Chapter Text
To M.B.
Despite growing evidence, Miranda Etchel refused to believe she was a dunce. She was smart, maybe even well-read, and unlike Nikki, she got into the hardest class by merit. But English class took more than just reading skills. It was also about writing, and therein lay the problem: Miranda detested writing with a fervent passion. Though she had done well enough on the placement test to get into the double-block AP English on Monday mornings, she had only a passing understanding of basic punctuation and grammar.
Perhaps Miranda still could be taught if someone bothered to take the time to assist with remedial lessons, were it not for one thing that masked this--admittedly large--problem. Miranda’s observations were a huge leap above the average, so most of the uninspired teachers at Brooks, wearied over their disappointing careers, passed her through with nary a correction to her typo-laden essays a half-literate child would wince at.
However, this English teacher, Miss Clellan, was fresh out of college and had yet to have her ideals beaten out of her. To Miranda’s mortification, Clellan was far more stringent on writing mechanics than her lackluster predecessors. Miranda usually had some points docked for her incoherent sentences, but two whole letter grades were beyond the pale. While not a scholar, Miranda took pride in her good grades, and it was appalling to watch her A’s and occasional B’s in English dipping into C’s and D’s.
Her parents--at least Mom--would not be pleased when she came home this semester.
Despite already substantial reasons to despise AP English, Monday mornings, and the whole ordeal, she had another complaint and it topped them all. One that actually made her doubt herself and transformed her distaste for AP English into passionate hatred.
“Miranda, would you care to join us?”
The girl stirred from her internal diatribe, cheeks flaming. “Sorry, Miss Clellan. Could you repeat that?”
In spite of her youth, the school marm had the stiffest posture out of all the teachers she had at Brooks Academy. And Miranda had been here since preschool. Miss Clellan eyed the girl with her hawk’s stare, holding it for several long moments. Miranda held up, wondering who spat in Clellan's cornflakes this morning. But the teacher was the first to turn away, returning to her synopsis of James' novel.
A note landed on her desk, and after a surreptitious glance at the teacher, Miranda opened it.
We’re on page ___. Isabel and her marriage to Os-what’s-his-face.
Miranda couldn’t resist sneaking a glance backwards. A brunette in pigtails gave her a wink. Miranda returned a wry grin.
“Any thoughts on the concluding decision of The Portrait of a Lady?” asked Miss Clellan. Focusing her gaze towards the back, she said, “Since you were so eager to help our daydreamer today, Nikki, would you like to offer an opinion?”
Her eyes were sharper than Miranda thought. Clellan apparently had perfect vision, along with an intimidating glare. The giggles subsided, and the class fell silent. Nikki’s nose wrinkled. “Um, no, ma’am, I...” Clellan let the silence stretch, staring down at Nikki from her podium.
The student gulped. Though a part of Miranda's inner circle, Nikki was not made of the same stuff. “I’m sorry,” Nikki admitted, “I haven’t gotten that far in the reading.”
The woman squeezed her eyes shut. “Very well. Two demerits, Nikki. Let this be a warning not to come to class unprepared.”
Grumbling could be heard from Nikki's direction, but with another sharp glance, it died down.
One good turn deserves another, if a little late, Miranda thought. She raised her hand. “I was disappointed with the conclusion of Portrait, Miss Clellan.”
The teacher nodded. “Go on.”
“I read on the blurb that Isabel's concluding decision would be ‘one of the most moving in modern fiction.’ Well, I was not moved,” Miranda’s voice roiled with derision. “I was disgusted by the cowardice she displayed, and the spineless wimp she turned into. She had the option of freedom from Osmond, and became too weak to take it.”
Miss Clellan nodded and a silence fell. “That’s an interesting conclusion to draw. Any others?”
By the window, someone raised her hand. “Yes?” said Clellan.
When she realized just who had volunteered her opinion, Miranda’s eyes narrowed. Oh great, here we go again.
“For people who are merely reading and not digesting, that’s precisely why they end up with analyses unsubstantiated by fact.” And a nonplussed Miranda wondered, What kind of egotistical loser talks like that?
“Isabel could have run off with Casper Goodwood, but that action in of itself would constitute cowardice, for would not Isabel be ducking the responsibility of her own actions?” Miranda flushed.
“She chose to marry Osmond, chose that life, even knowing and seeing the hints that he was just using her. It takes a great deal of courage, not cowardice, to see things through to the end. Anyone who has truly lived would not so easily disregard personal accountability.”
Attempting to control her temper, Miranda turned to face the calm and dignified blonde. “Did you miss the entire first half of the book, or did you cheat with Cliff Notes? Do you remember what Isabel was like in the first half of the novel, and how she ended up?”
“Hold up!” snapped Miss Clellan, sending a glare at the tall girl by the window. “Haven't I already warned both of you about arguing in class?”
