The Name of the Star. Maureen JohnsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
this cold, empty building. Those pigeons were English pigeons. I had imagined this for so long, I didn’t quite know how to process the reality.
The words NEW RIPPER? flashed across the screen over a panoramic shot of Big Ben and Parliament. It was as if the news itself wanted to reassure me. Even Jack the Ripper himself had reappeared as part of the greeting committee.
4
“Oh, did we wake you?” the girl said. “We were trying not to.”
This is when I noticed the four suitcases, two laundry baskets, three boxes, and cello that were already in the room. These people had been politely creeping around for some time, trying to move in around my sleeping, uniformed body. Then I heard the racket in the hallway, the sounds of dozens of people moving in.
“Don’t worry,” the girl said. “My dad hasn’t come in. I don’t want to disturb you. You keep sleeping. Aurora, isn’t it?”
“Rory,” I said. “I fell asleep in my …”
I let the sentence go. There was no need to point out the obvious.
“Oh, it’s fine! It won’t be the last time, believe me. I’m Julianne, but everyone calls me Jazza.”
I introduced myself to Jazza’s mom, then headed down to the bathroom to brush my teeth and try to make myself generally more presentable.
The halls were swarming. How I’d slept through this invasion, I wasn’t entirely sure. Girls were squealing in delight at the sight of each other. There were hugs and air kisses, and lots of tight-lipped fights going on with parents who were trying not to make a scene. There were tears and good-byes. It was every human emotion happening at the exact same time. As I slithered down the hall, I could hear Claudia’s voice booming from three flights down, greeting people with “Call me Claudia! How was your trip? Good, good, good …”
I finally got to the bathroom and huddled by a window. Outside, it was a bright, clear morning. There were really only three or four parking spots in front of the school. The drivers had to take turns and keep their cars in nearly constant motion, dropping off a box or two and then continuing around to let the next person have a space. The same scene was going on across the square at the boys’ house.
I had planned much better entrances. I had scripted all kinds of greetings. I had gone over my best stories. But so far, I was zero for two. I brushed my teeth and rubbed my face with cold water, finger-combed my hair, and accepted that this was how I was going to meet my new roommate.
Since she was actually from England and able to come to school in a car, Jazza had way more stuff than me. Way more stuff. There were multiple suitcases, which her mom kept unpacking, piling the contents on the bed. There were boxes of books, about six dozen throw pillows, a tennis racquet, and a selection of umbrellas. Her sheets, towels, and blankets were all nicer than mine. She even brought curtains. And the cello. As for books, she easily had two hundred of them with her, maybe more. I looked over at my cardboard boxes and my decorative beads and ashtray and my one shelf of books.
“Can I help?” I asked.
“Oh …” Jazza spun around and looked at her things. “I think we’ve … I think we’ve brought it all in. My parents have a long drive back, you see, and … I’m just going to go out and say good-bye.”
“You’re done?”
“Yes, well, we’d been piling some things in the hall and bringing them in one at a time so we wouldn’t disturb you.”
Jazza went away for about twenty minutes, and when she returned, she was red-eyed and sniffly. I watched her unpack her things for a while. I wasn’t sure if I should offer my help again because the things looked kind of too personal. But I did anyway, and Jazza accepted, with many thanks. She told me I could use anything I liked, or borrow clothes, or blankets, or whatever I needed. “Just take it” was Jazza’s motto. She explained all the things that Claudia didn’t, like where and when you were allowed to use your phone (in your house and outside), what you did during the free periods (work, usually in the library or in your house).
“You lived with Charlotte before?” I asked as I made up her bed with a heavy quilt.
“You know Charlotte? She’s head girl now, so she gets her own room.”
“I had dinner with her last night,” I said. “She seems kind of … intense.”
Jazza snapped out a pillowcase.
“She’s all right, really. She’s under a lot of pressure from her family to get into Cambridge. I’d hate it if my family was like that. My parents just want me to do my best, and they’re quite happy wherever I want to go. Quite lucky, really.”
We worked right up until it was time to get ready for the Welcome Back to Wexford dinner. It wasn’t the cozy affair of the night before—the room was completely full. And this time, I wasn’t the only one in a uniform. It was gray blazers and maroon striped ties as far as the eye could see. The refectory, which had looked enormous when only a handful of us were in it the night before, had shrunk considerably. The line for food snaked all the way around to the front door. There was just enough room on the benches for everyone to squash in. There were a few more choices at dinner—roast beef, lentil roast, potatoes, several kinds of vegetables. The grease, I was happy to note, was still present.
When we emerged with our trays, Charlotte half stood and waved us over. She and Jazza exchanged some air kisses, which nauseated me a bit. Charlotte was sitting with the same group of prefects. Jerome moved over a few inches so I could sit down. We had barely applied butts to bench when Charlotte started in with the questions.
“How’s your schedule this year, Jaz?” she asked.
“Fine, thank you.”
“I’m taking four A levels, and the college I’m applying to at Cambridge requires an S level, plus I have to take the Oxbridge preparation class to get ready for the interview. So I’m going to be quite busy. Are you taking that class, the Oxbridge preparation class?”
“No,” Jazza said.
“I see. Well, it’s not strictly necessary. Where are you applying to?”
Jazza’s doelike eyes narrowed a bit, and she stabbed at her lentil roast.
“I’m still making up my mind,” she said.
“You don’t say much, do you?” Jerome asked me.
No one in my entire life had ever said this about me.
“You don’t know me yet,” I said.
“Rory was telling me she lives in a swamp,” Charlotte said.
“That’s right,” I said, turning up my accent a little. “These are the first shoes I’ve ever owned. They sure do pinch my feet.”
Jerome gave a little snort. Charlotte smiled sourly and turned the conversation back to Cambridge, a subject she seemed pathologically fixated on. People went right back to comparing notes about A levels, and I continued eating and observing.
The headmaster, Dr. Everest (it was immediately made clear to me that he was known to all as Mount Everest, which made sense, since he was about six foot seven), got up and gave us a little pep talk. Mostly it boiled down to the fact that it was autumn, and everyone was back, and while that was