The Darkness Dwellers Page 17

  Hundreds of eyes always stared back at me whenever I entered the principal’s dusty office. Her walls were covered with five decades of photos—snapshots of Atalanta’s most illustrious graduates. No one knew more senators, brain surgeons, or CEOs than the principal of Manhattan’s most exclusive girls’ school. At one time or another, they’d all been Theodora Wickham’s protégés. If the principal had bothered to call in all the favors she was owed, she could have easily ended up running New York.

  But that day, I breezed into the office and found myself greeted by a new set of eyes—a pair that happened to belong to one of the most famous faces in the world. At age twenty, Theresa Donovan had won an Oscar for her portrayal of a shoplifting street urchin who later became one of Sydney’s finest citizens. The actress took on her second Oscar-winning role fifteen years later, when she played the infamous French poisoner Madame de Montespan. Many critics considered Theresa Donovan the world’s greatest thespian, but I knew her best as Molly Donovan’s detestable mother.

  “Hey, Ananka.” Molly was leaning back in a chair with her filthy work boots propped up on Principal Wickham’s desk.

  “Molly,” I sputtered. “What’s going on?”

  “Ananka,” Principal Wickham addressed me in her most formal tone. “This is Molly’s mother, Mrs. Donovan.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “I’m sorry. Nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Donovan.” I waited for the actress to hold out a hand.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Ananka,” Mrs. Donovan replied. She was blond, fair, and much more delicate than the characters she played. Her natural voice had a singsong quality, and no camera could ever capture the beauty of her smile. In the movies, Theresa Donovan was pretty. In person, she seemed positively radiant. I had no problem imagining sweet little sparrows fluttering down from the heavens to perch on her shoulders every time she left her house—or a parade of cute, furry creatures trailing behind her whenever she strolled through Central Park.

  What I could no longer imagine was the terrible, overbearing woman Molly had described to me. How could this Mrs. Donovan be the braggart who treated her daughter like Hans, the Counting Horse, hauling her out at dinner parties to entertain guests? And what was she doing here at Atalanta with Molly? I looked to Principal Wickham for an explanation.

  “I received a call from Mrs. Donovan yesterday morning. She wanted my advice on a matter with which you might be familiar. It appears that Molly has been awarded a scholarship to L’Institut Beauregard.”

  “Congratulations,” I told Molly.

  “You don’t have to pretend, Ananka,” Molly informed me. “They both know you’re behind the scholarship. And no, I didn’t squeal on you.”

  “Principal Wickham said that this woman—Madame Beauregard—had Molly’s name on some sort of list.” The world’s most famous actress didn’t speak down to me as most adults might.

  “That’s right,” I confirmed. “Amelia Beauregard keeps a list of girls who need to be tamed.”

  “And Molly is on it?” Mrs. Donovan gave me a puzzled smile as though she hoped I’d let her in on the joke. “Why would she think my daughter needs to be tamed?”

  I could have pointed to Molly’s boots, which remained propped up on the principal’s desk. Or reminded Mrs. Donovan of her daughter’s impressive detention record. Or the smoke bomb incident that had led to Molly’s expulsion from the Atalanta School for Girls. But I had a feeling that facts wouldn’t make much of an impression on Mrs. Donovan. She seemed blissfully unaware that her daughter was a delinquent of some renown.

  “Perhaps it has something to do with Molly’s enrollment at the Boreland Academy,” Principal Wickham offered diplomatically. “The school has a reputation as the last resort for the parents of unruly children.”

  “But Molly chose Boreland,” Theresa Donovan argued. “I never wanted to send her away to school.”

  “No,” Molly butted in. “You wanted to keep me here so you could introduce me to every shrink in the city. And make me entertain your stupid friends with my math tricks.”

  “Oh, Molly!” Mrs. Donovan gasped. “I was just proud of you! I’ve always been in awe of your gifts! I thought therapy might help you take advantage of them. I wish I’d had that kind of encouragement when I was your age.”

  “Maybe you got to be who you are because your mother never smothered you with ‘help.’ Or dragged you off to Europe for months at a time.”

