We filed out into the gymnasium, where she handed us each a pencil and a map of the school grounds. The boys were nowhere to be seen, and I assumed they were to perform the test separately.
“Bonjour,” the woman said, flexing her neck as she spoke. Standing beside her was a childlike man with a pudgy face that seemed to engulf his eyes. “I am Madame Goût, and this is Monsieur Pollet,” she continued, pronouncing the name Po-lay.
“Pollet,” the man corrected, accentuating the t. He sounded American.
She ignored him. “We will serve as your placement exam proctors. This exam will determine your class rank by testing your talent, speed, and strategy.”
She turned to Mr. Pollet, who continued. “We have hidden nine dead animals around the St. Clément campus. Your task is to mark the exact location of each animal on the map we have provided for you. We expect the list to be numbered in order, and we will collect it at the end of the exam.”
“What kind of order?” a freckled girl asked.
The woman frowned. “Why, any order you wish.”
I glanced around at the other girls, relieved to discover that I wasn’t the only one confused by these instructions.
Mr. Pollet continued. “You may find and identify the animals by any means necessary. There are only three rules. One, you must return in exactly one hour. Two, you may not touch, move, or relocate the animals. And three, you must work alone.”
Madame Goût took over. “Are there any questions before we begin?”
I felt myself starting to panic. I had too many questions. One hour? To find nine dead animals hidden around campus, while every other girl was doing the same thing? It seemed impossible.
“No?” she asked, flexing the tendons in her neck as she peered around the crowd to make sure she wasn’t missing anyone. “Okay. Ready yourselves,” she said, watching the clock on the wall. When the hands hit nine o’clock, she said, “Begin!”
Everyone dispersed. Some of the girls meandered around, unsure of what to do. Others set off in one direction with determination, and the rest followed the decisive-looking ones. Clementine glanced at me, and with a smile, slipped out the door and into the daylight.
I was the only person who didn’t move. I didn’t do anything until everyone had emptied out of the gymnasium. “The clock is ticking, mademoiselle,” Madame Goût warned.
Now that there was silence, I could think. I walked to the center of the gymnasium, where there was a circle painted on the floor. Not completely sure what I was doing, I stood in the middle of it and closed my eyes.
Taking small steps, I turned around in the circle until I felt the air shift, as if it were moving out of my way. The tiny path that it left was cool and seemingly devoid of anything. I imagined myself walking down it, marking the number paces on my map. Twelve paces straight, four paces to the left, up ten stairs. Eleven paces to the right. Down three stairs. Two paces to the left. There, I drew an X. And without realizing what I was writing, I scrawled the word cat in big wobbly letters.
Puzzled, I stared at it. I had no idea how I knew it was a cat, but now that I saw the word on the page, I was certain that was it. Next to it I wrote #1.
I repeated the process. This time when the air shifted, the path seemed a little narrower. I followed it, counting the paces. Marking it with an X, I wrote SHEEP, #2. I continued on, the empty paths in the air growing thinner and thinner. CROW, #3. BOAR, #4. SQUIRREL, #5. POSSUM, #6. RAT, #7.
When I got to the last two I wavered. Their paths were so narrow that they barely seemed to exist. fish, I wrote, feeling a little unsure of myself, and then crossed it out and replaced it with CARP, #8. Glancing at the clock, I realized I only had five minutes left until the exam was up. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t identify the last animal. As the second hand made its final rotation, Clementine burst through the doors in her white tennis shoes, and handed in her list. How could she have finished? Giving up, I drew a simple X where the last animal rested, and labeled it #9.
After a series of written tests on Monitoring history, we finally finished the exam. I spent the rest of the day in my room, listening to the girls in the hall laughing and talking about their summers. Part of me wanted to go talk to them, but what would I say if they asked me about my summer? That I’d spent it indoors, seeing doctors and therapists? That I’d spent my nights pacing by the window, wondering when I would hear from my Undead boyfriend?
