The next day, as Fern and Vipsania were returning from Mass, they spotted Dean Calvert trudging across campus on his way to lunch. He was alone. Promising that she’d be gone only a few minutes, Vipsania left her roommate and raced over to Dean, intercepting him under a cluster of maple trees. Fern was more than a little disappointed to see that Dean didn’t go to Sunday Mass—though deep down, she wasn’t surprised. But Dean’s lack of piety didn’t do much to curb her jealousy at seeing Vipsania and Dean have a long, private conversation on the bench by the statue of St. Francis of Assisi. Fern was willing to wait the few minutes that Vipsania requested, but gave it up after she noticed the way her roommate was batting her eyes at Dean and leaning towards him so he could get a good look at her “ample bosom.”
Clearly, this conversation wasn’t about what they’d overheard the night before.
Fern wasn’t that surprised when Vipsania caught up with her in the dining hall nearly ten minutes later and casually announced to their table that she and Dean were going to homecoming together. Fern did her best to conceal her true feelings, but she couldn’t help resenting the fact that—after all Vipsania’s teasing—she had preemptively snatched up Dean for herself. It seemed… well, if not hypocritical, then at least a little two-faced.
Not that Fern had been planning to ask Dean. Or that she’d been expecting him to ask her. But neither of those facts made her any less resentful towards her roommate.
“Look,” said Vipsania, after several minutes of angry silence from Fern. “I get why you’re mad at me, Fernie. But if they’re after him, he needs one of us to keep an eye on him—and keep him away from any conniving females. You don’t want one of those other girls getting their hands on him, do you?”
It was an annoyingly plausible defense, and Fern tried to do justice to Vipsania’s motives even if she still resented her sneaky way of going about it. After all, she found it hard to believe that Vipsania could really be insensible of Dean’s brooding good looks or astonishing intelligence. But there was nothing she could do. Vipsania was her only friend, and whatever her ulterior motives might be, she’d have to forgive her and get over it.
If only it were that easy.
Lucilla peeked into Fern and Vipsania’s dorm room around three o’clock to give them their assignments for community service. Miss Stott had downgraded their grounding to last just two days, but there was nothing she could do about their three hours of mandatory servitude. Vipsania, as she had predicted, was assigned to scrub the bathrooms in the girl’s locker rooms on the other side of campus, while Fern would spend Monday afternoon helping the nuns weed beds and shovel mulch on Fausta Commons. Fern privately felt that this wasn’t much of a punishment. She wasn’t afraid of a little hard labor, and besides, it would give her a chance to spend more time with Declan, and—though she still wasn’t quite sure what to make of him—she always enjoyed his company.
Word of the stiff punishment from Lucilla actually improved Fern’s reputation among her fellow students at Marbrose Catholic. Maybe they thought it was proof that she wasn’t as much of a goody two-shoes as they’d initially thought, or maybe Lucilla wasn’t quite as popular as Vipsania had led her to believe. Either way, the sympathy she received from the other freshman girls would have more than made up for the indignity of an unjust punishment.
Fern found Declan Lovejoy and several of the sisters already hard at work at one of the flower beds when she reported for work the next afternoon. She was about to wave to Declan when she noticed that Sister Athanasia—stern-faced and scowling—had come to oversee her punishment. Apparently Lucilla was determined that neither Vipsania nor her roommate would forget that they were being disciplined. Fern sighed, picked up an empty bucket and some gloves, and got to work.
“Dare I ask what you did?” said Declan after several minutes of pulling weeds.
Fern glanced up at Sister Athanasia, who was busy chewing out some sophomores for wearing their school uniforms a little too immodestly.
“I just came back late to the dorms,” said Fern. “My roommate’s sister has a vendetta against her—of the Sicilian variety—and I was collateral damage.”
“This is hard work for a skinny little doll like you,” said Declan, reaching over to pull up a few plants she had missed. Fern frowned slightly. She’d been called a lot of things in her life, but never a “doll.”
