The Savage Kind Read online

  In class, she laid her book down and said, “Keats accomplished so much in his short time. He died when he was young, only twenty-five. His poetry was very sensual, very passionate, but unappreciated in his life.”

  “Did he write love poetry?” Ramona Carmichael, the MBBS’s catty doyenne, asked, muffling a giggle with her well-moisturized hand. Her nails were blood red like she’d just dipped them in the wound of her last victim.

  Wrinkling her forehead, Miss M said, “The love of his life was a woman named Fanny Brawne.”

  The class clown, Jake Wallace, called out: “Did he do a lot of Fanny kissin’?”

  The room burst into laughter, and Miss M shook her head wearily. I folded my arms across my chest and cocked my head: I wanted them to know they were being idiots.

  Ramona glared at me.

  I glared back and spat, “He wrote death poetry,” and immediately felt stupid. Death poetry! Really?

  “Okay, Judy Peapod.” Ramona smirked and ran her tongue between her lips like a pink snake.

  Jake moaned and slumped in his seat.

  They’re a waste of flesh. If I could, I’d save the world and drop a pound of arsenic in their sloppy joes.

  Cleveland Closs—aka Cleve—didn’t laugh either. He’s a bit of a dim bulb, like he’s sleeping with his eyes open. He rarely speaks, and when he does, he stutters. He’s handsome, but in a spooky way. With his glacial blue irises and shock of white-blond hair, the Nazis would’ve adored him, his Aryan shine marred only by the flourish of acne across his cheeks. However, today there was a change: his icy pools were boiling, popping brightly, and focused on the front of the room. Something had his attention. Maybe it was Ramona and her minions. For a moment, I wondered if I had an ally.

  “Judy’s right,” Miss M said. “In a sense, some of his poems are about the tension between mortality and immortality, transience and permanence.” She smiled at me, flashing her eyes to let me know she was with me. “He seemed to know he was going to die young. Open up your books to page forty and follow along as I read ‘Ode to the Nightingale.’ Tell me, class, how would you describe Keats’ sentiment here?”

  I’d read the poem before. Keats is musing on pleasure and pain, and life and death inspired by, of all things, a bird in a plum tree. When I heard Miss M read it, though, she transformed it, making it soar while simultaneously grounding it in sadness:

  Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

  I have been half in love with easeful Death,

  Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

  To take into the air my quiet breath;

  Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

  To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

  While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

  In such an ecstasy!

  Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—

  To thy high requiem become a sod.

  As she read, something cracked open inside me and air rushed in. The dark lava that usually swirls around my heart, all that bubbling murk that constitutes my shitty past, the Peabodys, Crestwood, everything, cooled a little, and a particle of the gloom trapped inside me escaped like a floating bit of ash. Immediately I wanted more.

  When she finished, she said, “Now, Jake Wallace, tell me what you see in these lines?” She winked at me conspiratorially.

  Jake gaped back at her. I imagined a thick rope of drool slipping from his bottom lip and pooling on his desk.

  “No? Nothing?” she asked.

  “I—something about a bird…” he stammered.

  “Thought so,” Miss M said, giving him a chilly smile. Her eyes broke away from him and drifted across the room, pausing on Cleve. His face was tight, angled. His nose was tilted down, and his eyes were damp now and boring hotly through her, brimming with hostility. What was eating him? Clearly, she was unsettled by him. A faint furrow between her eyes twitched. “Cleveland,” she said, forcing her composure, “what do you think?”

  “He’s li-listening to Death.” His intense emotion, whatever it was, seemed to be melting him from the inside out. Almost comically, he spat, “He’s done something ter-terrible and wa-wants to die.” Miss M flinched, sucking in her breath. There was a strange electric current sparking between them, but I couldn’t tell what it was. He’d thrown her off-balance, something that never happens. A defensive impulse surged through me, so I blasted this at him: “What are you talking about? Keats isn’t suicidal—or guilty.”

  He turned his death-ray stare on me, flexing his jaw.

  “It’s just a poem, friend,” I said, shrugging.

