The Unseemly Education of Anne Merchant. Joanna Wiebe

honor one can receive in school if not in all of life’s endeavors. Alas, who among this student body does not seek with full desperation the gift of the title valedictorian and all that it brings?”

      I recall Pilot’s teary declaration but dare not mention it now, not with Villicus knee-deep in a speech he has surely given a thousand or more times. Truly, my key consideration in coming here was that the prestige of being the valedictorian of a school of this caliber would seal my future. I am as desperate as any for the Big V. Maybe more.

      “The stakes are high—higher than anywhere. Valedictorians at schools like Taft, Exeter, and Eton go on to Oxford, the Sorbonne, Columbia.” Villicus’s eyebrow arches up his long, turtle-like head. “But an Ivy acceptance is just the beginning for the Cania valedictorian. No student here has a parent who doesn’t wholly wish him or her to graduate as the Big V. You recently saw Mr. Pilot Stone turn his back on the race, and I assure you: he is the only in the student body to do so. The Big V is, to be sure, a title that is beyond prestigious.”

      With the grandeur of an old actor, Villicus sweeps back his shapeless garment and takes his seat again. Teddy licks the tip of his pen, and I notice he’s started filling in a form on a clipboard. My name is at the top of it.

      “Miss Merchant,” Teddy says, “do you wish to be considered for the title of valedictorian at the end of your senior year?”

      He and Villicus wait for my answer.

      This is a no-brainer. Memories of my father rush at me, images of him whispering to me that I need to try as hard as I can to become valedictorian. Even Ben, who had so little to say to me, had that to share.

      “Of course,” I say firmly.

      Teddy ticks a box on the form. “Next,” he says, “I will inform you of the three rules for becoming valedictorian.”

      “You would be wise to heed—verily, to meditate on—these rules,” Villicus adds.

      I listen closely. As uncomfortable as I feel with these two kooks, as frustrating as it is to feel controlled by them, and as much as I wish I could bolt from this insanely hot room, this actually is important. The Big V is becoming more important to me as each moment passes, especially as I realize that this is an intense competition—and what Type A doesn’t perk up at the idea of competing?

      The first rule is standard: I must have an outstanding GPA. Obv. Rule number two: I must follow Cania’s communication guidelines to a tee. These are both table stakes; you cannot be considered for valedictorian if you fail to meet these two baseline expectations.

      “What are the communication guidelines?” I ask.

      “To begin, there is absolutely no fraternizing with the villagers,” Teddy says. “No unsupervised phone calls. No Internet. No personal computers, mobile phones, tablets, or other such technical nonsense.”

      “Sorry,” I interrupt to their vexation, “but how am I supposed to research my papers without Internet access?”

      “All papers are handwritten, and research is conducted in our library.”

      “Where there are computers?”

      “Where there are books. Now, the third and final rule,” Teddy continues, bypassing my obvious concern, “is the critical one. The deal breaker. The game changer. The one thing that will set the superior apart. And it is this: you must sufficiently define and excellently live by your prosperitas thema.”

      “What’s a prosperitas thema?” I’ve only just said the words when I realize I’ve heard of it already. “Oh, my PT.”

      Teddy points at the sheet dangling between my fingertips as he explains, “Every student declares a PT, which is a statement of the inherent quality each mortal possesses that will make one a remarkable success in life.”

      Skimming the handout, I read that my PT is supposed to complete the line:

      When I grow up, I will be successful in life by using my

      “So, it’s essentially a statement of how we’ll each be Most Likely to Succeed,” I summarize, and Teddy nods, though Villicus sighs as if I’ve just summarized the Mona Lisa with a single line about her smile.

      “Once identified, your PT will be the ruler against which you are measured,” Teddy says.

      Villicus piles on. “Candidates will be judged by their Guardians at every turn on whether or not they are satisfying their PTs.” His eyes land on mine. “You must live and breathe your PT, Miss Merchant, if you wish to become valedictorian.”

      “If you don’t mind, what does that mean, practically speaking?” I ask. “How will I live and breathe it?”

      “Suppose,” Teddy offers, “your PT is to…be selfish to succeed in life.”

      “That sounds awful.”

      “I would grade your actions over the course of the next two years against that PT. I would expect you to skip to the front of every line, fail to share, sabotage the efforts of your peers, especially those who are most desperate, and—”

      “Steal money from a beggar’s bowl,” I suggest.

      “Precisely!” Villicus and Teddy exclaim.

      “I was joking,” I whisper. Neither hears me.

      “Keep in mind,” Teddy adds, “that everyone around you is making every effort to live and breathe their own PTs. You won’t know it’s happening. You won’t know what they’re playing at. But that is precisely what they’re doing.”

      Evidently, our PTs are assigned to us by our Guardians. Guardians are selected from the faculty, the housemothers, even the secretaries. One Guardian for each junior and senior—freshmen and sophomores don’t participate.

      “I will be your shadow,” Teddy says finally. “Naturally we’ll be cohabitating at Miss Malone’s—”

      “Wait, what?” I interrupt. “You’re living at Gigi’s, too? With me?”

      “Where did you expect me to live?”

      “There’s not even any room there!” I already know, though, that he must have claimed the guest bedroom, which is why I’m stuck in the attic.

      “Miss Merchant,” Villicus interjects, his tone flat, “you have put up more barriers in these past ten minutes than the average student does in their entire time on this campus.”

      “I’m just surprised—”

      “And I’ve already considered,” Villicus thrusts on, “the possibility that you are not fit for this institution. Perhaps I ought to send you home. Do you realize that this morning alone I turned away a very wealthy man who implored me to let his daughter into the school? He’s flying out here tonight by helicopter just to see if he can persuade me. And here you sit! Snarling. Making demands.”

      That shuts me up. Both Villicus and Teddy notice my reaction, and both smile; they share a joyless grimace. I’d love to be in a position to march out of here and stun them both, but with everything my dad gave up and all the strings he pulled to get me into Cania Christy, that would be a slap across his grizzled face. I wring my hands but know there’s no use in fighting this.

      “So we’re living together, Teddy?” I choke out at last.

      “The better to oversee your activities,” Villicus says.

      Teddy piles on. “You’ll be graded at every turn. Morning, noon, night.”

      As a junior, I’m supposed to work with my Guardian to document the activities I’ve completed that prove I’m living and breathing my PT. Guardians track progress daily, weekly, monthly. And, on graduation day, if I’ve pleased Teddy, he will argue my case