  Mrs. Donovan looked so wounded that I wasn’t sure she’d ever recover. “Is that what this is all about? Did you decide to accept the scholarship to L’Institut Beauregard because you don’t want to spend the summer in Italy with me?”

  “You mean trapped in a hotel room, being coddled twenty-four hours a day? Thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather spend my vacation learning how to curtsy.”

  “Molly,” Principal Wickham interrupted. “I’m not sure that you’ve given quite enough thought to your decision to spend the summer at L’Institut Beauregard. That’s why I asked your mother to bring you here this afternoon. I know Ananka has warned you about the institute’s headmistress, but I think it might be a good idea for you to observe a few of her other pupils.”

  “Principal Wickham is right, Molly,” I said. “You need to see what’s going on here at Atalanta. It’s gotten much worse than I ever thought it could. I know you accepted the scholarship to help me out, but I’m starting to have second thoughts about the whole arrangement.”

  Principal Wickham nodded. “Mrs. Donovan, perhaps you and I could have lunch while Molly spends a little time with Ananka. Would you mind?”

  “Not at all.” Mrs. Donovan tried to send her daughter off with a smile, but Molly was already out of her seat and halfway to the door.

  “Your mom seems really great,” I observed once the two of us were alone in the hall.

  “My mother’s like cake,” Molly replied. “The first bite is amazing. But you’ll vomit if you have too much. Anyway, thanks for getting me out of there. That whole ‘second thoughts’ speech was a nice touch.”

  “I was serious,” I said.

  “Oh, come on.” Molly rolled her eyes.

  “Just wait a few minutes,” I told her. “I think Italy’s going to start looking good to you pretty soon. Besides, I don’t understand why you’d rather stay in Manhattan all summer when you could be wreaking havoc across Rome.”

  “I’d love to go to Rome. I just don’t want to go to Rome with her. My mother still thinks she can turn me into her little Mini-Me,” Molly said. “She tries to give me all the attention she craved back when she was a kid. Buying me pretty things and taking me for pedicures. She doesn’t care that I’m different. She’s never even bothered to figure out who I am. I don’t want pink toenails. I just want to be left alone.”

  “But,” I started to argue just as the bell rang, and girls of all sizes flooded the hallway. A few months earlier, the scene would have been utter chaos. Now it was as quiet and orderly as a parade of debutantes. Half the high school students had already been transformed into Proper Little Ladies. The other half looked terrified that the condition might be contagious, and the younger girls just seemed confused. Molly and I stood with our backs to the wall as the Atalanta zombies glided by.

  “Ha! I’ve never seen so many pearls in my life!” Molly cackled. “As soon as I get out of here, I’m buying an oyster farm.” I turned just in time to see her face fall into a frown. “Whoa. Is that Rebecca Gruber?” she whispered.

  A tall girl was headed in our direction. Stretched across her broad shoulders was a wrinkle-free white shirt with a frilly collar. She moved slowly, and her muscular calves wobbled, straining to keep the girl upright as she walked in what I was certain was her first pair of heels—the same pumps I’d seen in the bathroom stall. I couldn’t help but stare at Rebecca’s once-wild eyebrows, which had now been plucked into submission, and her cheeks, which were tastefully dusted with rouge. The girl had done her best to p
ull herself together, but I could tell from her puffy eyelids that she’d recently been crying. Fortunately, Rebecca was concentrating so hard on the business of walking that she never realized she was being observed.

  “Oh my God, Ananka! What happened to her?” Molly gasped in horror. “Rebecca doesn’t wear skirts. I’ve never seen her in anything but sweatpants. When we were little, she wanted to be a bear when she grew up! And before I left Atalanta, all she could talk about was finding a way to save the orangutans! Her dream is to run the Bronx Zoo, not to throw fabulous dinner parties! I don’t give a crap what happens to most of these girls—they were rotten from the start. But Rebecca Gruber used to be cool!”

  “You see? That’s what Amelia Beauregard does to girls,” I said. “She takes future zookeepers and turns them into little princesses.”

  Molly wheeled around to face me. “And you’re just going to let her keep doing it?”

