The Unseemly Education of Anne Merchant. Joanna Wiebe

memory of my dad standing over me returns, but it’s not nearly as strong or worrying as the sensation I have now—the sensation that something’s up. “That’s why everyone’s acting weird?”

      “No, it’s—never mind. They’re not.”

      “Yes, they are.”

      “They’re not,” Garnet states, her tone sharp before she turns to the class. “All right, let’s start packing up, everyone. Trey will be here for the rest of the week, following which I will assess your work. Remember, based on these sketches, one of you will be selected to headline the Art Walk for Parents’ Day this semester.”

      I leave class shaken. Pilot is just seconds behind me.

      “Are you okay? I can’t believe you passed out,” he says as we step into the dark, syrupy fog. As if the fog isn’t bad enough, a light rain has started to fall. Suffocating gray dreariness, when all I want is to breathe. “I’ve never seen that. Just splat. You fell right off.”

      “Yeah, I remember.” A breeze blows under my skirt, soughing like whispered secrets through the fabric. “I’ve never done that before.”

      “You’ve never passed out?”

      I shake my head and, through the rain, glance around the quad as we walk, trying to make sense of what just happened. I’m not a fainter. Even on the tea cups at Disneyland, while all the other kids were staggering off and dumping their guts into a garbage can, I walked off straight as an arrow and lined up for round two. But now this.

      “I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta go,” I say to him. It feels like the wet air is collapsing on me. Like Pilot, for all his welcome friendliness, is crushing me just by being near. I need space. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I lie. “I’ll see you later.”

      “Lunch,” he calls as I race away. “Cafeteria. You and me.”

      Fine. Whatever. With nowhere to go, I head past Goethe Hall and to the nearly empty parking lot behind it, where I stop short, brace my knees, and thank God there’s no one else here. The lot backs onto a steep hill that leads to the highest point on Wormwood Island, a flat clearing above a craggy, terrifyingly steep cliff. At the far end of the lot, I spy the Harley Dr. Zin was driving yesterday and the yellow Ducati I saw at Ben’s house last night. I imagine Ben arriving at school today and confidently edging his powerful bike into that parking spot. The idea of him makes me feel better and worse at the same time, makes my stomach flutter and knot.

      “Just breathe,” I remind myself.

      What started as a gentle shower has turned to rain, which is growing heavier as dark clouds roll in. This world, so shadowy, gray, and foreign to me, gradually stops spinning. The more I stand silently, the less freaked I am that I passed out. I have, after all, been uprooted and thrown into what feels like reform school. I had a terrible sleep. My internal clock is way off. A little fainting is called for.

      With a long sigh, I trudge across the dim parking lot, pulling my blazer over my head to shield my hair from the rain. I amble to Ben’s Ducati. Glance around. Make sure no one’s watching as I trace my fingertips over the soft seat, covered in raindrops, and finally kneel to touch the steel muffler. I wonder what it’s like to be Ben Zin. To be unapologetic and poised and perfect. I’ve never been any of those things.

      While I’m lost in thought, a figure slides by the opposite end of the lot, right where I was standing only moments ago. I squint through the rain in time to see a man disappear into the bushes at the base of the cliff. The brush and trees shake as he ascends the hill; through a break in the trees, even with the rain coming down hard, I finally see who it is. I recognize his distinctive brown cloak.

      “Villicus?”

      He continues on, up. And I have a choice. I can escape what looks like the beginning of a thunderstorm, go to class, knowing the bell is going to ring in two minutes. Or I can follow him. Look closer at his activities. Begin acting on my PT, even if I’m not sure I’ll convince Teddy this was all about my PT—not when my single purpose, at this moment, is to see what that strange old man is up to.

      There’s less underbrush on the hill than I’d expected. My boots and tights keep my legs from getting scraped as I make my way up, careful to keep my distance from Villicus, who walks superfast. He doesn’t walk, actually; he slides and lurches and hobbles, moving with jerks and fits up the side of the hill that will take him—and me—to the flat clearing and the treacherous cliff there. Exposed to the rain.