Outrun the Moon Read online

  The doorknob jiggles insistently, and my heart sprints. Thank goodness I locked it. Awkward as a penguin climbing out of a laundry basket, I abandon ship, but in my haste, my feet slip from under me. In the split second before I land, an image of me lying dead, dressed in my most honest layer, flashes through my head. On my headstone: Mercy Wong, sunk by her own bath.

  My bottom smacks the hard floor.

  The doorknob jiggles again. “What’s happening in there?”

  I clench my teeth. A building this size must have another washroom. “Only the usual. Give me a minute, please.” I find the towels in a basket.

  “Only sophomores are allowed in this bathroom, you know,” says the voice.

  Well, no one told me that rule.

  Then I remember: I am a sophomore. I manage to get half of me dry and to Buddha’s foot with the rest. My dress sticks to me as I yank it over my head. In the mirror, I can see that my hair is as tangled as strained noodles. To Buddha’s foot with the hair, too, as I don’t see a brush.

  Another knock feels like it’s banging directly on my rattled head.

  “Hurry!” says a higher voice. “I have to make water!”

  When I swing open the door, four faces peer at me: a petite redhead, a bespectacled brunette, and two girls with the same coloring who must be sisters. They have the same large ears peeking out from their wheat-colored hair like field mice. The smaller one shoulders past me, an enormous yellow hair ribbon flying like a kite tail behind her, and slams the door shut.

  The petite redhead, who couldn’t be more than thirteen, exclaims in that raspy boy’s voice, “Harry, it’s the new girl.” Her eyes fall to my damp feet. “Look, her feet are normal.”

  “My feet?”

  The brunette, presumably Harry, adjusts her spectacles for a better look. Now everyone’s studying my anchors.

  “Mr. Waterstone told us girls in China have their feet bound,” says the redhead.

  “Oh.” I hadn’t thought of an explanation for why my feet were fancy-free. Ma told me not every woman in China was subject to the crippling practice, but most in the upper class were. Come on, Mercy, think like an heiress. “My father has always thought of me as the son he never had,” I say imperiously. “It is why my feet are not bound and how I’ve come to study in America.”

  The redhead stares with her mouth exposed. Her friend Harry crosses her arms, her eyes receding deep into their sockets. People with deep-set eyes are naturally suspicious and hard to read.

  “I am Mercy Wong.” My tone is polite but aloof.

  “Harriet Wincher.” The brunette unfolds the words as if giving her name were a concession, then steps back as if I might be flammable.

  The redhead sticks out her hand and gives mine a pump, stronger than I expect from a girl her size. “Katie Quinley from Red Rock, Texas.” Her face breaks out in dimples—signs of fire—not surprising given her hair color. Fire gives a person extra charm. “I’m the only Texan here, just like you’re the only Chinese person here, so I guess we have something in common.”

  Harry whispers something to her that makes the Texan roll her eyes.

  The third girl extends her thick and slightly moist hand. “I’m Ruby Beauregard of the South Carolina Beauregards.” Her Southern accent puts some curves in her words, but I like her genteel way of speaking. A sprig of rosemary is pinned above her breast. “Sorry about all the knocking. My twin, Minnie Mae, had an emergency.” The line that Ma calls the “hanging blade” appears between her strong eyebrows, an indication of underlying issues of frustration or worry.

  Minnie Mae emerges from the bathroom. We give each other the once-over. She and Ruby must be a dragon and phoenix pair—usually boy and girl twins, though they can sometimes be the same gender. Ruby is a version of Minnie Mae that’s been soaked in water and expanded, with a wider face and thicker torso. While Minnie Mae’s eyes are close-set, indicating narrow-mindedness, Ruby’s are wide, suggesting the opposite.

  “She looks like that girl in the circus,” chirps Minnie Mae. “Do you have a twin?”

  “No, but I do have a brother.” I start to shiver in my damp clothes. “Could you tell me where to find Elodie’s room, please?” Two hallways span in either direction.

  “Last room on the west wing,” says the tiny Minnie Mae, pointing. She looks around her, then whispers, “Her best friend isn’t happy about moving out.”

