The chaperone, p.4
The Chaperone, page 4
When he runs out of questions, the five of us grow quiet. Will the clatter of sterling silver against bone china be the soundtrack of our dinners from now on?
“I did want to ask you something, Mr. Graham.”
Dad doesn’t look up from his plate. “Yes?”
“I was studying the calendar…and, well, I noticed there isn’t anything scheduled during the week for you and Stella.”
“For me and Stella?”
“Yes, the two of you.”
I jump in. “Is that allowed?”
Dad snaps at me. “Stella!”
Don’t speak unless spoken to.
“Why would we schedule something for the two of us?”
“Why, so you can spend time with your daughter, of course.”
“That would be highly unusual.” Dad’s eyes dart in my direction before looking away again. “Stella is a seventeen-year-old girl in the throes of puberty. I hardly think it would be appropriate for us to spend time together.”
“It might help Stella during this difficult time. And what better way for Stella to learn to interact with adult men?”
Dad lets out a barely audible sound. I can’t tell if he’s clearing his throat or laughing, but I know exactly what it means. Why would my teenage daughter need to interact with adult men? He’s ranted many times about women who try to talk to men. Women shouldn’t be around men at all. Unless they’re married to them. They need to tend their own gardens. But he doesn’t articulate any of this to Sister Laura. “I don’t think—”
Sister Laura interrupts him. “Mrs. Graham says you’re a dedicated runner.”
“Well, yes—”
“Perhaps Stella could join you.”
“Join me?”
She pushes her glasses up her nose. “Run with you.”
I almost choke on my brussels sprouts.
Dad puts his fork down hard enough that the wood table shakes. “This seems like a highly unusual request.” But even as he says it, he deflates, his shoulders drooping. He can’t have her fired. The constables decide who should be placed in our home.
Dad starts to speak again but stops, as if searching for another threat but coming up empty. “I’m not sure—” He starts to say something but never finishes.
We’ve all heard stories about parents who try to get a chaperone fired. It’s never worth it. The chaperone training is long and intense. Once a chaperone is confirmed, she’s seen as almost sacred. Families who complain about chaperones can be shunned.
I keep my eyes on Dad, hoping he’ll let it go.
It’s never good to question the Minutemen.
CHAPTER 12
A few hours later, the kitchen is dark. I check for the blue reflection of Mom and Dad’s smart screen before walking my hands across the countertop in search of the donuts. Dad picks up a dozen at the Great New American Donut Shop on Sundays after church, our only real indulgence. I’m allowed one, but Dad and Shea eat as many as they want before Tiffany gets the leftovers. Mom says Dad shouldn’t buy so many if they’re just going to tempt us.
“He really shouldn’t,” I say out loud before lifting a giant éclair out of the box and putting it on a gold-rimmed salad plate. I’m licking icing off my fingers when I hear a floorboard creak overhead.
I need to hurry.
With the éclair in one hand, I use the other to log into Mom’s smart screen and type, “How to adjust to a new chaperone.” A few sites pop up before I see something strange.
Warning. Do Not Enter. Sensitive Information.
I push the key and brace for what’s next, half expecting an alarm to sound, but only a small red box appears, vibrating in the middle of the screen. “Access denied? What does that mean?”
“You must have done something you weren’t supposed to.”
I spin around, expecting to see Mom, but instead come face-to-face with Sister Laura.
“What are you doing?” I hiss at her. “Sneaking up on me like that? You scared me to death.”
“I heard something.” Sister Laura scratches the top of her nose while glancing toward the wall of windows at the back of the house. “I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
Every night they have warnings on the Freedom Channel. About all the kidnappings around the country. Seems like there’s one every week, but there still hasn’t been one in Bull Run.
“Don’t worry. Nothing ever happens in Dull Run.”
