Free Outrun the Moon by Stacey Lee Page A

paper. “You will be taking French, comportment, and embroidery.”
    I frown, studying the paper. Surely there must be more.
    â€œThat expression on your face is most unbecoming. I pray I shall not see it again.”
    â€œI’m sorry, ma’am,” I stammer. “I was just hoping for a classin economics, or commerce. As I mentioned, I will be entering the tea business one day, and—”
    â€œHow dare you,” she says so sharply I feel the sting of her reprimand on my cheeks. “I assure you, the education you receive here will be the best in any of our forty-five states. A St. Clare’s education opens doors into fine carriages, carriages destined for influential circles. Last year, one of our girls married an Austrian prince. Another is betrothed to a Hearst.”
    Steady, girl,
I tell myself.
Do not get yourself kicked out before you’ve even begun.
“I beg your forgiveness, ma’am. I did not wish to offend.”
    â€œNow, if I may continue?” Her words are more a caution than a question.
    I nod, my mouth dry. Headmistress Crouch has an uncanny talent for sucking the moisture out of the room.
    â€œDinner is at five, followed by evening prayers. Lights out at nine.” She produces a ruler from somewhere and points to a grandfather clock tucked in a corner. It is nearly quarter past eight now.
    I feel a rap on my hip. She waves the ruler at me. “You’re standing crooked. A crooked posture will make people think you are surly.” Another tap, this time on my chin. “Chin up. A lowered head suggests a melancholy disposition. Lips together. Placing your tongue on the roof of your mouth will help you not to cry.”
May I never need to employ
that
particular trick.
    Laying the ruler horizontally across my nose, she says in a crisp voice, “Keep your eyes pinned to the five and the seven.” I can hardly see those numbers without going cross-eyed.
    â€œThat is how girls of good breeding hold themselves in public.” Satisfied, she removes the ruler. “Infractions will be dealt with harshly and quickly. I do not believe in sparing the rod for anyone, even Chinese heiresses.”
    I go mute, thinking of Jack. Seems the white practice of beating children into good behavior transcends both class and age. My parents never hit us, instead preferring the tried-and-true technique of old-fashioned guilt.
    â€œNow, the girls are currently practicing for the Spring Concert but will be returning soon to make their toilettes. Go upstairs and take your turn in the washroom while you can. Remember that cleanliness is next to godliness.”
    â€œYes, Headmistress. Thank you.” I climb the staircase, hardly breathing for fear of ruining my posture. What a spleeny shrew. Perhaps it’s a thankless job, keeping forty of San Francisco’s most eligible fillies in bridle. Maybe she is all bluster. A whipping in this day and age?
    â€œOh, and one more thing, Miss Wong.”
    From seven steps up, she reminds me of a shark, sleek and gray with a terrifying smile. “You will be sharing a room with Elodie Du Lac. She is one of our most popular students, and I’m sure you will have much to learn from her.”

7
    I PLOD TO THE THIRD FLOOR, WEIGHED down by the certainty that Headmistress Crouch’s mission in life is to make mine as uncomfortable as possible. A door marked with a
T
contains a flush toilet with the softest toilet paper I’ve ever felt, a bathtub big enough to sleep in, and bar soap as fragrant as a full head of narcissus.
    The bathtub sings to me, but I hesitate. Bathtubs of that scale are generally off-limits to people like me. Still, I’m here, and probably my new classmates will appreciate me using the facilities.
    The water runs clear, not even a speck of rust. I step in and don’t turn off the faucet until I’m submerged to my neck. Hot water works at the knots in my shoulders. I stretch out my