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cubicles. Some of the doors bore little brass plaques with religious inscriptions by Anglicans like Frances Ridley Havergal, whose hymns we sometimes sang at the church in Madoc’s Landing. These inscriptions used military phrases, such as “standard bearers” and “chosen to be a soldier,” and their cheerful tone made me sad for no good reason.
    The dwarf pushed open the last door and tugged me by the sleeve into a high, narrow room.
    “Haven’t you got all the luck!” he said, and giggled. “You’re in the bedroom of the English headmistress—the best room in the house.” He lowered his voice and pointed at the ceiling, where I saw a dusty globe fastened to a metal hook. “That’s what shehanged herself on.” Anxiously, I looked around. I wondered if he was teasing me. It might be the best room in the school, but I didn’t see much to be glad about except the view. The east window looked down on a parking lot and a two-car garage (where the dwarf told me he and the other janitor, a Czech named Willy, had a tiny room). Beyond lay the dark, leafy mass of the ravine, which crawled up the hill like a rash toward the manicured grounds of the school. The south window overlooked a very grand stone patio surrounded by the funny spindly trees whose name I found out later was camperdown elms. Off to the southwest I could see the silver towers of the city, which sat like the Land of Oz on a merry blue stripe of lake water.
    Directly below, on a knoll beside the patio, I saw the canopy where the parents were still having their tea party. The sun was now almost fully out, and I could hear the adults’ happy voices chattering like birds after a rainstorm. I walked around my room aimlessly. It was plainly furnished: three continental beds evenly spaced between three dressers. Lined white cards were stuck inside the mirror on each dresser. On one I read the name Victoria Quinn, and on the other, Pauline Sykes. A bulletin board hung over each bed. A grainy old poster for the movie
King Kong
was pinned to the first board. The second displayed a picture of the Calypso singer Harry Belafonte next to a scroll in embossed yellow script, which read:
“Woman is descended from Adam’s side to be his equal, near his arm to be protected and close to his heart to be loved.”
I guessed the poster belonged to Victoria Quinn. On her dresser sat a framed photograph of a blond boy in a brush cut. The photo was signed, “As always, Rick.” Next to it I saw a matted hairbrush, a bulging makeup case, a crockery pot spilling over with alpine flowers, and a package of Cameos. I smiled. I had something in common with one roommate.
    “Aye, that’s the spirit,” the dwarf said in a friendlier tone. He handed me a black licorice in the shape of a pipe. “Would you have one of my sweets?”
    I shook my head no, even though licorice candy was my fav, and he laid it down anyway on top of my trunk.
    “Now, don’t mind if you’re homesick for a bit. It passes. And then one day—bingo! You wake up and, just like that, you’re an old girl.” He stood on tiptoe, looking up at the Cameos. “The matron will have Victoria’s head for that. She’s a careless girl.” Suddenly we both heard a noisy commotion outside the window, and the dwarf stood on one of the trunks to look. “What have we here!” He clapped his little hand to his forehead. “Trespassers! Don’t they know old Sergeant is king of the castle?”
    Behind the tent, a row of male bodies was slithering over a tall wire fence, which I realized must encircle the full length of the grounds. I watched as, one by one, they dropped to the ground, some falling on their sides or backs. Their bodies looked toy-sized from my high window. Quickly they unfurled a banner and began to chant in unison at the startled tea-party guests.
    Ripping folly!
Beastly jolly!
Bath Ladies College
is ours—rah!
    On the lawn, some of the girls in navy tea dresses screamed as their parents stood looking