  “That’s right, Judy,” Miss M said. Her tone was light, an attempt to disarm the tension, but her voice still trembled. “But it’s an understandable mistake,” she added, nodding and smiling in Cleve’s direction, but refusing to make eye contact with him.

  Out of nowhere, Philippa, the new girl, piped up: “The bird’s song is so beautiful that it’s almost unbearable.” Sitting two desks to my left, she was aggressively poised: her shoulders back, her posture perpendicular to her chair, and her breasts pert. Both Cleve and I looked at her. She smiled at us, but it wasn’t the prissy know-it-all smile that I’d anticipated. It was open but bashful. For the life of me, I couldn’t get a read on her. She looks like all the other girls—bobby socks, plaid A-line skirts, sweater sets—but she has a queer way about her. She’s pushy, then shy, then bumbling, then sharp. “He wishes he could be like the nightingale or the nightingale’s song,” she added. “He wants to be transformed, I think. Made immortal, but he knows that’s not possible.”

  Ramona rolled her eyes, and Jake smirked.

  I expected Miss M to offer her a gentle correction, but instead, a smile of relief lit up her face. So, that’s the answer she was searching for? He wants to be transformed? “Yes, Philippa,” she said, her gray eyes beaming. “What an excellent read of those lines!”

  Cleve dropped his chin, vanquished by Philippa’s strident perkiness, and then, as if his mysterious ire were contagious, I felt a rush of anger at Miss M. Did she have a new favorite student? Was this girl her new protégé? Why did Philippa chase me down East Capitol Street and pester me to be friends? Was it a play at something?

  At the end of class, I gathered my books quickly, avoiding Miss M’s gaze, hoping she would notice and feel a little wounded. Before I could leave the room, Philippa was right there, blocking the door. Damn. “You’re right,” she said, blasting me with earnestness. Her face was smooth and dotted with freckles. A tendril of her strawberry hair lay loosely across her forehead. “It is death poetry. Death is a kind of transformation, right?”

  I grumbled—I might’ve even growled—and pushed past her.

  Now, I wonder: Am I getting this wrong? Maybe I shouldn’t be jealous. Perhaps there’s something to her, and that’s what Miss M sees in her. After all, she wants to be my friend. And she’s right. Keats wants to be transformed like a character at the end of a Greek myth. A tree. A bird. Whatever. Death is a kind of transformation, I suppose. The ultimate kind. If this Philippa girl were just like any other girl, Miss M’s attentions wouldn’t have cut deep. But if she’s different—even brilliant—Miss M is pointing me in her direction: “This one, Judy. She might be one of us.”

  PHILIPPA, SEPTEMBER 13, 1948

  The MBBS girls are closing in on me, whispering about who’s inviting whom to homecoming—“If you don’t have someone in mind, Philippa, I can put in a good word.”—and I’ve received three separate appeals to attend the Metro Baptist Bible Study on Wednesday nights—“All denominations are welcome! Do come! We don’t bite.” I bet!

  When I saw Judy in the cafeteria today, I plopped down in front of her, if for no other reason than to ward off the MBBS prowlers. She was resistant to me, wary even, but I’d rather shelter in her chilly sphere than field questions about homecoming. She looked up, and her jaw froze mid-chew. Her silky black bangs were combed with geometric precision, and she was wearing dar
k eyeliner and smears of moody mascara. Horus’s eyes. Egyptian, that’s totally her look.

  After she finished chewing, she said, “What do you want?” and rested her wrists on the side of the table, fork in one hand, knife in the other.

  “I just need a quiet place to eat my lunch,” I said, as if the cafeteria fare of creamed potatoes, withered green beans, and meatloaf smeared with ketchup warranted my deep contemplation.

  “No,” Judy said, “you’re here to bug me.”

  True, but I said, “I won’t. I promise.”

  “You’re already bugging me.”

  “Fine, I’ll move.” I began to stand up and thought, Well, that was quick.

  “Sit down.”

  Okay? She glared at me, squinting like she couldn’t quite make me out. I forced a big bite of meatloaf in my mouth and chewed it slowly, staring across the room out the windows.

  “So, you really want to be my friend?” she said.