Suddenly the bathroom door burst open, and a plump girl with rosy cheeks fell into my room. “Oh, sorry. Wrong door,” she said, staring at me. “Hey, are you that girl who can’t die?”
Sitting up, I glared at her.
“Sorry,” she said, rolling her eyes, and popped back into Clementine’s room, where faintly I heard her talking, probably about me.
I didn’t venture out until dinner. The dining hall had the feel of a medieval kitchen, with long wooden tables and three cooks standing behind a counter, flipping meat in skillets. The whole room was crowded and steamy. Even though there were plenty of empty seats, it still felt like there wasn’t one for me. Clementine and a group of her friends whispered as I passed them. Over the noise of clattering plates, I could hear Brett laughing as he joined a group of boys by the wall. Finally I spotted the girls from my horticulture class sharing a table with a few people I recognized from my floor. I made my way toward them.
“Is anyone sitting here?” I asked.
April looked up at me. “Oh, Renée. Um—no,” she said, and pushed over just enough for me to squeeze onto the end.
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
After a solid moment of silence, conversation resumed.
“So you had Undead at Gottfried. I mean, in your classes. What were they like?” a prim Korean girl asked April’s twin, Allison.
“They’re like us,” Allison said, picking at her salad. “Except they can speak Latin.”
“Do they look different?” the girl pressed. “Clementine said that they look like corpses. That their eyes are cloudy.”
My stomach tightened. “You’ve never met one before?” I asked, gazing at the St. Clément girls on the other side of the table. They shook their heads as if it were obvious. “Well, Clementine doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“But she’s met the Undead before. With her dad.”
“So have I,” I said. “And she’s wrong.”
A couple of girls across from me went rigid, as if I had insulted their religion.
“But aren’t they angry and uncontrollable?” said a delicate brunette, her eyes wide behind her glasses. “That’s what Clementine said. That they’re animals.”
“I don’t see how they can stand it,” her friend said, playing with the straw of her soda. “Knowing that a murderer is lurking inside them.” The other girls nodded in agreement.
I stopped eating. “Not all Undead take souls at random. And besides, any of us could kill someone. It’s not like we’re perfect. Humans kill each other all the time. As Monitors, we’re going to learn how to kill the Undead. That doesn’t bother you?”
There was an awkward stillness as everyone gazed at me. I looked to the girls from Gottfried for support, but only April gave me a sympathetic glance before looking away. The rest of them were too cowardly to even look me in the eyes, even though they had been close with the same friends I’d had at Gottfried. “Allison, are you still in touch with Eleanor?” I asked.
“She’s different now.”
“She’s had a hard time. It’s not her fault.”
“I never said it was,” Allison said, offended. “But she’s Undead now, and I’m a Monitor. That’s not my fault, either.” Putting down her fork, she stood up. “You know, I’m not really hungry anymore.” Without looking at me, she turned to her sister. “I’ll see you back at the dorm.”
The table went silent as she gathered her things, and I realized that none of them were comfortable with me there. “Right,” I said, crumpling my napkin in my fist. “I guess
I’ll go.” And picking up my tray, I walked down the aisle, refusing to look back. I paused when I spotted Anya Pinsky sitting by herself in the corner. Smiling, I walked over to her table and sat across from her.
She looked up from her brisket. “Did I say you could sit?” she asked, pronouncing every consonant immaculately. Her dark red hair was pulled into a low bun.
“Sorry. I thought you were alone.”
“I am,” she said.
“I was just trying to be friendly.”
“I don’t need any friends,” she said.
“Now I know.” Just as I moved to the end of the table, the main door of the dining hall opened, and a tall, ebony-skinned man sauntered down the aisle, carrying a folder of papers. He was wearing a dark green suit, the kind only a tall person could pull off. His hair was graying.
A hush fell over the crowd as he stood at the head of the room and put on his glasses.
