The Cavendish Home for Boys and Girls by Claire Legrand Read Free Book Online Page B

rustling papers to curl around Professor Carroll’s petting fingers.
    Horrified, Victoria turned and ran.

THAT FRIDAY AFTERNOON, WHEN THE LAST BELL rang at three o’clock, Victoria rushed home through the beginnings of a storm, the sky tinged a sick, yellow color. She dodged piles of wet autumn leaves, slammed open the gate, and raced up the front steps of her house. With each step, she pushed the memory of Professor Carroll’s buggy fingers further out of her mind. Don’t think about it, Victoria, don’t think about it.
    “Victoria?” said Beatrice, from the kitchen.
    “What’s all that awful noise?” said Mrs. Wright from her parlor.
    But Victoria didn’t stop till she reached her bedroom. She shut the door, sat on the edge of her bed, and took out the report from her book bag.
    She stared at it, breathing hard, her throat stinging from the stormy air. There it was: A. “Victoria is one of my best students” read Professor Carroll’s new, scrawled comments.
    Victoria’s fingers trembled as she read those words over and over. They were a lie. She wasn’t one of Professor Carroll’s best students. Lawrence was.
    Lawrence, who hummed while he walked. Lawrence, who laughed and told Victoria she was funny, even though she certainly never tried to be.
    The words began to blur. Soon they were a soup of black and beige. Victoria let the report float to the ground and began to cry.
    All her life, Victoria had never been one for tears. When people cried, it made her uncomfortable. People who cried couldn’t handle their lives, and Victoria could always handle everything. Plus, crying messed up your face. It was disorderly and inconvenient.
    But she couldn’t help these tears. She didn’t miss Lawrence. She couldn’t. Victoria Wright had only one friend, and he wasn’t even a real friend; he was a project, someone to fix and whip into shape. Nevertheless, she could not stop thinking about him. Even with the beautiful A in her hands, which should have been all that mattered, Victoria could only wonder where Lawrence had gone and what those bugs had been doing on Professor Carroll’s desk and what the reasonfor this insufferable feeling in her chest was, this feeling of everything being not quite right . She wiped her cheeks till they hurt and balled her hands into fists and dazzled the floor in front of her, but the awful feeling wouldn’t go away.
    Someone knocked on the door. Victoria quickly cleaned her face with a blanket and smoothed her wrinkled uniform flat. She smiled brightly at the door.
    “Yes?” she said.
    “I’ve got your snack” came Beatrice’s voice.
    Victoria hesitated. She hadn’t forgotten the little slip of paper Beatrice had left under her breakfast plate, days ago: Be careful. The memory sat strangely in her body after the events of the past week. Before, she hadn’t cared about Beatrice’s odd note; but that was before, and now she found herself wondering . . .
    “Come in,” she said, tugging her shirt straight and tossing back her curls.
    Beatrice brought in a tray with cut-up fruits laid out in a row—tomato slices, apple wedges, strawberry halves. She shut the door and put the tray on Victoria’s bedside table, chattering about her day.
    “I picked up your new tights for ballet tomorrow. I think you’ll like the penne with salmon I’m cooking for supper tonight. Did you have a good day at school?” said Beatrice, on and on, dusting off surfaces that didn’t need dusting. Between Beatrice andVictoria, this room was always the cleanest in the house.
    Victoria watched her but didn’t really pay attention. She chewed on a tomato slice. The skin tore and the meat melted on her tongue. As she chewed, she mulled over things: Professor Carroll and Professor Alban; Donovan O’Flaherty and Jacqueline Hennessey being absent for days; Mr. Alice and his rake; Beatrice’s note; Jill saying, “Be careful, Victoria.” Separately, they were little things; but put all together,