming amid the sound of female chatter. But sixth period is in full swing and her footsteps echo in the empty halls, past hushed classrooms where teachers’ voices drone or students are bent over their desks, pencils in hand.

  She passes the tree an artistic hippie nun painted on the wall back in the seventies, its bare branches always seasonally decorated by a couple of lucky students. Right now, the tree is covered in small green construction paper buds. Soon, Jen knows, they’ll be swapped out for large green construction paper leaves.

  It’s momentarily comforting to know that in this little corner of the world, at least, even the things that are meant to symbolize change never change.

  Comforting—until she remembers the bullies who have made Carley miserable here.

  Jen passes the memorial plaques and photos on the wall outside the principal’s office. When she was in school, there were just a handful, and the only one she knew was Ruthie Bell, killed in that car accident during their sophomore year.

  Ruth Ann Bell: 1969–1986.

  Jen still can’t bear to look at that plain, familiar face, frozen in grainy black and white; can’t bear the memories even after all these years.

  Now there are at least a dozen additional tributes to students who have since walked the halls of Sacred Sisters, but tragically died before graduation.

  Is there a similar wall at Woodsbridge High, where Nicole Denise Olivera will be memorialized?

  Stop.

  Go.

  She walks on, searching for other memories. Happier memories.

  She allows herself to glance into the glass display case outside the coach’s office, filled with trophies and plaques, many of which are inscribed with her sisters Bennie and Frankie’s names. And the gym, echoing with the sounds of bouncing ball and rubber sneaker soles squeaking on the varnished maple floorboards. And the health office, where she overhears the school nurse on the telephone telling a parent that it’s just a low-grade fever, and glimpses a girl lying on a vinyl cot, furtively messaging on her cell phone beneath the watchful painted gaze of the Blessed Virgin.

  Jen remembers playing hooky on that same orange cot beneath that same framed print of serene, blue-mantled Mary; remembers reading an issue of Seventeen magazine hidden in the pages of an oversized textbook while waiting for her mother to come pick her up.

  More than the familiar sights and sounds of the school, it’s the smell that, for Jen, is the most powerful memory trigger.

  From the moment she stepped through the big glass double doors, she was struck by the familiar scents of pine floor cleaner, incense from the chapel, and what she and her friends used to call Eau de Sloppy Joe. Chances are, the cafeteria lunch ladies aren’t even serving Sloppy Joe today, but for some reason it smells as if they are. Always has, and probably always will.

  As the scent infiltrates her nostrils, memories of her days here at Sacred Sisters begin working their way into her brain. By the time she reaches the warren of second-floor offices that house various staff members who fall under the guidance department umbrella, she half expects to see old Mrs. Esposito manning the reception desk.

  But she died years ago, and Jen isn’t here to discuss her own college applications or SAT scores. She’s here to introduce herself to the new social worker and find out how Carley is doing.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the department secretary asks when Jen inquires whether Sister Linda is in today.
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  “No, but I won’t keep her for more than five minutes.”

  The woman purses her lips. “Have a seat. I’ll go find out if she’s available.”

  As she disappears, Jen finds herself wondering why the people who sit at reception desks—at schools, at medical offices—so often seem to have dour personalities. Are those the kinds of people drawn to these jobs, or does the pressure of dealing with people all day, every day, eventually wear on them?

  Back in Jen’s day, Mrs. Esposito was such a force to be reckoned with that even the guidance counselor seemed intimidated by her. Jen remembers sitting in this very spot—perhaps on this very chair—under Mrs. Esposito’s watchful gaze, trying not to reveal that she had a forbidden wad of strawberry Bubble Yum in her mouth.

  “Sister Linda will be out in a few minutes,” the receptionist announces, reappearing and settling back at her desk.

  Jen’s thoughts return to the past as her gaze settles on a nearby bulletin board, where a thumbtacked poster advertises an upcoming school trip to Italy and the Vatican over Easter break.

  When she was at Sisters, she begged her parents to allow her to go on a similar trip. They refused, saying they couldn’t afford it. But after Jen took an after-school job to earn the money herself, they still wouldn’t agree to let her go. “It wouldn’t be fair to your sisters” was Mom’s excuse. “They didn’t get to go to Italy. Even Daddy and I have never been to Italy, and Grandma and Pop-Pop haven’t been back there since they left on the boat.”

  At the time, Jen was devastated. Even more so when her boyfriend, Mike Morino, got to go on the same trip with his classmates at Cardinal Ruffini, the all-boys Catholic school he attended. She was certain he was going to fall in love with someone else while he was there, and spent a miserable Easter break envisioning Mike strolling the streets of Rome hand in hand with another girl, a beautiful Italian girl who looked like a young Sophia Loren.

  It didn’t happen . . .

  Or more likely it did, but she never knew about it.

  Looking back now, remembering how much that mattered then, she wonders, not for the first time, how Mike is doing.