Miranda crossed her arms, peering out at the other girl from the corner of her eye. “I didn't start this.”
Carole looked straight at her rather than the teacher, and Miranda shuffled uneasily under the gray stare. It certainly beat Miss Clellan’s hawklike gaze, as even the teacher became uneasy when Carole eyed her.
To Miranda, Carole replied, “To answer your question, I have read the entirety of Portrait twice, at least not counting rereads, paying ample attention to integral passages, and perhaps the ones you skipped over out of boredom.” Seeing Miranda’s twitch, she added, “You did read enough of the novel to understand what was going on.” Miss Clellan tried to interrupt again, but if the last remark was an attempt to be conciliatory, it had the opposite effect.
Miranda snapped, “What's so hard about backing out of a bad decision?”
Carole paused. “Sometimes you don't get a choice. You can either adapt to the consequences of your decision or complain about it or duck personal responsibility. Did you believe Isabel should have thrown a tantrum when things didn't go her way? I am aware that some people were born and raised like that.” Never did Carole’s voice change from her flat tones. “People do make mistakes, and it is rare when they can 'take it back.' Not all of us get that opportunity, Miss Etchel.”
“I know that, Miss Sinclair,” Miranda snarled.
Miss Clellan rapped a textbook on the podium, and Miranda wondered if the dilapidated wood could withstand the pressure. “All right, you two. Carole, if you disagree with Miranda, could you avoid needling her?”
Carole's face was devoid of expression. “Miss Clellan. What did you think of Miss Etchel's interpretation of Isabel's decision at the end of the novel?”
When Miss Clellan blanched, Miranda had to suppress her growl. Weakly, Clellan said, “I had a different conclusion than her, yes—”
“—if you felt her opinion was inaccurate, or rather completely incorrect, Miss Clellan, why did you not stop Miss Etchel from blundering and misleading the rest of the class?”
The teacher impressively managed to regain her composure. “That's besides the point, Carole. If you think Miranda had it wrong, you have all the right in the world to discuss the matter in a calm and rational manner. I won’t tolerate you provoking—”
Carole cut in, “Did I directly insult a student who is used to getting her own way?”
Miranda growled, “I'm not deaf! I heard you insinuate pointed insults in my—”
“Tell me, Miss Etchel,” Carole said. “At what point did I actually call you names and told you anything except that there's a lack of evidence for your theory?” Struck with the point like an impaled butterfly, Carole only looked down her long nose at Miranda, and Miranda felt her cheeks flame again.
Not trusting herself to respond, Miranda threw her belongings into her backpack, and slammed the door on her way out.
Miss Clellan was rubbing her temples, while Nikki was casting the abused door a worried look. Miranda's other friend Candace had a wry expression on her face. Carole exhaled through her nose, and went back to staring out the window, face unreadable.
“I can’t let this happen every time I have a discussion with the AP English juniors.” Unlike the unflappable persona she attempted to maintain in class, Jacqueline Clellan was easily flustered outside of it. And apparently that Sinclair girl can break my composure with little effort, she thought as she rubbed at her forehead. She neglected to get Carole Sinclair to stay behind so she could at least lecture her, which so far had done little, if any, good. But the girl had left with everyone else when she was issuing Nikki Juliano's demerits. Now, Jacqueline was beside herself with a frightful scowl on her face.
Sadly, the secretary in the main office was completely unable to see it. “Calm down,” said the voice on the phone.
“I—” Miss Clellan drew in another breath, trying to regain her bearings. “I'm not going to deny that Carole Sinclair is a brilliant student, but she shouldn't be allowed to run roughshod over everyone else in the class! Can't she be moved up to the seniors' English class?” So I don't have to deal with her anymore went unsaid.
Patiently, the secretary replied, “Jacqueline, we understand that there has been an ongoing problem between Carole and Miranda in your class. But moving Carole to the seniors' class will provoke more complaints from the student body. And the parents, for that matter.”
“What?”
“Carole Sinclair is at Brooks Academy by the generosity of the headmistress. While her correcting the teachers and students is common enough, she has not broken any rules.”
“Carole should be disciplined if she keeps picking fights like this!” Miss Clellan snapped. “Could she be any more provocative when she discusses her opinion?”
“From my personal experience,” said the receptionist thoughtfully, “Carole doesn't believe in withholding uncomfortable facts. The truth comes first with her.”
The teacher frowned, digesting the statement. “Does she lack sensitivity to other people's feelings?”
A long sigh. “Jacqueline, are you sure the problem isn't about Miranda Etchel?”
Bewildered, Miss Clellan asked, “What about her? All right, she can be a bit touchy and impatient, but I wouldn't like it either if someone always tried to make me feel stupid.”