  I nodded vigorously, my mouth still full, and swallowed. I didn’t want to miss my moment. The window to make a good impression was brief, I was certain.

  “Fine,” she said, a shimmer of pleasure passing through her eyes, “you’ll have to interview for the position.”

  I patted my lips with a paper napkin and straightened my back like a plucky secretary poised to take a memo. Here we go. I was ready.

  “First question: What’s your full name?”

  “Philippa Ann Watson.”

  “Date of birth?”

  “July 8, 1931.”

  “Astrological sign?”

  “Cancer. Or…? Yes. Cancer.”

  “Mine’s Virgo, as far as I know.”

  As far as I know? I wondered. What does that mean?

  She continued: “Place of birth?”

  “Oakland, California. But I’ve lived all over.”

  “Where?”

  “Mostly on the West Coast, but when I was a girl, I’d spend the summers with my aunt in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia.”

  She sighed impatiently and said, “Favorite color?”

  “Pink.”

  She wrinkled her nose.

  “Purple?”

  “Favorite book?”

  “The Boxcar Children.”

  She picked at something on her plate. “I’m bored.”

  I panicked. “It’s fun! Come on.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Favorite pet?”

  “I don’t have a pet. Detest cats, though.” I knew my audience.

  “Really. Hmm… Music? What’s your favorite song?”

  “ ‘Little White Lies.’ The Fitzgerald version—not the recent Dick Haymes recording.”

  “Good answer.” Her eyes sparked with interest. “Favorite food?”

  “Meatloaf.” I waved my hand over my plate as if it were a chocolate soufflé. “Voilà!”

  Judy smiled—it was a brief flicker, but a smile nonetheless—and said, “What’s the worst thing you’ve done and never gotten in trouble for?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, overwhelmed, feeling as though I needed just the right story, daring enough to impress but not so bizarre that it would repel her.

  “Yes, you do.”

  “It’s just that I—”

  “I’m sorry, miss,” she said in a matronly voice, “but you don’t have the level of experience or other requisite qualifications to accept a position with such a demanding—”

  “Okay, okay! My father gave my stepmother a locket. My mother died, and it belonged to her. I stole it and hid it.” And there it was, my deepest darkest secret. It’s not very impressive as deepest darkest secrets go, but it was the first time that I told anyone about it. It’s been a while since I even thought about it.

  “Why did he do that?” Judy said, raising an eyebrow.

  “I don’t know. It’s a family heirloom, passed from mother to daughter.” Although it would’ve been mine one day, Dad should’ve given it to me, not Bonnie. I even asked him to. “It’s still hidden,” I said, pleased that I’d piqued Judy’s interest.

  “Where?”

  “I sewed it up in Mr. Fred.”

  “What is Mr. Fred?”

  “A stuffed bear. Well, I’ve never been sure what he is. He looks mostly like a bear. But there’s some otter in there too. He’s scrawny.”

  “Jesus,” Judy said and returned to her food.

  I waited for her to say more, to receive her stamp of approval, her blessing, but she just started eating again, chewing her food methodically. I grew impatient and said, “So, what happened to the interview?”

  She swallowed, and her dark eyes lingered on me. What was her verdict going to be? Was I in or was I out? Was I doomed to be an MBBS girl?

  “Interview’s over,” she said.

  “Well, how did I do?”

  She cocked her head. “You are relentless, aren’t you? Why do you want to know me?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes. Honestly.”

  “You remind me of a character in a book.”

  I hadn’t thought of her that way until that moment, but she did—perhaps a hellbent flapper at the wheel of a roadster or a fan-toting French mistress from a nineteenth-century romance or one of Shakespeare’s heroines, Rosalind or Viola? She’s a female protagonist in the driver’s seat, a daredevil, an adventuress painting her outline with a thick brush, boldly standing out against the background scenery. I like what she stands for—or I guess, what she stands against: the sad frauds, the smug fakers, the happy fools. She’s a pylon in a shifting sea of new faces, a definite locus, a hard truth to hang on to—but she is that, a truth.

  “You really are pathetic,” she said. “But okay, you’re hired.”