“Hello,” he said in a French-Caribbean accent, his voice deep yet wavering, as if he were singing the words. “As many of you know, I am Headmaster LaGuerre, and I’d like to welcome you all to Lycée St. Clément.”
Everyone clapped. From where I was sitting, I could see the back of Clementine’s head near the front. Her last name was LaGuerre, too.
“You are all Monitors,” he said, and smiled. “It makes me proud to say those words. Some of you come from old Monitoring families, others are new to our community, but we are all united by our shared talents: the unique ability to sense death, and the primal urge to seek it out and bury it.”
The room went still as he gazed around us, his words pulsing beneath the silence like electricity.
“In your time at St. Clément, you’ll make new friends, discover new skills, and eventually you’ll specialize in one branch of Monitoring. However, most important, you will learn how to control and use your powers. The purpose of our calling is to police the Undead, and to put them to rest only when completely necessary. All life is precious, even second lives.”
I wanted to turn to April’s table, but resisted the urge.
“Monitoring is not a safe calling. Every day you will be risking your lives for the betterment of humanity.” He paused dramatically. “In your classes you will hone the three basic Monitoring skills: intuition, sensing the Undead; evaluation, judging the Undead; and execution, putting the Undead to rest. But classes aren’t a replacement for real experience. You need to learn how to watch after yourselves, and now is the perfect time to start.” He motioned toward the doors. “The gates are always open. You can come and go as you please, and at your own risk.
“That said, we do have two rules. First, I ask you to keep what you learn at St. Clément to yourselves. You are not to discuss the existence of Monitors or the Undead to anyone outside of these walls; nor shall you blatantly display your talents to anyone outside this community unless the situation is life threatening. Should the public find out about the existence of the Undead, they will try to bury them all. History has proven this to be true over and over again.
“And second, I ask you to carry around some sort of protection at all times. A small shovel is preferable, as it can be used as both a blunt weapon and a burial tool; but a box of matches, a roll of gauze—any of these things will suffice. It is our job to start training you to act and think like Monitors.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out something wrapped in a cloth. He unfolded it and held up a small trowel and a pair of gloves. “As you can see, we professors take the same precautions as you.”
The room was completely silent as he wrapped up his tools and slid them back into his pocket.
“Finally, I’d like to name this year’s top rank. For those of you who are new to St. Clément, the top rank is the student who scored the highest in the placement exam, which the entire school takes. That student is thus the best Monitor at our academy.”
He looked down at a piece of paper. “Renée Winters.”
It took me a few moments to realize he had said my name. When I did, I was so surprised that I dropped my fork into my lap. I picked it up and brushed myself off, feeling my cheeks flush as all heads turned in my direction. How could I have gotten first rank when I hadn’t even finished the exam?
“Renée, would you come to the front?” the headmaster said, gazing around the crowd, unsure of who I was.
I stood up and walked to the podium, my shoes loud against the wooden floor. People whispered as I approached the front of the room. The headmaster beamed and took out a small brooch in the shape of a cat.
“The cat is the mascot of St. Clément, and the symbol of Monitors all across the world,” he said as he pinned it to the collar of my shirt. “Now you and the cat are one.”
“Thanks,” I said, trying not to blush.
“Congratulations,” he said. “And welcome to St. Clément.” Under the noise of everyone clapping, the headmaster added, “Could you meet me in my office Monday afternoon after your classes?”
“Sure,” I said, giving him a curious look. But he only smiled. I was about to return to my seat when he stopped me.
“And now Renée will lead us in the recital of the Cartesian Oath.”
I felt a wave of nausea pass over me as the entire dining hall rose, their benches scraping against the floor.
“Drafted by our ancestors in the spirit of René Descartes, the Cartesian Oath is the sole pledge all Monitors must take in their training. It is our constitution, our ethical standard, our déclaration des droits.”
Ethical standard? I was the last person who should be reading this aloud. I shook my head at him, but he merely smiled and handed me a roll of paper. “If you would please repeat after Renée.”
