The Whip by Karen Kondazian Read Free Book Online Page B

hard in the face. Shocked by the blow, Charlotte just stood there, blinking.
    “It’s for your own good. Lee is a bad boy. You can’t understand this, but someday you will thank me. Now, get back into the dormitory. This instant.”
    At the sight of Charlotte being struck, Lee thrashed about, trying to get loose, screaming curses at Miss Haden.
    She ignored him. She grabbed Charlotte by her upper arm and began to frog march her back towards the entrance. The girls were at the window, looking out at this thing that was happening, this thing they could not understand.
    “Girls. Get into your beds.”
    They scattered back, where they lay with open eyes, anxious, staring into the darkness.
    Miss Haden, still holding firm to Charlotte’s arm, escorted her back to her bed.
    A voice came through the window. “Charlotte. Charlotte. Don’t believe anything she says.”
    Miss Haden went to the window and slammed it shut. She stared out at Lee, his arms tied behind him, pulling like a wild animal against the rope tied to the tree.
    With satisfaction, she saw that he was crying. She returned to Charlotte’s bed and sat at the bottom end, clearly intending to remain until the girl fell asleep.
    Charlotte lay there weeping, covering her face with her arms.
    From his window in the boys’ wing, Mr. Meade was watching Lee. He stood there looking out at him struggling in the yard. He stood there for a long while.

    The following evening, when Lee, his hands and wrists raw and bleeding, was untied, the headmaster stroked his head in sympathy.
    Lee drew back from his touch. There was something new in his eyes…something dark and closed and vicious.

Thirteen
    Charlotte wasn’t much good at sewing seams. She lacked the patience for it; she lacked the inner drive to stitch the neatest, straightest row. When it was time for the girls to be communing with their needles, she tended to drift. She was drifting now, her eyes flickering around the room—girl after girl bent over their work. From where she sat she could see the backs of their bent necks—bent necks in neat rows. The girls were for the most part kept in rows and seemed not to mind it. Try putting the boys in rows. They’d not stand for it long. Imagine Lee and the other boys sewing or knitting or darning, all in a row. What a funny sight that would be. Of course, she’d seen Lee with sewing shears once. That corner of the attic over there, with the big mending workbasket, that was where Lee, so long ago, had shorn her hair. What a terrible trouble that had been.
    She touched her hair, lifting her hand from the length of muslin sheet she was mending. Her hair was long now, in two blonde plaits. Little blonde wild wisps always materialized over her forehead. She was pretty, the other girls said, always adding, “what a waste.” Well, they could go to hell. If getting a husband meant spending her days sewing, cooking and cleaning, then she would be quite happy just to be with Lee for the rest of her life.
    It was so hot up here. All the heat in the world rose to that attic and was trapped there, shimmering. It baked her. It baked the unsealed eaves. The pine knots were beading with resin; the wood didn’t know it was long dead. Sweat was beading on her temples and behind her ears. Sweat slid down her neck. They had been in the attic for an hour already and were to stay for an hour more. In the meantime, the boys were outside, free, shouting and clomping; she could hear them in the yard below.
    And then she heard the low, melodious whistle—Lee’s whistle for her. At this she rose from her seat and wandered to the open window. One of the other girls gave her a warning look. Charlotte ignored her.
    Down there in the yard Lee whistled again, waving a stick, enticing her. He wanted Charlotte for a game of stickball.
    Now fifteen, Lee was insolently handsome and despite all expectations, tall enough for a girl to feel she might lean against his shoulder. He had long blond