Page 94 of The Bridesmaid
I notice with mild amusement that Adrianna has left her own bachelorette party. She never grew up. The spoiled little girl I got a kick out of scaring at school is still in there, buried under couture clothing and designer perfume. I try not to think about those times but sometimes I can’t help it.
Something about being back here is dredging up memories. Older ones, of the girl I was before. Bunny.
I had been at Kensington Manor School one full term before everything changed. Simone had looked after me, since I often couldn’t sleep. I missed home dreadfully, surrounded at night by the wretched sobbing of other homesick seven-year-old girls.
Then came the end-of-term ceremony. All the little new girls had been sent to change for bed, and instructed to strip down and brush our teeth. Then, shivering in our vests and panties, we were instructed to bring the single toy we’d been permitted from home and follow an older girl to the common room, where a roaring fire blazed. I brought my soft toy bunny rabbit, who’d been with me since I could remember, clutching her close to my body.
‘Quickly.’ The old girl clapped her hands. Clinging gratefully to comforting toys, we followed her to a dingy basement room,where a fire burned in an old-fashioned grate. In the hall was a line of older girls. One for each of us. They all wore black robes with hoods.
I looked up into the face of the girl in front of me. It was Simone. My heart rose. I gave her a little smile, but her face was cold.
‘The older girls are responsible for teaching you Kensington Manor School ways,’ came the announcement. ‘Tonight is your First Penance.’
I started to doubt my English. Then the older girl first in line wrenched a stuffed toy from the little girl in front of her, and tossed it into the fire. She gave a heart-broken shriek.
‘You’re here to learn to be clean young ladies,’ she said as the owner convulsively sobbed. ‘Not disgusting babies.’ She turned to me and her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re the one with the pash on Simone,’ she said.
I felt a slow hot blush begin to spread over my cheeks.
‘Simone,’ said the older girl. ‘You should be the one to do it.’ She pointed to Anita, my soft toy bunny, clutched tight to my chest.
‘No!’ I pulled her close.
Simone stepped toward me, and took hold of her ears. I clutched her tight.
‘Please,’ I protested. ‘She’s the only thing I have from home.’
To my shock, Simone stepped forward and delivered a ringing slap to my face. For a moment the surprise overwhelmed everything. Then the pain and humiliation seeped in. I wanted so badly to go home that it was a physical pain in my heart.
‘Now you behave better,’ warned Simone, wrenching the bunny from me. ‘We’ve all of you to wash and get ready for bed, and we haven’t even started the ceremony yet.’
I held my face. Simone and the other girls were being so unkind,but they seemed to be in charge of us. My eyes flashed to the fire. I knew Simone would neveractuallyburn my toy bunny. It was unthinkable. I wouldn’t be able to sleep without her.
But she did. Simone tossed Anita into the flames. Her beaded eyes flashed sadly in the fire as they melted. The fur on her weathered ears caught alight.
I howled like the world was ending.
The next thing that happened, I could never have expected. With sharp silver scissors, Simone grabbed a thick hank of my hair, and hacked it off. I brought a hand to the severed ends, horrified. I turned to the girl next to me, and saw she had peed in her pants, and was standing in a growing wet puddle. The older girls tossed our hair in the fire.
To my shock and embarrassment, I started to cry.
‘None of that,’ said Simone, in a cold voice. ‘Kensington Manor School girls don’t cry. You mortify yourselves before God. Fine metal withstands great heat,’ she told me, as the acrid stench of our burning hair and toys filled the room.
I look up to see Ophelia has sat herself next to me. Too close, I realize, slightly annoyed. This is an American habit I never got used to.
‘Simone,’ says Ophelia. ‘She was your older girl, wasn’t she?’ The usual irritating bounce has gone from her voice now. It is flat calm. And strangely familiar.
I blink at her. ‘So what?’
‘You used to play sick games with us,’ says Ophelia. ‘The younger girls. Don’t you remember? Saint games. You were the sinner. We were the saints. You tied us to the bed. Stole our favorite things. Youhurtus.’
I turn laconically, ready to fall back on the familiar strategies. This is not the first time one of the girls from the younger years has tried to confront me about so-called bullying.
‘I remember a lot of little babies,’ I tell her, fixing her with a glare. ‘Who couldn’t deal with being away from their nannies. Ihelpedgirls like you to grow up. How could you have survived without me?’
Ophelia blinks. But not in a quiet, afraid way like Silky used to.
‘I surviveddespiteyou,’ she hisses.