I could feel the girls from my floor glaring at me. Trying to will my hands to stop shaking, I unrolled the paper.
“Go on,” the headmaster said softly.
I cleared my throat. “‘As a Monitor, I swear by O-Osiris’” —my voice cracked—“‘god of judgment and the afterlife, that, to the best of my ability, I shall bury all deceased humans within ten days of death, to prevent reanimation, even if the deceased is my son, daughter, sibling, friend, or—or…or lover,’” I said finally, apologizing to Dante in my head as I listened to the drone of my classmates repeating my words.
“‘If I should sense the presence of an Undead, I shall seek him out and evaluate his rate of decay,’” I continued. My eyes rested on Brett’s as I watched him mouth my words and give me an encouraging smile.
“‘Should he be desperate, dangerous, or close to complete putrefaction, I shall endeavor to capture him and bring him to the High Monitor Court for examination and trial.’”
Clementine stared at me from the center of the room, her face wrought with jealousy.
“‘I shall never bury an Undead until he has proven himself guilty of murder or has—has—’” The headmaster nodded at me to continue. “‘Has threatened my life.’”
When the voices stopped, I unrolled the paper even more and continued. “‘When I do bury an Undead, I shall do so promptly, painlessly, and in accordance with Monitor ritual, with no vengeance or brutality.
“‘I shall never announce myself to Plebeians or Undead. And finally, I understand that every being on earth has the capacity to cause pain, even Monitors, and that I will use my power and training with the caution and consideration given to my own life.’”
There was a lull in the room as we uttered the last phrase. Without a word, Headmaster LaGuerre gave me a slight bow indicating that I could sit down, and the hum of conversations recommenced.
After dinner, everyone parted around me as we filed out of the dining hall. I tried to blend in, covering the pin on my collar with my scarf. The lobby was crowded with girls, all clamoring to look at something on the bulletin board.
“What’s going on?” I asked a girl standing near the perimeter. She started when she saw me, as if I’d frightened her. “It’s the class rank list. They just posted it, along with our class schedules
.”
Just then Clementine LaGuerre stormed through, glaring at me as she pushed past my shoulder and up the stairs. I made my way to the front and flipped through a folder of schedules until I found the sheet with my name at the top. It read as follows:
WINTERS, RENÉE: JUNIOR YEAR SCHEDULE
History of Monitors
Strategy and Prediction
Child Psychology
French
Advanced Latin
I scanned the class rank list until I found my name. Winters, Renée. Number one. I stared at it, still incredulous. Out of curiosity, I looked for LaGuerre, Clementine. She was number two.
IT WAS A BRISK SEPTEMBER MORNING, THE SUN spilling into the halls as I climbed up the three flights of stairs that led to History of Monitors, my first class of the semester. The room had beamed ceilings and pigeons roosting on window ledges, their chests puffing as they slept. I envied them. My weekend had been sleepless, and with no one to talk to, the days had become languid and distorted, like a dream. I took a seat, watching Mr. Pollet fiddle with a projector in the back of the room, his underarms damp with sweat.
There were only nine others around the table, including Anya, Clementine, Brett, and a few boys I didn’t know. When the bell rang, Mr. Pollet straightened himself out and took his place at the blackboard.
“Montreal is a city underground,” he said, dabbing his pink forehead. “It’s the only city built by Monitors, for Monitors, and is therefore the only Monitor safehold in existence, the only Monitor fortress.”
He crossed the room to switch off the lights, and turned on the projector. “Monitors first emigrated here from France, with the dream of designing a place where they could study the Undead in an enclosed environment. Thus, they chose to settle on an island, where they built a network of tunnels underneath the city to keep them safe from the Undead, who cannot go underground.”
He pressed a button on his remote control, and the first slide appeared. It was a photograph of a normal city street. On the sidewalk was a small hut that looked like an outhouse.