  JUDY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1948

  “So, is it true?” Philippa said, leaning against the locker next to me, hovering too close. The hall behind us was swarming with kids on their way to practice or home. For a moment, I regretted taking her on. She’s throwing herself into this friendship thing with gusto.

  “Is what true?” I asked but didn’t look at her. I was trying to squeeze my history tome between my biology notebooks and my stack of overdue library books. The lockers are the size of baby coffins.

  “That you kill stray cats with bricks,” she said, standing back a little, as if to brace for my answer.

  I shut the metal door with a bang. “Is that what those bitches say?” I spun the lock.

  “It’s the first thing I learned about you,” she said as if she deserved an explanation.

  I held my hands out like “What?”

  “The MBBS crew are ridiculous,” she said, shaking her frazzled strawberry curls. “You know Ramona Carmichael is the type who recites biblical affirmations in front of her mirror—‘I am complete in Christ’—then goes out and kicks a puppy.”

  “You don’t like hypocrites, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Intrigued, I said, “Well, I’ve never killed a cat with a brick.”

  Her shoulders drooped in relief. “They’re horrible creatures, but—”

  “I didn’t say I’d never tried.”

  She laughed, only three-quarters convinced I was kidding. That’s when an idea struck me, and I said, “Let’s do it. Let’s drop a brick on a cat!”

  Philippa’s face drained of color. I grabbed her hand, not giving her time to make an excuse. Moving deeper into the building, we parted the throng of students flowing out of the front entrance. I knew where we could find a cat—the theater. I hadn’t set foot inside it since my performance as Lady Bracknell in The Importance of Being Earnest last spring: “A haaandbag?” Today, Mrs. Q was auditioning for the fall play, Cyrano de Bergerac, and I’d overheard Ramona proclaiming that she was going to audition for—you guessed it—Roxane. After all, it was her queenly duty. She couldn’t let her “people” down.

  When we arrived, I turned to Philippa, held my finger to my lips, and then led her in through the backstage door. Auditions were underway on stage, muffled b
y the thick velvet curtain dividing us from the auditorium. We made our way through a clutter of residual set pieces, even some lattice work and faux ivy from the set of Earnest, and to the narrow spiral staircase stretching up into the fly space. Philippa slowed as we approached the rickety metal stairs and gave me doubtful eyes. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “I’ve done this before.” I reached down and hoisted up a twenty-pound burlap sandbag, which lay discarded under the stairs in a mound of counterweights, ropes, and pullies. A severed rope was still attached to it, so I draped it over my shoulder and let the bag dangle down my back, like the carcass of an animal.

  “What are you going to do with that?” Philippa asked, her face scrunched and dark.

  She had some idea, certainly, but I wasn’t going to spell it out for her. If I did, it might spook her. When you say a thing, it’s more real. I wanted to see if she believed I was capable of doing something terrible: Would I drop a brick on a cat? Or a sandbag—a saaandbag!—on a simp? And was she okay with it? That’s what I really wanted to know.

  So, I just smiled and started up the stairs, feeling the wobble of thin metal and the groan of the risers. We climbed about forty feet into the tangle of rigging, ironwork, and dusty backdrops. We emerged on the catwalk and crept out over the stage. Below us, Mrs. Q, with her usual officiousness, explained the audition scene. She always drains the life out of a production. Whenever I mention her to Miss M, she smiles knowingly, but says nothing, perhaps out of professional courtesy. “This scene,” Mrs. Q bleated, “is rich with dramatic irony. Roxane is complimenting the artistry of a love letter she believes was written by the handsome Baron Christian de Neuvillette to the man who actually wrote it, Cyrano. Isn’t that just marvelous, girls? What a hoot!” Philippa glanced over at me and rolled her eyes. She understood my aversion to Mrs. Q. But my ex-drama instructor wasn’t why we were here.

  We waited, leaning against the railing and staring at the tops of the heads of the student auditioners, listening to the scene over and over—“To my mind, no finer poets sing those pretty nothings that are everything… . You men are always so cruel: He can’t have wit, because he’s beautiful.” Ugh, Roxane is such an idiot.