  Ruby tugs her twin’s sleeve. “Don’t gossip.”

  I lift my nose and affect a look of supreme indifference. “She can move back in as far as I’m concerned. I am no friend of Miss Du Lac’s.”

  Ruby’s hazel eyes grow large at my boldness. “Headmistress Crouch wouldn’t like that.”

  “Don’t worry about that ninny Elodie,” says the perky Texan, Katie. “My gran says mean people are that way because someone did them dirty. What you should be worryin’ over is the spooker we hear moaning in the attic.”

  “Shhh! It’ll hear you!” Minnie Mae hisses.

  I smile benignly. “Ghosts aren’t something to fear. We Chinese welcome visits from our ancestors.”

  Ruby’s hanging blade carves in deeper. “Yes, but what about someone else’s ancestors?”

  “Those are okay, too, as long as they’re not hungry,” I say with authority, though I don’t believe in hungry ghosts. I’m slipping into my role better than I thought.

  The girls draw closer, even the reserved Harry, and I go on. “Hungry ghosts come back when their family fails to make satisfactory offerings for them. So when you see one, you better give it something good, or it might eat you, or your pets.”

  The girls gasp, all except Harry.

  Katie tugs at one of her braids. “Headmistress Crouch’s cat was found dead at the top of the attic stairs last year.”

  They consider the implications in shocked silence.

  A bell sounds, and we all jump.

  “She’ll be doing her rounds in fifteen. Better be in bed, or khk—” Katie draws a bony finger across her freckled neck.

  The twins hurry down the east corridor, followed by Katie and Harry, but Harry abruptly turns around. Fixing me with a look that contains a hundred different flavors, the strongest one smelling of fish, she asks, “If you are the son your father never had, then how do you have a brother?”

  “I, er—” I can’t control the bloom rising to my cheeks. “My brother came along several long years after me,” I say stiffly.

  Slowly, she turns back around, and I let out my breath. I will have to watch my step around that one.

  8

  WITH DREAD RISING LIKE DOUGH IN MY stomach, I follow the corridor to my new quarters.

  White comforters and matching pillows outfit a pair of beds—beds Ma would never sleep in, as white sheets are normally used for funerals. I open the window a notch to let out the stale air, then peel off my dress. Elodie’s side of the room is adorned with several scarves, beaded bags, and even a gilt mirror on the wall. Maybe she consults it every morning to see if she’s the fairest of them all.

  “It’s disgraceful!” I overhear her talking through the door. I doubt she’s referring to the skyrocketing prices of rock cod or the labor strikes at South Harbor.

  Before she enters and witnesses the state of my underwear, I pull out the chest from under the bed and retrieve a white nightgown and house slippers. The cotton glosses over me, fine as silk.

  How I wish my family were here to enjoy these fineries, too. Then it might feel right.

  Remembering Headmistress Crouch’s mandate, I turn my dress inside out. If only Ba could get his customers to do that, it would save loads of time. I lay the dress in a wicker basket, which is not as finely woven as Tom’s balloon basket. Not everything here is better than Chinatown.

  Just as I slip into the cool sheets, Elodie flounces in, nightgown billowing around her. Fixing me with a h
ard look, she charges to the window and closes it with a loud thud. She throws open her bedcovers, flings herself in, and turns her back to me. Moments later, she is breathing deeply.

  Another sound joins her breathing, the creaking ceiling above us. Perhaps it’s simply the house stretching in the way houses do. Or maybe someone—or something—is up there after all.

  The sun strokes a finger across my cheek. I slept poorly, not just on account of the creaking but because the bed felt too wide open, like I was sleeping on the Siberian peninsula. Plus, I’ve never spent a night apart from my family, and it turns out I miss them terribly, even in my sleep.

  Elodie still slumbers, and it gives me a smug satisfaction to hear her snore like a freight train. Her nightgown is pulled to her waist, exposing legs so pale, the rivulets of her blue blood nearly glow. I dress, pocketing Jack’s penny from the little dish by my bed. On my way out, I open the window again, just to be contrary.

