Читать книгу All The Pretty Dead Girls - John Manning - Страница 12

Sue spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking. Malika helped her set up her computer and get hooked up to the college wireless Internet system. Every so often, one of Malika’s friends would stick her head in the door—she apparently was one of the more popular students at Wilbourne—and after the first two or three, Sue gave up trying to remember their names.

Around six, Malika took her over to the campus cafeteria for dinner before the welcome ceremony. The food wasn’t bad, and Sue found herself relaxing a little bit, starting to feel at home. As the sun sank in the west, the wind got cooler and Sue began to wish she’d worn something heavier than a cotton blouse. A chill wind blew as they walked across campus to the auditorium and found seats near the back.

The hall was filled with girls talking, laughing, giggling, and gossiping, getting caught up with friends they hadn’t seen since the previous semester. Sue was a little startled to see a few young men scattered throughout the audience. Although Wilbourne was a private academy for women, it did accept some men for graduate studies.

At promptly eight o’clock, a large older gentleman stood up, waddled across the stage, and introduced himself as Dean Gregory. He led them all in a short prayer—although Wilbourne was nonsectarian, many of the instructors had not abandoned their Lutheran roots. After the prayer was concluded, Dean Gregory introduced some of the faculty also seated on the stage. The names meant nothing to her, other than Dr. Virginia Marshall, a professor of theology. Sue was taking one of Dr. Marshall’s courses; she’d read some of her books for a paper she’d written at Stowe and enjoyed them.

Dean Gregory went on to officially welcome them to the new school year, and expounded about how bright their futures were. He had the kind of voice that put an audience to sleep, and indeed Sue’s eyelids were starting to droop as he droned on and on…until he introduced Joyce Davenport to polite applause from the crowd. Sue sat up straight. Malika gave her a little nudge.

Joyce Davenport walked across the stage to the podium as though she owned it. She was wearing a tight black off-the-shoulder dress that barely reached her thighs. Her long thin legs were perched on top of a pair of what Becca Stansfield used to call “come fuck me” pumps. Her shoulders were narrow and bony, and her arms long and thin. She had thick, long black hair that hung down almost to her waist, and it was all the same length. From the back of the auditorium, Davenport’s face was just a white oval in the bright lights.

She started speaking, and Sue winced. Joyce Davenport’s voice was shrill, and through the microphone it sounded very similar to fingernails on a chalkboard. Other girls in the audience started fidgeting and whispering amongst themselves, but as Davenport continued to speak—about her days at Wilbourne and what they had meant to her—her voice came down an octave or two and became almost hypnotic. The fidgeting and whispering stopped, and Davenport’s voice became full of passion as she went on and on about how Wilbourne had prepared her for the real world, for great success and fame…

“No politics,” Malika whispered. “She’s staying away from politics.”

“You sound as if you’re disappointed.”

Malika shrugged. “I was just hoping for a little drama.”

When Davenport finished—to, again, polite applause—Dean Gregory led the students in a closing prayer and then dismissed them.

“I can’t believe it,” said one of Malika’s friends, a plump brunette, rushing up to them outside. “Not a controversial word! I saw that bitch on CNN the other night and wanted to put my fist through the television. I was all ready to stand up and shout her down.”

“And get ten demerits your first day back,” Malika reminded her. “Sandy, this is Sue. Sue, Sandy.”

The girls shook hands.

“It’s time we radicalize this campus,” Sandy was saying, even as she let go of Sue’s hand. “I’ve petitioned the dean to let us form a group—”

“Excuse me,” a woman said, interrupting them. All three girls turned to look at her. She was a thickset young blond woman in a white blouse and blue skirt. “I’m looking for Sue Barlow.”

Sue glanced at her companions, then said, “I’m Sue Barlow.”

“Ms. Davenport would like to see you. Will you come with me?”

“What?”

“How do you know Joyce Davenport?” Sandy asked, leering suspiciously at Sue.

“I don’t,” Sue said.

Malika just looked at her oddly.

The woman in front of them narrowed her eyes at Sue. “She’s waiting.”

“I don’t know her,” Sue protested.

“Apparently, she knows you,” Malika said, her voice cold.

Sue turned to look at her. “It’s got to be my grandfather. His firm…”

Malika just shrugged. “Go see what she wants.”

Sue turned back to Davenport’s emissary. “Okay, take me to her.”

The woman smiled. Sue didn’t like her smile. Not at all.

“Follow me,” she said.