“Jacqueline, it's not just that,” the secretary sounded pained. “I know you're new, so I'll let you in on this: we have had problems accommodating Miranda as well. Many of the teachers have been reluctant to cross or correct her.”
“Because...” Jacqueline trailed off, although she could guess what was coming.
“With a father in the limelight of state politics, and a mother who has made many generous donations to Brooks...” the secretary trailed off. When Jacqueline remained silent, the secretary babbled, “Look, I don't approve of the politics either, but there are so many important people whose daughters attend Brooks Academy. You annoy the wrong person, you end up without a job.”
Miss Clellan sighed herself, rubbing her forehead. “I refuse to treat anyone as 'special,' regardless of whose family that student is a part of. If Carole and Miranda are getting into arguments that disrupt class discussion, something should be done about it. End of story.”
The reply was, “I am sure that Headmistress Carr will speak to Carole about the issue.”
Isn't that what you told me last time? the teacher thought. Knowing that she was hitting the proverbial wall, she thanked the woman and hung up.
For the moment, it looked like Miss Clellan was on her own.
Sandra watched, sympathetic and slightly amused, as her roommate paced the length of their tiny dorm, the cramped space making the action look comical. “I can’t stand that—that—!” It was closer to noon when Miranda had returned from her morning classes. Sandra was reviewing her notes from physics on her bed, glasses glinting from slats of sunlight peeking in through the blinds.
“Vixen?” Sandra helpfully supplied.
“Vixen?” asked Miranda and they both started laughing. “That sounds like some medieval thing Miss Sinclair would say!” Sandra winced, and Miranda added placatingly, “You know I don’t mean that! Is ‘vixen’ even used anymore?” she asked between giggles.
Sandra replied, “The meaning's changed over time, but it once referred to either a female fox or a malicious, shrewish woman, frequently quarrelsome. Fitting, isn't it?”
“Ah, I see,” Miranda shook her head, the edge taken off her temper. Yet the passage of time had not yet soothed the injury, as she began pulling the goose feathers out of her pillow with agitation. Her voice took on a familiar mocking quality. “'Miss Etchel,' she says in that oh-so-polite language she uses, while she gouges your words in the neck with a side of insinuating comments. Who does Carole think she is?”
Sandra flipped a page of her notebook, not even looking up. “Someone a heck of a lot smarter than you.”
“Gee, some friend you are. With you around, who needs wenches like Carole?”
“'Wenches'? And you were complaining about Carole using archaic words?” Sandra stared at Miranda knowingly until her face was almost as red as her hair.
“Oh, shut up.”
Turning away from her book, Sandra said, “But the fact of the matter is that Carole didn’t get into Brooks on a full scholarship for being an idiot.”
Miranda’s shoulders slumped. “What then? Carole rubs that in my face enough.”
“Deal with it. It’s probably one of the inescapable facts of your life. Nikki will always be behind in her classes and need your help, Clellan’s posture will always be ramrod straight, and Carole will always be able to beat your argument into the ground.”
“Are you telling me I should just meekly acquiesce to whatever hand fate doles out to me?” Miranda sat down on her unmade bed with a huff. “Okay, I'm not as good as Carole at literary analysis, so she gets to humiliate me every Monday if I'm wrong?”
“But you do realize that every time you fight back, it only eggs her on?” Sandra said, but flinched at Miranda's glare. “Of course I don't think what she's doing is fair,” she hastily added. “But you can stand up to her without provoking her, yeah?”
Miranda blew her bangs out of her eyes, yet they flopped right back in place. “All right, Miss Valedictorian-Were-It-Not-for-Little-Orphan-Carole,” she remarked, seeing Sandra's shoulders hunch; it was a very sore point for Sandra to be elbowed into only second in their class. “How would you handle being made a fool of every Monday?”
“You're asking me?” muttered Sandra and Miranda hid a smile. “Miranda, you’re hardly a slouch in the brains department yourself, so you'll probably be able to figure out something that I haven't.” Quietly, Sandra admitted, “I've never been able to win an argument with the ice princess. And she just doesn't get bothered by people gossiping about her.”
“Yeah, I already tried to look for blackmail material,” was the bitter reply. Miranda sank back on her bed, muttering something barely audible about egotistical blondes with squeaky-clean reputations. “Topic shift. This is making me depressed. Got a date for the end-of-year dance?”
Sandra blinked owlishly from behind her spectacles. “Miranda, that’s over seven months away!”
“You said to focus on what I can do about the future, right?” She rolled over onto her back, hair bright against her navy sheets. “Hope I meet someone interesting.”
The other girl snorted. “Hoping to break your sixteen year dateless streak? I wonder why the popular Miss Etchel can't even get a date.”
If it had been anyone else but Sandra, who had been her playmate since they were in diapers, Miranda would have cut her down within seconds. With a shrug, Miranda decided to go easy on her, considering that she'd just brought up Carole outranking her. “Speaking of which, your boyfriend is where?”