“My father worked in the Stockyards,” she said. “I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty.”
Declan seemed surprised.
“A working class girl? I never would have pegged you for one.”
“Well, my father’s been… sickly for a long time. I suppose it’s been five or six years now. My mother works part-time for city schools—disability payments mostly cover the difference. It was… a relief when I was awarded this scholarship.”
“I bet,” said Declan.
They pulled weeds for a few more minutes in silence.
“Would it be presumptuous of me to ask you more about yourself?” said Fern out of nowhere. Declan cracked a small smile.
“No,” he said. “If you want.”
“Very well. You said you were an orphan. You don’t know anything about your family?”
Declan shrugged.
“Not much. My mother was eighteen, and she didn’t tell the sisters anything about who my father was. Lovejoy wasn’t her last name—just the name she put down on the birth certificate. That’s about all I know.”
“It suits you,” said Fern. “Both names, I mean. I’ve never cared much for being named after a plant.”
“Well, it suits you,” said Declan. “It’s a good name for a smart girl. You’re a Rothko Scholar, right? Must be pretty smart.”
“I’ve never thought of myself that way,” said Fern, looking away to conceal her blush. “Can I ask another question, Declan?”
“Shoot.”
“What are you planning to do with yourself? I mean, after you leave the orphanage?”
“Dunno. Maybe boxing, if they’ll let me, or writing about boxing if they won’t. You need connections to make it as a fighter in Marbrose City. I’ve got the skill, but not the connections. But I’m gonna try for it.”
“You want to be a boxer?”
Declan nodded.
“If they’ll let me.”
“But you also like writing?”
Declan cracked another one of those insincere smiles that were starting to get on Fern’s nerves.
“I’m alright at it. Gotta pays the bills somehow.”
Declan seemed to be done being interrogated by Fern, and she didn’t press him. She knew that Declan wasn’t exactly honest, and asking him questions he didn’t want to answer wouldn’t achieve anything. They said a friendly goodbye at the end of the three hours, and Fern returned to Caithness Hall trying to decide what she really thought of him. Fern didn’t approve of boxing—it was much too violent—but the news that Declan was a writer was… surprising. In a pleasant way. It certainly raised him in her opinion, even if it didn’t fit with the impression of him she’d formed from their first few meetings. It did confirm, at least, that she wanted to keep being Declan’s friend. Clearly he had depths to him that she would have never expected.
Fern’s second week of classes was more challenging than the first, but also less lonely. Lyra and Cassia started inviting her to sit with them, and she made a few friends among the upperclassmen, including Nika, a senior who served as a TA of sorts in the art class she and Vipsania had together. Nika was quiet and reserved, and perhaps she sensed that Fern was a kindred spirit. She was also—and this almost mattered more to Fern than the approval of her peers—becoming a favorite for most of her teachers. While she suspected that she was working harder than her classmates—and certainly harder than Vipsania, who never seemed to do any homework—her determination to raise her hand if she thought she knew the answer and have her notebook open on her desk whenever the bell rang did a lot to earn her teachers’ approval. And even if her classmates thought she was trying to hard, they couldn’t accuse her of being a goody two-shoes.
Not when she was friends with Vipsania Montagnese.
Chess with Dean—who Miss Spiegelman had apparently decided was an appropriate peer mentor for Fern—remained frustrating. He rarely said anything, and when he did speak, it was only to insult her. Even with everything Fern had heard through the walls of Father Rohrbach’s office, she found it difficult to be patient with Dean—or endure his jibes without occasionally firing back.
“Your mistakes are very predictable,” he said as she moved her bishop three spaces diagonally.
