Dirty English

Welcome to Briarcrest Academy, where the best things in life are VERY BAD THINGS.

“A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are they crazy?”

–Albert Einstein

WEISSNICHTWO.

Yeah, that’s not an easy word to say. Yet these often mispronounced staccato syllables have been ticking in my brain like the click of my piano teacher’s metronome for the past fifteen minutes . . . weiss-nicht-wo, weiss-nicht-wo, weiss-nicht-wo. I tapped my fingers to the beat.

This obscure word was coined by Thomas Carlyle in his satirical work Sartor Resartus, so it’s not surprising the organizers selected it for the Belltone National Spelling Bee. Even the best speller might be thrown off by it, maybe because the /w/ is pronounced as a Germanic /v/ or maybe they make the rookie mistake of forgetting to capitalize the begi

But four years ago, I’d made no mistake at that renowned spelling bee. I’d been perfect, since screwing up was not allowed in my family. In my last year to compete and at the age of fourteen, I’d nailed Weissnichtwo, beating out the pimply, homeschooled kid from Rhode Island in round six.

My IQ tested at 162 and most considered that genius level. Yet, I still had to work my ass off for the spelling bee, studying the two-hundred-page word list and thirty thousand flash cards for two hours a day, four days a week. For an entire year. In those days, I was quick to remind people that Einstein was a proven horrible speller.

My mother snapped her fingers in my face. “Nora Grace, please stop slumping and sit up. Good posture improves your overall attractiveness. You know this.”

I straightened my back.

“Mr. Cairn’s about to call you to the podium,” she said. “Don’t let me down.”

I nodded.

She twisted her lips as she sca

I gripped the edges of my chair, refusing to acknowledge her last remark. Did she think I was stupid? I’d known to not wear my boots in front of her, not when I’d be wearing her handprint on my cheek later for the infraction. I pushed her from my mind and stared down at my note cards, concentrating on remembering everything my speech coach had taught me.

She continued her lecture as she focused her attention back on the headmaster of Briarcrest Academy. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you shop for an appropriate outfit. Now that Geoffrey has resigned, the station is in chaos, so I’ll be working more hours and staying at the apartment in the city. It can’t be helped,” she said, shrugging her impeccably suited shoulders. “I do worry about you though. Princeton is only a few months away, and you’ll never make it past freshman year if you don’t stop daydreaming. We expect big things from you, Nora.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She checked me out again, this time directing her critical gaze to my waistline. “Mona mentioned you haven’t been weighing yourself each day, and I’m concerned. You must never forget how fat you were.”

I peered down at my size five dress and sucked in. Mona, our housekeeper, reported everything I did. She probably kept a log that told Mother when I peed.

“Oh, and I do have some exciting news I’ve been meaning to tell you. Fi

I swallowed down bile at what she’d said. Everything was always about Fi

I glanced around her to peek at my dad, but he wasn’t even listening to Mr. Cairn or to us. He had his phone out, texting. He didn’t want to be here.

From the stage, Mr. Cairn was finishing up his spiel, “. . . to Briarcrest Academy’s Senior Registration and Open House Night. This fall marks our hundredth-year a

Polite clapping ensued.

“Go get ’em, sis,” Fi

As I looked at him, the shuffling sounds of people sitting in hard chairs swelled in my head and then shrank in the oddest way. Vertigo hit me, making the gymnasium spin around wildly, like I was on a merry-go-round. Freaked out, I gained control by fisting the sides of my dress and biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted the coppery tang of blood.

Seeing him had made me crack even more.

I shuddered in revulsion, taking in his gaunt face and red-rimmed eyes with sagging skin underneath. Cocaine. Someday, it would take away his handsome visage completely and leave it in ruins. His clothes screamed money though, from the tailored suit to his Louis Vuitton watch. Just like me, he was pretty on the outside.

His hands twitched nervously, calling attention to the long, jagged scar on top of his right one. That nasty gash had taken eighty-five stitches at the emergency room, and if he rolled his sleeves up, it would stretch all the way up to his elbow. As I stared, he flushed red and dropped his head to stare at his shoes, like the answer to all life’s questions were lying on the dirty gym floor. They weren’t.

I suddenly wished I was high. At least I wouldn’t remember what I’d done.

I turned my back to him and walked away. He was nothing to me.

Making my way up the steps, I smoothed down my dress and tried to breathe evenly, so I could give my well-prepared speech—all about how freaking wonderful it is to be a student at BA, how super-terrific it is if you study hard and make good grades, and how awesomely fantastic it is to be rich and smart in a crappy little world. Right.

I snorted. If these people only knew the dirty truth about me. How weak I was. How I was dying a little bit every day in small doses. Would they look at me differently? Treat me like a pariah? Yes, my internal voice whispered.

Shake it off and breathe, I ordered myself. I sucked in a long breath through my nose and exhaled through my mouth as I moved forward to Mr. Cairn, whom I’d privately nicknamed Mole, albeit a rather nice mole. With his gray hair and squinty eyes, he looked deceptively unassuming, but he also had keen instincts and even keener intelligence. Nothing much got past Mole. Even now, his beady gaze probed my expression, and I think maybe he could see my cracks. Automatically, my body went into beauty pageant mode, and I sashayed toward him robotically, the new sandals Mother hated clacking against the stage.