  “There’s not much I can do to stop her,” I said with a shrug.

  “Oh really?” Molly’s spine straightened and her hands found her hips. I realized I was in for a speech. “Don’t you dare tell my mother, but I have watched a few of her movies. And I specifically remember one character saying, ‘Evil will triumph if good people do nothing.’ I always liked that line, but I never thought I’d get a chance to quote it. Thanks for showing me all of this, Ananka. I know exactly what my next step’s gonna be.”

  “What?” I was already cringing at the answer I knew was on the way.

  “I’m not going back to Boreland. My parents can get me a tutor for all the academic stuff. I’m coming back to New York. And I’m enrolling in evening classes at the Beauregard Institute—today.”

  “But Molly!” I tried.

  “Save your breath, Ananka. I’m going to destroy that hellhole from the inside.”

  Chapter 23

  The Luxurious Lair of Lili Liu

  In the Fishbein family apartment, all books on the subject of human psychology can be found in my parents’ bedroom closet. I’ve been avoiding that section of our library for years. It’s not that the workings of the human mind don’t fascinate me. It’s the mirror mounted to the closet door that keeps me away. My mother must have scavenged it from a Coney Island fun house, because every time I venture near, I’m greeted by a girl with a giant head, devious eyes, no bust to speak of, and a shockingly terrible outfit.

  But when I was younger, I was convinced that any books hidden away in a closet were the books I needed to read. As I recall, they did not disappoint. I spent many entertaining hours diagnosing my loved ones while I read about Alien Hand Syndrome, the Fregoli Delusion, and Bibliomania (a condition that appears to run in the Fishbein family). In one of the less sensational works, I encountered an intriguing theory that I’ve come to accept as fact. Human beings, I’m now convinced, are capable of worrying about only seven things at one time. Here was my list the day Molly Donovan declared war on Amelia Beauregard:

  1. Kiki’s kidnapping

  2. Betty’s boss

  3. Betty’s boyfriend

  4. Oona’s sister

  5. World peace

  6. DeeDee’s stalker

  7. Iris’s big mouth

  8. The Atalanta zombie invasion

  9. The effects of sleep deprivation

  10. Molly Donovan’s war

  So now maybe you can understand why I’d forgotten all about the Donovan dilemma by the time the last bell rang at the Atalanta School for Girls. It didn’t help matters that Kaspar was waiting for me outside the school gates. I had ignored the three e-mails and two text messages he’d sent in the hours after Molly Donovan’s visit. He knew about Betty’s upcoming trip to the catacombs, and he wanted work to take his mind off her troubles. I tried making excuses, but Kaspar refused to listen. He didn’t want to help Luz finish her community service. He didn’t want to escort DeeDee to the Golden Lotus for her fifth round of laser treatments. No, Kaspar wanted to join the remaining Irregulars on our first organized hunt for Lili Liu.

  When he and I arrived together at Oona’s house, Iris McLeod almost swallowed her tongue. For the full fifteen minutes I spent in Chinatown, she and Oona watched every move I made. I might have been pleased to see them acting as a team for once, if their camaraderie hadn’t come at my expense. It wasn’t my fault that Kaspar had insisted on crashing the meeting. Now, every time I glanced in his direction, I felt two sets of eyes boring holes through the back of my skull.

  “How long did it take you guys to map all the Lili Liu sightings?” I asked.

  “A few hours,” Oona replied. “Would have gone faster if you’d stuck around last night to help.”

  “I had other stuff to do,” I told her.

  “Maybe you should have mentioned that before we cooked you a meat loaf.”

  “Why don’t we show Ananka what we did?” Kaspar suggested, blissfully unaware of the silent war being waged. He unrolled the giant sheet of paper across the top of Oona’s table and bent down to study it. He was so cute when he was concentrating that I forced myself to look away.

  “The little red dots are places Lili Liu has been spotted over the last two weeks,” said Oona, keeping her attention on me instead of the dots.

  “And as you can see,” Iris jumped in, “there’s a cluster of dots in an area just north of Chinatown. We were surprised to see so much activity above Houston Street.”

