Page 23 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

My pants—Jasper’spants—are now splattered with oatmeal and runny eggs. Some of it even got in my fucking hair. On instinct, those same disastrous words start playing through my head.

It can’t possibly get any worse than this.

It can’tpossiblygetanyfucking worse than this.

But it does.

Everyone starts laughing.

“Jeez,” someone says behind me. “Were you born under a ladder or something?”

I half-turn to Jasper, scared the ceiling might collapse on me if I make any sudden moves. “I’m sorry about your clothes.”

“Yeah, me too.” Jasper shakes his head. “But it’s kinda impossible to stay pissed off at you.”

I shake a glob of oatmeal from my hand with a sigh. “At least I got that going for me.”

“You gotta take a shower.” He makes to grab my elbow, but I’ve had about all the manhandling I can, well, handle.

I move away from him, lifting my hands. “Just tell me where it is.”

He stares at me for a second, and then laughs and shakes his head. “Bet I’ll hear about a busted water main in an hour or so.” He shrugs. “But hey, it’s your funeral.”

After using the restroom on the third floor, I’d assumed the bathroom would be one of many. A private room with a tub and a shower—possibly even a combo, for efficiency—and a basin for the boys to shave in. Maybe even some stalls.

How very naive of me.

Saint Amos wasdefinitelya prison in one of its earlier incarnations. Church, prison, orphanage, boarding school. Isn’t that the natural progression of places like this?

Situated on the second floor, the bathroom looks more like a locker room. On the left, a row of basins and mirrors. To the right, a wall of showers.Noshower curtains. A low wall separates every pair of showerheads from the next.

A long bench splits the room down the middle.

Because showering with your roomie adds to the fun.

I shudder at the thought.

Where the hell am I supposed to put in my tampon? Or do I go and squat next to the bench when no one’s looking?

I’m dimly aware I need to get a move on—Sister Miriam said to meet her after breakfast, and I think I have class with Brother Zachary first thing, but I’m so busy trying not to lose my shit all that stuff fades into the background.

I strip and hurry to the closest showerhead. I fully expect only cold water to come out, but after a few seconds I’m delightfully surprised by a lukewarm stream.

I slather no-name brand soap and shampoo—no conditioner, duh—over myself while I try not to think about athlete’s foot. The fact this feels so good is a dire testament to how shitty the past few days have been.

As much as I’d love to stand here for a few minutes and let the warmish water batter out some of my stress, I’m pretty sure I’m tempting fate. The longer I stay here, the higher the chance someone will decide they need to shower or shave or sit down on a bench for no reason.

I dry off and put on the dress I brought with me. It’s far from flattering—nothing in my sparse wardrobe canpossiblybe considered seductive—but I still feel overly exposed as cool air washes over my bare legs and arms. Even slipping on my cardigan doesn’t help.

I hesitate, and then toss Jasper’s dirty clothes into what I assume is the laundry basket in the corner of the room.

I wring out my hair and pat it dry with a towel as I hurry back to my room. Since I have no idea how long this thing with Sister Miriam will take, I’d rather fetch my notebook so I have it on me before Zachary’s class.

I don’t dare show up late to his class again.

There’s an envelope on my bed.

I tear it open and pull out a class schedule typed out on a typewriter.

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