Sometimes I wish a girl from my high school would go missing. At least that would be exciting. Or maybe it would be terrifying. I follow Sister Laura’s gaze, wondering if anyone is out there. If the constable is back. Or someone more dangerous. A few summers ago, Liv, Bonita, and I snuck out to Bonita’s screened-in porch with our sleeping bags. We’d barely closed our eyes when we heard someone rustling in the trees. We all screamed, Bonita yelling, “Who’s there?” But whomever it was ran into the woods behind the house. Bonita’s parents called the police, but no one was ever caught. Ever since then, I worry someone is watching.
“Let’s hope you’re right,” Sister Laura says as she turns away. Before she leaves, she peers over her shoulder. “Enjoy your éclair.”
A shiver runs down my spine. Now I know someone is watching.
CHAPTER 13
I avoid Sister Laura the next morning until it’s time to leave, dodging her in the kitchen but making sure she’s watching when I grab a bran muffin, so she can put it in her report. It’s her job to walk me to school, but I have no desire to talk to her. Or anyone for that matter. It’s my first day back, and I know everyone will have a million questions.
What happened to Sister Helen? How did she die?
How do I respond when I don’t know the answers myself?
It’s late August, the hottest part of the year in Bull Run. Many things that are normally green are now brown and dry. The manicured lawns. The colorful lantana planted with hope at the beginning of summer. Even the trees appear lifeless.
Bull Run Preparatory Academy is just a mile from Gaslight, the neighborhood where we live. Sister Helen walked me to school every day, and it’s hard not to think about her. Breathing the fresh air. Smelling every flower. Noticing the tiniest crack in the sidewalk. Tears well up in my eyes, but I’m determined not to cry. Sister Helen would tell me to think of the strong young women I’ve read about—Anne, Jo, Elizabeth, Bird, Celie, Jane. I try to summon their bravery, but it’s useless. Sister Helen gave me every book I love. My whole life is saturated with her.
“Can I ask you something, Stella?”
I jump, having forgotten Sister Laura next to me. “What is it?”
“I was serious about you running with your father.” I say nothing, and she goes on. “Will you do that for me?”
“But why?”
“Because it’s important for you to learn how to navigate relationships with men.”
“I don’t know a single dad who wants to talk to his daughter.” I say this even though I know full well Bonita and her dad still spend time together. But, to me, he’s the exception that proves the rule.
“Some men don’t know how to act with women. Your dad is afraid of us, so he avoids us.” It is true Dad keeps his distance. He never stays in a room any of us are in, always fleeing to his office or the garage. “But he does want to have a relationship with you. I can see it.”
I pause on the sidewalk to face her. “How?”
“The way he looks at you. He beams when you talk about school. He’s proud of you. Even if he isn’t allowed to show it.”
I flash back to the day Sister Helen died. Dad’s hand on my back. Like I’m more important than any rule.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Excellent. Well, here we are.”
I expected to be nervous when I arrived at school after a week away, but it’s a relief to escape Sister Laura’s interrogation.
“See you at three?”
Respect your chaperone.
“I guess.”
What I really want to say is: Would you please just go away?
* * *
My pulse quickens as I pass two constables stationed outside the school. Is one of them the constable I saw running out the gate last week? Normally I don’t even notice the machine guns strapped across their backs, but today the sight of them makes my chest tighten. Bonita and Liv stand just inside the intimidating iron fence that surrounds the high school. The girls gather on the right side of the courtyard, the boys on the left, but I don’t dare look in their direction. Yet, strangely I find myself wondering if Mateo de Velasco is there yet.
Deflect attention.
Bonita’s chaperone is gone, but Sister Sophie lingers, insisting Liv button her blouse all the way up.
Bonita watches Sister Laura walk away. “Is that her?”
“That’s her.”
“She seems…” Bonita leans close. “I don’t know. Creepy, I guess.”
“Totally. She snuck up on me last night in the kitchen.”
“Shadows are the worst.”
