Roxy's Story (The Forbidden 2)

“You just get here?” she asked.

“Yes. My first day, actually. I’m not halfway through with it yet. I hope I live through it.”

“Oh, is it that bad?”

“Tough, not bad,” I said, realizing that the place was probably bugged by people who would bring my comments back to Mrs. Brittany.

“That’s good,” she said. I saw that what she was drinking was not rosé wine but some sort of carbonated juice. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Roxy, Roxy Wilcox,” I said.

“You sound like you’re from the East Coast.”

“Yes, New York City.”

Before she could tell me her name or answer any questions I might have, I heard Mrs. Pratt shouting for me. She was beckoning vehemently, too.

“Uh-oh. The drillmaster is calling,” I said.

The girl laughed.

I glanced back at her and smiled. “Maybe I’ll see you later,” I said, and hurried toward Mrs. Pratt.

“What are you doing out here?” she demanded.

“I thought I had some time to take a breather,” I said. I turned and nodded toward the pool. “It’s a beautiful day, and I’d just started talking to that girl when you called. Who is she? What happened to her leg?”

“There will be plenty of beautiful days for you if you do what you are told,” she replied, ignoring my questions. “You should be going to the library. Professor Marx is waiting for you, and it’s very impolite to be late for a college professor. In fact, punctuality is very important to Mrs. Brittany. Our girls don’t keep their clients waiting a minute too long.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Just keep your head about you,” she insisted, “and concentrate on why you’re here.”

Why was she suddenly so angry? I was sure everyone was giving me good marks so far.

I glanced toward the pool again and then started back into the mansion.

“Who is that out at the pool? Is she another one of Mrs. Brittany’s girls?

What happened to her leg?” I repeated.

“I don’t see why any of that would matter to you. I warned you before. You don’t have time to socialize with anyone, and when you do, it will be part of your training, part of your evaluation.”

“Even that?”

“Yes, even that.” She looked toward the pool. “Now, forget about that girl, and go on to the library,” she said, then turned and left me looking out at the pool for a few more moments before I continued into the mansion. The girl was still looking after me. She waved, but I was afraid to wave back. Maybe there was a camera pointed at me, and Mrs. Pratt would claim I had defied her orders.

When I arrived at the library, Professor Marx was seated at a table with books opened before him. He looked up with an expression of disapproval. I was familiar enough with that look from my teachers.

“You’re nearly ten minutes late,” he said. “I don’t mean to be stern, but we have a lot to do in a short time.”

“Why a short time?” I asked as I approached.

“We don’t have a college semester is what I mean,” he said, his eyes wide with impatience. “Okay, please have a seat.” He nodded at the chair across from him. “This is my technique,” he continued before I settled on the chair. “I’m going to review current events and ask you questions. From your answers, I’ll know how much you know about the background of the situations, political, economic, artistic, and historical. On the basis of that, I’ll assign you things to read, and during the following days, I’ll review those things with you to see what you’ve absorbed and how well you could discuss any of the topics. How well we do here together is entirely up to you.”

“That seems to be the mantra of this place,” I muttered. “Everything is up to me.”

He had one of the most animated faces I had ever seen. All of his thoughts found expression in the movements in his mouth, his eyes, and the shifting muscles in his cheeks and jaw. It was clear that if something annoyed him, everything moved at once. He reminded me of a pinball machine, the thoughts rolling around and triggering brightness in his eyes, a groan in his throat, and a wavy motion in his lips.