6.
August
Over the next few days, yet more students arrived, and the academy class of 1958 was nearly complete. Nancy was a tall, pale girl from LA who wore her hair in twin auburn braids. There were two girls from New York City—Bunny and Barbie—who’d met on the United States and spent a week together in Milan before coming up to the academy. Patricia was a mousy-haired girl from Chicago, Katherine a tall, striking brunette from Boston who spoke with an English-sounding accent. Sally was from Florida, blond down even to the hairs on her legs, and deeply tan. There was a curly-haired girl, Betty, from Dallas, who spoke with the same chewy friendliness as Sophie LeBaron. Ruth, from Michigan, I took against straightaway. She had the vague shadow of a mustache and the dour self-righteousness of the unreasonably pious. There were two Marys—Mary Leonard, whose father was a professor at Princeton, and Mary Babbage, from Washington, DC. And there were Joy and Joan, whom I couldn’t tell apart, and Sylvia, from Seattle, who had blond-red hair and a manic, lilting laugh that you could hear through the walls.
The upper corridor was now suffering under the collective enthusiasm of so many young women. Tubes of toothpaste squeezed out underneath the mirrors, face powder caking the tiles, sponges abandoned at the bottom of the bathtubs, limp stockings hanging to dry over the banisters. The corridor was hazy with hairspray and magnolia hand lotion and cigarette smoke and Dior perfume. It was noisy with running water and slippers clacking over marble and coughing and the humming of half-remembered jingles and “Will you just pull this zipper?” or “Have you got a needle?” or “Did I leave my grammar book here?” Our main entertainment was lining up in the corridor and watching the sisters coming and going from the chapel, debating which was the oldest or the youngest nun, the prettiest, the tallest. Barbie and Bunny developed a short-lived game that involved whistling like a cuckoo from windows on opposite sides of the corridor until one of the sisters looked up—and then hiding below the frame. I suspect Ruth gave them a scolding for it, because one afternoon both of them appeared from Ruth’s bedroom with chastised expressions.
I lay in my rickety bed each night and hoped the next day would bring Isabella. We would get up early to go to the market in La Pentola on Saturdays, I decided. We’d collage signs for each other’s doors, as Bunny and Barbie had done. I tried to relish the solitude of my room in case it was my last evening before my roommate arrived. The only time I’d ever shared a room had been at Camp Waramaug the summer after seventh grade, and I wasn’t keen to repeat the experience. What if my roommate snored, or spoke in her sleep? What if she suffered from head colds and I had to listen to her turning and sniffing, accruing jars of allergy pills and sinus compresses? One of the truly liberating things about my life at the academy so far was my release from the regimens of the sickbed. And what if she wanted to stay up late chatting? We could set out a system of rules, I decided. A timetable. And a penalty scheme for indiscretions. Of course, I hardly dared to hope, but there was always a chance my roommate might be Isabella.
* * *
The weekend before term precipitated a scurrying panic as girls sorted their papers and notes and arranged their bags and their outfits. As if the clothes we’d been wearing so far would no longer be glamorous enough for the scrutiny of the same group of people once we were sitting side by side in classrooms instead of in each other’s bedrooms. Greta and I retreated to my room so she could instruct me in the art of French braids. I sat on my bed, and Greta knelt in front of me on a towel on the floor. She combed out her hair so it was full like a cloud. “Now gather more from the left and cross it over.”
I brushed it again, until her ears grew pink at the shell. I bit my tongue in concentration. Greta’s hair was so fine it kept slipping through my grip. It was like combing the locks of my old china doll. “Am I pulling?” I said, my eyes watering in sympathy. Having my own hair brushed by another person was close to a phobia—even Mama tugged at my curls and yanked my scalp.
“Not at all,” she said, raising the hand mirror on her lap to catch my eye in the reflection. “You’re a natural! I can’t believe you don’t have any sisters,” she said. “Brothers are such bad luck, aren’t they?”
Startled, I paused in the middle of braiding. “Oh.” My pulse swirled through my eardrums. She didn’t think I had a sister? Had I said something to suggest that? I cleared my throat. “I don’t have any brothers actually,” I said, deliberately leaving the first part of her sentence unattended. Now would be a good moment. I could mention Mama’s curly hair, or say that Rhona’s was fine due to illness. It was a casual opportunity to hint at complications to come. “How did you learn to French braid?” I said eventually, stalling for time. Greta had taken a breath to reply when the door opened. Standing in the corridor was Isabella. Her hair was faintly tousled, and she had the rumpled and rosy-cheeked air of someone who has been sitting on the prow of a ferry.
“Ciao,” she said, in a careless sort of way, letting the door slam behind her and climbing onto the chair under the window.
I stared at her, trying not to tweak Greta’s hair. “You’re here?”
My heart began a pathetic flutter, like a butterfly trapped in a matchbox. She was here! I was itching to go to her. But the bunny softness of Greta’s sweater was firmly tucked between my legs, my fingers in her hair. I would’ve had to swing one leg over Greta’s head to get out, or else she’d need to wriggle. But she didn’t wriggle.
Isabella looked from me to Greta, giving me a small-mouthed smile and raising her eyebrows in an ironic gesture I couldn’t interpret. “Did you miss me?”
“It’s you,” I croaked. I had a ridiculous urge to cry.
“Hi, I’m Greta.” She reached out to shake Isabella’s hand.
“Isabella Crowley, how do you do?” As she leaned toward Greta, a lock of hair fell across her face, and she swept it back with a toss.
Greta clapped. “But you’re the famous Isabella—I’ve heard all about you!”
Isabella smiled. “Don’t believe any of the rumors Briddie has been telling you.”
Greta glanced at me over her shoulder. “She never told me how gorgeous you are.”
Isabella wrinkled her nose dismissively. But she did look gorgeous. Her skin was tan and glowed with a wealthy polish. Her brows and hair were lightened from the sun. “Oh no, I’m a dreadful mess.” Isabella tugged at the worn boatneck that was still somehow chic on her. She took a tress of hair between her fingers and examined it. “I’ve been going totally wild in France. I was on the coast, and all the women were bathing nude.” I knew she composed this declaration to see if Greta would react with ladylike shock.
But Greta looked down at her arm and said, “Good for you! If I go out in the sun I turn red as a cherry. It’s hideous. If I had your coloring, I’d never wear my bathing suit.”