“Unlike you, I care little for those things,” Sandra muttered unconvincingly.
“Wonder who Headmistress Carr's precious protege is going with...”
“Carole?” asked Sandra. “As much as I’d like to see her get humiliated like everybody else—” Miranda shot her an incredulous stare at the unusually vicious comment, “—don't stare at me like that, Miranda, you’re hardly Carole’s only victim—said frigid virgin probably has no sexual inclination whatsoever.” Sandra tapped her fingers thoughtfully, “Hey, now there's a thought.”
“What is it?”
“Oh, nothing. Just wishing that Carole would marry someone just like her—”
“—and that she would have children just like her,” Miranda finished, completing the paraphrased quote. They burst into laughter.
The dorm phone rang, and Miranda reached it first. “Hello?”
“Afternoon, Miranda, how were classes today?” Miranda smiled, her shoulders loosening.
“Hold on,” she said, covering the receiver. “Sandra, it's my mom. Could I have some privacy?”
“Right,” sighed Sandra, dusting off her green plaid skirt. She picked up a stack of notecards and her physics notebook. “I can take a hint.”
Miranda watched her leave, then turned back to the phone. “Hey, Mom. Classes were fine,” she said quickly. She didn't want to get into her 2 on her A Midsummer's Night Dream paper she had gotten back first thing in class; it had only contributed to her rotten mood after today’s spectacle with Carole. “How's you?”
“Oh, everything's fine,” her mom said breezily. “Don't you worry. Gertrude was teaching me how to make filet mignon.” Gertrude was the Etchels' gourmet chef.
Miranda's lips twitched. “How badly did you ruin it?”
Her mother scolded her, “Miranda, I don't ruin everything I cook.”
“Mom...” sighed Miranda, “you know you can tell me anything.”
A moody silence settled in, and Miranda counted the seconds off on the nearby alarm clock, its red numbers glaring at her. After seven seconds, there was a reluctant sigh. “It was borderline well-done, burnt on the edges. I discovered that mushrooms don’t taste too bad singed.”
She could almost picture her mom in tears as poor Gertrude probably ended up scouring the burnt pan. Miranda snickered. “It’s called charcoal-flavored.”
“Not funny,” her mother replied grumpily.
“Well, all right,” she relented.
“Listen, Miranda, I did call for a reason.”
“What for?”
A deep breath. “I was delivered the papers via postal mail by your father.” Miranda felt the bottom of her stomach fall out, and a familiar bitterness chilled her.
“How impersonal of him. By mail?” she sneered. “He couldn't even bother to present them in person. Busy little man, isn't he?” When her mother made a harsh gulp, she immediately regretted the words.
“I don't know, honey,” Mom said, tears in her voice. “I don't know.”
Miranda bit her lip. “When will this be done?”
“I don't know that either,” her mother answered. “But...I...” she paused. “I wanted to tell someone, anyone. When the public finds out...” She could picture her mother shivering at the idea.
“What difference would it make if it was?” Miranda muttered, almost to herself. When her mother took another gulp, she sighed. “They’ll find out eventually, what with Dad thinking of running for public office, the ambitious thug.” Her mom remained silent. “It’s not your fault, Mom. No matter what he says. I could never understand why you...”
“I can't change anything, stop it from happening...” her voice broke off. “Miranda...” her mom's voice was almost a sob, “I don't know what to do.”
Miranda felt wholly inadequate for the entire conversation, but push her way through she did. “Just...tackle it one problem at a time, Mom. Day by day, week by week.”
“I'm sorry,” her mom said for what must've been for the hundredth time over the last year and a half. “I'll deal with it, Miranda. I just...I wanted to tell someone.”
“It's no big deal,” Miranda lied. “You probably should get some dinner,” she suggested, looking at the setting sun. “And get to bed early.”
“Thanks, dear,” her mother did sound a little better. “I'm so glad I got to hear from you. Get your homework done, okay? And I'll see you over Thanksgiving break. I love you.”
“Yeah,” Miranda said. “I love you too, Mom.” When Miranda hung up, she lowered herself to her bed, hands massaging her temples. Sometimes I feel like the mom in this relationship, she thought ruefully. And even if Dad's an idiot, a stupid, undependable idiot, I still don't like seeing how much of an idiot he is from the way he treats Mom. And she just lets him.
When Miranda felt a familiar sting in her eyes, she angrily stared straight into the orange sunset. She could remember how carefree she had been before she had known any of her parents' problems, and almost wished that she still was ignorant of what was going on. While her mother rolled over like a whipped dog for him, her father...it hurt so much when she remembered how much she loved him before he utterly betrayed them both.
The tears began to fall when Miranda tried to recall when she had last talked to him, really talked with him, and realized she could not remember.