We both glance at Liv’s chaperone to make sure she didn’t hear. Sister Sophie lets out a resigned sigh before turning to leave. The three of us start for the entrance. All the other girls watch us.
No, not us.
Me.
They’re watching me.
“I don’t know why they’re so obsessed with you.” Bonita waves her hand in a dismissive fashion. “They should be worried about the kidnappings.”
“Was there another one?”
“The put out a new Red Alert Friday.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Bonita shrugs. “You were too…you know.” She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to.
“Where did it happen?”
“Close,” Bonita says. “Antietam, less than an hour away.”
Liv whispers the girl’s name like a prayer: “Cynthia Reed.”
“Snuck out alone last week.” Bonita shakes her head. “Without her chaperone.”
“But why?”
“No one knows. She was the one who refused to get married.”
Liv shudders with such force she sounds like a helicopter.
“Olivia.” Bonita leans across me and puts her hand on Liv’s arm. “You have to stop worrying. Sister Sophie never leaves you alone. All the girls who have gone missing were alone. As long as you obey the rules, you’ll be fine.”
We walk by Brooklyn Liu and a group of girls we’ve known since grade school. I expect them to say something—sorry or at least hello—but instead they gawk. I make eye contact with Brooklyn, and she averts her gaze. The others follow her lead, looking away in one quick motion. As if my eyes will turn them to stone.
“Ignore them, Stella.” Bonita takes my hand and pulls me toward the building.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“People are saying—” Liv starts before Bonita swings her empty hand in front of Liv, cutting her off midsentence.
“Just tell me,” I insist, pausing to let them know I mean it.
Liv’s eyes drop to the ground.
“It’s stupid,” Bonita says. “People are scared. No one’s ever lost a chaperone before. They’re worried you might be shunned.”
“Shunned?”
“Just forget it. It’s not even worth talking about.”
There’s no way I’ll forget, but I don’t want to talk about it either. Not yet anyway.
CHAPTER 14
Bull Run Preparatory Academy is divided into two distinct halves.
I’ve never stepped foot in the boys’ half of the school, but I’ve heard rumors. Supposedly they have an exceptional science lab, a state-of-the-art technology center, and a fancy gymnasium with a fifty-foot climbing wall and ten-lane lap pool. Even though girls can’t attend sporting events, we all know the boys’ swim team has won the New America championship three of the last five years.
The girls’ half of the school isn’t run down—it’s always sparkling clean—but it couldn’t be described as anything but functional. Besides our regular classrooms, we have several kitchen facilities and a large multipurpose room where they hold everything from fitness classes to all-girl assemblies.
Even though they’re both housed inside the same giant building, these two halves might as well be different schools—divided right down the middle by a thirty-foot-wide hallway with girls’ lockers on one side and boys’ on the other. That’s the only place we run into each other besides the cafeteria. It’s a layout designed to shield us from temptation.
Abstain from sin.
Our classes are segregated too. Except for a few electives and the one class we’re all required to take: Family Development, where we’re supposed to learn to talk to each other about getting married and having kids. They figure that’s the best way to make us hurry up and start a family since they’re desperate to grow the population. It’s not lost on us how stupid it is to take a class to learn to talk to each other rather than just letting us talk to each other.
But I got lucky this year. I have a coed elective: Musical Expression. The class with Mateo. Most girls are put in single-sex electives. Like Culinary Arts or Floral Design. Consumer Math or Dietary Health. Reproductive Science or Midwifery, which they offer at the beginning, intermediate, and advanced level. The rest of my classes this year are only for girls. Gynecological Fitness, New American History, Basic Literacy, and Public Safety, which is where they teach us how to keep from getting kidnapped or attacked. It’s where we first learned the DANGER method: Deflect attention. Abstain from sin. Navigate the world with care. Give obedience. Embrace purity. Respect your chaperone.