  A fountain filled with goldfish lies in a courtyard just outside. Ba would scorn the luxury of keeping fish for decoration. From the fountain, the garden unfolds in a network of paved pathways anchored by olive trees and madrones.

  I make my way to the chapel, which is half the size of St. Mary’s with a bell tower that does not yet contain the bell that my “father” will be contributing. I poke my finger into a bowl of holy water and cross myself, though I haven’t attended church since I started working at the cemetery. Sunday is the most popular day to be buried.

  At first, I think I’m alone in the sanctuary, but then I see a figure kneeling in the front pew. She turns at the sound of my footsteps, and I catch sight of her round face framed by mahogany curls. My skin tingles. It’s the waitress I saw at Luciana’s Ristorante the day we visited the Chocolatier. How could a waitress afford to attend St. Clare’s?

  More important, does she recognize me?

  Her dragon eyes linger on me for a moment, then she returns to her praying without a word.

  I resume breathing. Surely if she recognized me, I would’ve seen some hint of it. Thinking back to that day, I don’t remember her noticing me. Or perhaps all Chinese look the same to her.

  A man of the cloth glides in from a doorway behind the altar. He is trim with slicked hair, a prominent forehead anchored by dark eyebrows, and a strong nose suggesting an aristocratic bearing. His face wears the sad yet hopeful expression that must be a requirement of his profession.

  He smiles at the girl in the front row. “Good morning, Francesca.”

  “Good morning, Father.”

  He lifts his gaze to me and nods. “I am Father Goodwin. Welcome. Please.” He gestures to the stained-glass-dappled pews.

  “Thank you, Father.”

  I slip into the back row and place my knees on the padded knee rest. I send up a prayer to Ba’s Christian God that He aids my deception. This is His place after all. We are all equal in His eyes, so why not at His school, too?

  Girls begin to file in on all sides. The wiry Katie, bright hair neatly braided, gives me a half wave. She toes my direction, and I hope she’s coming to sit by me, but then Harry gives her a stern look, and Katie follows her to the other side of the room. Soon the pews are full, except for mine; wood bench stretches out for miles on either side of me. Faces peer back. The only face that looks sympathetic is the bigger Southern twin, Ruby. Perhaps I’m doing too good a job of being an heiress. Or maybe they just don’t like me.

  I pinch myself for being so pitiable. What did I expect—to have a parade thrown in my honor? I can handle it.

  After a brief service, we are blessed, then sent to the dining hall, where forty girls (ten per grade) gather around tables set with lace tablecloths. Now, this is a room Ma would like. Morning sun dazzles off the gold ceiling, and wood floors patterned with squares provide grounding energy to the space.

  Without the restrictive silence, curiosity over me reaches new heights.

  “—much cleaner than the ones who live in Pigtail Alley—”

  “—and skin like a doll’s.”

  “Women in China put silkworm cocoons in tea to make their skin like that. I read it in one of Mr. Waterstone’s books.”

  “—and they get carried around in bamboo chairs. It’s not like here.”

  Headmistress Crouch stands at the front of the room, head sweeping back and forth like the beam of a lighthouse searching for trouble. “Girls! Take a seat.”

  I affect a regal bearing as I scan for somewhere to park.

  “You suppose she speaks English?” The talk continues.

  “The ones here hardly speak any at all. Mother says they’re not bright enough.”

  Someone snorts. “The girls in Chinatown hardly need English. They’re all soiled.” The speaker lowers her voice, but I catch the word just the same.

  That stops me in my tracks, and I turn to the nearest table. The girls avert their gazes, and I can’t tell who spoke, though I’m not surprised to see Elodie among the circle. Next to her, a chestnut-haired girl with a long and rectangular “wood” face casts me daggers with her eyes, and I make a guess that she is the best friend I displaced. People with wood faces can be defensive and possessive.

  With my ears ringing, I continue past them. The twins Minnie Mae and Ruby sit with Harry and Katie. To my surprise, the girl I saw earlier in the chapel, Francesca, sits by herself reading. I wonder if she is alone because she’s Italian. Even whites have their pecking order.

