Chapter 2
“I have to say, Delaney,” Headmistress Ellerby begins. “I didn’t expect to find you at my first and only disciplinary meeting of the day.”
I’ve sat in this office more times than I can count, but never to be reprimanded.
While Ellerby doesn’t have any trouble commanding respect, she’s also not an intimidating human.
Students high-five her in the hallways or stop to tell her about a paper they’re working on, and she’s always more than willing to listen.
And since I’ve been in the business of granting her favors over the last three years—the aforementioned speaking at alumni events and volunteering to show new students around—I figure that she’ll write off my late-night mishap with a lectured warning. It’s my first offense, after all.
“You know me,” I say. “Always exceeding expectations.”
This fails to lighten the mood. Her lips remain in a tight, flat line. “You were in Segner House past curfew.” She squints at the monitor in front of her before flicking her gaze back to me. “At midnight? Care to explain?”
I give it another shot. “Sleepwalking?”
She sighs. “Delaney.”
I’m starting to regret my emboldened decision. Mostly, I’ve found it’s easier to try to do what I’m told because, more often than not, others have always known what’s best for me.
But right now? I’m distinctly not doing that.
“Mrs. Faustino also reported you skipped class on Tuesday. It’s only the first week of school. Is this really how you want to start your senior year?”
It’s not a real question because the answer she wants is no. I didn’t skip history Tuesday morning as an act of defiance. I did it because my period is ruining my life.
My menstrual cycles turned irregular during my first year at Ivernia.
My cramps became unbearable. Then came the dizziness.
The nausea. Sometimes I’d have to stop what I was doing and lie down when the intense sharpness migrated all the way down my legs.
But when I’d finally talked to a doctor, I was told it was most likely stress-related and that going on birth control could help alleviate the pain.
Except it didn’t. Not really. My periods became heavier than before, not to mention my moods were off the charts. I tried switching to the pill I’m on now, which helped marginally, but every month the pain is still hit or miss.
Up until Tuesday, I would drag myself to class despite the agony because it’s what I’m supposed to do. But when I woke up in pain a few days ago, I was done pretending. I wasn’t thinking about my absence or the coursework I was missing. I was thinking of myself.
“I wasn’t feeling well,” I say, because it’s the truth. I don’t want to get into the details. I’ve tried before with other instructors who didn’t get it.
“And”—her eyes flick back to me—“you didn’t take the A&P entrance exam over the summer. The class is already full.”
I can’t recall at what point I began agreeing with my parents when they told me I’d become a dentist one day, which then evolved into practicing orthodontia.
It may have started with the dental playset I got for Christmas when I was seven.
Or when I’d written to the tooth fairy asking for all my teeth back, which surely didn’t disturb my family.
It could have been my stellar grades in science that solidified it.
Talk of going to dental school followed me like a shadow.
It all seemed premeditated. This is who you are, so this is who you’ll become.
I’d intended on taking Ivernia’s anatomy and physiology placement exam over the summer.
I’d even ordered a used anatomy textbook and told myself I could learn enough to pass, but memorizing nervous systems and skeletal structures proved to be overwhelmingly difficult.
I was miserable. And as the days crept closer to the deadline, the bigger my dread grew.
Instead of taking the test despite all this, I just…didn’t.
Like I didn’t go to class on Tuesday.
Like I didn’t follow the rules when I broke into Segner.
“I’ll try for spring semester,” I offer. There. A simple fix.
She leans back in her seat. “I think I know what’s happening here.”
I tense, sensing what’s coming next, and it makes me want to shrivel up inside myself.
“Delaney, I was so sorry to hear about your father. Believe me, the faculty is aware of the sensitivity of your situation, and we feel deeply for you.”
A tightness winds its way around my heart. Because they can’t truly know. They have no idea.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with that,” I say, ending this conversation before it can begin. “How long is my detention? A week? A month?”
There’s a shift in her gaze. “I’m not going to assign you detention.”
The tension releases. I’m getting off with a warning. Maybe this is what happens when people feel sorry for you because you lost the one person who understood you better than anyone.
I assume we’re done here, so I start to stand. “Thank you—”
“Hold on.”
I fall back into the seat.
She riffles through a file. “Ah, here we go.”
The big unveiling is a flyer printed on bright magenta paper. My heart drops to my toes as I read the heading:
Ladies of Polite Society
“I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through, Delaney, but I do think structure will help right now,” she says gently. “You’ll attend meetings and participate in the presentation ball at the end of the year.”
I stare at her. “You want me to join Ivernia’s debutante ball?”
“It’s not a debutante ball.”
It’s essentially turned into one. Ladies of Polite Society was supposed to be a historical organization focused on the cultural learnings of the 1800s, but it’s shifted into a coming-out ceremony (and not the queer kind) with heavy nods to the high-society roots from which it came.
Long ago, it was about class and social status and wealth and matchmaking, and though matchmaking is no longer a focus, the rest still stands.
Participating in the program allows students to give back to the community, sure, but the presentation ball based on the era’s formal debutante season continues to be elite and expensive for no reason. The entire concept feels outdated.
“I’d rather take the detention. Or demerit,” I say, realizing this is the first time in my life I’ve not only acted out but refuted Ellerby’s request.
She looks up, surprised by the firmness in my voice.
This would be so much easier if I disliked Headmistress Ellerby. Ivernia isn’t just a job to her like it isn’t just a boarding school for me. It’s home. We’ve always seemed to understand this about each other.
I’ve appeased her over the years because we share the same vision.
She wants this place to be more than a school for rich kids whose parents can foot the bill as easily as purchasing a bag of pretzels from the supermarket.
She’s fought hard to increase scholarships for students who couldn’t otherwise afford it, even creating an alumni-funded tuition assistance program.
It’s part of the reason that I never decline an opportunity to speak to alumni, because as someone whose mother is a library director and whose father taught astronomy at the local community college later in his career, there was never a time my family wasn’t budgeting—especially with three kids.
Jared and I couldn’t have gone here if it weren’t for this generosity.
It’s why I work hard to stay in the top twenty ranking.
At a boarding school this academically competitive, valedictorian and salutatorian are so out of reach, they may as well lie in another galaxy.
Top twenty is achievable with hard work.
It’s also why I didn’t object to a feature on the Ivernia website, despite how I looked like I was mid-sneeze in the picture captured by the school’s photographer.
But as much as I like Ellerby, I don’t get the sense she’s ready to let me off easy.
“This is not a negotiation,” she says. “If you don’t complete this program, you won’t graduate.”
A whoosh of fear drops like a deadweight in my gut. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m extremely serious.” She hands me the flyer, and I have no choice but to accept it. “The first meeting is next week. It’s led by one of our new teachers, Mrs. Vidar-Tett. She’ll report your attendance.”
I make a huge show of folding the paper into a tiny square before slipping it into my pocket. “Why this, specifically?” I say, attempting to keep the bitterness out of my tone. I still respect her even if I don’t agree with her. “Other than to torture me?”
The corners of her lips rise. It’s so subtle that I barely catch it. “I think I’ll let you figure that out yourself,” she tells me. “But I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t believe you could get something positive out of it.”