“So are your insults,” said Fern. A few paces away, Miss Spiegelman put her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. In keeping with the plan she’d worked out with Vipsania, Fern kept a close eye on Dean, but apart from his brooding scowls and tendency to stare at the wall, there wasn’t much to see. Dean was friends with Lucas—at least, they tolerated each other’s presence, and sometimes sat together during lunch—but otherwise, he kept his distance from everyone, and Fern couldn’t see any signs of his teachers or peers plotting against him.
On Wednesday afternoon, Fern was finally summoned to Father Rohrbach’s office in McClanahan Hall. She sat down in a comfortable chair upholstered with a red embroidered fabric—the same chair where Vipsania’s father had sat three nights before—and folded her hands in her lap, feeling expectant. Seen from the inside, Father Rohrbach’s office wasn’t as sinister as Fern remebered. She could see the tiny vent on the floor where she and Vipsania had eavesdropped, but otherwise it was a welcoming place, decorated in the same Neo-Gothic style as the rest of the school buildings, including a tapestry of the Canadian Martyrs that she hadn’t been able to see from her hiding place in the wall. There was also a large portrait of Pope Paul VII behind the desk, looking imperiously down at her. Fern had prayed that Joseph Ratzinger would be the next pontiff after the death of Pope John Paul II, but the Holy Spirit had decided otherwise.
“Thank you for coming, Miss Kubelsky,” said Father Rohrbach pleasantly. “I like to check in with all the new Rothko Scholars. I’m sorry I haven’t seen much of you so far. This new term has been… unusually busy.”
“It’s quite alright, Father,” said Fern, doing her best to act like she had no suspicions of the priest. Father Rohrbach laid his hands on his mahogany desk, and studied her closely for about half a minute.
“You come from a rather different background than most of our Rothko Scholars,” said Father Rohrbach at last. “Although I suppose more in keeping with Eugene Rothko’s original intentions. Do you find it difficult so far?”
Fern blinked.
“No, Father,” she said. “The work is challenging, but I can manage.”
“I meant socially, Fern,” said Father Rohrbach. “I know you can handle the academics.”
Fern frowned slightly. It was hard to tell whether he was genuinely concerned, or simply prejudiced against her because she came from Oxborrow instead of Hayes Avenue.
“I’m getting along well with Vipsania,” she said. “And I’ve made a few other friends.”
“What about Dean Calvert?”
Fern bit her lip. It was so pointed a question that for a moment she wondered if he knew everything, from her feelings for Dean to the fact that she and Vipsania had been listening in on his conversation with Galt and the mobsters. But she told herself that was ridiculous—impossible. Maybe it was just a lucky guess. He seemed to notice her hesitation.
“I’m… somewhat concerned about Dean,” Father Rohrbach explained, and again Fern noticed the hint of a German accent in his voice. “He’s obviously having trouble adjusting. And since you were a fellow Rothko Scholar, and in the chess club, I thought you could perhaps reach out to him.”
“I’ve done my best, Father,” said Fern, still a little suspicious. “I don’t think he wants me as a friend.”
Father Rohrbach studied her carefully, his forefingers pressed to his lips.
“Well, keep trying. I’m sure he’ll warm up to you. Tell me a little about yourself, Fern. Who is Fern Kubelsky?”
As Fern began describing her upbringing in Oxborrow and her spiritual life and her academic aspirations, she kept looking at Father Rohrbach’s icy blue eyes and thinking about what he’d said a few night ago. The Great Families of Marbrose had plans for Dean Calvert, and Father Rohrbach, however reluctantly, was helping to put them in motion. No question from him on that subject could ever be innocent. What Fern couldn’t figure out was why he would be so interested in her reaching out to Dean—why she, rather than Vipsania or Lucas, was expected to get through to him. Of course, it was possible she’d asked all three of them about it, and there was nothing more significant in his question to her than a general concern about Dean’s personal isolation. But Fern couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it as she walked back to her dorm room to change before dinner. Vipsania Montagnese and Father Rohrbach both wanted her to keep an eye on Dean Calvert. That couldn’t be a coincidence.