“Again, from your left,” says Proserpina. “You saw what that Pole did at the match last week–he had just one little routine, pop pop swish crack, but all he had to do was reverse it and the other man was flummoxed. You’re better than that.”
“Give me a moment, can’t you?” Radiane pants. “I already had field hockey practice today, and it’s harder from this side.”
And Proserpina almost pauses, remembering her father, and her left hand tied behind her back as she wrote shaky As.
“There’s no hugging under Queensberry rules,” she says shortly, and Radiane blushes and scowls.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
This is school: Latin and Greek, deportment and dressage, the lineage of the House of Wettin. They learn to waltz with each other and how to address a Duchess. They learn which fork to use.
Proserpina and Radiane sneak out in boys’ clothes to watch the fights, and Proserpina vomits the first time she sees a man’s blood drooling through his mustaches. Radiane doesn’t. They go again and again, and on the nighttime walk back they talk out every step. Did you see his feet, they say. Did you see how he fell apart as soon as he touched the ropes?
Thursday, November 15, 2007
“Strike here,” and Proserpina taps the first two knuckles of her fist, “even if you’re wearing gloves. Keep your off hand a little farther out, to act as a guard; that gives your better arm more extension distance, and that makes it more powerful. And for heaven’s sake don’t swing like that. Draw back a little, then uncurl your fist so it ends up straight–see?”
“Who taught you all this?” pants Radiane.
“A friend. Named Tom.”
“And why do you think you need it? To beat up girls in the lunchroom?”
“As if I’ll need to,” smirks Proserpina, “after you.”
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Despite her parents’ concern, Radiane is only home recuperating for two weeks. Her nose heals a bit crooked, but the effect is oddly pleasing: she no longer seems to be looking straight down it all the time.
Proserpina meets her at the gate, holding a stick. Radiane looks at her and says nothing. The bruising hasn’t entirely faded.
“Do you understand that I’m dangerous now?” asks Proserpina. “More dangerous than a storybook bully?”
Radiane nods.
“But you didn’t tattle on me.”
Radiane waits.
“I can teach you,” says Proserpina, almost shyly, “to be dangerous,” and holds out a literal olive branch.
Which is why, the next day, she simply walks up behind Proserpina, grabs a fistful of her hair, and hauls sideways. Proserpina bites back a yelp and lets the taller girl pull her off the dining hall chair.
“I’ve read the boarding school stories too,” Radiane says, trembling. “I’m not going to be your little victim, you understand? I know how to handle a bully.”
She cautiously lets go. Proserpina wipes tears from her eyes. “You know how to stand up to me, you say?”
“Y-yes,” snaps Radiane.
“Good,” breathes Proserpina, and proceeds to break Radiane’s nose and two ribs.
Someone whispers it to someone else at breakfast, and by dinner everyone in the school knows that Radiane is a scholarship girl. Family couldn’t even afford to pay for the education of one daughter? Her classmates pull sympathetic faces. Poor dear.
That night someone leaves a silver dollar on her pillow. Radiane stares at it in cold fury, then goes to the window and flings it out into the darkness. She knows exactly who began the rumor; she’s still trying to figure out why. They have begun playing a very old game among women, and Radiane doesn’t know all the rules.
Proserpina and Iala have been friends since their second day, and each has found this useful: Proserpina is most confident of the new girls, Iala the best at charming their elders. Between them they have half the school in their jumper pockets.
Radiane seems to have only one friend, an apple-cheeked second-year named Georgette; they eat lunch and do assignments together. Proserpina mentions to Iala, casually, that they should talk with Georgette more. Doesn’t she seem like a darling? Lucky there’s a space at their table.
Radiane eats alone after that, looking cool and bored and never their way.
The first thing she figures out is that punching bags don’t work like that. You’re supposed to have someone to hold them for you, or they swing around and there’s no way to finish even a short combination.
Boxing trainers being in short supply at girls’ boarding schools, Proserpina begins to consider conspirators. Most of her classmates are plainly unsuitable, but there is one close-mouthed girl who watches everything with long dark eyes. Tall enough to hold a bag, and sure-footed in field hockey. A glint of rebellion. An ironic wit.
The other girl’s name, she learns, is Radiane.