"You kept me waiting and waiting. How do you think I feel sitting there in this dumb chair while everyone else rushes out to relax? I won't be kept waiting like a piece of furniture."

"I came as soon as the bell ending the period rang. I only spent a moment talking to my teacher."

"It was a lot longer than a minute, and I had to go to the bathroom! You can get up and go whenever you like. You know what it's like for me to do the simplest things now. You know that and yet you dillydally with your art teacher," she said, wagging her head.

"All right, Gisselle," I said, exhausted from her constant badgering. "I'm sorry."

"Just lucky for me I have other friends now to look after me. Just lucky."

"Okay."

The truth was that I never realized how lucky I was back in New Orleans, having my own room, with walls to separate us. "How were your classes?" I asked, to change the subject.

"Horrible. They're all so small, the teacher hovers over your shoulder and watches every little thing you do. You can't get away with anything here!"

I laughed.

"What's so funny, Ruby?"

"Despite yourself, you will likely do a lot better with your schoolwork," I said.

"Oh, forget it. There's no sense in talking to you," she said. "You'll probably sit down and start your homework right now too, won't you?"

"Abby and I are going to do our work now and get it out of the way."

"Peachy. You'll both soon be Greenwood honor students and go to dozens of teas," she quipped and wheeled herself out and into Jacki and Kate's room.

Mrs. Ironwood had said I was to be responsible for Gisselle and her behavior? I might as well try to change the habits of a muskrat or tame an alligator, I thought.

Our first week at Greenwood flew by quickly. Tuesday night I wrote letters to Paul and to Uncle Jean, describing everything. On Wednesday night Beau phoned. We had the use of a telephone in the corridor just outside our quad. Jacki came to our room to tell me I had a call.

"If it's Daddy, I want to talk to him too," Gisselle demanded, eager to continue the flow of her stream of complaints.

"It's not your father," Jacki said. "It's someone named Beau."

"Thank you," I said and rushed out of the room and to the phone before Gisselle could make any of her nasty remarks in front of Jacki.

"Beau!" I cried into the receiver.

"I thought I'd give you a day or so to settle in before I called," he said.

"It's so good to hear your voice."

"And good for me to hear yours. How's it going?" "Rough. Gisselle has been making life miserable from the moment we arrived."

"I can't say I'm not rooting for her," Beau said, laughing. "If she gets you both kicked out, you'll be back here."

"Don't count on it. If we don't last here, my stepmother will surely find somewhere else to send us, and maybe next time it will be twice as far away. How's school for you?"

"Boring without you, but I keep busy with the football team and all. What's it like there?"

"The school's nice and so are most of our teachers. I'm not fond of the principal. She's a tyrant made of cold stone, and Daphne has already filled her ear with tales about my evil Cajun background. She thinks I might be Annie Christmas."

"Who?"

"The flatboat bully who could chew off a man's ear." I laughed. "She just thinks I might be a bad influence on her preciously perfect young Creole ladies."

"Oh."

"But I am enjoying my classes, especially art."

"And what about . . . boys?"

"There are none here, Beau, remember? When are you coming? I miss you."

"I'm trying to work it out so I can get there weekend after next. With these weekend football practices and all, it's hard."

"Oh, please try, Beau. I'll be half mad with loneliness if you don't come."

"I'll come . . . somehow," he said. "Of course, I've got to do it on the sly, so don't let anyone know . . . especially Gisselle. It would be just like her to get it back to my parents somehow."

"I know. Her mean streak has gotten even thicker since the accident. Oh, I've made friends with one of the girls in my quad, but I'm not sure I want you to meet her."

"What? Why not?"

"She's very pretty."

"I have eyes only for you, Ruby," he said. "Hungry eyes," he added softly.

I leaned against the wall and cradled the receiver against my ear as if I were pressing a precious little baby to my cheek. "I miss you, Beau. I do," I said.

"I miss you, Beau, I do," I heard Gisselle mimic, and I spun around to see her behind me in the corridor with Samantha and Kate at her side, all of them smiling.

"Get away!" I screamed. "This is a private conversation."

"It's against the rules to say sexy things on the telephones in our dorm," Gisselle quipped. "Read page fourteen, paragraph three, line two of our handbook."

