Wuthering high: a bard academy novel by Cara Lockwood Page A
Authors: Cara Lockwood
Tags: United States, Fiction, General, People & Places, Family, Horror, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, Maine, Social Issues, Horror & Ghost Stories, Ghosts, School & Education, Mysteries & Detective Stories, Schools, High schools, Adolescence, High school students, Boarding Schools, Illinois, Stepfamilies, English literature, juvenile delinquents
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make sense of what she was looking for. I’m not sure if it’s even related to why she disappeared.
By the end of the week, I meet with Ms. W again and she asks me how my letter to my dad is coming. It’s not, really. I’ve got a bunch of balled-up pieces of paper in my trashcan, but that’s about it. I’ve had other things on my mind.
Besides, it’s hard to write my dad, because I don’t really know what to say to him. Although I can think of two words I wouldn’t mind writing, but Ms. W said I should try not to be profane.
In the meantime, Ms. W gives me letters from Mom and Lindsay. They’ve both written me one for every day I’ve been here. Dad hasn’t, though. I try to not be upset by it. I wonder why, when my expectations are so low, that he still manages to disappoint me.
I still want to get out of here, but in the meantime, I’ve decided to make the best of it. The teachers aren’t as bad as I thought (Ms. P actually teaches a pretty mean sophomore lit class), and even though Coach H makes me run around the gym, he’s an interesting history teacher. He brought actual World War I artifacts to class the other day, including a bullet he said was pulled from a soldier’s leg. Now, try getting that kind of hands-on learning at my old public school. Fat chance.
After one week of classes, I find that I have more work than I did during a whole semester at my old school, which means that I have less time to worry about the mystery of Kate Shaw, why Heathcliff seems to be able to disappear into thin air, who set a fire in my room, and pretty much life in general that doesn’t involve homework.
For two hours after dinner every night, we’re supposed to study, read, write letters, or basically do anything constructive by yourself sitting at your desk. Your other choice is to just go to bed early, which is what Blade does, because she’s piled into her bed at 8:00 P.M. , and is snoring. I don’t know how she can manage to sleep so soundly in this place — especially if she thinks vampires are about. But then again, she does have a poster of Satan above her bed, so she’s clearly not like the rest of us.
I settle down to read Wuthering Heights for English lit. As I get into the book, I can’t help but start thinking about some weird coincidences. Two things immediately strike me as strange. One, Heathcliff in the book is a lot like Heathcliff at Bard. They are both surly, tough, and adopted, and they are both semi-obsessed with a girl named Cathy.
Is Heathcliff obsessed with this book? Is he trying to be Heathcliff? But then again, he can’t read, right? Unless he’s faking that, too.
Another strange parallel is that a character in this book has the exact same nightmare I am having. The ghost outside the window, asking to be let in.
Very weird. It’s like life imitating art, for real. I’m not sure what to make of it. I look at the front of my book and see that it was originally published in 1847. That date sounds familiar for some reason. I look down at my backpack and see the Bard Academy 1855 Yearbook.
I open it, and sure enough, 1847 is the year that the original Bard Academy burned down.
That’s some odd coincidence. Did Kate figure out some connection between the three? The fire and the publication of the two books? In the front of my copy of Wuthering Heights, there’s a foreword that discusses the life of Emily Brontë and her sisters. It says Emily (author of Wuthering Heights ) died in 1848 of tuberculosis. Anne ( Agnes Gray ) followed in 1849 of the same. And then Charlotte ( Jane Eyre ) died in 1855 of “exhaustion,” whatever that is.
1855.
1849.
1848.
Those are the same years of the Bard yearbooks that Kate checked out.
I get them from under my bed and open them again to the pages where teachers are circled. In each of the three, she has circled a female faculty member. But each face is blurred and indistinct.
Those dates, and then three different women. Is she trying to
By the end of the week, I meet with Ms. W again and she asks me how my letter to my dad is coming. It’s not, really. I’ve got a bunch of balled-up pieces of paper in my trashcan, but that’s about it. I’ve had other things on my mind.
Besides, it’s hard to write my dad, because I don’t really know what to say to him. Although I can think of two words I wouldn’t mind writing, but Ms. W said I should try not to be profane.
In the meantime, Ms. W gives me letters from Mom and Lindsay. They’ve both written me one for every day I’ve been here. Dad hasn’t, though. I try to not be upset by it. I wonder why, when my expectations are so low, that he still manages to disappoint me.
I still want to get out of here, but in the meantime, I’ve decided to make the best of it. The teachers aren’t as bad as I thought (Ms. P actually teaches a pretty mean sophomore lit class), and even though Coach H makes me run around the gym, he’s an interesting history teacher. He brought actual World War I artifacts to class the other day, including a bullet he said was pulled from a soldier’s leg. Now, try getting that kind of hands-on learning at my old public school. Fat chance.
After one week of classes, I find that I have more work than I did during a whole semester at my old school, which means that I have less time to worry about the mystery of Kate Shaw, why Heathcliff seems to be able to disappear into thin air, who set a fire in my room, and pretty much life in general that doesn’t involve homework.
For two hours after dinner every night, we’re supposed to study, read, write letters, or basically do anything constructive by yourself sitting at your desk. Your other choice is to just go to bed early, which is what Blade does, because she’s piled into her bed at 8:00 P.M. , and is snoring. I don’t know how she can manage to sleep so soundly in this place — especially if she thinks vampires are about. But then again, she does have a poster of Satan above her bed, so she’s clearly not like the rest of us.
I settle down to read Wuthering Heights for English lit. As I get into the book, I can’t help but start thinking about some weird coincidences. Two things immediately strike me as strange. One, Heathcliff in the book is a lot like Heathcliff at Bard. They are both surly, tough, and adopted, and they are both semi-obsessed with a girl named Cathy.
Is Heathcliff obsessed with this book? Is he trying to be Heathcliff? But then again, he can’t read, right? Unless he’s faking that, too.
Another strange parallel is that a character in this book has the exact same nightmare I am having. The ghost outside the window, asking to be let in.
Very weird. It’s like life imitating art, for real. I’m not sure what to make of it. I look at the front of my book and see that it was originally published in 1847. That date sounds familiar for some reason. I look down at my backpack and see the Bard Academy 1855 Yearbook.
I open it, and sure enough, 1847 is the year that the original Bard Academy burned down.
That’s some odd coincidence. Did Kate figure out some connection between the three? The fire and the publication of the two books? In the front of my copy of Wuthering Heights, there’s a foreword that discusses the life of Emily Brontë and her sisters. It says Emily (author of Wuthering Heights ) died in 1848 of tuberculosis. Anne ( Agnes Gray ) followed in 1849 of the same. And then Charlotte ( Jane Eyre ) died in 1855 of “exhaustion,” whatever that is.
1855.
1849.
1848.
Those are the same years of the Bard yearbooks that Kate checked out.
I get them from under my bed and open them again to the pages where teachers are circled. In each of the three, she has circled a female faculty member. But each face is blurred and indistinct.
Those dates, and then three different women. Is she trying to
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