  “Hey, that’s my neighborhood!” I exclaimed when I finally glanced down at the map.

  “Yeah, we thought it’d be good to focus in on the Bowery between Houston and Astor Place,” Oona said, referring to an avenue a couple of blocks to the west of my apartment. Once skid row, the Bowery was now home to some of the most expensive hotels in the city.

  “Makes sense,” I said. “Lili’s probably got a room over there.”

  “That’s what I figured. So, come on. Let’s go!” Oona grabbed her handbag. “If we can clear my name and put Lili in jail by sunset, I promise I’ll buy everyone dinner at Fat Frankie’s.”

  “You’re not coming with us to look for Lili,” I said, then hurried to explain before Oona had a chance to complain. “We may need to talk to people who work in the area, and we can’t waste time getting chased around by your sister’s victims. Besides, I have a new project for you.” I pulled a slip of paper out of my back pocket and passed it to her.

  “It’s a code,” Oona said, her eyes skimming over the jumble of letters.

  “It’s a message written by a man named Gordon Grant. He was an American code breaker working in the Paris catacombs during World War II. Most of his colleagues were murdered, and a lot of people think he was the one who killed them. This note was found beside the body of the one man who almost escaped. Army experts were able to identify Gordon Grant’s handwriting, but no one has ever cracked the code. I know it’s a long shot, but I’d like you to have a go at it.”

  “Gordon Grant. That’s the guy Amelia Beauregard is looking for,” Kaspar said. Handsome and brilliant. I was in serious trouble.

  “What, so we’re digging up dirt on the elderly these days?” Oona complained. “Aren’t there more important matters to deal with? I’m not even that good at this stuff. Besides, why do I have to work on it now?”

  “The code’s been waiting sixty years to be cracked,” said Iris, taking Oona’s side. “Don’t you think it can wait a little longer?”

  “No. Ananka’s right. The code could be important,” Kaspar said, and the arguments stopped immediately. I’d taken charge of the Irregulars on several occasions, but I’d never once inspired that kind of respect.

  “I spoke with Betty this morning.” I stepped in, feeling more than a little annoyed. “She called Kaspar, too. Turns out Madame Beauregard is even trickier than we thought. She’s been looking for Gordon Grant’s body inside the catacombs, and she needs a pretty girl to charm two boys who might know where to find it. That’s the only reason she took Betty to France. I figure it’s probably a good idea to start gathe
ring whatever information we can about Gordon Grant before Betty has to start searching for his bones. If we crack that code, we might be able to help Betty find the man faster—or prove that he’s not in the catacombs at all.”

  “You talked to Betty this morning?” Iris asked. “Why didn’t you tell us? What’s going on with Kiki? Has there been any news?”

  “A little,” I said. “Betty got a note from the French kid, saying Kiki’s free and doesn’t need the cure anymore. And then Betty saw Livia Galatzina rushing around her hotel in a panic. We both think Kiki’s managed to turn the tables somehow. But we’ll just have to wait until we hear from her.”

  “So, Betty gets to go to the catacombs, Kiki’s fighting the royal family of Pokrovia, you guys are going to chase down my sister—and I have to sit here alone trying to crack some dumb code?” Oona whined.

  “You’re not going to be alone. Kaspar and I will head down to the Bowery, but Iris is going to stay here and help you.” I gave Iris a mean little smirk. “You guys make such a terrific team.”

  “Ananka!” Iris protested.

  “I’m in charge here, Iris,” I told her. “This time you’ll do as I say.”

  It had taken me less than a day to break my own oath. Now I was alone with Kaspar, and I worried that my willpower might crumble. I was so busy kicking myself that I didn’t bother to point out the sights as Kaspar and I traveled by foot up the Bowery. We passed an ancient white row house that had served as the headquarters of the most bloodthirsty gang in New York, a crumbling brick tenement with an Underground Railroad stop hidden in its basement, and the site of a theater once known—for very good reason—as the Slaughterhouse. I’d always considered the Bowery to be the most fascinating street in Manhattan, but for once I kept my lips sealed and my lectures to myself.