Page 29 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

“Turn around,” Miriam says in a long-suffering voice. “Arms up all the way.”

They slide a shift over my head. It’s at least two sizes too big for me, and comes to mid-calf. The armholes expose the side of my bra, and the belt is two inches lower than I’m assuming it should be.

“Good gracious, this is the closest you have?” Miriam asks Ruth.

“She’s a tiny little thing,” the sister replies.

“Well, she can’t walk around in those whorish clothes of hers anymore.”

Whorish…?

I turn stunned eyes on Sister Miriam, but she’s glaring so hard at the shift, she doesn’t seem to notice.

Then again, they’re all wearing habits.

Wait…

“Do I have to wear a habit?” I whisper.

I hope they don’t hear the horror in my voice. Ruth shakes her head, lifting a finger to tut me. “No, no. There’s a school dress. We just haven’t made many of them.”

Thank.Heavens.

“Bring the dress.”

Lo and behold, thereisa girl’s uniform for this place.

It’s brown.

It’s hideous.

And it looks like they made it out of felt. I can already tell it’s going to be scratchy as all hell. I take a step back before I can force myself to hold still and let them slide it over my head.

Yup. I look like a turd.

I peek over my shoulder, but there’s no one by the window.

Is it weird I’d rather let that guy see me in my underwear than in this monstrosity?

“You come back here this afternoon,” Miriam says, slipping a pale belt over my waist and yanking it tight.

“Oh, I won’t have it ready by then, Sister,” Ruth protests.

“Not for the dress.” Miriam turns me around adjusts my dress as if she can somehow make it two sizes smaller by tugging it here and there. Her eyes fix on me. “This is where you’ll spend your afternoons.”

I open my mouth, but from the look on Miriam’s face, I know there’s no reasoning with her.

“Yes, Sister,” I manage.

Lord, I’vegotto start earning some brownie points with Father Gabriel. I don’t know how else I’m going to survive this place.

Chapter 9

Trinity

My other teachers are mostly middle-aged men and women, none of whom are even remotely as interesting as Zachary. My mind drifts in each of their classes, and it’s increasingly difficult to bring it back to the subject at hand.

The dress has given me a rash along my collarbones. I scratch the rest of my body as surreptitiously as I can, but I’m sure everyone in my class thinks I have leprosy.

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