“Technology and Hard Science is up a floor,” Zoe tells them, and as they leave she points out another building to a tiny girl with her hair in a bun and feet going odd directions. “Performing Arts is in the new brick building, there.” She turns back to us. “Time for the serious stuff. You will go to class, eat, sleep and study with the people in this room. You each may have your talents, but you are all equals. Every one of you has been selected for the program due to your abilities and recommendations to the faculty.”
I fight back a cough—or a choke—neither of those are how I ended up in this program. I scan the faces, wondering if anyone else is a discipline case with a well-connected social worker.
“Water?” Julian asks, offering me a bottle.
“No, thanks,” I say, clearing my throat again.
Zoe glances at me and smirks at Julian. “This means that all of you have an equal chance at winning the Honors Scholarship. There is no preferential treatment given to returning students, and no special consideration for previous runner-ups.” My roommate glares at her, swigs from the bottle he’s just offered me. She smiles at him and continues. “Now, you’ve been given your daily schedule, starting tomorrow. It includes meal times, classes, free time and group study. Our larger group will be broken into smaller teams, primarily for class projects, but these folks will be your support system during your time here. By the end of your four weeks, your team will feel like family members.”
“Did you write that down?” Memory whispers to Julian. “Hopefully, this means I can find a new brother or sister. Maybe one that doesn’t steal my hair gel.”
I laugh, glancing at Julian’s hair. I’d watched him tug at it for ten minutes before we left for dinner. I rub my naked scalp. One good thing about lock-up is free haircuts. Memory holds my glance for one brief, steady second, before refocusing on the student assistant, who is now describing the dining room, library and computer lab.
Last time I saw her, she was lying in my bed. With her eyes off me, face in profile, I can check her out, and I take a long minute doing so. I haven’t seen a lot of girls recently, not this close up. She’s fantastic, and she knows it. She’s playing some kind of game, dolled up in a quasi-rockabilly pinup thing, shirt so tight I can see the pattern of lace underneath, hair up, showing off her white neck, long and nice, and legs that go on forever. I don’t know what the rules are, but she’s winning, hands down. I can’t keep my eyes off of her and neither can anyone else, male or female.
“Don’t,” Julian says, so low only I can hear him.
I play dumb. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t judge that book by its cover. You want nothing to do with it, I promise you.” He hunches back over his notes, all ears as Zoe starts listing the ground rules for behavior.
“Dormitory doors lock shut after midnight. If you break curfew, security will let you in, but you’ll have four hours with the janitorial staff for the favor. No boys in the girls’ rooms. This program is sponsored by the college, which does maintain a strict conservative campus. Ladies, you are welcome to have male visitors in the lounge only. Girls can go into the boys’ rooms, but only until 10pm.”
“That’s worse than last year,” Memory says. Several other girls nod in agreement. “And it’s completely sexist.”
“Welcome to the Bible Belt. I don’t make the rules. Next: You may not smoke—even if you are over eighteen—drink or use drugs while you’re here. If you are found with alcohol or illegal substances, you’ll be sent home.
“Finally, to keep the integrity of the program consistent, and curtail outside distractions, you may not leave campus unless it is a designated trip with the program.” Zoe looks around the room. “Did you hear that? I’m going to say it again. You may not leave school grounds unless you are with a chaperoned group and a teacher. This campus is on private grounds. I’m sure you saw the gates when you arrived. Should you leave for any reason, security will not let you back onto campus without direct escort by the dean himself.”
She tells us the time and reminds us of the curfew. I stand, and stretch. Memory is talking to some girl half her size, with short brown hair and piles of clothes that make me curious about the body hiding beneath.
“You know what they say SHP really stands for, right?” Memory asks.
The other girl frowns, dark eyes huge in a little face. “No.”
“Sent Home Pregnant.”
“What? Why?”
“Because half the kids here lose their virginity before they go home, and they’re totally unprepared. No protection. They come here for college credit and leave with a new definition of the creative process.”
“You’re kidding, right?” the girl asks. She touches a pendant between her collarbones, like a delinquent’s mother stroking a cross, but the necklace is a naked woman, straddling the man on the moon, curved crescent horn between her legs like—
“I wish I were.” Memory turns and winks at me. “Goodnight.”
I close my teeth with a click. Julian and I watch them leave.
Girls.
*
“I’ve taken the liberty to alter our part of the program a little this summer,” Dr. Anders announces, scratching his chin under the blond beard. I wonder if he ever found his wallet. “The class is still under the heading of Creative and Comparative Arts of course, and the results will still be published with the college’s backing, but I’m assigning each sub-group a specific topic. Within this study I want each of you to bring your area of interest and talent to the table.”
All through orientation the teachers and counselors have stressed the word talent. I wonder if a good right-hook-left-uppercut applies. The rest of the students are clean scrubbed, glowing with privilege and upper education. Their talents involve words and wit, not fists.
“So all of our assignments will be based on this topic? Is there a final project? A research paper?” Julian asks. “Like last year?”
“Yes, but more structured. Your group will need to form a direction of study, collect data on the subject matter and then complete a series of assignments that will lead up to a multi-level project, highlighting each of your skills,” He leans back on his desk, and a stack of papers spills off the edge, scattering across the floor. This guy is a disaster. “Each group will have use of an office in this building to meet, collect data, and create your final projects. Now, to keep everything fair, I’ve already assigned your group partners.”