  Part of me warns against tempting fate by making contact. She might recognize me after all. But another part, probably the cheeks, tells me to grab the bullet by the teeth. I will be sharing classes with her, so why put off the inevitable? I weave my way over and slide into the adjacent chair. “Good morning.”

  Her thick eyelashes flicker in acknowledgment, but she continues reading.

  Headmistress Crouch snaps her fingers, and maids march in with platters loaded with eggs, bacon, and towers of buttered toast. I try not to swoon at the smorgasbord, in particular, the scent of coffee, which I am lucky to have barely once a year.

  Francesca digs into her breakfast with gusto. Unlike the others, she has some roundness on her, but in the right places.

  “Settle down,” says Headmistress Crouch in her no-nonsense voice as the chatter escalates. “We have a visiting student among us. Miss Mercy Wong. I trust you will show her the gracious hospitality we value here at St. Clare’s.”

  The room erupts in whispers and more glances in my direction.

  “In other news, despite last week’s caution, you are still not turning your clothes inside out for your laundry baskets. The next person who fails to do this will help the maids wash the clothes to remind you that rules must be followed.”

  Several girls gasp.

  Elodie gets to her feet. “Isn’t that a little harsh, Headmistress? Surely doing laundry is not the kind of education our parents are paying for.”

  “I’m quite serious, Miss Du Lac.” The headmistress’s eyes flash like the glint off a butcher’s cleaver. “And I think your father will have no trouble agreeing with me, after recent . . . concessions.” Her eyes flit to me.

  Suddenly, the yolk oozing out of my fried egg looks like yellow blood.

  “Now that we have wasted time, you have approximately seven minutes before your first class begins,” she snaps. “Try not to give yourselves indigestion.”

  Talk starts again immediately after she leaves.

  “Why can’t the maids turn our clothes inside out?” says one of the girls from Elodie’s table. “It’s part of the job.”

  “If she makes me do laundry, I’ll refuse,” says Elodie. “She’ll be out of a job if she suspends me.”

  “The Israelites wasted forty years complaining when they could’ve just obeyed God and entered their promised land,” says a velvety voice. Francesca’s eyes drift to me from over the top of her boo
k. “It is convention to use a fork to eat eggs.”

  “Then how are you supposed to get the runny bits?” I spoon congealing yolk off my plate.

  “Bread.”

  “What if you don’t have bread?”

  “Then you’ll have to leave the runny bits behind.” Her tone is matter-of-fact but slightly amused.

  Seems wasteful to me, but I don’t push the point. Instead, I blow away the curls of steam rising from my coffee.

  I feel Francesca’s eyes upon me again and stop blowing, wondering if I have committed another table infraction. “Why don’t you sit with the others?” I ask her.

  “I find the company of a book much more interesting.”

  I decide I like this girl who doesn’t care what people think and, therefore, doesn’t trade in petty gossip. I bet she’s the kind of person who, if she knew your secret, would consider it beneath her to pass it along.

  At least I hope.

  9

  IN THE DRAWING ROOM, THE CHINESE heiress affects a regal bearing—hands folded in lap, lips slightly parted—as girls fill the low tables around her. Four tables fit four chairs each, not the ideal configuration, but I resolve not to let that number rule me. I am here despite impossible odds, and one pesky numeral will not change that.

  Since this is my first class, I must make a convincing impression so there can be no question of my origins. My languid gaze takes in four thick books with the word Comportment on my table. Since when did rules of conduct grow so complicated?

  Ba has one rule of conduct: Don’t bring shame to your family.

  A meticulously dressed gentleman glides to the mantel, delicately picks up a bell as if he was picking up a moth by the wings, and rings it. He surveys the room with one hand tucked into his vest pocket and the other behind his back. Noticing me, his serious expression leapfrogs over confusion and lands on wonder. “You must be the new student. Miss Wong, is it?”

  I nod regally. Ruby fingers her rosemary sprig, her eyes large and attentive. I can smell the herbal scent from across the table.