When I walk into Family Development, Levi Edwards catches my attention from across the room. He sneaks a look at Mr. Russell before moving toward me. It’s against the rules, but boys still try to talk to us. I’m not in the mood to make small talk with Levi, so I fake a cough.
Mr. Russell looks up. “Levi Edwards, what on earth do you think you’re doing?”
Levi’s eyes plead with me. What does he want me to do? I don’t make the rules. Still, I can’t help but notice how beautiful his eyes are when they’re sad. It’s actually sweet. Maybe I’ve been too hard on him.
“You both need to sit.” Neither one of us moves. We’re still locked on each other. For the first time, I almost feel something for Levi. Mr. Russell clears his throat. “Now!”
I turn away before Levi does but feel his gaze on my back. We definitely shared a moment, but Levi isn’t my type. He’s too something. Too easy. Sister Helen once called him simple.
Mr. Russell watches me too. Making sure I do as I’m told. He’s always watching. All of them are always watching. It’s more penitentiary than school.
Mason Stiles offers me a sympathetic smile as I move to my seat. Bonita is right. Mason is different. I don’t blame her for not wanting Olu Parker with Mason around.
Liv is already in the desk next to mine.
After Mr. Russell returns to his grade book, Liv whispers, “What just happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“With Levi.”
“I don’t know, but I have to sharpen my pencil.” I jump up before she argues.
From the back, I study my classmates, people who seemed perfectly normal a week ago but now seem remarkably naive. Don’t they know everything can go wrong in an instant? A girl sitting at the end of our row—Willow Howard—flashes me an irritated look. Was I staring? I drop my eyes and put my pencil in the sharpener, moving the crank as slowly as possible, so I can eavesdrop.
“Can’t go this week,” Willow whispers to Lana Lucas, the girl sitting next to her.
Where does someone like Willow Howard go? We’re not allowed to go anywhere besides the library and church. Sure, we have sleepovers on rare occasions, but we never go out. If I’m being honest, Willow is not like other girls at Bull Run Prep. She’s more like a girl who goes to govie. Tired. Worn out. She pulls her long tea-colored hair back in a bun and wears the same shirt days in a row. She clearly doesn’t care what anyone thinks. I’ve heard rumors about Willow and her friends going to secret parties. I know boys go to parties. But girls? How would they get away with it?
“Why not?” Lana asks Willow.
“Pop found my stash.”
I pause the crank.
“Is he angry?”
“Are you kidding? He was more than happy to keep it for himself.”
“What a jerk,” Lana says with conviction in her voice. “You sure you can’t swing it? It’s going to be a rager.”
A rager?
I pull out my pencil and step up to Willow. “Are you talking about a party?”
Willow spins in my direction. “What the—?” She gives me the meanest scowl I’ve ever seen. “Were you eavesdropping?”
“No, I just—”
“If I ever catch you listening to one of my conversations again”—she pauses, glancing over her shoulder at Mr. Russell—“I’ll kick your ass from here to Old America.”
* * *
In between classes, everyone stares. Not just the girls. Boys too. I can’t go anywhere without eyes on me.
A few girls put aside their fears to say something supportive—I’m so sorry, Stella. How awful. Are you okay?—but mostly people just whisper and squirm out of my way. Their words float behind me like accusations. Is that her? What happened to her chaperone? How did she die?
By fifth period, I just want to go home, but instead I endure the pageantry of lunch. Girls in the right line, boys in the left, sizing us up like we’re the real meal.
After a week away, it strikes me how much we look alike. Every single girl wears an A-line skirt—some solid, some plaid—that falls below her knees with socks that kiss the bottom of the fabric. We pair them with modest shirts: neat button-downs, plain blouses, striped tops. Not one of us wears anything as casual as cotton or as eye-catching as satin. The colors are muted—washed-out blue or green, blah gray, lackluster brown, deep plum, or barely noticeable pink. No red, orange, yellow, fuchsia, purple, or violet. And no jewelry besides a watch. The rest is banned.
