The Carlyles by Cecily von Ziegesar Page B

wingback chairs in the waiting area, across from the secretary, who was pretending to be busy on the computer. She couldn’t stand the pretension that seemed to ooze out of every corner of Constance, from the French professor who looked like she had been sent from central casting to the dark-oak everything. Before they’d moved, Baby had begged her mother to be allowed to stay in Nantucket, but she’d said no. Edie had even been talking about moving permanently into their grandmother’s peach-colored town house once the lawyers were finished. Baby had never felt more desperate to be back in Nantucket and with Tom, who never demanded anything of her, who just let her be.
    “Mrs. McLean is ready for you,” the skinny, stringy-haired, middle-aged secretary nodded at the walnut door that led into the headmistress’s office.
    “Thanks,” Baby said fake sweetly, standing and walking through the door.
    “I’m Mrs. McLean.” The intimidatingly large headmistress stood up and squeezed out from behind her enormous mahogany desk, casting a shadow over Baby. “And you must be Baby.”
    Baby nodded and flopped onto a stiff blue velvet love seat in a corner, tucking her legs underneath her. The whole room was decorated in shades of red, white, and blue. Baby wondered if maybe Mrs. McLean thought she was the president.
    Mrs. McLean looked pointedly at Baby’s thin legs, motioning with her eyes for her to move them. Baby swung her feet back to the floor and sighed. For the past sixteen years, she’d only ever received praise from her teachers. She’d always gotten straight A’s in everything, without even having to try. But now, everything was just so different. Sure, she could spiritedly explain that she’d simply been demonstrating situationism—the 1960s avant-garde European movement to restore authenticity in life. Back in Nantucket, she might have even gotten extra credit for her outburst. But sitting in Mrs. McLean’s rigid office, she felt the energy drain from her body, and she didn’t at all care to explain what she was feeling.
    “Madame Rogers just called down and is quite distraught by your outburst,” Mrs. McLean began, taking Baby in with her muddy brown eyes. “I think we got off on an exceptionally bad note here, didn’t we?”
    Baby grimaced. She hated when teachers used the pronoun we when they meant to say you, as in, You really fucked up, now didn’t you?
    Which was exactly the point.
    “Before we get to that, though, you do have an unusual name,” Mrs. McLean said, shuffling through Baby’s file. “Is there anything more appropriate you would be comfortable using?”
    Baby narrowed her blue eyes. “That’s my name,” she said slowly, enunciating each word. This school was all about conformity. It was one thing to be forced to wear a uniform, but they wanted her to change her name ?
    “Okay, then. I just wanted to let you know it was an option if you wanted something more academic.” Mrs. McLean coughed, and Baby glanced at a wooden-framed photograph of a farm that stood out amid the red and blue cups of pencils. “But of course, it’s your choice. And now, on to the matter at hand. I know it’s your first day and things may be overwhelming for you and your sister. Nevertheless, we expect students to adapt to our way, the way of Constance Billard.”
    Mrs. McLean smiled at Baby in an almost motherly fashion, and for a fleeting moment Baby felt a flicker of affection. Mrs. McLean looked a bit like Doreen, the lady who ran the pie shop back in Nantucket. Doreen would always give Baby a slice of rhubarb on the house when she forgot her wallet. “I know you and your sister have had a rather untraditional upbringing. Is there anything you want to tell me about?” She folded her hands expectantly, as if waiting for some tear-filled confession.
    “Nope.” Baby shook her head. Except for the fact that I hate everything about New York.
    “All right, then. I’m willing to overlook this