Kate and Samantha laughed.

"What's going on?" Beau asked.

"Just Gisselle, up to her usual self," I said. "I can't talk anymore. She's determined to spoil it."

"This is too much of a tease anyway. I'll call you again as soon as possible," he said.

"Try to come, Beau. Please."

"I will," he promised. "I love you and miss you." "Same here," I said, flashing a look of anger toward Gisselle and the girls. "Bye."

I hung up the phone sharply and spun around.

"Just wait. Just wait until you want some privacy," I told her and marched passed the three of them.

Being angry at Gisselle did little good. If anything, she enjoyed seeing me upset. It was better to simply ignore her. She didn't mind; she had the girls in our quad, who seemed just as comfortable spending most of their time around her during the times before homeroom, between classes, and in the cafeteria. Rushed along by Samantha, with Kate and Jacki at her sides, Gisselle and her entourage quickly became a separate entity, a clique that moved so tightly through the building they all looked attached by invisible wires emanating from Gisselle's wheelchair.

The chair itself metamorphosed into a rolling throne from which Gisselle issued her requests and commands and pronounced her judgments about other students, teachers, and activities. After school the three girls would obediently follow Gisselle back to the dorm, where she continued to hold court, tutoring them in misbehavior, describing her exploits back in New Orleans, getting them to smoke and neglect their homework. Only Vicki, driven by her desire to excel academically, remained aloof, which was something for which Gisselle did not forgive her.

Gradually Gisselle turned the other girls against Vicki. Even poor little Samantha, who was quickly evolving into Gisselle's alter ego, spent less and less time with her roommate and began to mimic Gisselle's contempt for her to her face. On Thursday night as a practical joke, Gisselle had Samantha steal Vicki's first research report for European history, a report about which she was very proud, since she had gotten right to it and completed it a week ahead of schedule. The poor girl was frantic.

"I know it was with my books in the closet," she insisted, pulling on her hair and biting her lip. Gisselle and the girls sat in the sitting room, listening to her turmoil as she recalled and reviewed her actions, trying to figure out where she could possibly have misplaced it. I took one look at Samantha's face and realized what Gisselle had talked her into doing.

"It was my only copy. I spent hours on it, hours!"

"Knowing you, you probably have it memorized anyway," Gisselle said. "Just start writing it over."

"But . . . my references . . . my quotes . . ."

"Oh, I forgot about quotes," Gisselle said. "Anyone have any quotes?"

I pulled Samantha aside, pinching her upper arm roughly. "Did you take your roommate's report?" I demanded.

"It's just a little joke. We're going to give it back to her soon."

"It's not funny to put someone through so much pain just to get a laugh for yourself. Give it back to her right away," I commanded.

"You're hurting my arm."

"Do it or I'll go get Mrs. Penny, who will have to tell Mrs. Ironwood."

"All right." Her eyes were filled with tears of pain, but I didn't care. If she was going to be Gisselle's little slave, she was going to pay for it too.

Vicki went back into her room to tear everything apart again.

"This wasn't funny, Gisselle," I said.

She looked at Samantha and at me. "What wasn't funny?"

"Getting Samantha to take Vicki's report."

"I didn't get her to do anything. She did it herself. Didn't you, Samantha?" Gisselle's fixed gaze was enough. Samantha nodded.

"Give it back to her this minute," I said. Samantha reached under the sofa to pull out the report. There was a look of shock on her face. She knelt down and searched.

"It's not there," she said, surprised. "But that's where I put it."

"Gisselle."

"I don't know anything about it," she said smugly.

Suddenly we heard a scream from Vicki and Samantha's room. All of us rushed in to discover Vicki sitting on the bed, bawling. In her lap was her report, soaked.

"What happened?"

"I found it like this under the dresser," she cried. "Now I'm going to have to copy it all over." She looked at Samantha hatefully.

"I didn't do that," Samantha said. "Honest."

"Someone did."

"Maybe you did it yourself and you're trying to blame it on one of us," Gisselle accused.

"What? Why would I do that?"

"Just to get someone in trouble."

"That's ridiculous. Especially when you consider that I'm going to have to copy it over!"

"Then you'd better start before too much of the ink runs," Gisselle suggested. She turned her chair and the girls followed her out.